Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

As a precaution, however, no one talked much. They all kept an ear out for anything aside from howls of the north wind. By mutual agreement, two tried to sleep while the other stayed awake to feed the fire, but Nathaniel reckoned there was more trying going on than actual sleeping.

A couple hours past midnight, based on the stars that came out when the north wind died and the snow stopped, Nathaniel woke Kamiskwa. "Sleep any?"

"Very little. Did I hear thunder?"

"Might coulda been, not long ago. Wind snatched it away right quick." Nathaniel stretched. "I reckon I will lay me down, but I ain't 'specting sleep."

And before he even lay a blanket down, two gunshots rang out.

October 15, 1763

Prince Haven

Temperance Bay, Mystria

S nowflakes sped on a shrieking gust of wind coming through the wurmrest's door and sizzled on the giant boiler. Vlad, down in the pit, tossed another log on the fire beneath the iron tank, then looked up toward the door. He smiled, despite being sweaty, mud-streaked, and soot-stained.

"You should not be in here, Highness."

Gisella pulled off a thick woolen cloak and hung it over the pit's railing. She stamped her feet, freeing them of snow, then returned his smile. She wore a baggy pair of riding breeches and a homespun shirt with a knitted sweater over it.

"I thought, Highness, you might value help on this bitterly cold night."

"Baker will be back after he gets some supper and a little sleep." Vlad tossed another piece of wood on the fire. "And while your help would be welcome, you know why you should not be here. We are unchaperoned."

"Not true, my Prince." She started down the ladder into the pit. "We have your Mugwump."

Vlad turned. The wurm had huddled himself into a circle with head and tail pointed away from the river. Wooden shutters had been closed over the river entrance, and a copper pipe ran from the boiler down into the pit. Steam came off of it and combined with the heat of the fire to render the wurmrest as warm as a windless August day.

"Though he seems to be tolerating the cold better than he has in the past, I am afraid, Princess, that Mugwump is not really much of a chaperone."

"It does not matter; wurms are known in all the medieval tales to be fine chaperones. Knights of great virtue have rescued princesses by the dozen, and the presence of the wurm was enough to ensure no loss of honor."

"Do you believe such tales are true?"

She came to his side and grabbed a piece of wood. "It matters only what others believe. You are an honorable man, so there is no question of my virtue being in jeopardy."

"I hope the Count agrees. I recall the joy with which he relates his dueling stories."

"The Count is unconscious, buried beneath many blankets." She tossed her log in.

The Prince grabbed another. "Ouch."

"What?"

Vlad tossed it onto the fire, then shook his right hand. "A splinter." He held out a grimy hand, then spat on his finger and wiped away the dirt. "Right there."

Gisella took his hand in hers. "Hold still." She ran a finger gently over his skin. When he jolted, she murmured, "Sorry." Then she deftly caught the splinter between two fingernails and yanked it free.

"Thank you."

"In Kesse-Saxeburg we have a superstition." The Princess raised his hand toward her lips and gave the wound a gentle kiss. "That will make it better."

Vlad smiled and reluctantly drew his hand from her grasp. That kiss-by its very gentle nature-stirred something in him. He found Gisella physically attractive, with his affection growing through all the time spent with her. She was, in many ways, more beautiful a woman than he had ever supposed he would have in his life.

Because of his bloodline, however, his destiny had never been his own. He had forced himself over the years to be cordial, but to reject the advances of many women who had dreams of someday being the Governor-General's wife or perhaps even Norisle's queen. He had learned to quickly turn away from the biological urgings such as those her presence encouraged.

She cocked her head. "What is it, Highness?"

"You are a conundrum, Princess Gisella, much akin to du Malphias' pasmortes. "

"I assure you, my lord, that I am quite alive."

"You are wise enough to know that is not what I meant." He tossed another log on the fire. "You have been plucked from your father's domain and sent here to marry me, and you actually appear to like me."

"This would be because I do."

"This is what I find to be so peculiar." Vlad shook his head. "You are less than half my age and from another nation. You have told me, and I have seen, that you enjoy many things that other ladies at court loathe. You are in the midst of a grand adventure, one the equal of any in a variety of novels…"

"I do not read novels, Highness. They are persiflage that does not educate nor illuminate and seldom succeeds in amusing. Writers of such fanciful tales should find something useful and honorable to do with their lives, instead of filling their days writing lies."

Vlad laughed aloud. "Yes, perfect."

"What?"

"And you are a woman of strong opinions, not afraid to express them."

She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, then picked up a firerake and reduced a log to coals. "I should think, for Mystria, this would be preferred."

"I agree." Vlad smiled. "My father's most recent letter had explicit instructions for me to follow concerning my upcoming marriage. He began, of course, with the Church's teachings. He cannot help it. He's been a monk longer than he has been a father, but he tries at the latter. He told me that to marry someone I barely knew and didn't like was a duty. In time, he said, we would come to understand each other. We might even get to the point where we tolerated each other's company. If blessed, we might even be friends. He said our children would be a point of commonality and would reflect our shared values. But the idea of liking each other…"

"Or loving each other?"

Vlad looked down. "Yes, these were things, he said, dreamt of by fools and novelists."

"Because of what your father wrote, you cannot believe I like you?" Gisella smiled and stepped closer to him. "You cannot believe I might love you?"

"It is, I think, far too early to be speaking of love, Princess, lest you commit foolishness for which you would condemn a heroine and the novelist who created her."

"I should tell you, I do not think it is so." Gisella reached up and stroked the side of his face, then turned away. The fire flooded her hair with golden highlights. "I was raised at court, my lord, where I did not fit in because that which attracted others bored me. Like you, however, I was prepared to do my duty. I would come here and marry a man I did not know. I would bear him children and I would hope he would go off to wars or to tour his lands. I would hope he was an ambitious man and that his ambitions took him far from me. And this is why I hate ambition."

Vlad smiled. "Princess, I am an ambitious man."

She turned, her eyes alight. "Your ambition is practical. Your laboratory shouts it. You want to know things, to discover things, to learn. You seek to make the world a better place. Ambition can be selfish or selfless, and you are the master of the latter form. For that reason alone I would like you; and certainly do love you."

"But I am not…"

"Not what, my lord? Dashing and handsome like von Metternin? I would tell you that you are. Handsome, most certainly, and dashing, of course. Who else in all the world rides a wurm beneath the river? You enter worlds no other man has seen. Countless are the fools who charge into battle and think themselves brave because their enemies cannot shoot straight. Their foe's incompetence somehow becomes a shining sign of God's favor."