Owen crossed to her and took her hands in his. “No, Bethany, you don’t understand. My wife and I, we have not… The last time… Last year was… This just isn’t, this isn’t right.”
He turned away, letting the note flutter to the ground. There was no way Catherine could be pregnant, not by him. They’d not slept together for months, a half-year at least. He’d been gone for over two months, and couldn’t remember having had sex with Catherine in the new year. Has it been that long? Were he the father of her child, he’d have known. She’d be set to give birth before the summer was out and would have been showing before he left.
“This isn’t right.” Owen turned back. “Are you certain Princess Gisella sent this?”
“Yes, it was her touch.” Bethany frowned. “What are you thinking?”
“Too many things, all at once.” He hesitated, words catching in his throat. Joy at the possibility of having another child sank beneath waves of shame. He could not be the father, so Catherine had to have taken a lover. She had betrayed him and yet, he felt it was his failing to honor his pledge to her which drove her into another man’s bed.
He gathered the message from the floor and stared at it. “Catherine and I have not been together as husband and wife since before the turn of the year. If my wife is pregnant, then it is either a miracle or she has a lover. I cannot imagine, in either case, why Princess Gisella would think that I need to know this information. Informing me of my wife’s infidelity is something that could have waited on my return. We do not need the distraction.”
Bethany nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Catherine would know that her child is not your child. She would keep her pregnancy a secret—for the sake of her reputation and that of her lover if nothing else. She would not confess her infidelity to the Princess.”
“Right. So, for the Princess to pass this information along, she had to think it was important that I know. And that means Catherine would have impressed upon her its importance. But why would Catherine have gone to the Princess with what is either a lie or proof of her promiscuity? What does Catherine gain?”
Bethany shivered and Owen released her arms. “The Princess would not reveal to Catherine the existence of the thaumagraph. If the Princess told her that she’d get a message out as quickly as possible, Catherine would accept that and hope. But why send that message? You know it is false, but will someone else hear it as true?”
“You’re suggesting her lover is here?” Owen’s guts knotted. “She can’t send him a note since someone might wonder what my wife is doing writing to someone else. So she hopes that her lover learns that she’s carrying his child through camp gossip about this message?”
“That could be, but who…?”
The hope that Catherine’s lover lay dead on the battlefield flashed through Owen. He hated that joyous spark. It would be too easy for him to be dead. Then another idea occurred to him. Owen ran a hand over his face. “No, no, it can’t be. It can’t.”
Bethany lifted her chin. “General Rathfield.”
“No. No, it couldn’t be.” Owen wanted to feel certain in his denial, but as he thought back, it did seem that they spent a great deal of time in each other’s company. But his thinking did not stop there. It continued back yet further, to when he had returned from captivity and lay helpless in the Frost household. It had been Bethany who had tended to him—as Catherine tended to Rathfield. Bethany had literally brought him back to life and had he not been married… Do not kid yourself, Owen, even in spite of being married, you had feelings for her.
Anger smoldered within him. I respected my vows, as did Bethany.
His fist balled. “Is General Rathfield…?”
Bethany grabbed his wrist. “Owen, you can’t do anything. You don’t know that your wife has a lover, or that her lover is General Rathfield. You don’t know and you have no way of knowing.”
“Quite true, of course. She’s likely slept with hundreds of men here.”
Bethany slapped him, hard, snapping his head around. “Stop it, Owen. I will not have you speak that way.”
His left cheek felt hot to the touch. “I beg your pardon.”
“You are a gentleman, Owen Strake, a man of honor. You always have been honorable.” Bethany half-laughed, then turned away, choking back a sob. She brushed a tear from her cheek. “Too honorable, sometimes, but a man like you should never speak ill of someone else, not when you do not know what is happening.”
“Bethany…”
“No, Owen, this is not a problem that requires fixing or attention now. We will be moving forward soon. We don’t know how things will turn out, if we will live or die.” She turned and caressed the cheek she’d slapped. “Do not think on this, for it serves no purpose.”
Owen glanced at the floor, shame burning its way onto his face. Here they were, on the brink of attacking a superior foe, and he was allowing himself to become embroiled in emotions which had no use in the current situation. His frustration at wondering why the message had been sent had opened him to directing darker emotions at Rathfield. Owen never had taken to the man, but Rathfield had been respectful and showed great courage on the battlefield. He had to respect him for that.
He took Bethany’s hand in his. “Thank you. I shall not go looking for ghosts where none may exist.”
“Good.”
His brow furrowed. “There is the other possibility, and this is one we cannot ignore.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone else believes there is a way to move messages quickly, and believes that message would involve magick that we know would be considered heretical. That person puts pressure on Catherine to find out about it and she goes to the Princess with this outlandish tale, knowing it will be sent. My reply, or even just an assurance by the Princess that things will be handled, would be enough to confirm suspicions.”
Bethany nodded. “Bishop Bumble.”
“That’s my thinking.” Owen shook his head. “The Prince needs to be informed. No matter what happens out here, I have a feeling the real battle resides in Temperance Bay.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
28 May 1768
Fort Plentiful, Plentiful
Richlan, Mystria
Prince Vlad eased his left arm out of the sling and worked it up and down. It’s didn’t hurt as much as feel tight. He couldn’t lift much with his left hand—at least nothing heavier than the locket his wife had given him, but he didn’t want the limb to get stiff. He smiled as Mugwump twitched his wing sympathetically. Vlad patted him on the muzzle, then turned to Count von Metternin.
“I am sorry, my friend, to be leaving the most dangerous part of this campaign to you.”
The smaller man smiled, waving away the suggestion. “No, it makes perfect sense. And you do me credit to say you are saving the mission for me, but I know you are leaving Mugwump in charge of it.”
“I am leaving both of you in charge.”
Mugwump snorted confidently.
In forming a campaign that would surprise Rufus, Vlad had broken down all those things which Rufus knew about how war was waged. The Prince had no doubt that, in his own mind, Rufus saw himself as a grand hero. Whatever possessed him would have no basis upon which to judge otherwise. Because of this, Vlad needed to fashion the sort of campaign that Rufus would not expect him to fashion.
The greatest part of that plan was to use the foresters to cut a road that ran directly from Fort Plentiful to Octagon. Rufus had not been part of the road-building crew during the Anvil Lake campaign, but he had returned along their road on the way to Hattersburg. He’d certainly gotten an earful about how hard it had been, and yet how vital it was to have such a road built. Vlad had every reason to expect Rufus to allow them to waste their time building the road. This would let him know they were coming, and he would have time to prepare his defenses.
Toward this end, Vlad would have von Metternin and Mugwump lead a small group of soldiers and foresters to build the road. The soldi
ers would be the wounded men and women left in Fort Plentiful, and they would wear the uniforms of General Rathfield’s Fifth Northland Cavalry. Meanwhile, ranging widely, troops would swing south and north, converging on Octagon, to strike before the Norghaest were prepared to repel them.
The Count rose from his chair and leaned heavily on a cane. “We will go slowly, Highness. A mile or two a day, no more. At that rate, it will be mid-June by the time we would arrive.”
Vlad massaged his temples. “If he strikes at you quickly…”
“There is no preventing our deaths, save by the success of your attack.” Von Metternin glanced west. “It is you I pity. You must all have cold camps so that smoke cannot be spotted. You have to move slowly, always alert. You need to prepare the battlefield and haul things with you. You’ve done much to prepare, but what comes will be the worst.”
The Prince exhaled mightily, his breath steaming. “So many elements for which I cannot account. The Shedashee and Msitazi being sent to their death, Ezekiel Fire along with them. Owen, Ian, and the Fifth likewise doomed.”
“If you do not succeed, Highness, we all die.”
“And even if I do succeed, many of us will die.” He looked from the Count to Mugwump and back. “Is this why my father never wished to wear the crown? Having to make plans, knowing men will die, there is a weight to it, you know. A crushing weight. Knowing I might not see my wife, my children, my coming child. I wonder if the pain of Hell is just eternity spent with the gravity of your regrets plaguing you.”
“Not quite hellfire, but quite devilish enough.”
Vlad nodded. “Joachim, I have a small casket in my tent. In it are papers. There is letter for my wife. There is a packet of papers I wish to go to Laureate du Malphias.”
“Indeed.”
“What I have learned about magick and the Church cannot be allowed to vanish. I know giving it to du Malphias is a terrible thing, a treasonous thing, but I am reminded that he destroyed his own pasmortes. It may be that he did not want us to learn from them. He told Owen he was bored with them. I fear that my aunt and Duke Deathridge would find them endlessly fascinating and of a utilitarian nature.”
“I shall, should it come to that, be certain it is delivered.” Von Metternin smiled. “I was thinking of sending Mr. Dunsby back with similar packets. He intends to marry soon, and I would not have him die here.”
“He’s a good man. Wise choice. Tell him it is my bidding.” Vlad again stroked Mugwump’s muzzle. “Also in that casket you will find a duplicate set of the du Malphias papers. They are for you to do with as you see fit. And there is one more thing.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“There is a writ of manumission for Mugwump.”
Count von Metternin sat down again. “You meant to set him free? I don’t…”
“I cannot explain it, Joachim, but I know he is not a beast.” Vlad smiled as he looked up into a big golden eye. “What he did as a wurm at Anvil Lake, that is what we might have trained a horse or a hound to do. It took a basic level of intelligence, but since then he has changed. He uses magick, and if that is not the hallmark of being a human, it certainly must be taken as a sign he is of equal intelligence to one.”
“It does not take a genius to wield magick, Highness.”
“No, it doesn’t, but we still consider a person who can to be capable of reasoning, if not sapience and sagacity, don’t we?” He shook his head. “So many times, Mugwump, I have wished to know what you were thinking—but I have never questioned that you were thinking.”
Mugwump’s head came up, his jaw opening in a wry grin.
Vlad patted the dragon’s cheek. “So, Joachim, if I die, I wish for you to care for Mugwump until he is healed, then to let him go his own way. I feel as if when he has called out, he was looking for the dragons that destroyed the Norghaest in the past. If he is the last of them, then you must find a way to bring more wurms here from Auropa.”
“I suspect, my friend, that would be considered a greater act of treason than learning the new magick.”
“And yet, if dragons are the only thing which the Norghaest fear, to fail would be treason against humanity.”
“Wisely said, Highness.” Von Metternin leaned back in his chair. “But fear not. After what we will do here, the Norghaest will learn that dragons are not the only thing they should fear.”
Ian Rathfield looked up as Benjamin Beecher entered his tent. The man brushed snow from his shoulders and hat. “Please, General, forgive me, but I wanted to speak with you on the eve of departure.”
“Yes, Reverend?” Ian made no indication that the man should sit, but he did so anyway, drawing a camp chair closer to the small stove heating Ian’s tent.
Beecher let concern draw his brows together. “General, I wish, this one last time, to prevail upon you to prevail upon the Prince to let me travel with the Fifth. I was the chaplain to the Rangers who attacked Fort Cuivre. I am no stranger to the hardship of campaign, sir. I truly do believe that the men would find solace in my presence.”
Ian smiled carefully. “I have spoken to the Prince on your behalf. This is why he delayed our departure until tomorrow evening, so you can hold a proper Sunday service before we leave. However, given the nature of what we are to do, and the presence of the sick and wounded here at Fort Plentiful, I must agree with the Prince that you should remain behind and provide spiritual comfort to those who are so physically tortured.”
Beecher appeared to accept that, but Ian expected the man to make one last run at going with them before the Fifth actually departed. Ian knew at least part of the reason the Prince did not want Beecher going along: some of the things he would see on the Fifth’s mission would appear to him to be a heretical use of magick. While his reporting it later would cause all sorts of trouble, the possibility that he would try to interfere with the campaign and doom the mission could not be allowed. Were the man to try to stop them, Ian would kill him and think little of it.
“I sense, General, that you might also need some spiritual comfort. If you wish, I will gladly hear your confession and grant you absolution.”
Ian set onto his camp desk the slender volume he’d been studying. “Please, Reverend Beecher, do not take this as any sign of disrespect, but I have confessed all of my sins to Bishop Bumble—those I shared with you long ago, and yet others. If it is God’s will that I meet my Maker out there, I am confident He will welcome me to His bosom.”
Beecher opened his hands and bowed his head. “I understand that, General, but there are times when the devil enters into us not through our actions, but our mere thoughts. It is not that you have, say, lusted after someone, but even that you might have thought of one after whom you have lusted in the past. That would be enough for him. If you bare your soul, if you look deep into your own heart, and you confess your weaknesses before God, He will save you.”
Ian lowered his voice and let a razored edge enter it. “I say with great assurance, Reverend Beecher, that I have looked into my heart. It is a far darker place than into which you or any man wishes to venture. That I am content with my standing before God is enough for me.”
Beecher lifted his chin. “General, from what I know of your past…”
In a heartbeat Ian was out of his chair and had Beecher’s throat in his right hand. “From what you have just said, Reverend Beecher, and from what you have told Bishop Bumble, I have a measure of your heart. As black as mine might be, yours is yet darker. What God forgives, you do not forget.”
Beecher clung to his wrist, his voice squeaking. “General, you have it wrong…”
“No, Mr. Beecher, I do not.” Ian relaxed his grip, then pushed the man backward, tipping the chair over. “Understand this: I know what you know of me. I have left letters with friends that they are to open in the event of my death or incapacity. Those letters outline the kinds of lies you will tell about me. I have instructed those friends that if they ever hear such rumors—and they would—that they are to see
k you out, overtly or covertly. They are to challenge you to a duel, or to have you murdered.”
Beecher, massaging his throat, stared up wide-eyed.
“So understand me, Reverend: Go about your calling, the one you have from God, and minister to my people, to the wounded and sick. Confine yourself to those things and see to your own soul. It occurs to me that were I to pray for you, God would listen more closely, than were you to pray for me.”
Beecher gathered himself together and stood. “Yes, General.” His throat closed after those two words. He bowed and withdrew.
Ian glared after him, then righted the chair. Once they got back to Temperance Bay, Bishop Bumble would make him pay for what he’d just done. “Please, God, take me to You, or deliver me from my enemies.” He waited for a reply, but heard nothing above the howl of the wind and lonely hoot of a dragon. He went back to his reading to gain just one evening’s peace before he, once again, had to go to war.
Nathaniel Woods, huddled beneath a buffalo robe in the shadow of the Stone House formation, took the birch disk from Kamiskwa. He rubbed it between his hands. Though his fingers were half numb, he ran the tips over the rough surface. He studied the wood and the rings. He even raised it up so he could smell its cloying scent. He’d taken to doing that last on account of the way binding magick worked; it sounded to Nathaniel a lot like animals scent-marking their territory.
As he looked at it and let his nails pick at the bumps and bits, he found a pattern. It reminded him of a little lake up to Queensland. He’d spent time there with some cousins and killed a bear in a dispute over who owned the fish Nathaniel had caught. There’d been some nice salmon on his string. He conjured up the image of one of them salmon and then mixed it with the sensation of the disk. He wove them together, the way he might have woven different colored grasses into a basket or bracelet, all the while trickling magick into the process.