Fields of Gold: A steampunk adventure novel (Magnificent Devices Book 12)

by Shelley Adina

  Evan focused all his energies on his objective. Up—up the hill—one more stride and heave over the rocky crest—

  And the commander’s party seemed to understand that they, not their troops, were the behemoth’s target. Screaming orders right and left, de Aragon whipped his horse and he and two of his councilors took off in a mad dash down the reverse side of the slope, toward the relative safety of the trains waiting at the siding.

  Except … the trains seemed to be waiting because a huge bonfire made of tents and wagons and barrels burned out of control upon the tracks, cutting off their means of departure. “Oh, well done,” Ella cried. “But he will find another way if we do not stop him now.”

  “No, he won’t, the wretch,” Evan muttered. “Arm ready!”

  “Ready!” the captain called, and the pincer arm rose into the air.

  Evan caught up in two ten-foot strides. “Now!”

  The Ambassador’s horse screamed in terror and juked to the side away from the massive metal arm descending upon it. De Aragon lost his seat just in time for the pincer to snatch him up and hoist him into the air, probably higher than he had ever been unless he had ever desecrated the sanctity of a church by climbing the tower to ring its bells.

  Shrieking in fear and pain, the man who had done his best to bring down a prince and take his kingdom by force wriggled like a caterpillar between a child’s fingers.

  “Got you!” the captain said from above with no little satisfaction. “Broke a rib or two, though, I’ll wager.”

  Honoria snatched up the speaking horn and, with two fingers in her mouth, whistled an ear-splitting amplified blast that cut across the sound of the fleeing troops. “In the name of the Viceroy of the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias, I command you to surrender! We have you surrounded and de Aragon is our prisoner. Lay down your arms at once and you will be spared a traitor’s death.”

  Evan noted that she did not identify herself as the Viceroy. It was well done—especially since here came what had to be the real Viceroy, thundering through the disarray of the usurper’s troops with his metal army at his back. Mounted on the horses and felines was a truly terrifying sight—hundreds of witches painted for war like the skulls of the dead, red roses upon their brows and black mouths grinning with triumph.

  This was the last straw for the northern forces. All the brave words they had been spouting about the Viceroy’s being under the control of a witch seemed to be forgotten in the horror of actually seeing so many of the legendary brujas face to face. Swords and pistols clanged and crashed as men flung them to the ground. The witches rode in a triumphant circle around them, in the center the terrified knot of men who had been foolish enough to side with de Aragon against their rightful prince.

  At last the rider mounted on the armored horse brought it to a canter and then to a walk. Finally, it came to a stop. Beyond them, the airship settled close to the ground, and two lithe figures leaped out to secure its lines to two of the rocks on the ridge. Alice and Ian ran down the gangway. The rider, instead of dismounting his deadly mechanical, climbed into the saddle and stood tall upon the silvery form.

  “Men of the kingdom!” he shouted. “You have fought for what you believed in, but believe this now—I, Carlos Felipe, Viceroy of the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias, Defender of the True Faith, and General of the Armies of Heaven, am your true ruler. Will you follow me henceforth, and not this usurper whose greed has put all of your lives in mortal peril?”

  Behind him, the witches shrieked with a cheer, and after a single frozen moment, the men on the ridge, who had thrown down their arms, raised their voices in an answering roar of assent. Beyond the ridge, thousands of southern voices rose in a cheer that seemed to echo across the fields turning gold in the low afternoon light.

  The Viceroy raised both arms in triumph and the sun, glowing red through the dust in the air, outlined his form. The sky, the earth, the sun—symbolized in flag and crown—welcomed the prince back to his kingdom.

  Chapter 23

  “Come on,” Honoria said abruptly. “Time to end this charade for good. Gloria, Ella, give me one of your petticoats each, quick!”

  “What—”

  “If we are to carry this off, there cannot be two Viceroys. Hurry!”

  Without another word, both women unhooked one of their petticoats and tossed it to Honoria, who had already toed off her boots and kicked off her wool trousers. The medallions on the sides jingled as they hit the metal floor of the pilot’s chamber. She flung the short jacket at Evan, who was in his shirtsleeves, yanked the petticoats up, and pulled her boots back on.

  And there stood a woman—tall, rangy, and as slender and dangerous as a whip. Gloria had just seen her transformation, and yet she still could hardly believe that this proud woman had once been Joe—gaol companion of Evan—spy—prince—who at every step had been instrumental in saving all their lives.

  Ella took one of the red silk roses from her braids and stuck it into the thick curls over Honoria’s ear. “Now you are dressed,” she said, her chin tilted with pride.

  “What shall I do with de Aragon?” Stanford called from the gunner’s chamber.

  “Put him on the ground, but don’t let go of him,” Honoria replied. “I’m sure Felipe will have a thing or two to say to him, if the man is capable of listening.”

  Evan stopped gaping at Honoria and recalled himself to business. Carefully, he bent the behemoth so that Captain Fremont could lower his screeching prisoner, clamped firmly between the two arcs of its iron pincer. As the Viceroy addressed the army from the saddle of his massive horse, the occupants of the behemoth climbed down the ladder built into the iron leg. Even as he spoke, Gloria could feel the moment when the Viceroy’s gaze took her in, as her husband lifted her from the last rung and swung her to the ground—and into his arms.

  Gloria could have clung and wept and kissed every inch of Stanford’s face for eternity … except that there were a thousand men staring at them, and thousands more on the slope below. And their work was not yet finished.

  The Viceroy’s gaze swung to the right—he started—stared—and Honoria stared back. Challenging. Daring. Welcoming. The rose over her ear seemed to burn in the reddish afternoon light, the same light that had illuminated his moment of triumph before his people.

  With a final flourish, he finished speaking, and an answering cheer rose that sounded less hysterical and more sincere. Felipe slid down from his metal mount and approached Honoria. He held out a hand, and her strong brown fingers gripped his. “Come, sister. Let me introduce you.”

  Instead of the horse, Felipe climbed up on the nearest rock, and pulled Honoria up beside him. From where she stood, Gloria heard someone in the crowd gasp—perhaps at the uncanny resemblance of these two children of the same father.

  “This day holds many victories. Allow me to introduce my half-sister Honoria, daughter of my late father and Senora Clara de San Gregorio. Honoria has put her own life in danger in my service for many years.”

  A howl of rage issued from between the pincers of the behemoth, and iron clanged as de Aragon beat upon it helplessly with his fists.

  “I hereby elevate her to the gente de razón and proclaim her the Lady Honoria. I grant her the rancho of San Gregorio in its entirety, with hacienda, fields, and cattle, to belong to her and her descendants from this day forward.”

  Screams of rage from the pincer were drowned out by the witches’ cheers, and Gloria heard a thump as one of the witches—that glossy blue-black hair and the crescent moons painted on her temples identified her at once as May Lin—rode up beside the pincer and clocked the ambassador in the back of the head with a rifle butt.

  It was dreadfully uncharitable, but Gloria could not help a glow of satisfaction.

  The Viceroy then turned to Gloria and her captain, and motioned them forward. Gloria saw her own fear reflected in Stanford’s eyes—the prince was so unpredictable, and so much had happened since they had parted
. What did he mean to say? She was half tempted to swing up on the armored horse and ride away as fast as it would carry them.

  “It was my dearest wish that Miss Meriwether-Astor should be my wife, but her heart has always been true to the man who was her husband.” Felipe’s gaze held hers from his lofty position on the rock. “My dear friend, I release you from our engagement and wish you every happiness in the years ahead. You have helped to give me back my kingdom, and I will always be grateful.”

  With relief and joy cascading through her like a waterfall after a long drought, Gloria smiled and mouthed thank you. She nestled into the circle of her former and future husband’s arms, now tight about her as though he would never again let her go.

  The Viceroy’s shoulders lifted and fell for a brief moment, before he turned to the captive now practically weeping with rage and pain in his iron prison. Tears had made tracks through the dust on de Aragon’s lean cheeks, and a dribble of saliva was making its way down his chin.

  “Augusto de Aragon, you have declared yourself Regent when you had no right to do so. You have taken the field against me. You have lost the gamble you were foolish enough to make. I declare you traitor, and sentence you to death.”

  De Aragon screamed a name, and from someone in the crowd who had just been cheering the Viceroy, a dark shape cartwheeled over their heads. De Aragon snatched the rifle from the air, flipped it over to rest against his shoulder, and aimed it at the Viceroy’s heart. “Release me, give me safe passage past our borders, and you will not die,” he rasped.

  The men around them froze. Aside from the traitor’s traitor, none of those formerly loyal to him were within reach of their weapons, which lay on the ground, and the Viceroy and Honoria stood exposed upon the rock. One bullet would end the kingdom’s future, and de Aragon could take the Regency once again by force.

  A curious humming noise, like a very small hive of bees, seemed to be approaching. Frozen with fear, Gloria slowly turned her head as something cool was slipped into her hand from behind. Her fingers closed around the grip of a lightning pistol as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “You seem to have lost yours,” Alice Chalmers breathed in her ear. “Claire would be so annoyed.”

  Gloria’s lungs contracted for just a moment as she realized what she must do. What she had been fated and feared to do from the very beginning. Then her forefinger curled around the trigger and she dredged up the courage from somewhere deep within.

  She stepped forward. “De Aragon!” she shouted. “I am the iron dragon, and I forbid you to do any more harm!”

  Even as de Aragon swung to his left to take aim at her, she pulled the trigger. A bolt of blue-white light sizzled from the flared barrel and arced across the space between them. It caught de Aragon in the chest, under his raised arms and over the iron prison. The shock of it made him drop the rifle. As it clattered off the pincer and onto the ground, tendrils of light crawled all over his body, curving lovingly around his neck, illuminating his hawklike nose, and finally, as he screamed in despair, sizzling his eyes into vapor and claiming his brain … and at last, stopping his heart.

  Chapter 24

  Mother Mary smiled at the bishop, her lips painted in lines of black to indicate skeletal teeth, which made her look rather eerily as though she had two sets. The poor man lost his place and the wedding ceremony came to a halt.

  Ella, who was holding the bride’s bouquet of roses of all colors, picked from the gardens at San Luis Obispo de Tolosa just an hour ago, leaned toward him. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “That’s my mother. She won’t do anything unexpected as long as I’m standing between you.”

  This did not seem to comfort him at all. With an effort of will, the bishop found his place. “By the power vested in me by God and His holy kingdom of Spain and the Californias, I now pronounce you husband and wife together. You may kiss your bride.”

  For the second time, Gloria tilted up her face in obedience to the request of a man of God—only what a difference in her feelings at this wedding! This kiss was a celebration, a smile of joy, a commitment that no man could put asunder this time. As he wrapped his arms about her, her husband repeated in a low voice in her ear, “For as long as we both shall live.”

  When they entered their names in the parish register, and then signed the wedding document, the bishop added his signature and wax seal, as did the Viceroy. “Now you will not have to travel to Nuestra Senora de los Angeles. This document is legal from this moment. Not everyone may stand at the altar with the Viceroy of the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias as his supporter.”

  With that, Stanford shook the Viceroy’s hand and tucked the precious document into his inside vest pocket, where it would not go astray. Then all four came out to greet the people filling the first few pews of the mission chapel, who left their seats and crowded round them to offer their congratulations.

  The Viceroy kissed Gloria’s cheek. “I hope you will stay a few days so that we may honor you with fiesta?”

  She squeezed his hand. “I am afraid not, Felipe. We have been gone too long, and all of us are anxious to return home.”

  He gazed at her, then lifted her left hand, on which Stanford’s gold ring once more reposed. “I shall miss you. Your counsel. Your courage. Your beauty.”

  “You have the first, at least, in the lively correspondence I promise you will have to endure. I shall dispatch a complement of pigeons the moment I reach home, so that we may correspond as frequently as we like.”

  “You will come back?” he asked anxiously. “I should not like to think I will never see you again.”

  “Of course. You have made me a grant of land in San Francisco de Asis, have you not? I intend to found a school there for girls—the Gloria and Stanford Fremont Preparatory Academy. There they will be educated in all branches of knowledge, and will be the first generation to fully take their places in the new society that will grow up around their forward-thinking prince.”

  “You have a great deal of faith in me, Gloria.”

  “I am rather good at reading character,” she told him with affection. “I know you can do it.”

  “With Evan’s help.”

  “With his, and mine, and that of your loyal friends. Even May Lin has agreed to establish the Viceregal Society of Engineers, much as she deplores such a title. You may call upon her, you know, at any time.”

  But the Viceroy only flushed and turned to answer a question of Ella’s.

  Alice came up and kissed her, and gave Stanford a hug of congratulations. “We are ready to lift when you are. We shall have to put down in Denver, though, for proper repairs to poor Swan. She will not make it all the way to Philadelphia to your orchard, never mind to Somerset and our orchard, without them.”

  “The sooner, the better, to my mind,” Stanford said.

  “In a hurry to leave us?” Mother Mary gave the bishop another smile as she joined them. Gloria had the sense that, despite her brave show, this kind of church made her uncomfortable and that she hankered for her own canyons and caverns fashioned by God himself. Sister Clara stuck close by her side, as though she expected to be tossed out at any moment for attending the wedding wearing paint. But all the witches were … the Viceroy had insisted upon it. Despite his nerves, the bishop had been a practical man. For when the Viceroy had welcomed and embraced the women who had saved his life and helped to save his country, the bishop could not very well forbid them entry to his church.

  “Not in a hurry to leave you,” Stanford responded with a hearty smack on the cheek, lifting the older woman off her feet.

  “Now, now, none of that. What will the younger ones think?”

  “That you are lucky to have a kiss from such a handsome devil,” Gloria teased.

  Mother Mary’s face softened as she gazed at the twice-over bride. “We are lucky to have friends like you, sister. You have saved us—though how long this truce with the Viceroy will last, I cannot say.”

&
nbsp; Gloria leaned in to whisper, since Felipe stood not far away talking with Captain Hollys. “I believe he is rather sweet on May Lin. You may find the truce lasting longer than you think.”

  Mother Mary’s eyes widened. “Impossible. A prince—and a witch?”

  “Is it any more impossible than a dragon and a riverman?”

  Mother Mary made a pfft! of derision. “I could see that coming a mile away, the first time he laid eyes on you.”

  “Mark my words,” Gloria said wisely. “Stranger things have happened in this country—and will continue to.”

  “For true, sister. Clara and Honoria and Ella and I will slip away now that we have seen the ring safely back on your finger. You must write to the padre at Santa Croce and tell me if it is a boy or a girl.”

  “I will,” Gloria promised. “If a girl, we have decided to call her Honor Isabella Claire—Isabella with two Ls for the two girls who helped us—and whom we love.”

  Mother Mary’s face flushed with pleasure. “And if a boy?”

  “Why, Stanford Philip Evan sounds rather dignified, does it not?”

  Sister Clara nodded in her brisk way. “Felipe will be pleased to be remembered, and so will Honoria. Good-bye, sister. A safe journey and a happy homecoming to you.”

  Tears welled in Gloria’s eyes as one by one, her sisters under the rose embraced her, whispered words of congratulation and encouragement, and slipped out the church door into the garden. Ella was the last to go.

  “I cannot leave you,” she said in despair. “Who will paint your face and do your hair properly?”

  “Who will listen to my worries and give me sensible advice?” Gloria’s voice cracked. “I will return, never you fear, if only to hear your laughter again.”

  “Do you promise?” Ella’s face turned fierce around the misery in her eyes.