Vlad crossed to a cabinet, withdrew a map, unrolled it on his desk, and pinned a corner down with his whiskey glass. He touched the map roughly where the Antediluvian ruins stood. “If we use this as one point, and Piety as another, we can suppose that both places are roughly equidistant from some central point. Exactly how far away that is, I don’t know, and I hope it is very far west. Why they chose those two points, we don’t know. Happy Valley is a third point, but I would imagine it was Branch’s use of their magick which attracted them there. But if you just look at the line between the ruins and Piety, you’re looking at an enormous front, and one that is largely unexplored by Mystrians.”
Owen came around the desk and studied the map. If the Norghaest advanced along that front, and even if their force narrowed, it would run to the northeast on a line that would split Lindenvale, Queensland, and Summerland in half. And if they shift to the coast… With a decent army, they could take what they wanted, kill what they wanted, and reestablish their empire.
“I understand the threat, Highness.”
“I needed to stress the nature of it because our counter to it could easily be worse.” Vlad picked up his glass, letting the map roll shut, and tossed the whiskey off in a gulp. “It is not enough that I know how to work proscribed magick. We are going to have to teach other men how to do it. We are going to have to teach them to create their own spells, and yet we cannot let them know this is what they’re doing.”
Owen wondered, for a moment, if that last whiskey had not, in fact, been the Prince’s first. “That’s not going to be easy, Highness.”
“I may have thought of a way.” Vlad folded his arms over his chest. “If I ask you to recall the hottest thing you’ve ever touched, what would it be?”
Owen shivered and stared at his left palm. “At school, in Norisle, some of the boys grabbed me. They held my left hand over a candle. They said I’d cry out in pain. I didn’t. Burned myself badly, and then they teased me for being too stupid to pull my hand away. Better that than being a coward.”
“Good, very good. Now, think about the spell you know to ignite brimstone. You think of the sun, don’t you?”
“Yes, very bright, a noon sun.”
“Now think of that candle flame and how hot it was. Use that and rebuild the spell around it.”
Owen thought for a moment, then nodded. “I can see how that works, Highness, but I know you’re training me to shape my own spell. How do you teach it to men without teaching them what they are doing?”
Vlad opened a desk drawer and pulled out two small vials. One clearly contained brimstone, ground finely, a black powder with the consistency of sand. The other had been likewise prepared, but had a greenish tinge to it. “What we can do is to tell men that we have a new type of brimstone, and that it requires them to think differently. They’ll choose the hottest thing they can remember, thinking that the demand is because of the difference in the new brimstone. They’ll miss the true significance of what they are doing.”
“Most will, but not all.”
“And those are the ones we have to watch for, and explain things to.” Vlad shrugged. “Once they have learned the new version of the spell, which should make them more efficient and should tire them less, we can suggest it will work with regular brimstone. If we drill them enough, invoking the new magick will take precedence over the old anyway.”
Owen gulped his whiskey down. “Wouldn’t you be better off hand picking men and training them fully? Accidentally opening the door to some may be more dangerous than fully training them.”
The Prince nodded. “That’s the argument that Count von Metternin offers. I think we have to do both. We do have men among us who can be trusted to keep this a secret, and who are intelligent enough to understand the significance of what we show them. Others are not that intelligent, nor are they smart enough to understand the gravity of what we will share with them. I don’t like having to deceive them, but if the Norghaest present as formidable a challenge as suggested, we will need more people than we can ever train.”
“Or, Highness, we have the other route.”
“Yes?”
“The Mystrian Rangers.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“It’s simple. When we went to Anvil Lake, we brought with us militia men who had no particular training. We will need them against the Norghaest. But we had the Mystrian Rangers, and they were the elite among us. What if we bring them together and train them in this new way of magick? They become the tip of the spear that we use against the Norghaest. If we are lucky, they will be enough to destroy them. If not, perhaps they will hurt them enough that the militia can destroy them.”
“And if we are doubly unlucky, it won’t really matter, will it?”
Owen shook his head.
Vlad remained silent for a bit, then slowly nodded. “Your plan has merit. To carry it out, however, will take planning and subterfuge. If Bishop Bumble were to catch wind of what we are doing, we’d best hope the Norghaest are merciful because he will not be. We’ll march west to war, and east again to a stake.”
“Agreed. We can set up training camps in the west. Come the winter, no one will see or care.”
“And we will have to liaise with Major Forest in Fairlee. I will task the Count with that job.”
“I could do it, Highness.”
“No. I do not want to spare you and, I’m afraid, you’re needed here to blind Bumble.” The Prince sighed. “Only seeing us in Church each Sunday will make him think he has the upper hand.”
Owen nodded. “He watches you as a hawk studies a field mouse.”
“Owen, if we are to make this deception work, you are going to have to continue appearing with your wife in public, at Church and the like. Work on a new book about the expedition. You need to be the hero and be seen.”
“Highness…”
Vlad smiled indulgently. “Owen, I know Catherine is angry with you, but scandal will only invite scrutiny. For the sake of Mystria, you have to make an effort. Next year, after we defeat the Norghaest, I shall put her on a ship for Norisle myself.”
Owen nodded. “As you desire, Highness.”
“Thank you, my friend.” The Prince clapped him on the shoulders. “We’re doing this because it must be done, for a land and people we love. It’s a great sacrifice, but if there is a more noble cause in the world, I cannot imagine it.”
Owen walked through the streets, taking a route around toward the docks before heading back to the apartment he let from Mrs. Lighter. Only when he reached the docks did he realize he was looking for Bethany Frost. He knew he’d not find her there, especially after dark. He paused and looked out at the ships at anchor, and the lights swaying from bow and aft. They looked peaceful at anchor, and he sought some of that peace for himself.
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but pride held it at bay. When the Prince had said that he could think of no more noble a cause than saving Mystria, Owen’s heart had swelled. Mystria truly was a land he loved. The people had seemed so different when he arrived and yet now he truly felt himself to be one of them. He would not just be working to save them, but to save himself as well, and the future for Miranda.
That thought made any burden easier to bear.
With a smile on his face he returned to the apartment and slipped into it quietly so as not to awaken Miranda. He looked to where she normally slept on the parlor daybed, but it remained empty. For the barest of moments he thought Catherine had fled on a ship, and had taken Miranda with her.
Then Catherine emerged from the bedroom, wearing a thin nightshirt on which she had failed to tie all fastenings shut. Wordlessly on bare feet, she rushed across the parlor and hugged Owen, clinging to him. She shook with unheard sobs.
Instinctively, protectively, he put his arms around her. “What is it, Catherine? Where is Miranda?”
“Oh, Owen, I have been so silly. You must forgive me.”
He took her by the shoulders and held
her back. “Of course. Where is our daughter?”
Catherine brushed away tears, then anointed his cheek. “I asked Mrs. Lighter to look after her for this evening. I wanted you all to myself tonight. Please, forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?”
She looked up, surprise widening her eyes. “You truly don’t know, do you? You are so good a man, you cannot imagine, can you?”
“Catherine, make sense.”
She smiled and kissed him. “Owen, I have been horrible to you. Evil and vile. I never have given you a chance. I haven’t given Mystria a chance. I couldn’t see what you did in it. And then, today, I saw Miranda staring at things in town, and I asked her why. And she said she wanted to remember everything so she could tell people in Norisle about her home. And when she said it, Owen, she was so sincere that I knew to take her away would be to crush her heart. And a second later, my husband, I realized I had been doing that exact thing to you.”
Catherine slipped her hands down his arms and took his hands in hers. “I owe you an apology. I promise, I shall be better, Owen. I shan’t be perfect, but I shall try, really try. I will be a good wife to you and a good mother to Miranda. I shall even suggest that we care for Becca and make her part of our family. I just ask, Owen, please, for you to give me this one more chance. Don’t say no. I couldn’t bear it if you say no.”
He looked down at her, not sure if he could trust her, but desperately wanting to believe she was changing. He was too soul weary to fight her, and questioning her would trigger a fight. Though dread trickled through him, his desire for peace pushed him toward believing her. “You will have all the chances you desire, Catherine Strake.”
She smiled and pulled him toward the bedroom. “Come, Owen, make me your wife again. Remind me how much you love me, and how much you want this to be our home.”
1768
†
Chapter Forty-three
17 March 1768
Government House, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
The day Prince Vlad had been dreading had arrived. The courier, wearing the uniform of the Fifth Northland Cavalry, had brought him the pouch of dispatches from Launston, then retired to report to Colonel Rathfield. Vlad had taken his time working the worn leather strap free from the brass buckle. At another time he would have found the heavy pouch laying on his office desk pregnant with possibility, but instead he imagined it infested with disaster.
Few had been the ships coming into Temperance from Norisle in the latter half of 1767. Unusually stormy weather off the Norillian coast had been credited with delaying the shipping schedule, but that should have meant the Crown had more time to get messages aboard ships. Even correspondence from his father had slowed to a trickle, and most of it cautioned him against heresy and exhorted him to find “the heretic” as soon as possible. Vlad could not help to wonder if the slowing of communication was meant to send him a message in and of itself, or if governmental uncertainty had caused his father’s keepers to withhold all but the most innocuous missives.
Even information from informal channels had been scarce. Prince Vlad felt less that friends were distancing themselves from him than there was just no news to relay. This was remarkable in that it meant the Crown was being exceedingly tight-lipped regarding him and Mystria. That did not bode well.
He poured the correspondence in a pile onto his desk and pulled his glasses on. Each letter had been folded within a sheet of blue paper, bound with twine and sealed with red wax. Vlad sorted them by thickness, being used to guessing at what they contained based on their size. He selected one of the most slender, cut the twine with a knife, then broke the seal. He unfolded the letter and pressed it flat to his desk, relishing the crispness of the paper.
As the courier’s uniform had suggested, the packet contained orders for Colonel Rathfield to take command of the Fifth Northland Cavalry Regiment, which was being stationed in Temperance Bay. This doubled the size of the military in Temperance Bay—albeit temporarily. Rathfield would be promoted to Brigadier General and the Prince’s Life Guards would be sent south to take up their new duties in Kingstown, Richlan. The notice of change of command included a request for the Prince to requisition enough horses to equip the cavalry, confirming the fact that they’d been sent over without mounts.
And there was no indication of where the Prince was to find the money to pay for the horses.
He set that message aside and picked one of the thicker ones. He selected it because, in addition to the red wax seal, purple twine had been used to bind it. That meant it was from the Crown. By rights he should have opened it first, but he was certain he knew what it contained.
Over his aunt’s signature came the response to his request for troops to fight the Norghaest. Embedded within whereases and wherefores he found a simple message: the Crown does not have money to spend on fighting faery tales. The Crown concluded that the slaughters at Piety and Happy Valley were the result of Shedashee raids, possibly encouraged by the Tharyngians. The deaths should serve to show all Mystrians why they should not stray beyond the Queen’s protective reach.
The packet included a proclamation which he was required to publish and have read in town squares and from pulpits throughout the Colonies. In it the Queen came across as a patronizing parent scolding imbecile children for wasting her time crying wolf. She threatened stern punishments were such nonsense to continue. In four paragraphs she managed to call all Mystrians stupid, cowardly, conniving, and dishonest. That single document would not only cause citizens to rally to the banner of anti-government groups like the Sons of Liberty, but would spawn many more, and create impetus for Colonies to break away from Norillian rule.
Vlad shook his head. That single sheet would do more damage than a Norghaest invasion. He also recognized that it was a test. If he chose not to publish it, he would be revealing himself as a rebel. If he did, he would be charged with incompetence when protests began. Her response to my petition casts me as a liar. The groundwork is being laid to remove me.
His fingers trembling, he picked up the next largest packet, one from the Home Secretary. It contained a proclamation of the “Shipping and Commerce Act.” It laid the foundation for the Control Acts. It required everyone engaged in the import and export of goods to obtain a license and to register with Her Majesty’s government. The legislation had been written as an anti-smuggling law but would require everyone whose products could end up on a ship to register. Nathaniel Woods, and all of the Shedashee for that matter, would have to abide by the law or their trade goods could be confiscated. Furthermore, while registration did not cost money, language was in place for the Home Secretary to impose fees and tariffs as necessary to maintain the integrity of the Norillian economy.
Vlad removed his spectacles, tossed them atop the messages, and rubbed his eyes. “Have you any idea what you’re doing?” The Shipping and Commerce Act would be more than enough to incite protests. Hunters and trappers would simply ignore the laws, which put pressure on those who bought their furs, subjecting them to possible fines for smuggling. Because the act applied to any product that could end up on a ship, the scope of its application knew no limits. The act was designed to remind everyone to whom they were subject.
Adding on top of that, the Crown’s reply concerning the request for troops and the Queen was guaranteeing rebellion. It would simmer at a low level, but as taxes and fees got imposed, the heat would rise. And if the Norghaest do attack… even if they threaten, there is no way the Queen will not be made to look the fool.
A gentle rapping on his office door caused him to glance at the clock on his sideboard. He got up and answered the door.
“Quite punctual, Miss Frost, thank you.”
“My pleasure, Highness.” Bethany entered and set the sheaf of papers she was carrying on the side table. She flipped the folio open and handed him a set of sheets which appeared to be ledger pages. He scanned the account names atop each sheet, then smiled. “Yo
u had no difficulty with the sendings?”
“Storms did scramble some things, but redundancy allowed me to correct them.”
“Any more ghost messages?” The thaumagraphs occasionally produced messages that had a rhythm and cadence all their own, but resulted in nonsense messages. The Prince feared his thaumagraphs were picking up on Church communications through similar devices—which meant his messages might trigger their devices.
“Both your wife and I have heard more of them, but they remain short and appear to be nonsense.” The woman smiled. “She can tell you more, but she thinks they might be the result of magick storms.”
“Interesting theory. I can’t wait to hear more about it.” The Prince brought the papers to his desk and then handed Bethany the Queen’s proclamation about how her colonial subjects should behave. “Take your time. I’d like your opinion.”
“Yes, Highness.” She sat at the small desk the Prince had installed for her and began reading.
From the start of the thaumagraph project the Prince needed reliable and intelligent people. He’d brought Caleb Frost into his cabal, and Caleb had suggested employing Bethany. Because she was known to have edited Owen’s book, and to edit the Gazette, it was easy to make people believe that she was working with the Prince on an immense, multi-volume work on the flora and fauna of Mystria. That fit with what most people knew the Prince for, and quite common was the sight of Bethany hauling papers to and fro.
Where Bethany had proved an incredible boon was not only her facility for working ciphers, but her ability to use the thaumagraph. She’d grasped its potential immediately, and in conjunction with Gisella had suggested refinements to the design. Bethany had become far more adept at employing the device than any other operator. The Prince installed a thaumagraph in the attic of the Gazette building and from there Bethany and Caleb were able to gather and send messages from and to the other units.
Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies Page 34
