Of Limited Loyalty

Chapter Nineteen

10 May 1767 Happy Valley Postsylvania, Mystria

Two days further on through the forest, they reached a broad valley within the hill country. A river ran 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 early years. Granted he couldn’t know how many children had died, but he didn’t see any graveyards and the children especially looked healthy.

The one barnlike building Owen had not been able to figure out from the hilltop turned out to be the village workshop and school. The Orientalists had harvested the wood from the nearby forests and had fitted broad planks over a stout lattice to create a solid structure. They’d put a thatched roof on it, fitted it with windows for light-though no glass had made it that far west. The whole thing had been painted red on the outside, with the pigment coming from rusty earth.

Ezekiel proudly waved them through the broad doors. “Each of us shares what we can with each other and the children. Here they can learn to read, write, and cipher. They learn to carve wood and make furniture or weave, sew, and quilt.”

“Even the boys?” Rathfield looked over at a young man patching a pair of homespun pants, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated. “That’s women’s work.”

“Is it?” The older man smiled carefully. “In the Good Book, you’ll find Our Lord healing those who are sick, and yet that task usually falls to women. And His cloak was described as being seamless-meaning perfect. So He must have made it, since no one but God could create something perfect. Yet you would tell me that weaving and sewing are work meant for women. But if Our Lord could do them, are they not fit for men?”

Rathfield stared, but behind him Makepeace breathed a single word. “Amen.”

Ezekiel tousled the boy’s hair. “We have found, Colonel, that people tend to do a better job when they enjoy what they do. God lets us know what He wants us to do by the pleasure it brings us and that may change as time goes on. Out here we don’t always have the luxury of having someone to do a task for us, so we find that letting everyone learn a little bit of everything, then concentrate on what brings them joy works best. It’s one of the messages that God has for His people.”

Rathfield looked around, then frowned. “You don’t appear to have a gunsmith. I should think that would be a very vital trade out here.”

The Steward smiled. “Guns are not mentioned in the Good Book, so we prefer not to use them. Our people are quite proficient in using slings, bows, and even spears if we must hunt. As it is, God has blessed us with this land of incredible bounty.”

Owen looked up from where a man was using a draw-knife to scrape down what would become the seat of a chair. “How long has Happy Valley been here?”

“Ten years. It was only after Green River and Piety became established that we sent our petition to the Queen.” Ezekiel clapped his hands. “I hardly expected the Queen would actually send someone to us. But, please, come along, you must see our most important work.”

He waved them out of the workshop and toward the log fort. “Reading the Good Book led me to this place. I only had a handful of people with me, but others came out and joined us once they understood what our work entails. You see, the Good Book tells us that God has given us dominion over the entire world, but there are those who interpret this to mean they can despoil and ruin as they will. We, instead, choose to live in harmony with the land, much as the Twilight People do.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “How is that, exactly?”

Ezekiel stopped and swept a hand toward the terraces. “Each morning we collect nightsoil and use it to fertilize the fields. We start at the top. As the rain comes and water washes down to the lower fields, the nightsoil is not wasted. And when the water comes off the last field, it flows into the river below the settlement. In another two years we intend to dig out and reinforce the hilltops, then fill the basins with water. We will stock them with fish, and use the water there to irrigate the fields.

“And you may have noticed that we have no timber yards. We go into the forests and select the trees that need to be thinned. We take only what we need as we need it. In the workshop, as you saw, we would rather repair something than harvest new wood. We do not require much. Because we live in harmony with God’s Creation, He provides for us.”

Kamiskwa looked over at the Steward. “How is it you know which trees must be taken?”

The older man’s smile broadened. “When a deacon is called for such work, God blesses him with a knowing. He can walk through the woods and pick out the trees to take. God is very generous that way.”

Owen nodded. “So the bounty of your community would attest.”

“God is pleased. This is why He has granted us another great gift.” Ezekiel headed for the fort. “This is why He brought you to us.”

The five of them caught up with him, Rathfield in the lead. “If you don’t mind, Steward, what are you talking about?”

Ezekiel giggled, and were his voice not so full of delight, Owen would have thought him completely mad. “Up there, when God drained the lake, He did so to give us a great teaching. Two tablets, there in the tabernacle. Gold, written in His own hand.”

The man threw open the door to the fort’s main building. “I cannot translate them-I cannot even lift them, but my deacon, he can do both and is even now writing down what God wishes us to know.”

As they entered the room, a hulking man with a shock of red hair looked up from a table and the twin golden tablets thereupon. “Nathaniel Woods, as I live and breath.”

Nathaniel swung his rifle around with one easy motion. “That won’t be for long, Rufus Branch, not long at all.”