through it, heading toward the southwest and, presumably, the Misaawa River in the middle of Tharyngian territory. How far away that was Owen couldn’t begin to guess. Just the idea that it might be as unspoiled as the land they’d traveled through filled him with awe and a little bit of dread.
When he’d first come to Mystria, the untouched nature of the land had surprised him. In Norisle and on the Auropean continent all the prime land had been lived on for centuries. Certainly there were wastes and barrens, salt marshes and tall mountains where none but the insane or shunned lived. Otherwise, one could not travel more than a mile without spotting a sign of human habitation and five miles without finding a village of some sort. Aside from the Shedashee, few humans had seen these lands and fewer still dwelt in them.
His dread came from knowing how the hand of man would transform the land. Though he had lived in Mystria only three years, he’d already seen what had once been wooded vales clear-cut to feed the need for building materials and firewood. Elsewhere he found abandoned homes near exhausted fields. When the land would not produce anymore, people just loaded up wagons and moved west. Though the Westridge Mountains created a huge obstacle, men would find their way past it and the virgin landscape would suffer.
Happy Valley surprised him because it didn’t display the same sorts of signs he’d expected of human habitation. Down in the valley itself lay an orderly collection of small houses surrounding a village green. At the eastern end stood a rectangular, palisaded fort, but no one watched from the walls or the tower built atop the main building. The gates stood open and the way weeds had grown up, Owen didn’t imagine the gates were closed all that often. The hillsides had been terraced and cultivated, but some fields had clearly been allowed to lie fallow. He couldn’t see any clear-cut tracts in the surrounding woods, and a series of canals had been dug to carry wastewater from the fields to the river well downstream of the village itself.
Owen cradled his rifle in his arms. “What do you think?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I reckon they went in there. Don’t know if they stayed, but the people will know.”
“Makes sense.” The village’s people went about their daily lives without any apparent concern. A small mill sat beside the river toward the southwest, and the village smith opposite. A stable and paddocks had been built there as well. A large barnlike structure stood beside the stables, but Owen couldn’t make its purpose out, even though people regularly went in and came out. Shepherds and sheep dotted the hillsides, grazing on open land between the terraces. Dairy cattle grazed closer to home on the green. Another oblong building with two smoking chimneys had been built near one of the waste canals. Owen took it for a laundry because of the lines strung out from around it where sheets and clothes flapped in the light breeze.
Rathfield came up beside the two of them. “I suggest we go down and make ourselves known. This might be our Postsylvania or not, but regardless, it should not be here so I shall have to speak with them.”
Nathaniel ran a hand over his chin. “Seems to me, Colonel, that given them a talking-to might wait for until a return trip, or leastways until we have knowledge of the men we’re trailing. We don’t know what they took from the ruins, but I do think finding out would be a good idea.”
Rathfield frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Splendid point, Woods. Perhaps you or Strake might address them. If they are religious, Bone could do it.”
“I reckon that would be the thing.”
Owen turned back toward the village so Rathfield couldn’t read his smile. While he wasn’t completely certain Nathaniel’s observation about the source of Rathfield’s heroism was correct, there was no denying that the man had returned to his annoying habits once he began to feel better. Owen did believe, however, it wasn’t because he wanted to irritate his fellow travelers. It felt more as if Rathfield believed that by rebuilding himself as a Crown officer, he could distance himself from the creature he’d been during the fight.
They set off again.
Owen, though he felt no desire to do so, sympathized with Rathfield. When he’d been captured by Guy du Malphias, his host had tortured him. Owen had always thought of himself as being brave and stoic, but the Ryngian subjected him to tortures beyond countenance. However brave Owen had thought himself, whatever courage he thought he possessed, du Malphias had stripped it away. He had no idea how long the man tortured him, but he did know two things. First, it wasn’t as long as he would have hoped and second, in the end, he’d told du Malphias everything he wanted to know.
The only way Owen had been able to recover himself was to escape. Because he’d been successful, his escape appeared to be a story of incredible fortitude and bravery. In reality, it had been foolhardy and, save for the working of Mystria’s ancient magicks, he would have died and no trace of him ever would have been found. Had it not been for his companion, a pasmorte known only as Quarante-neuf, he never would have made it, and he’d not seen his friend since.
Is that what Rathfield is doing? It seemed so and Owen almost pitied the man. If things had happened at Rondeville as Nathaniel had speculated, then Rathfield awoke fearing he would be thought a coward, and found himself being lionized as a hero. The temptation to keep the truth hidden would be incalculable. In whom could he confide? His wife? Owen recalled Catherine’s whisper that Rathfield’s wife had taken her own life. Had she known the truth of his situation and been unable to live with the disgrace?
Or had she threatened to expose him and he killed her? Owen glanced back and couldn’t see a murderer in the man. Then again, the man who fought back mindlessly against the wolves would have been capable of anything.
They came up over the last hill and cut across empty fields toward the road paralleling the river. It really wasn’t much more than a cow path that led nowhere, since there was nowhere to go outside the valley. A couple of shepherds saw them and waved, but made no move to intercept them. Others below noticed them, however, and a reception committee formed itself up. Three men straddled the track near the edge of the village. Boys and girls hung back about another twenty yards, and an old man started across the green toward them.
Nathaniel slowed their advance to allow the old man to reach the others before they did. As the visitor approached, Nathaniel kept his rifle cradled, but raised an open hand. “Greetings. Whereabouts is this place?”
The older man-older appearing, anyway, because of the grey shot through his hair-opened his arms. “Welcome, travelers. This is Happy Valley, in Postsylvania. You’ve come far.”
“We have.” Nathaniel looked back toward the mountains. “Cut some tracks up there, followed ’em down here. Two men. If I don’t miss my guess, sir, given the look of your shoes, you was one of them.”
The older man smiled. “I was indeed. God had sent me into the mountains with one of my deacons, then He shook the earth to show me His grace and power. He led us to a vast Temple, where we found golden tablets, upon which He has inscribed His new commandments.”
Owen nodded. “We saw the Temple.”
The other three men exchanged glances and smiled.
The older man laughed. “You see, I told you there would be pilgrims come to verify what we told you. Gentlemen, please. I am Ezekiel Fire. Happy Valley is the home of the True Oriental Church of the Lord. We are God-fearing people who live in harmony with the land and the precepts God has laid down in the Good Book. He has favored us with further Revelations, which we are translating now.”
Owen arched an eyebrow. “A new revelation? That’s interesting, Reverend.”
“No Reverend here, no Bishops. I have no title, though many call me the Steward. I have deacons, but they are chosen by their fellows for specific tasks, then they surrender power until called upon again to serve.”
“Beg pardon, then.” Nathaniel nodded. “I’m Nathaniel Woods. This here is Makepeace Bone, Captain Owen Strake, Kamiskwa of the Altashee, and Colonel Ian Rathfield. The Colonel, he done come out here all the way to jaw with you about the petition you sent to the Queen.”
For Owen it was like watching Miranda’s smile the first time a butterfly fluttered down and landed on her finger. Ezekiel’s face opened up, displaying such innocent joy as Owen had never seen on another adult’s face. “That is wonderful, Colonel; our prayers have been answered. Please, let me show you our settlement. I guarantee our sister settlements are very similar. You can report back to the Queen about us, and she’ll know that granting us a charter was the perfect thing to do. God’s work, truly.”
Rathfield smiled. “Please, lead on.”
Ezekiel guided them through the village, naming the families who lived in each home. Though he did not come out and say it, his liberal use of the term “sister-wife” led Owen to believe the Orientalists practiced plural marriage. A fair number of children six years and younger played in and around the homes, and that surprised Owen. While working a farm usually required a good-sized family, rare were those who’d not lost children in their
