The warning confirmed hunches Vlad had harbored of a conspiracy so monumental that it forced him to see the world in an entirely new but hardly flattering light. His researches, including the study of the du Malphias papers, confirmed what he’d have dismissed as insanity had another tried to convince him of its veracity.
Until the advent of brimstone and guns, magick had been severely limited and of little power. Because magick could only work by touch, and because iron and steel completely deadened magick, a man armed with a sword could easily kill a witch, warlock, or sorcerer no matter how powerful. Magick would have been rooted out of the Auropean population entirely down through the years, save that most who revealed talent-oddly enough referred to as “the curse”-exiled themselves to the fringes of society and did their best to appease those inclined to dislike them. The Church, while condemning the sin, bestowed charity upon the sinners and invited back into their ranks those who promised to refrain from using magick.
Once brimstone had made magick useful in the theatre of war, the Church reinterpreted certain teachings, and then condoned the use of magick. Most people who could use it were not terribly powerful, and magick use had its price. The Prince’s indulging himself in lighting the lamp through a spell would raise a little blood beneath his thumbnail. When he’d fought at Anvil Lake, he’d been black and blue to the elbows because of his efforts.
But then, he was of royal blood. It seemed to him rather curious that within a generation of the Church sanctioning the use of magick, all the royal houses of Auropa revealed strains of strong magick use among their scions. Soldiers were ranked by how many shots they could get off before exhausting their magickal ability. Most were twos or threes, yet the majority of nobles ranked five and above.
Marry all that to the fact that the miracles performed by saints in service to the Church could be duplicated by spells, and add in the fact that the Church often accepted into its ranks the lesser sons and daughters of nobility, and it suggested that the Church had, down through the centuries, secretly enshrined magick and preserved it. A case could be made for their having used it to influence world events.
While a prisoner of Guy du Malphias, Owen Strake had witnessed the Tharyngian Laureate using magick in a manner that did not require direct contact. The Shedashee Mystrian natives likewise did things with magick that appeared to circumvent the need for direct touch. Du Malphias had told Owen that when the Tharyngian Revolution overthrew the King and destroyed the Church’s power in Tharyngia, they uncovered evidence of the Church’s conspiracy.
Vlad might have considered that all fanciful save for a few chance comments his Norillian magick tutors had made. He’d begun instruction at the age of eight and progressed quickly. He’d been a keen learner and having inherited his father’s studiousness helped him greatly. His tutors had praised him lavishly for his abilities and hinted at his being able to work great magicks. And then, when he turned ten, those tutors departed for Norisle, and the others sent out were neither so enthusiastic nor intelligent. Vlad already knew more than they did, so they remained for a year, declared him hopeless, and left Mystria.
Vlad had always consigned his memories of the first tutors to fantasy. Even when he noted that their recall coincided with the birth of his cousin, Edward, he’d not suspected anything sinister in it. But with evidence that greater magicks existed and the knowledge that the Church and Crown both had a vested interest in keeping them secret, he began to wonder. He began to question his father about things, gently, and the directness of the replies had kindled one other memory.
It had been back when Vlad was twenty-three and just returned from what the family referred to as his pirate adventure. He’d awakened one evening and found his father pacing in the library of their home in Fairlee. John would walk, then try to write something, get up to walk again, then sit to write. Vlad watched him, then just took up his father’s place at the desk and told him to dictate.
The resulting message, though lacking in specifics, was his father at his most direct. The letter was to his brother, King Richard. John urged him to abandon his foolish quest. He predicted dire consequences for them all if Richard persisted. He begged his brother to reconsider and refused to tell Vlad what it was all about. “For your own good, Vlad, you should forget this evening.”
And so I would have if they had not chosen to use you against me, Father. To engage Vlad through his father, someone hoped to trap him into revealing a plot against either the Church or the Crown-perhaps both. His inquiries, however, had not involved politics and certainly were within the bounds of normal curiosity. To someone who had something to hide, however, even the most innocent question invited suspicion, and his father might be an unwitting dupe in the entire plot.
At another time, in another place, Vlad might not have cared at all about the plot. After all, weren’t the nobility proven superior to the common man? Were they not ordained by God to rule? That was certainly what the Church taught-which was quite a trick if the Church and nobility were an oligarchy of magicians. If they were not the best, would not God strike them down?
Vlad would have accepted that as the truth, and likely taken his place among them, save for his time in Mystria. The colonists had been the dregs of society, cast onto a far shore to live or die. They didn’t die; they thrived. They created a vibrant society that encouraged free thinking and exploration. Their energy created an economy that kept Mystria alive. At Anvil Lake they proved themselves the equal of Norillian troops in terms of courage, and perhaps just a little bit better in terms of warfare in the New World.
Isn’t that proof that they are the better men?
A hand tapped lightly on his door, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Yes, beloved.”
“Your guests, darling, have arrived.” Gisella came to his desk, picked up a brush, and removed the dust from his coat. “Your good shoes are just inside the house. I think you will be fine otherwise.”
“Owen’s wife?”
Gisella smiled and gave her husband a quick kiss. “In Colonel Rathfield, she has a distraction. I gather he is willing to indulge her taste for court gossip.”
“I’m sure.”
She stepped back, eying him carefully. “Out with it.”
Vlad laughed. “Forgive me. I grow suspicious in my old age.”
“You are not old.” She playfully threatened him with the brush. “What are you thinking?”
“I am thinking that Colonel Rathfield is here to observe more than the land to the west. If anything amiss is said about my aunt, he’ll relay it to her. Likewise any news about Owen will reach his uncle. I’m not certain whether Rathfield is playing at politics, or just trying to do his duty as he sees it. Either way, he could cause trouble.”
Gisella applied the brush to his shoulder, then slipped her arms around his neck. “But you are loyal to the Crown, my Prince. The Queen has nothing to fear from you, so you have nothing to fear from her.”
Vlad hugged his wife tightly. “Let’s hope it is as you say or, my dear, that the ocean can insulate us from her baseless wrath.”
Chapter Seven
5 April 1767 Prince Haven, Temperance Bay, Mystria
As the members of the expedition gathered on the lawn near the wurmrest, Owen could not help but smile. Seven men of disparate backgrounds and inclinations were bound for lands unknown to them, in service to a distant ruler that none, save one, had ever met in person. It took Owen back four years. A journey measured in more than miles or time.