The Count smiled. “I agree with you. Every time I see her I wonder if Johnny Rivendell was not accurate when he said she was Richard Ventnor’s mistress on the voyage from Norisle. Were that true, then Miranda…”
“I know. I look at the child and she is so good-natured and has been such a help with Becca Green, that I easily see Owen in her. I think I want to believe she is Owen’s because he clearly believes it and would be crushed were it otherwise.”
“You fear Catherine would use knowledge of your Mystrian thaumaturgy to buy her way back to Norisle?”
“It’s a horrible thing to say, but, yes.” Vlad nodded. “I am not left with many choices here. If I tell the Crown nothing, and ask for no help, then I risk the colonies being overrun by enemies wielding magick and controlling demons. If I tell the Crown nothing, but gather together an elite cadre of men and train them in new ways of magick, they might be enough to repel the rebels, but in doing so their victory would reveal to the Crown what I have kept secret. I would be seen as being treasonous, the colonies as in rebellion, and Norisle would act to put it down. If I request help to deal with enemies, they will come in to do that and might never leave.”
“You have a decision to make, my friend, but one that can be delayed until Colonel Rathfield finishes his report. After that…” Von Metternin’s face became impassive. “… you need to ask yourself one very serious question. Do you believe there is anything you could do or say to prevent the Crown from sending troops to Mystria to exert full and direct control of the colonies? If the answer is yes, then you must do those things. If the answer is no, you must still try, because your effort will buy time for people here to prepare for an invasion.”
Vlad’s eyes tightened. “Doesn’t your question require me to decide if my allegiance is with the Crown or Mystria?”
“My friend, were it with the Crown, we would never have had this discussion.” The Count slowly shook his head. “The Crown does not realize that you take most seriously your role as Governor-General. That is their mistake. Just how bad a mistake that is remains to be seen, and the answer to that question will forever shift the course of history.”
Chapter Thirty-two
15 June 1767 Saint Luke Bounty, Mystria
A week out of Plentiful, they reached the Altashee village of Saint Luke. Nathaniel had been surprised at how well Ezekiel Fire had managed to keep up on foot and in canoes. Kamiskwa had taken the preacher with him, and Nathaniel had Owen up front in his canoe. Once they left Plentiful behind, the men didn’t say much, each one being given to contemplation of what he’d seen.
As they grew nearer Saint Luke, an urgency built in Nathaniel’s chest. He tried to ascribe it to the aftermath of seeing Plentiful. Though the Altashee had never set their village up so dangerously close to a river, it would not take much of a natural disaster to destroy a village. He kept telling himself that his friends and children would be alive, well, and happy to see him, but until he laid eyes on them, doubt lingered.
But that which had destroyed Happy Valley had been anything but natural. Rufus Branch hated Nathaniel and knew where the Altashee could be found. More than once Nathaniel had awakened from a sound sleep while stretched out on the ground. He imagined hearing something beneath him clawing its way to the surface. For Rufus to race ahead through the earth and attack Saint Luke grew in his mind from a faint possibility to a dead certainty, and this pushed him to go further and faster.
None of the others resisted this effort or complained about it.
They spent the last six hours on game trails, moving through forests bright with summer green. The light breeze teased leaves. Meadow grasses swayed and bumblebees darted from orange flowers to yellow and red. The travelers cut around a small pond created by a beaver dam, and surprised a doe and her fawn in the process. None of them raised a gun, however, as the thunder of a shot would have spoiled the late afternoon peace.
Roughly a hundred yards out of the wooded valley in which Saint Luke existed, they came across a series of birch posts running in a straight line from northwest to southeast. The posts stood ten feet tall and were separated by ten feet. The bark had been scored with pictographs of a turtle, all facing back toward the Westridge Mountains. The line of posts disappeared from view in both directions.
Nathaniel signaled a halt. “We don’t go no further until welcomed.”
Owen took a closer look at one of the pictographs. “The turtle is a symbol of strength and protection, isn’t it?”
“It warns enemies that Saint Luke is prepared to defend itself.” Kamiskwa shrugged off his pack and began removing his clothing. “You might as well do it now. It will save time.”
Nathaniel likewise divested himself of his pack. “Best be doffing your clothes, too, Steward.”
Fire lowered his pack, but did not start unbuttoning his shirt or pants. “The Good Lord wishes upon us modesty. None should see us naked but our Creator and our spouses.”
“Ain’t really the eyes of God you need worry about right now.” Nathaniel jerked his head along the trail. Three ancient Altashee advanced. In the lead came Msitazi, the chief of the Altashee. He wore a much-patched red coat that had once belonged to Owen. His right eye shared the amber color of his son’s eyes, but the left had the milky color that suggested blindness. Nathaniel, who had known Msitazi for over two decades, often thought that eye saw the most.
One of the two Altashee trailing him bore a warclub. His tunic had been worked with shell in the pattern of a hawk. The other man carried an obsidian knife. A turtle motif had been used to decorate his clothing. They both stopped ten feet from the line of posts, and Msitazi advanced to it along the path.
Nathaniel clasped his hands at the small of his back and bowed in greeting.
Msitazi did not return it.
Ain’t no good coming of this. He exchanged a glance with Kamiskwa. His brother’s expression revealed nothing but surprise. The two of them, down through the years, had done things to get in trouble, but never had they done anything that earned a greeting like this.
Msitazi turned on his heel and headed back to the village. The other two Altashee remained where they were, closing ranks to bar passage.
The Steward kept his voice low. “Mr. Woods, what’s happening?”
“Iffen I knew, I’d tell you. I reckon tain’t no time for modesty, Steward.” Nathaniel shook his head. “I don’t know what Msitazi has in mind, but I’m going to be trusting it’s for the good.”
The four of them stood on the trail naked for nearly an hour, as measured by the slow lengthening of shadows. It disturbed Nathaniel a bit that the posts didn’t create shadows. It bothered him a lot more that when his shadow crept up to the post line, it did not extend beyond it. By the time Msitazi returned, the line had devoured the shadow of Nathaniel’s head and had started on his shoulders.
The Altashee chieftain tossed four leather hoods outside the line, then accompanied each with a pair of buckskin mittens.
Kamiskwa gathered them, then handed a hood to each of his companions. He opened his to reveal that the turtle symbol had been sewn into the interior. “We put these on and it prevents us from working wickedness.” He pulled his hood on and tied it tightly so that it would not come off without great effort.
Owen looked at Nathaniel. “How much danger are we in?”
The scout looked at Msitazi’s hard expression. “Fact we ain’t dead means there might be some redeeming coming our way. Failing that, though, I reckon we’ll be about as dead as Happy Valley.”
Owen nodded, glanced at his gear, then pulled his hood on. Nathaniel followed suit, tying it snugly around his neck. The hood immediately became hot and stuffy. Nathaniel swallowed to create a little space around the edge, to let fresh air in, but had little success. He shoved his hands into the mittens, felt the beaded pattern inside them as well, and waited.
Rough hands grabbed him, poking and prodding, spinning him one way and back. Fingers jabbed at wounds. A couple reopened. He could feel blood begin that slow, oozing crawl down his forearm and thigh. Then something splashed in the wounds and he yelped. The bag didn’t muffle other shouts, so he knew he wasn’t alone in how he was being treated.
Hands shoved him forward. At the point where he would have expected to pass the post-line, he met
