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  Gisella stroked Rowena’s brow. “It will be a long expedition. You’ll send Owen and Nathaniel. Will you be joining them?”

  “No.”

  “But you would like to.” She smiled openly. “No, Vladimir, do not protest to the contrary. The man I love loves this land very much, and wishes to know more about it. You would gladly head west with the least bit of provocation. I only wish I could go with you.”

  He laughed lightly, then frowned. “I will make you a promise, beloved, that we shall go west. We, together, will see sights no other human beings have seen. The only thing I love more than this land and our children is you, and I can think of no greater joy than sharing Mystria’s wonders with you.”

  “Then you will go on this expedition.”

  He shook his head. “Were it possible, perhaps, but it is not. The Temperance Bay Colonial assembly will be meeting come May, and I need to be here to support the cooler heads among then. I’ve already had petitions from other legislatures requesting things from the Crown.”

  “And there is training.”

  He smiled back over his shoulder at his son who was struggling mightily to get back out of his clothes. “There is that, too. My uncle, his namesake, was said to be able to read at three.”

  “That’s not what I meant, husband.”

  He nodded. “Yes, there will be the spring militia muster, and I need to be here for that. ’Twould be good if Nathaniel was here as well, of course.”

  Gisella reached up and tugged his shirt once, sharply. “My dearest love, our children you will educate. Soldiers you will drill. Mugwump requires training.”

  “I am sorry, my dear. I’ll pay more attention to semantics in future. Yes, Mugwump does need training.” Vlad smiled to himself. In many ways the wurm-despite his having wings, Vlad had studiously avoided calling Mugwump a dragon-resembled Richard in terms of energy and determination to go exploring. The successful molt had imbued the wurm with a puppyish sense of wonder about the world. This included wing-assisted flying hops, which clearly presaged full flight, but growth of the wings had not caught up with the body, making the short flights end prematurely and somewhat comically.

  “I am going to ask Count von Metternin to travel west. He will be able to mediate between Colonel Rathfield and the others.”

  “Will you invite him to dinner this evening?”

  Vlad thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d rather have a chance to brief your countryman before he meets Rathfield. I’ll have to go over documents from Launston before I can do that.”

  His wife nodded, then handed him their daughter before adjusting her gown and standing. “Will you want Catherine Strake and me involved in any discussions?”

  He cradled Rowena in his left arm, then reached up and stroked his wife’s cheek. “I would welcome your insight, beloved, but I fear her reaction. Owen must go, but that means that she cannot sail back to Norisle this year. The girl is too young to make the voyage.”

  Gisella kissed his hand. “I would gladly keep Miranda here, if it would grant Catherine the chance to leave.”

  “I can’t imagine she would abandon her child.” Vlad wasn’t sure if he was saying that because he thought Catherine loved the child, or because she was aware that no matter how disagreeable her position in Mystria, deserting her husband and child would hold her up to the sort of social ridicule that she hated. She is ruled by her own ambition and the judgment of others. She is caught within miseries of her own making.

  “I think you’re right about her, dearest. Regardless, I shall arrange for us to be able to take tea and work at needlepoint while you discuss substantive matters.” Gisella smiled. “Perhaps it will be a good night for her and she can contribute. She can be quite clever.”

  “I would tell you that I will make it up to you if she is in a mood, but I’m not certain that is within my power.”

  “We’ll keep her glass full during dinner, and ply her with port afterward.” His wife’s eyes twinkled. “She is not the only clever one here.”

  “Oh, how well I know that.” Vlad kissed her again, then handed her their daughter. “The people of Mystria do not know how much they owe to you. You keep me sane.”

  “No, darling, I just let you be you.” Reaching up, she squeezed his shoulder as she slipped past. “And you being you is what will be their salvation.”

  Chapter Five

  27 March 1767 Strake House, Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen waited for Prince Vlad to fade from view before turning his horse down the drive to Strake House. Rathfield said nothing while they waited. Owen expected him to fall in for the short ride to the house, but the Norillian officer remained where he was. Owen reined about again. “Is there something you wish to say, Colonel?”

  Rathfield squared his shoulders. “There are a few things I do think you should know, Mr. Strake.”

  “I may have resigned my commission, Colonel, but were we in Norisle, you would still afford me the courtesy of addressing me by rank.” Owen’s eyes tightened. “And, for the record, I currently hold the rank of Captain in the Mystrian Rangers.”

  “I was aware of that, sir, and wished to avoid the embarrassment of reminding you how far you had fallen.” Rathfield snorted. “I understand why you might have resigned your commission. Were I in your position, I might well have done so myself. I would have respected that. But to so thoroughly and scurrilously besmirch the reputation of a well-respected commander who snatched victory from the jaws of defeat at Anvil Lake; that, sir, is an offense which cannot be forgiven.”

  Owen arched an eyebrow. “By what account, save for any fantasy which Lord Rivendell wrote up and submitted to Horse Guards himself, do you mark Rivendell as being respected or the victor at Anvil Lake? Have you read my account of the battle, or only Wattling’s fantasy based upon it? Have you had private correspondence from soldiers who were there and thoroughly embarrassed by their failure, or have you some more objective account? Perhaps you’ve read Laureate du Malphias’ account of the battle.”

  “Do not think me a fool, Strake. I’ve read Wattling’s book, and I can read between the lines. I know John Rivendell is not a genius, but I also know it was a matter of numbers. Victory was inevitable.”

  Owen drew in a breath slowly and forced himself to tamp down his rising anger. Though born of a Mystrian father, he had been raised in Norisle on his stepfather’s family estate. He had faced the Norillian prejudices that came with his obviously Mystrian surname. In the Tharyngian War he’d seen Mystrian soldiers go toe-to-toe with the best Ryngian forces in the field, yet the loss of battles were blamed on them. And the battle of Anvil Lake had been one in which Prince Vlad had led Mystrian troops to rout Ryngian forces, yet Lord Rivendell and his Norillian troops claimed the victory for their own.

  “Colonel, you may think that numbers made victory inevitable, but history is rife with examples where a handful of men have fought and successfully defied the might of empires. You judge Mystrian troops and their performance based on stories told by those who have a vested interest in denying how good Mystrian troops really are. Rivendell may claim the victory at Anvil Lake, but he never mentions the taking of Fort Cuivre by an inferior Mystrian force.”

  Owen held a hand up to forestall a comment. “More to your point: yes, I dared tell the truth about Anvil Lake. I told it for one specific reason-had Rivendell listened to his advisors, he would have lost far fewer men. You’ve been in combat, Colonel. You know the horrors of men torn asunder. Is not saving their lives worth exposing incompetence?”

  “You forget yourself, Strake.” Rathfield shook his head slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child. “The decisions to promote or remove an officer are made by Generals, not subordinate officers. If they chose to leave Lord Rivendell in place, this is their right. And those men in the ranks sign up fully aware of the risks their duty to the Crown entails. They march into battle proud of their service. You suggest they are cowards.”

  Owen laughed. “
No, sir, I suggest they are a limited resource and should be preserved.” Guy du Malphias had realized this very thing. Because Tharyngia’s colonies in the new world had fewer people than Norisle’s colonies, New Tharyngia was doomed. To even things up he had created the pasmortes — reanimated corpses that, depending on their level of decay, could serve as everything from slave labor to skilled, autonomous agents. The fortress at Anvil Lake had been packed with them, and killing them was no simple thing. Had Prince Vlad not intervened to turn the tide of battle, the Norillian troops that had been sent to destroy the fortress would have become its new generation of defenders.

  “You speak like a merchant, sir, not a soldier-a tradesman devoid of honor.”

  “Perhaps it is because I think more of war as a trade than an honor.”

  “That trade would have included following orders, I believe.”

  Owen nodded. Rathfield’s lips were moving, but Owen heard his uncle’s words coming out of his mouth. Richard Ventnor, Duke Deathridge, had ordered Owen to secure all of du Malphias’ papers from Anvil Lake. Owen had recovered them, but had not turned them over to his uncle. He’d been certain that the papers included the secrets of raising the dead. That was not information Owen wanted to see in his uncle’s hands.

  “You refer to the recovery of du Malphias’ papers, I believe. My uncle knows I found them and immediately turned them over to the Crown. It was my assumption then, and yet is, that Prince Vlad would make them available to Norillian authorities as soon as possible.” Owen shrugged. “Or did I misinterpret what my uncle requested of me?”

  “I would hardly know your uncle’s mind.”

  “But you’ve spoken to him more recently than I.”

  “True. I sought him out when I was given this assignment.” Rathfield tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “He suggested that you had forgotten that duty to family is exceedingly important.”

  “I could take that as a suborning of treason.”

  “Your uncle?” Rathfield threw his head back in a genuine laugh. “My dear boy, you have no idea how far he has risen, do you? Because of his victory on the Continent, the Queen trusts him most highly. He is her right-hand man on all things international.”

  Owen stroked a hand along his jaw. Not knowing his uncle as well as Owen did, Rathfield likely believed that the Crown was simply considering Mystria as part of the empire and, therefore, warding it against external predation. Owen could see a deeper game. While learning the magick that created pasmortes would be a powerful thing to use against Tharyngia, likewise it would be a splendid tool a man could use to carve his own empire out of Mystria. Du Malphias had intended to do that, and Owen could see his uncle using the same opportunity.

  My having given the documents to Prince Vlad would be seen as a step toward independence for Mystria if the Queen no longer trusted her nephew. Owen forced himself to smile. “I’m pleased to hear my uncle is doing so well. My choice was the expedient one and, truly, the only one possible. The papers would have to be copied here to prevent their being lost in transit to Norisle. Who better to trust with that job?”

  “You may have a point, but the Prince’s lack of alacrity is the cause for some concern.”

  “Would you like me to mention this to the Prince?”

  “You shouldn’t bother him with it. I believe he has had correspondence from the court as regards it.”

  So, the answer is yes, but you don’t want to admit to it. Owen leaned forward in the saddle, both hands on the horn. “Is there anything else you wished to address before you enjoy the hospitality of my home?”

  “I would not address it, save that you seem to have adopted the frighteningly annoying custom of Mystrians to be abrupt, inappropriate, and direct. The fact of the matter is simple, Strake: you’re not truly of my class and you’ve risen well above what ought to be your station. I say this with all due respect to your mother and her fine lineage. Blood will out, and your Mystrian blood is telling in you. This expedition is at the behest of the Crown. I am in command. Things will be done as I direct, when I direct them, and I shall tolerate no insubordination. I will hold you to a higher standard than any of the Mystrian miscreants with whom I am saddled. Are we clear on this?”

  Owen could not help himself. He began to laugh.

  Rathfield stiffened. “You have been warned, Strake.”

  Owen stopped laughing, but his smile would not die. “Understand something, Colonel. The Crown’s authority extends only in so far as you can enforce it. Here in Temperance Bay or Bounty or south-that’s pretty far. Two days’ ride from here there are whole villages populated by people who’ve never seen Norisle and who think the Queen is something out of a faery story. When we get further out, you’ll see places where there aren’t many people, and where the only law is Nature’s law. You think Mystrians won’t care about the Crown? Jeopards and wolves will care even less.”

  Owen straightened up in the saddle and opened his hands. “As for your holding me to a high standard, understand what that means. You can write me up in reports and say bad things, but everyone will expect that. If you try to flog me-flog any of us-it won’t be tolerated. If you choose to demand satisfaction of me, I’ll decline as the Prince doesn’t favor dueling. Others who will be joining us, however, have different opinions, and they’re a lot deadlier than I am.

  “So, Colonel, your being here is pretty much like your being in Rondeville. You’re on your own. How you best decide to proceed is up to you.”

  Rathfield considered for a moment, and then nodded. “I see. I will take your words under advisement, though I warn you that I meant what I said.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Good. As long as we understand each other, I believe we can work together.” Rathfield pointed south. “Shall we?”

  “By all means.” Owen gave his horse a touch of the heel. “Welcome to my home.”

  The drive to Strake House snaked through woods, which had been thinned of larger trees. The road worked its way around hills simply because that had been less expensive than digging through them-and level roads were more practical in the winter when the snow came. The serpentine track opened onto a wide lot with a barn on the left, smokehouse to the right, and the main house in the middle. Beyond the main house, down by the Benjamin River, stood a small boathouse and dock.

  “I know it’s not much, but…”

  “It is impressive.”

  The main house had been built on a stone foundation. They’d excavated down to bedrock, which gave the house an eight-foot-high cellar for food storage in winter. The rectangular building rose to two stories, with chimneys at either end and fireplaces sufficient to heat four upstairs bedrooms. The pitched roof hid an attic. The main floor boasted a kitchen toward the back on the right side, a dining room to the front on that side, a sewing room back left, and a library and parlor left front. Stones finished the corners, but clapboards otherwise covered the house, and the roof had been done in cedar shingles.

  Owen snuck a look at Rathfield’s face and suppressed a smile. In Norisle, even a man with Rathfield’s money could barely have afforded a house such as that. Because Mystria had so much land and so many resources abundantly available, the construction had cost a fraction of what it might have in Norisle. Owen could afford to build a house that was much larger than the equivalent in Norisle, and in Norisle would have had to be a minor noble to afford an estate that size.

  As they rode toward the stables, James the stable boy emerged to take their horses. The two men dusted themselves off. Before they could reach the front door, however, it opened a crack, then a little, black-haired girl with bright hazel eyes slipped through. Giggling gaily, she ran toward her father, hands extended, then stopped and looked up at Rathfield.

  Her smile died and her hands disappeared behind her back.

  Owen scooped her up and kissed her cheek. “Colonel Rathfield, this is my daughter, Miranda.”

  Rathfield drew off his hat with a flourish an
d bowed solemnly-a bit of playful whimsy that Owen would never have credited as possible. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miranda.”

  The beautiful little girl stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, then buried her face against her father’s neck. Owen shook his head. “She tends to be shy around strangers. Normally she is quite happy and talks all the time.”

  The main house door opened and a woman appeared, though she still faced back into the house. “Let that happen again, Agnes, and I shall get the strop!” She turned, looking over the yard for her daughter-there was no mistaking the resemblance in the nose and the chin-then she stopped. “Owen, I hadn’t…”

  “We have a visitor. Colonel Ian Rathfield, may I present my wife, Catherine.”

  Catherine stiffened, then pressed her brown hair into place and straightened her dress. “Please forgive me, Colonel.”

  Rathfield took her hand and raised it to his lips. “My pleasure, Madame.”

  Catherine covered that hand with her other, then her brown eyes narrowed. “Are you? Yes, your uniform, the Fifth Northland Cavalry. You’re Ian Rathfield, the hero of Rondeville.”

  “You are very kind, Madame.”

  “Catherine, you must call me Catherine, Colonel.”

  Owen watched his wife transform herself into the woman of the manner, with a small hint of the flirtatiousness he’d enjoyed when they first met. He’d not seen it in so long, it surprised him that it still existed. He found her a bit silly, but dared not laugh, and welcomed the change.

  Catherine raised a hand to tuck a stray lock of brown hair away.” It will be an honor to have you here. How long will you be staying?”

  “I shall do my best not to inconvenience you for long, Catherine. I hope to take rooms in Temperance soon enough.” Rathfield smiled. “I’ve been sent by the Crown for a specific mission. I am afraid, however, I shall have to take your husband with me. I hope you won’t mind.”