"And you, Highness. And when it is just us, please, call me Dick. So much easier, don't you think?"
"Quite." He handed the man the two letters. "One to my father and one for my aunt. The letter to my father is just our normal correspondence. The letter to my aunt is requesting immediate permission to marry Princess Gisella."
Deathridge raised an eyebrow. "She's not…?"
"No." Vlad shook his head. "Despite our affection and attraction, neither of us wished to spark an international incident by proceeding without sanction."
"Very wise, Highness." Deathridge tucked the letters inside his frock coat. "I shall see these are delivered immediately upon my landing."
The prince's eyes tightened. "You're determined to go, then?"
"I really have no choice. I would much prefer to go with you. Since Rivendell will most likely not fight your troops, you should use them to build the fort at the Tillie outflow. He can retreat to it and winter there. I will argue in Parliament that we need more troops to smash the Tharyngians. And you can gather proof of these pasmortes which even the most obstinate minister will have to recognize."
"You'll have that proof, I guarantee it."
"Excellent." The smaller man nodded. "I will remain in Temperance to see to the shipping of supplies up to Hattersburg. I may even travel up to Margaretstown before catching a packet ship to Norisle."
"I expect us to be in Hattersburg a month from now." Vlad ran a hand over his chin. "We'll be carrying forty days of rations, so we shall need our supplies."
"More than enough time to get them there. Two weeks at most." Deathridge smiled. "Supplies in first, then the cavalry. Everyone should be there and waiting for you."
Vlad glanced at the model. "We need twice the number of regulars, and more than a company of artillery to destroy that place."
"And next year we will have it." Deathridge folded his arms over his chest. "Rivendell's retreat will destroy his coalition in Parliament. He'll be relieved. I would hope I am appointed in his place."
"What if Rivendell takes the Fortress of Death?"
"I do not believe he can. For him to succeed would require our enemy to be a fool. Guy du Malphias may be any number of things, but fool is not numbered among them. I expect Rivendell to mass troops to the north, get his cavalry destroyed and, in a sulking fit, retreat to your fortress. Have you decided on a name?"
"I was thinking 'Hope.'"
"Auspicious. Excellent choice. From Fort Hope we will sweep the Tharyngians from Mystria."
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.