Vlad nodded. 'I just wish we did not have to wait a year.'
Deathridge's dark eyes narrowed. 'The price of haste is blood. Quick action, when successful, crowns heroes. When unsuccessful, it creates unimaginable slaughter. For every hero, there are ten thousand victims. Never tempt those odds.'
The Prince joined Count von Metternin at the head of the First Colonial Regiment. Of the five infantry battalions, three had been recruited solely from single colonies: Fairlee, Blackoak, and Temperance Bay. The other two were the Southlands Battalion and the Battalion of the North. They split all the other recruits between them. Each had its own regimental flag, and Blackoak had actually brought along a band including bagpipers, fife-players, and drummers.
An elderly tuba-player had tried to join the Temperance Bay Battalion, but he could barely walk carrying his instrument. The men voted him a corporal's commission and bought him a cap. He stood at their staging area, ready to play them off. And he was not alone in wishing the troops well.
Mounted on a grey mare, the Prince surveyed the crowd. Families had turned out, all dressed in their Sunday- best. Fathers stoically embraced their sons. Mothers and sisters wept while forcing cloth-wrapped bundles of food on the soldiers. Small children ran about, little boys snapping to attention when the soldiers were given orders. Dogs barked. The Prince even saw some Twilight People watching the assembly-Blue Hand Lanatashee if he read the markings on their clothes correctly-and wondered what they were making of it all.
A rotund man made his way through the crowd to the Prince's left foot. 'Care to make a comment for Wattling's Weekly, Highness?'
'I could, Mr. Wattling, but wouldn't you be more comfortable making something up yourself?'
'Highness, I…'
The Prince smiled. 'You've carried two interviews- long interviews-with Lord Rivendell. Is there anything more to be said on this matter?'
Wattling's face puckered. 'Lord Rivendell says you will smash the Godless Ryngians and be back the first of August.'
Count von Metternin laughed. 'Rivendell is more of an optimist than he is a geographer.'
Wattling scribbled.
The Prince tapped him with his foot. 'Please quote me: The bravest men in Norisle and Mystria will see to the safety of all. We will miss our families and cannot wait to rejoin them.'
Wattling wrote, then frowned. 'Not very encouraging, Highness.'
'Reality seldom is, Mr. Wattling. Good day.' The Prince nudged his horse forward, making his way to the head of the column. Rivendell and his troops would leave later in the day, allowing the Mystrians to head off first and cut roads where necessary. The Norillians would pick up any stragglers and keep things organized.
Once he and the Count reached the mounted officer corps, a captain gave a signal. The Blackoak band began to play a stirring march, and the column, marching four abreast, moved out. Down the line the tuba bellowed, and a few men fired muskets into the air. Applause and shouts filled the city and the Prince's heart swelled.
The determined expressions on the Mystrians' faces made Vlad smile. 'I think, von Metternin, if du Malphias had a look at these men, he might abandon his fortress right away.'
The Kessian smiled. 'Long marches drain the hero out of every soldier, alas. But these men, they have heart.'
'And we will give them more.' Vlad set spurs to his horse's flank, and von Metternin joined him. They raced ahead to the Prince's estate to prepare their surprise for the Mystrian militia.
Bright and early the next morning, Prince Vlad sat astride Mugwump on the road near his estate, waiting for the militia troops to march past. Ribbons of red and green fluttered in the breeze from the wurm's tack. The Prince rode on a saddle at the wurm's shoulders; Count von Metternin was mounted at the wurm's hips. Bulging oilskin satchels lined the beast's flanks, stretched between the saddles, each one of them decorated with more ribbons.
The soldiers, whose line of march drifted toward the other side of the road, smiled and laughed. A few shouted: 'He'll be having the Ryngians running,' or 'He'll win us the war all by himself!' Others just nodded as if a wurm was something they saw every day-those being more of the northerners than the men from the south. The Prince figured the northerners would have also gaped, but the Blackoaks had seen Mugwump first, and no northerner was going to let a southerner believe he was surprised by anything.
The Prince could not help but smile and wave. 'You still think the march will drain the hero from them?'
The Kessian laughed aloud. 'Half of them do not have shoes, most of them are ragged, and clearly they have not been trained. But, that fire in their eyes. These are men, sir, with which I should be willing to assault the gates of Hell itself.'
'Let's hope it doesn't come to that, my lord.' The Prince smiled as more men passed. 'Alas, I think it may.'
Chapter Fifty-Five
May 31, 1764
Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
'W ho is she, Owen?'
Catherine's question took Owen completely by surprise.
He'd been laying on his left side and his wife had snuggled in behind him, her naked body molding itself to his. She'd kissed his shoulder and the back of his neck, then licked at his earlobe.
And then the question.
'Who is whom?'
She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him onto his back, then threw her right leg over his hip. She loomed over him, her face warded by shadows as the first tendrils of dawn lightened the white curtains. 'You know who.'
Owen frowned. 'I really don't.' He raised his head to kiss her, but she pulled back. This is serious.
'You do, Owen. The woman who wrote those letters for you.'
'Bethany Frost?'
'Yes.'
Owen pulled himself up against the headboard. 'I was billeted at her family's home. She wrote you at my request, when I could not write. You know that.'
'Yes, but who is she?' Catherine's voice rose and her eyes sharpened. 'Who is she, Owen?'
'I don't understand the question, Catherine.'
She whirled away from him, dragging the sheet after her. She wrapped herself in it, then sat in a chair, hunched, weeping. 'You've stopped loving me, haven't you?'
Owen stared after her, completely puzzled. The past week had been nothing short of fantastic. They had enjoyed Temperance and the surrounding area. She had taken immediate charge of his life. Their first stop had been to a tailor who fashioned for him a brand new uniform of the Queen's Own Wurm Guards, including two sets of breeches, three shirts, two waistcoats, and a heavy oilskin coat to cover the uniform jacket.
After that they had spent their time exploring both the city and each other intimately. She had always been curious, inventive, hungry, and insatiable. She wanted him fiercely-even when they'd ridden into the countryside for a picnic, she had wanted him. Right there, under the sun, in the open, wanton and brazen, she had reminded him that he was her husband.
Her ardor erased memories of their separation. She laughed heartily and lustily, reminding him of the girl he'd fallen in love with. She was full of plans-things they could do with his estate in Mystria, things they could do upon his return to Norisle. She knew of dozens of societies that wished him to speak to them, and dozens of others that wanted to give him honors. Her face glowed as she spoke, and the way she clung to his arm and smiled proudly as they walked through Temperance had stoked the fire in his heart.
He climbed from bed and went to her, standing over her, his hands on her shoulders. 'Catherine, I love you completely. You're my whole world.'
'I am such a fool. Oh, Owen, I forced you into her arms. I should have been brave enough to come with you. And then, when I got word that you were hurt, I wanted to come. I begged your uncle to arrange my passage. I
