Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

“I can’t deny your point there.”

Nathaniel patted Owen on the shoulder and they started walking again. “So I got to wondering not iffen there was a God, but whether or not any of them people got it right. It would be as if we done heard a big cat calling in the night, and we found pawprints, and we found a tooth, and we brung it all back to Prince Vlad. Now he’d go on and tell us how big the cat was, what it ate and so forth but, being a wise man, he wouldn’t tell us what color it was, or that it had wings and horns and two heads.”

“But holy men are doing just that?”

“’Xactly so.” Nathaniel nodded. “So I might allow as how there is a God. I might even go so far as to say that some things, like the Golden Rule and the whole ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ sounds like things a God might want us to be doing. Beyond that, I reckon men is inventing more than they ought to.”

“So you don’t think God let the people of Piety die?”

“Tain’t that. I don’t think He wanted them to die.” Nathaniel shook his head. “I don’t reckon any Creator what worked so hard to create beauty and life would make it part of a plan to have folks die hard and evil like that. You think he wanted them to die?”

“I really try not to fathom the mind of God.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Your turn, Captain Strake. You believe in God?”

Owen ducked beneath a pine branch. “I’m afraid the God I believe in is a bit more capricious and nasty than the one you accept. Put it down to being raised in a family where we had our own Church and would sit up front at services, yet where my uncles, father, and grandfather would indulge themselves in cruel ways. And credit it to what I’ve seen on battlefields, where men pray for God to end their suffering. So simple a thing for Him to grant, and yet it always seemed that he who prayed the most devoutly, suffered the longest.”

Nathaniel’s thoughts flew back to Fort Cuivre and the aftermath of the battle at Anvil Lake. Shot and sword, bullet and bludgeon, the weapons of war had rendered men unrecognizable. Some did pray as they died, others wept, and still more cried out for mothers and wives living an ocean away. While he understood the injuries, and understood the desire for comfort, he’d never taken the time to fit that carnage into any theological context. Those battles had been Man’s creation and weren’t something for which he could imagine any god wanting credit.

“Almost sounds to me, Captain, that you’re leaning toward thinking there ain’t no God.”

“I probably would think that, save for something you touched upon earlier. Loving or cruel, capricious or calculating, God being in Heaven means there is a reason for everything.” Owen sighed. “I might not understand it, but knowing there is a reason is a lot more comforting than believing there isn’t. And if God does exist, maybe, just maybe, the next prayer He answers will be mine.”

Nathaniel leaped over a marshy stretch of trail. “I reckon this, Owen. Iffen God’s going to be answer any prayers, like as not they’ll be from someone like you.”

“How do you figure that?”

“My hunch is this: iffen you was dying and in a powerful lot of pain, you wouldn’t be praying for comfort for yourself, but for your daughter and wife. I reckon most of the others miss that. The Good Lord, if the tales be true, done sacrificed Hisself for others. Praying for yourself kinda mocks all that, don’t it?”

“I imagine there are Scriptural scholars who would debate that point, but I agree.” Owen laughed. “And I do pray for Miranda, every night.”

Nathaniel noticed that Owen hadn’t said he prayed for his wife, and that didn’t surprise him. Nathaniel found her as welcome as a case of carbuncles. The woman seemed to be mean for the sake of being mean, and took a special dislike to anything or anyone that inspired her husband to remain in Mystria. He’d just as soon see the backside of her on a ship sailing toward dawn, but it wasn’t his place to say anything in that regard, so he held his tongue.

The party topped the last rise about two hours before the sun would set. The settlement appeared normal, with people going about their normal tasks. It wasn’t until they started down toward the meeting house that Nathaniel noted that the herders hadn’t come to greet them but, instead, followed them at greater than gunshot range.

Rathfield appeared not to notice. “When we reach the town, you’ll have to give the order, Steward, to get everyone out. They should pack food. We will have ample water.”

“You worry too much, Colonel.” The Steward, as if revived by having returned home, smiled. “God will provide for us. Not a mouth shall go hungry on our way.”

People gathered on the trail into Happy Valley, men in front, women behind, two dozen of the former and all of their wives. One stepped forward. “Ezekiel Fire, you are welcome to rejoin the community. The Steward awaits you in the Temple.”

Fire stopped a pace beyond the party. “Deacon Stone, I am the Steward.”

“No, Ezekiel. God came to us in a vision, all of us. He said you had been tested and tempted and corrupted by these men.” Stone opened his arms, turning his hands palm up to the sky. The others aped his posture and raised their faces to the heavens. “Salvation is still open to you, Ezekiel. So the Steward has said.”

Nathaniel stepped up. “I don’t reckon I need to be asking who this new Steward is, do I? Where is he? The meeting house, what you’s calling the Temple now?”

Stone stared at Nathaniel. “You are not welcome here. If you step into the precincts of Happy Valley, you will not be spared.”

Nathaniel leveled his rifle at the man’s gut. “I’m a mite more worried about your safety than mine right at the moment, Deacon Stone. Now, you gonna take me to Rufus Branch, or am I going to be asking your widows for directions?”

“Put up your gun, Nathaniel.” The men and women of Happy Valley parted down the middle as if a human curtain. “You can’t harm them, but the reverse is not true.”

Nathaniel recognized the voice more by the venom in it than the tone or timbre. A man came forward, but had it not been for the voice, he never would have known the figure to be Rufus Branch. While the man had retained his height, he had become skeletally thin. Color had leeched from his hair and it had fallen out in patches, as if he had the mange. His eyes had become larger and much darker. He clutched a golden tablet to his chest.

“We will not deny you entry, Nathaniel. It is all part of the plan.” Rufus caressed the tablet. “You are meant to be here, so I am told. We shall put you on trial for heresy, and then we will watch you die.”

16 May 1767 Happy Valley Postsylvania, Mystria

Ian Rathfield shouldered his way past Owen and got between the mob and Ezekiel Fire. “I think this has gone far enough.”

Rufus Branch hissed at him in sibilant tones that sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. “You have no authority here.”

“In the name of the Queen, and the sovereign and Almighty God who put her on the throne, I am the authority here.” Rathfield stood tall, thrusting a finger at Branch. “You’ll answer to my authority immediately.”

Branch’s right hand snaked out, grabbing Ian’s wrist. “I answer to no man.”

Rathfield made to tug his wrist free, but couldn’t. Back when Branch had been thickly muscled, Owen would have allowed it possible that Rathfield might not break his grip. But he’s wasted away, in just days, how can he…? Branch twisted his hand ever so slightly, and the larger man went to his knees. They locked gazes, then Rathfield shuddered and sagged. When Branch released him, he curled up on the ground, hugging himself with quaking arms.