“Thank you.” Bethany pulled back, and starlight glinted from the track of a single tear. “Now, if you would be so kind, Captain Strake, please conduct me to my quarters. I’m certain Clara will be waiting, and I should not want her to fret.”/
Chapter Sixty-one
4 June 1768 Octagon Richlan, Mystria
Ian Rathfield again cast a glance at the flask a subaltern had left on his camp desk. He felt certain the man meant it as a gift, to ward off the chill and perhaps to celebrate the victory. He couldn’t have meant it as a tonic against the void creeping through Ian’s guts, eating him up like a cancer. Ian was certain he had given no clue as to what troubled him, and was just as certain that to take a drink would erode the dam behind which his fears pooled.
No matter how he tried to distract himself, he could not escape the certainty of death as he lay there at the troll’s ponderous feet. He’d given up. He’d closed his eyes. He was ready to die, his only regret that he would never again look upon Catherine’s smiling face, that he would never again feel her caress, or her breath warm against his skin. And even as he thought of her at the very end, he knew he did that because he believed it right and proper. It was the honorable thing an honorable man did as he lay dying.
But he had not died. And even giving free rein to the monster could not erase the image of Owen wrenching the troll’s head back, slashing its throat. Ian could see that first spray of arterial blood arc out, each drop like rain softly falling, a crimson mist in the air. The troll’s bellow drowning into a gurgle, shrinking to a burbling squeak. The sour scent of fear-both the troll’s and his own-still acrid in his nostrils. And Owen, tall, lips parted in a savage grin, acting more savage than any of the Twilight People, his eyes blazing as he saved Ian’s life.
As he saved his wife’s lover’s life.
For a heartbeat Ian wondered if Owen, had he known, would have saved him. The Owen Strake Ian had come to know certainly would have. He was an honorable man, a valiant man, full of courage. He would not have let the troll finish Ian. It was not in his nature to let another do a job for him.
And yet, were our roles reversed, I would not have been so honorable. That realization shook Ian and started his hand reaching for the flask. Had Owen been down, he would not have helped him. He now understood that he moved away from Owen in the battle simply so he would not have been pressed to make that choice. And so no one would notice if I failed to save him.
Ian’s hand retreated, empty. Empty, as I feel inside. He had known for a long time, since he surrendered to the monster at Rondeville and even before, that he was not a hero-not in the way Owen or Nathaniel or Kamiskwa were. Ian had always played by the rules and used them to judge himself honorable. And even when he broke the rules, others allowed him to escape the consequences simply because to expose him would be to expose themselves. They played by unwritten rules, and he was willing to abide by them when the outcome benefited his cause.
He glanced at his shaving mirror, but he had turned it away so he could not see himself. He really didn’t want to see himself because he could see the rot behind his eyes. He had long since abandoned any true claim on being honorable. In doing that he had lost himself. He was not worthy of the love of a woman like Catherine. He’d been willing to die so she would never be forced to learn the truth about him. About the monster…
He rose stiffly from his camp chair and pulled a cloak around himself. He knew what he had to do. He had to go out into the night and find Owen Strake. He needed to confess having had an affair with the man’s wife, and agree to a duel to settle the matter. He expected pistols at dawn, and he resolved that he would not shoot. He had no doubt that Owen would make his shot count, and took some solace in the fact that he could die with honor even if living with it was denied him.
Again he looked at the flask, but eschewed drinking. He would have welcomed the warmth and the false courage, but that would continue his unmanning.
He stepped from his tent and nodded at his men, who sat drinking and mending clothing or themselves. “You all fought splendidly today. This was the Fifth Northland’s finest day.”
The men cheered and saluted him with battered tin cups. He smiled and continued on his way. He really had no idea where he might find Owen, but did not stop to ask. He told himself that he needed the time to properly word the confession. He knew that to be a lie. He dreaded the confrontation and was happy for the delay provided by his aimless wandering.
And then he saw them standing together, Bethany Frost clinging to Owen, and Owen kissing her head. He could not hear what they said. He shrank back into the shadows and watched, making certain it was indeed them. When they began to walk off, arm in arm, he forced himself to remain hidden-an act which went against every fiber of his being. And when they had passed into shadows, he discovered he’d clutched the tree behind which he’d hidden so hard that his fingernails had sunk into the bark.
Ian could not believe it. How dare Owen Strake dishonor his wife? How dare he show her so little respect as to walk freely with his harlot through the Mystrian camp? His brazenness stunned Ian. Suddenly things became very clear. Owen had used his influence with Prince Vlad to place his mistress in the Prince’s entourage. Certainly the Prince must have known of their adulterous relationship-that he would condone it boggled Ian’s mind.
He stepped from behind his tree and almost made for them. He would demand satisfaction! Catherine’s honor must be upheld. Ian could not allow the woman he loved to be humiliated in this way. No true man could. He would find Owen and challenge him to a duel. Handguns at dawn, and his aim would be true.
A small part of him realized that to challenge Owen in order to defend Catherine’s honor was the very definition of irony. Ian didn’t care about that-this was about love and honor, respect and chivalry. Had Owen not been carrying on with his Mystrian whore, Catherine never would have sought sanctuary in Ian’s arms. This much was so clear that no one could deny it.
What stopped him was his recalling that Owen was Duke Deathridge’s nephew. Ian had no love for Deathridge given the man’s having had an affair with his wife. He had never gotten any indication from Owen that the two of them were close, or even on speaking terms, for that matter. Still, Deathridge, even if he hated Owen, likely still thought of him as a possession. Killing Owen would invite Deathridge’s retribution, and that was an ax Ian had no intention of letting fall on his neck.
He returned to his tent and never gave the flask a second thought. He came to the quick realization that he could not live a life of honor, but that he could arrange things so he could lead a life of pleasure. He might not be the man he once had hoped he would be, but he could be the man who was Catherine Strake’s lover. He could do it by framing his Mystrian adventure as a great success, win honors and rank in Norisle. He would get for himself all those things that would make life worth living, and use them to wall off the void in his chest.
He turned the mirror around and smiled at his image. Ian Rathfield had died in the wilds of Mystria. With him died the sins of the past. And he had been resurrected. This new life shall provide everything I desire, and rain misery upon those who would oppose me.
Prince Vlad returned to the medical station, which had been set up on the very spot where he’d stood to oppose Rufus. He paused for a moment, reaching out, feeling the magickal energy coursing through the earth. He connected to it, adding that flow to the magick that was coming to him straight from the Norghaest Octagon. He should have been exhausted, and could feel fatigue nibbling around the edges, but the energy filled him and kept him going.
The wounded had been sorted long since, and those with minor cuts and bruises had been sent off to fend for themselves. The most serious had been brought to him immediately, but he found he could help precious few of them. Some had had limbs torn clean off. He knew no way to reattach them, nor to replenish their bodies with blood. For most, all he could do was to invoke a spell that dulled their pain and provided them enough lucidity that they could put their affairs in order and bid friends good-bye.
As much as men like Bishop Bumble had accused him of conducting “Ryngian studies,” he wished he’d done more of it, especially as concerned medical magick. His understanding of physiology, based on dissections of animals and men, did help him. When an obviously broken arm presented itself, it was relatively simple for him to invoke magick so he could practically see through the skin. He would hold the mental image of a healthy bone in his mind, then use magick to impose that image over the broken bone. Though such magick was not without pain for
