She landed at the hill crest, barely a dozen yards away. Rufus looked in her direction and shouted something at her. She dismissed him with a wave, then gathered power in both her hands. She brought them together, forming the energy into an indistinct ball. She patted the edges with the same sort of clumsy motions young children use when packing snow onto a snowman.
Yet at her touch, sharp details sprang out. With a few casual gestures she shaped the glowing energy into one of the squatting guardian figures from the Antediluvian ruins. It grew twelve feet tall and was nearly half that wide and deep. Its flesh rippled with scales and the muscles beneath twitched as if it were alive. Nathaniel would have sworn that the tentacles around its mouth writhed.
The woman caressed the statue’s large eyes, much in the same way that Kamiskwa had run his hand over Nathaniel’s face. In the wake of her gesture, the guardian’s eyes closed.
She sank to a crouch and moved quickly toward the two men, appearing as a ghost. As she drew close, light glinted from a simple gold circlet which had been hidden by her hair, and a slender gold chain onto which had been hung a large, dark pearl. She pulled the latter from around her neck, silently snapping the chain. She held it out clutched between forefinger and thumb, and the air around the pearl shimmered as if it was rippling water.
Kamiskwa reached out and plucked the pearl from her. Their fingers touched, just for a heartbeat. Kamiskwa gasped. He fell back and Nathaniel caught him as the woman rose into the air, then flew down into the valley once again.
Nathaniel dragged Kamiskwa down the hill and behind another snow-clad stone. “What was that?”
Kamiskwa shivered, staring at the pearl in his palm. “I do not know. I… this pearl, it is a puzzle and a key but, to what, I don’t know.” He pulled his medicine pouch from inside his clothes and slipped the pearl into it. “The sentinel statue, she’s blinded it. It won’t see us.”
“What about the other statues?”
“I don’t know.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “Why did she do that?”
“I don’t know?”
Nathaniel hauled Kamiskwa to his feet. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know.” The Shedashee shook his head. “She’s the woman I’ll make my wife, but beyond that, I don’t know.”
Wind howled outside the thaumagraph cabin. Prince Vlad nodded in Count von Metternin’s direction. “Thank you for the excellent summary of our situation.”
The plucky Kessian smiled, then painfully lowered himself into a chair. “You are most kind in letting me continue to serve you, Highness, despite my diminished capacity.”
“I cannot afford to be without your counsel.” The Prince glanced at Major Forest. “Your assessment?”
The tall, slender man from Fairlee had arrived the previous afternoon with his Ranger contingent. He leaned forward to study the map on the table before him. A hank of white hair curled down over his forehead. He swept it out of the way with his left hand, and tapped the map with the hook that replaced his right. “The Norghaest base being here would make me feel good, but the twenty miles of distance did not slow him down in hitting Fort Plentiful. Just from what I saw coming in, I doubt that if my battalion had been here, we would have made that much difference. He had the heavy troops and we did not.”
Forest glanced over at General Rathfield. “That’s not a slight on your men, General.” The Mystrian soldier ran his hook over the misshapen iron ball resting on the table. Owen had recovered it after the battle. The hook bumped over the knuckle and finger impressions stamped into the cannon ball. “Being able to do this to an iron ball makes Rufus far more dangerous than any enemy I’ve ever fought before.”
Rathfield pointed at Fort Plentiful on the map. “This is precisely why I oppose the suggested advance to the Stone House and striking at the Octagon. Here we can prepare for him. No offense intended, Highness, Count von Metternin, but the defenses you were able to throw up were barely adequate for turning a rabble. With professional soldiers here—and I include your men, Major Forest, since they are well disciplined—we can prepare defenses which will stop Rufus.”
Prince Vlad shook his head. “I disagree.”
“Highness, if you think we cannot prepare adequate defenses here, how will your forces fare when you push them forward to a place where you can prepare no defenses?”
Vlad sighed. His was a valid question, and one that the Prince had wrestled with, but for reasons he believed were entirely different than those that gave birth to Rathfield’s protest. Prince Vlad did not doubt Rathfield’s bravery or that of his men. In fact, he counted on it. But for them, this was an exercise in military science. The Fifth Northland Cavalry, devastated though they were, still could be counted upon as being some of the best troops in the world. Their charge, foolish though it might have seemed, required confidence and skill.
“Msitazi said to me that I had to learn just as the Norghaest did. I have thought long and hard on that. I wondered what the Norghaest were learning when they attacked. What did we reveal about ourselves?” Vlad stiffly held up his left hand and began ticking points off on his fingers. “We showed them that our most fearsome weapon was only partially effective against their troops. We showed them that our use of magick is as a whisper before their bellowing. We showed them that some of our people were ready to break and run. We showed them that we had one dragon, and Mugwump really wasn’t much of a threat—less so, now. In short, we proved that we are cowardly, unable to hurt them, and little more than an annoyance.”
Rathfield’s eyes narrowed. “And moving to Stone House and launching an attack will change that assessment in what way?”
“The reason the Norghaest came at us the way they did is because they based their strategy on Rufus’ knowledge of how we wage war. Rufus was present at Anvil Lake, but only after battle had been joined. His sense of how professionals wage war is distorted. Our inability to defend fits in perfectly with the contempt he has for authority. So, the Norghaest are working with that knowledge to determine how to reestablish themselves.”
“Highness, you make it sound as if you do not think Rufus is actually running things.” Rathfield crossed his arms. “Am I misreading you?”
“I have come to believe, General, that the golden tablets and working with them enabled a Norghaest sorcerer to possess Rufus Branch. I think the changes in him betoken two things. First, he’s being changed to be more like them, which enables them to more easily maintain control. Second, I believe he is wasting away because their use of him is consuming him. Rufus, if you will, has the bit in his mouth, but someone else has the reins and is riding him to death.
“Because of that belief, and because the Shedashee have indicated that the Norghaest create colonies before they emerge, I think whoever is riding Rufus is in a difficult situation.” Vlad shrugged. “I don’t have any of the troops I requested from Norisle because others determined I did not need them. I do not think it is unreasonable to imagine that Rufus’ rider is under similar constraints. The one thing I do know is that people in power dislike surprises, and by moving forward to the Stone House and actually attacking, we can surprise him. That might be enough for him or his controllers to withdraw.”
Rathfield studied the Prince in silence, then slowly nodded. “I shall have to survey Stone House myself. Woodlands with ravines and hills defeat our ability to charge, but that has proved less than efficacious against the Norghaest. What sort of a role do you imagine for us?”
Count von Metternin rubbed his hands together. “You will find, General, that your men’s talents will be quite appreciated.”
Vlad withdrew from the conversation and none of the military men noticed. In his consideration of what Msitazi had said, he’d drawn a second conclusion. What the fight had showed him was that both the Norghaest and Shedashee had a substantially different and more greatly nuanced sense of magick than he’d imagined existed. While he was incredibly proud of the thaumagraph, it was little more than a toy
compared to what he’d seen on the battlefield. Msitazi’s ability to move troops great distances immediately changed the rules of warfare. Instead of troops having to charge or march through the enemy, they could just appear at his rear, capturing the commander.
The Norghaest’s ability to resurrect troops reminded him of du Malphias’ creation of the pasmortes. Prince Vlad and von Metternin had sat at the edge of the redoubt, looking out at Rathfield wandering over the fields where his troops had died. The Count turned and looked at him. “Do you wish now, my friend, that you knew the Laureate’s secret for creating pasmortes?” Von Metternin had asked. “Think of what could be done if we had the cream of the cavalry back.”
“Absolutely not.” Vlad had shaken his head. “It’s not that they would not be useful, or that their use might not prevent others from dying. That sort of powerful knowledge never remains in the hands of one man alone. Though you or I might use it responsibly, the same cannot be said for everyone else. I would rather that knowledge vanish from the world, than to have it become as common as some other magicks are today.”
Vlad still felt that way, but also realized that the only way to meet the Norghaest on an equal footing was to learn how to do what they could do. Or at least learn enough that I can stop them and make them think I know far more than I do. He shivered, realizing he was putting full responsibility for victory on himself. But then he realized that he was willing to do it not out of any desire for glory, but because Mystria was his home, and the Norghaest threatened it and his family.
To protect them he would do anything.
Which means I need to speak with Msitazi and get some answers.
Chapter Fifty-seven
26 May 1768
Bishop House, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Bishop Othniel Bumble turned the note over and over in his hands. The cream-colored stationery had been folded crisply and sealed in red wax which bore no crest or sign of the person who sealed it. It had been addressed to him in a delightfully delicate hand, written in sepia ink. The letters had been written boldly, with no hesitation.
Livinia, hovering in the doorway to his office, wrung her hands. “All is well, yes, Othniel?”
“Yes, I do believe so.” He slid a thumb beneath the flap, but hesitated. He didn’t want to tear the paper. He snapped the seal instead, then scraped away what little wax remained with his nail. He unfolded the note, turning it so he could read the three words written there.
“It is true.”
“Yes! Yes!” Bishop Bumble pounded a fist against his desk. His inkwell jumped, spilling a black teardrop onto his blotter. He rose from his chair, lifting the letter as he would the Eucharist during services. “This is everything, absolutely everything. I have them and they cannot escape.”
His wife had cringed at his outburst. “You have whom?”
“The Prince, his wife, Owen Strake, pretty much anyone I want from that clique.” Bumble laughed aloud. “Thank you, God, for delivering Your enemies into my hands. Oh, I shall do Your work so well.”
“But how could the Prince have done anything, husband? He is away, in the west.”
“Yes, yes he is.” He turned slowly to face her, smiling, not wanting to frighten her. “This note confirms that he has a means for quickly getting messages between where he is and Prince Haven—a supernatural means. He is using magick which is, by its very nature, heretical. It’s worse than Fox, my dear, much worse. The Prince has been seduced by all of this Tharyngian nonsense, his studies and all that. And he should know better.”
“How would he have learned…?”
Bumble laid the note on his desk, then composed himself. “It is quite simple, woman, easy enough for even you to understand. He spoke with Fox and Fox revealed to him the details of his heresy. The Prince could not allow Fox to die, so he arranged for his escape. In return, Fox becomes his mentor, teaching him things that a layman was never meant to know.”
He clapped his hands. “Do you understand what this means for me? Do you, really? Do you have any idea, the least little inkling?”
Livinia looked down, shaking her head.
“Of course you don’t.” Bumble snorted. “It means everything. You see, when the Prince returns I will tell him that I am prepared to convene another Church Tribunal. I would have him and his wife on charges. Their children would be taken away from them. Owen Strake, the Kessian, Nathaniel Woods and his whore…” He hesitated. He’d almost added in Caleb Frost and Bethany, but Livinia and Hettie Frost were thick as thieves. If he let slip that the Frost children were vulnerable, she’d warn them.
He clasped his hands at the small of his back. “The Prince, to save them all, will be forced to resign as Governor-General. He’ll be recalled to Norisle. In his place the Queen will send Lord Rivendell. Who knows the colonies better among her advisors? He’s begged for the position ever since Anvil Lake, but the Queen has denied the request because she bears some slender affection for her nephew. With him in disgrace, however…”
His wife smiled weakly. “I recall Lord Rivendell. He was pleasant, if a bit loud.”
“Yes, he was.” The Bishop made no attempt to suppress his smile. “And the things he told me when I was his Confessor, they will give me a great deal of influence over him. I daresay he will listen to anything I suggest. I will be able to make Temperance Bay and all of Mystria into what it was always meant to be.”
He began to pace, spreading his arms, using his hands to conjure invisible buildings out of the air. “Gone will be the grog-shops and taverns, the gambling houses and places where men sate unholy lusts. Sins against men will be recognized as sins against God, and sins against God shall be punished most severely. A hundred years ago an adulterress would have a scarlet letter sewn on the breast of her dress, but we shall have it branded into her flesh. Of course, not all of the Good Book’s oldest laws shall be enforced, but just those God means to have guide us now. Drunkards and fornicators shall be flogged, thieves will have their hands smashed, magicians shall have their hands encased in steel, and all of them shall be put to work for the common good until such time as they repent and accept our Savior.”
In his mind’s eye, Temperance was transformed from a small city built on a series of hills to a gleaming metropolis that shined purely and brightly as a beacon for the rest of the world. Wickedness would be driven from it, and God would bless it. He would provide manna so the people would not need to work, but just worship Him. Thousands of voices joined in prayer would send the joyous sound of their devotion across the continent, converting Twilight People and Tharyngians and whatever else lurked out there, to God’s service.
And there he would be, Othniel Bumble, the man who made everything ready for the return of God to the earth. How could God not reward him? How could God deny him the riches He had bestowed upon Solomon? God surely would raise for him a palace and a throne. He would provide gold and wives and concubines. Bumble would be returned to the image of his youth and granted the extended years given to prophets and forefathers who had done considerably less in the service of God.
It will all be mine!
“Othniel.”
He turned to face his wife again. “Yes?”
“You seemed lost there for a moment.” She managed a timid smile. “What may I do to help you? You seem so happy.”
“I am, my dear. All I have labored for is within my grasp.” Bumble returned to his desk. “I think I should like tea. And some of your cakes.”
She glanced down for a moment. “I shall have to bake you up a batch, if you do not mind. I shall be quick.”
He glanced at the clock on his office’s mantle. “Take your time, my dear. No premature celebration—God’s work must be done first. I shall write up a full report to Norisle immediately. The Archbishop must know what is going on. By the time his reply comes, the situation will have been handled, of course, but I shall not take any chances.”
“No, dear, that would not do. I s
hall prepare the cakes for your tea as usual.” She gave him a quick smile, then turned away and disappeared.
Pulling a folio from his desk, and a sheet from that folio, Bishop Bumble never even noticed her leave. He inked a quill, and set about writing the document that would destroy Prince Vlad and make the Bishop the master of Mystria.
Despite the wind driving snow in from the west, Owen didn’t crouch down at the southwest corner of the fort’s palisade wall. He kept watch, looking out past the tented wurmrest and the big fire around it. The Shedashee had set up their camp around it, living in small domes covered with hides. They’d oriented them with the doors to the east, as if they’d known the storms were coming for days.
“Captain Strake, Lieutenant Frost asked to see you.” Clara Brown leaned her gun against the wall. “Said I was to take over for your watch.”
Owen glanced at the sky. “Sun’s only just gone down. I’ve got an hour left.”
“She said it was urgent, sir.”
“Thanks.” Owen grabbed his rifle and descended the steps. He crossed the open yard to the thaumagraph cabin. The table upon which Prince Vlad had taken to laying out maps was still there, but the maps had been rolled up. The only thing left on it was the cannon ball with Rufus’ fist dent.
Bethany gave him a brave smile when he came in, but said nothing. She extended a note to him, then withdrew.
He opened it and read it twice. “I…”
Bethany held both hands up. “Captain Strake, you need not say anything. I am happy for you. I do hope it’s a boy.”
Owen set his rifle down and read it a third time. “To Owen. C is pregnant. She thinks she will have his son. Congratulations, G.” He looked up. “Did you transcribe this?”
Bethany nodded. “The Princess sent it twice, just to make certain.”
“This is a mistake.”
“No, Owen, it’s not. It’s not a ghost message. It’s not wrong.” Bethany shook her head. “I know what I heard. I transcribed it correctly. You and your wife are going to have a child. I don’t… I didn’t have any…”
Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies Page 45
