Michael Stackpole: Of Limited Loyalty

Owen sighed. “It’s the sailing season to everyone else, but I know it as the insane season. I had so hoped she would come to love the land as I do, as our daughter does.”

“Miranda’s a bit young to ascribe such feelings to her, don’t you think?”

“Is she, Highness?” He smiled. “You’ve not seen it with your children yet, but to hear Miranda laugh toddling after butterflies, or sticking her nose in flowers, I have no question that she loves her home. Her mother thinks I let her run wild and wants me to hire a governess from Norisle to raise her properly. This is this year’s ploy, to be allowed to go back to Norisle to find someone suitable.”

Vlad nodded thoughtfully. “When she says it, it’s always a return home, yes?”

“Yes.” Owen rubbed a hand over his face. “Why she can’t see the beauty of this place, why she can’t come to love it, I don’t understand.”

Vlad laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “I have come to realize that some people can love what is, and others can only love what they control. You and I can marvel at the wonders of this land, and take comfort in its mysteries. Your wife sees it as hostile and chaotic. Had you remained in Norisle, you likely never would have been given cause to notice this difference. Here, you could not possibly escape it.”

And this would mean that she loved me because she could control me. But here, no more. Owen’s shoulders slumped. “You’ll not have me go, then?”

“Regardless of your answer, I have no choice but to send you. That die was cast before Rathfield ever sailed from Launston.” Vlad frowned. “The only reason to send a hero to Mystria is to lose him, or to use his notoriety to validate whatever news he sends back. Without Tharyngia to worry about, my aunt now has time to concern herself with Mystria. I have no doubt that your uncle and Johnny Rivendell have convinced her the colonies are festering pits of rebellion, so she’s sent Colonel Rathfield to deal with it.

“I would have assigned the same men to the expedition as you suggested. You may not recall how Nathaniel and you got on at first, but can you imagine how he would treat Rathfield if you weren’t along?”

“Abandon him in Hattersburg, I’d imagine.”

“If he didn’t trade him to the Ungarikii for a polecat pelt sooner.”

“True.” Nathaniel Woods, arguably the best Mystrian scout, had little tolerance for Norillian imperiousness. His association with Lord Rivendell during the Anvil Lake campaign had made his negative attitude even worse. “Do you think he could get that much for him?”

The Prince raised a finger. “I don’t find myself much inclined to like Colonel Rathfield either, Owen, but I am forced to respect him. What he did at Rondeville was commendable, and the tragedy he suffered after nearly unendurable.”

Owen nodded. Word had gone from the Continent back to Rathfield’s wife, mistakenly informing her that her husband had been killed. Though she was joyful when he returned home, apparently the specter of his death haunted her. In November of 1766, she died of “a broken heart,” which Catherine informed Owen meant she’d killed herself.

“I suspect he accepted this assignment for similar reasons to your doing the same three years ago, Owen. He’s far away from home and will rigidly adhere to his orders. You were intelligent enough to be flexible. I am not certain he is. You will have to watch him carefully.”

Owen frowned. “What is it you’re not telling me, Highness?”

Vlad opened his hands. “I know nothing substantive, but since the end of the war, Ryngian correspondents of mine have hinted at dark rumors about Colonel Rathfield. Don’t ask me for details-there are none. There have been more reliable rumors about Rufus Branch’s location than there are about the hero of Rondeville.”

“Understood, Highness.” Owen scratched at the back of his neck. “If he insists on meting out the Queen’s justice in the back country?”

“If it is warranted, allow it; if not, suggest the case be appealed to the Governor-General.” Vlad walked with Owen to the door. “I trust your discretion, Captain. And I do want a full report of everything. You’re used to that, however.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

As the men descended the wooden stairs, Owen once again could scarcely believe he was walking beside an heir to the throne. His disbelief grew out of equal parts of Prince Vlad acting entirely common and Owen’s not feeling worthy of the man’s friendship and trust. He had no doubt that things like Vlad’s friendship with him or Nathaniel Woods became the source of many crude jests at the Queen’s Court. The same qualities that endeared the Prince to the people of Mystria would make him the object of ridicule in Launston.

Indeed, Vlad’s openness and friendship had been the sole reason why Catherine had initially remained in Temperance Bay. Catherine and Princess Gisella became fast friends and, Owen subsequently realized, Catherine had believed this friendship would place her at the top of Mystrian society. She’d been right. In Norisle she would have been the equivalent of one of the Queen’s Ladies, making her the envy of millions. In Mystria, however, her status placed her only a class or two above barmaids. While their deference amused Catherine, her enjoyment did not last long. Mystria’s virtually classless society came to repulse her.

She doesn’t understand that only because of it was she able to become so close to the Princess. Owen reveled in the same simple social structure, but he had connections into it that she did not. His actions at Anvil Lake, and the time he’d spent with Nathaniel and Kamiskwa, had solidified his position in Mystria.

Owen also realized that he didn’t need society or its approval the way his wife did. In Mystria people were judged largely on what they made of themselves, not who their parents had been. The point of coming to Mystria and changing their names had been to cut themselves off from the past. Many Norillians saw it as a move to spare their families embarrassment, but Owen realized it went further. Unencumbered by eons-old expectations, individuals could become the people Mystria needed them to be.

The two men exited Government House and headed north on Generosity to the livery. While the winter had been cold, it had not produced a great deal of snow in Temperance. As a result, the streets remained in fairly good shape. They made it easily to the stable, greeting many people with a nod or wave on their journey.

Rathfield awaited them. “Your man has taken the cart to gather my baggage after he gets yours, Highness. As you suggested, we can ride ahead.”

Owen collected his horse-a brown gelding-and saddled it. He pulled a horse-pistol from the saddle-scabbard, checked it, and rotated the firestone. Satisfied, he returned it to the scabbard.

“For the savages?” Rathfield studied the street. “I thought I saw one a bit ago. Can you allow them into town if they’re dangerous?”

Owen shook his head. “You’ll not want to call them savages. They’re the Twilight People to most, Shedashee as a whole, then there’s the tribes and nations among them.”

“But they are savages.” Rathfield mounted the saddle on a grey stallion. “I am aware there is a certain affection for them in some parts, but I also have read reports of atrocities committed by them.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.” Many of the reports to which Rathfield referred had been written by Colonel Langford to explain expenditures of materials from Norillian armories. These false reports covered his wholesale theft of the same items, like brimstone and firestones that he sold to colonists, enriching himself.

Vlad swung into his black gelding’s saddle. “You’ll find, Colonel Rathfield, that the only way you’ll see the Shedashee is if they want you to see them. Owen’s pistol is just to frighten off any predator we might encounter.”