by David Weber
But he hadn’t forgotten Paitryk Hainree, and neither had he forgotten his duty to God and his murdered prince. They’d taken everything he’d ever been from him when they forced him to flee with a price on his head, yet that had simply added to his anger and his determination. Perhaps he was only one man, but one man—properly motivated—could still change an entire princedom.
Or even an empire, he thought as he neared the ground. Or even an empire.
* * *
“Her portraits don’t do her justice, do they?” Sir Alyk Ahrthyr murmured in Koryn Gahrvai’s ear. “I hadn’t realized she was so good-looking!”
“Alyk,” Gahrvai whispered back, “I love you like a brother. But if you say one word to Her Majesty.…”
He let the sentence trail off, and Ahrthyr chuckled. The dashing Earl of Windshare found beautiful women irresistible. And, unfortunately, all too many beautiful women returned the compliment. By Gahrvai’s count, Ahrthyr had fought at least eight duels with irate brothers, fiancés, fathers, and husbands. Of course, those were just the ones he knew about, and since Prince Hektor had outlawed public duels over ten years ago—officially, at least—there were probably more that Gahrvai didn’t know about.
So far the earl had managed to survive all of them, and done it without killing anyone (and getting himself outlawed) in the process. How long he could keep that up was open to question. Besides, Gahrvai had met Cayleb Ahrmahk. Any woman he’d married was going to be more than a match for Windshare, and that didn’t even consider what would happen if Cayleb found out about it.
“Ah, there’s no poetry in your soul, Koryn!” the earl said now. “Anyone who could look on that face—and that figure, too, now that I think of it—and not be stirred is a confirmed misogynist.” Ahrthyr paused, cocking his head to one side. “That wouldn’t be the reason your father still isn’t a grandfather, would it, Koryn? Is there something you’ve never told me?”
“I’ve never told you I was about to kill you … until now,” Gahrvai returned repressively. “That’s subject to change if you don’t shut up, though.”
“Bully,” Windshare muttered. “And party pooper, too, now that I think of it.” Gahrvai’s elbow drove none too gently into the earl’s sternum and he “oofed” at the impact. “All right,” he surrendered with a grin, rubbing his chest. “You win. I’ll shut up. See, this is me not saying a thing. Very peaceful, isn’t it? I don’t believe you’ve ever had such a restful afternoon with me arou—”
The second elbow strike was considerably more forceful than the first.
* * *
Sharleyan paced calmly up the crimson runner of carpet towards the throne. It was the first time she’d ever been in Manchyr, although she’d studied this very throne room many times since she’d gained access to Owl’s SNARCs. It was rather more impressive in person, though, and much as she’d hated Hektor Daykyn, she had to admit he’d had far better taste than the late Grand Duke of Zebediah. Sunlight spilled through tall, arched windows down its long western wall, puddling on the polished parquet floor’s inlaid marble medallions and geometric patterns. The wall itself was plastered and coffered, with the personal seals of the last half-dozen princes of Corisande worked into the recesses between the window embrasures in vibrant color, and banners hung from the high, spacious ceiling Manchyr’s near-equatorial climate imposed on local architecture. That vaulted ceiling was also coffered, with polished, richly gleaming wooden beams framing painted panels decorated with incidents from the House of Daykyn’s history, and the entire eastern wall consisted of latticed glass doors opening onto a formal garden glowing with tropical blossoms and glossy greenery.
At the moment she had rather less attention to spare than the architecture and landscaping probably deserved, however, and she concentrated on maintaining her confident expression as she processed towards the dais where the Earl of Anvil Rock, the Earl of Tartarian, and the other members of Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council waited to greet her formally.
The remaining members of the Regency Council, at any rate, she reminded herself a bit tartly. Although, to be fair, Sir Wahlys Hillkeeper, the Earl of Craggy Hill, was still technically a member. Changing that—permanently—was one of the purposes of her visit.
It was extraordinarily quiet, quiet enough for her to hear the distant sound of surf through the glass doors which had been opened onto the garden. She had no doubt there were dozens of soft, hushed side conversations all about her, but these were courtiers. They’d learned how to have those conversations without drawing attention to themselves, and most of them were probably downright eager to avoid drawing her attention at this particular moment.
She felt her lips quiver with amusement and suppressed the thought firmly, continuing her stately, not to say implacable progress along the carpet. She wasn’t as ostentatiously surrounded by bodyguards as she’d been in Zebediah, although no one was going to crowd her here, either. Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s guardsmen lined the throne room’s walls, bayoneted muskets grounded, and an honor guard of Imperial Charisian Marines had escorted her from the docks to the palace. She’d wanted to insist on a smaller, less obvious and lower-keyed presence, but she’d known better. There was no point pretending this was Chisholm or Charis. Not that there’d never been an attempt to kill her in Charis, now that she thought about it.
That reflection carried her to the end of the carpet, Merlin Athrawes pacing respectfully at her heels while Edwyrd Seahamper kept a king wyvern’s eye on the rest of her personal detail, and Sir Rysel Gahrvai bowed formally to her.
“On behalf of Prince Daivyn, welcome to Manchyr, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Thank you, My Lord,” she replied. “I wish my visit might have come under happier circumstances, yet the welcome I’ve received—not just from you, but from so many of Manchyr’s people—has been far warmer than I’d anticipated.”
He bowed again at the compliment, although there’d been a slight double edge to it. For that matter, there’d been a double edge to his greeting. The exact status of Prince Daivyn remained what diplomats referred to as “a gray area,” and for all the genuine spontaneity of the cheers which had greeted Sharleyan, not everyone in the greeting crowds had been cheering. Indeed, she suspected that no more than half of them had, and quite a few of those who hadn’t cheered had been stonefaced and grimly silent, instead.
“May I escort you to your throne, Your Majesty?” Anvil Rock asked, and she inclined her head in gracious assent before she laid the fingertips of her right hand on his forearm. He assisted her carefully (and completely unnecessarily) up the five steps to the top of the dais and she smiled at him before she turned and seated herself.
She looked out across the throne room, seeing the faces, trying to sample the emotional aura. It was difficult, despite all the hours she’d spent poring over the SNARCs’ reports from this very city. She felt confident she’d assessed Manchyr’s attitude accurately, at least in general terms, and she knew far more about the aristocrats and clerics thronging this room than any of them could possibly imagine. Yet these were still human beings, and no one could predict human behavior with total assurance.
A throat cleared itself quietly to her right, and she looked up at Archbishop Klairmant Gairlyng. He looked back at her gravely, and she smiled and pitched her voice to carry.
“Before we begin, would you be kind enough to thank God for me for my safe arrival here, Your Eminence?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he agreed with a small bow, then straightened and gazed out across the throne room himself.
“Let us pray,” he said. Heads bowed throughout the vast room, and he raised his voice. “Almighty God, the high and mighty ruler of the universe, we thank You for the safety in which You have brought our royal visitor to this court. We beseech You to smile upon her and so to show her Your favor that she walks always in Your ways, mindful of Your commands and the dictates of Your justice. Guide, we beseech You, all the nations of this Your world into the way of You
r truth and establish among them that peace which is the fruit of righteousness, that they may be in truth Your Kingdom and walk in all the ways You have prepared for them. And we most especially beseech You to look down from Your throne and bless Your servant Daivyn and all who advise, guide, and guard him. Bring him, too, safely back to us, and so resolve and compose the differences between Your children that all rulers of clean heart and good intent may gather in the amity Your plan has decreed for all men. We ask this in the name of Your servant Langhorne, who first declared Your will among men to the glory of Your Name. Amen.”
That was an interesting choice of phrasing, Sharleyan thought wryly as she joined the others in touching fingertips first to her heart and then to her lips. The tightrope here in Corisande was more complicated than almost anywhere else in the youthful Empire of Charis, and Gairlyng clearly understood that. He’d managed to avoid calling Sharleyan Corisande’s ruler, and she’d noticed the “royal visitor,” as opposed to the possible “imperial visitor.” At the same time, he’d adroitly avoided calling her an interloper, either, and no one could very well take offense at his request for God’s blessing on young Daivyn. And the “resolve and compose the differences between Your children” was straight out of the Church of God Awaiting’s most ancient liturgy. Of course, the people who’d written that liturgy had never envisioned a situation quite like this one.
The stir and shuffle of feet, the rustle of clothing and clearing of throats, which always followed a moment of prayer in Sharleyan’s experience whispered through the throne room. Then Anvil Rock turned towards her and bowed, wordlessly offering her the opportunity to speak without any awkward little formalities which might have conceded—or denied—her authority to do so.
“I thank you for the welcome I received at dockside this morning,” she said, and saw one or two people look up sharply when she avoided the royal “we.” Well, there’d be time enough for that later.
“A Charisian monarch—and such I find I’ve become, much though the idea would have astounded me as little as three years ago”—she smiled and a chuckle ran through the watching courtiers—“appreciates a welcoming port, especially at the end of a winter voyage which took rather longer than I might have wished. More than that, I realize how many difficult issues remain between the Princedom of Corisande and the Crown of Charis, and I take it as a favorable sign that so many turned out to wish me well upon my arrival here.
“At the same time,” she allowed her expression and her tone to become more serious, “it’s obvious not everyone here in Manchyr was equally happy to see me.” She shook her head. “Under the circumstances, I can scarcely blame anyone who might continue to cherish reservations about the future, and it’s only natural such reservations should express themselves in reservations about me, and about Emperor Cayleb. One of the reasons for Cayleb’s visit here last year was to attempt to put some of those reservations to rest. That’s also part of the reason for my visit this year. Of course”—her expression became grimmer—“there are other and less happy reasons, as well.”
It was very quiet in the throne room, and she turned her head, surveying them all and letting them see her level eyes and firm mouth.
“It’s never pleasant to be required to yield to force of arms,” she said quietly. “Cayleb and I understand that. At the same time, I believe any fair-minded person must admit we were left very little choice. When five princedoms and kingdoms—including, I would remind all of us, my own—were required by ‘the Knights of the Temple Lands’ to league together against Old Charis, even though that kingdom had committed no crimes or offenses against any of them, Charis had no choice but to defend herself. And when it became evident that the corrupt vicars who’d seized control of Mother Church intended to continue their efforts to exterminate not just the Kingdom of Charis but any vestige of freedom of thought, the Empire of Charis had no choice but to carry the war to its enemies. And so that war came to your shores behind the banners of my Empire.”
The quiet grew more intense, and she met it squarely, her shoulders straight.
“I won’t pretend Chisholm lacked its own reasons for enmity with the House of Daykyn. I’m sure everyone in this throne room knows what they were and why they existed. But I will say that my enmity—and Cayleb’s—was directed against the head of that house, and it stemmed from his actions, not from any ingrained hatred of Corisande or all things Corisandian. We had specific reasons to confront Prince Hektor on the field of battle, and so we did, openly and directly, with none of the diplomatic fictions, lies, and masks the ‘Knights of the Temple Lands’ had employed to hide their crimes.”
She saw shoulders tighten as she took the bull firmly by the horns.
“I realize many continue to believe Cayleb ordered Hektor’s assassination, and I suppose I can even understand why that belief should have gained such currency. But my husband is not a stupid man, my lords and ladies. Do any of you believe for one instant that the son of Haarahld of Charis could have failed to understand how Prince Hektor’s murder on the very eve of his surrender would poison the hearts and minds of Corisandians against him? Can any of you think of an action better calculated to make the peaceful, orderly inclusion of Corisande in the Empire of Charis more difficult? Having sailed thousands of miles, having won his cause on the field of battle with one overwhelming victory after another, what could possibly have motivated anyone but a bloodthirsty monster to have not only Prince Hektor but his elder son murdered?”
She paused once more, for only a heartbeat this time. Then—
“You’ve had the opportunity to see the policies General Chermyn has administered here on our behalf, and you know that at the core of those policies lies our desire to demonstrate that the Empire of Charis respects the rule of law and has no desire to rule through terror and the iron fist of oppression. Many of you have had the opportunity to meet personally with Emperor Cayleb, and those who have must surely realize that however resolute he may be, however dangerous in battle, he is not and never has been a man who relishes the shedding of human blood. I ask you to ask yourselves if the Crown which dictated those policies and the Emperor you met would have resorted to the murder of a foe who had been vanquished and was prepared to offer honorable surrender. An honorable surrender which would have been of far more value to the Empire politically, both here in Corisande and abroad, than his murder—his martyrdom—could ever have been.”
A half-heard susurration, like a sharp breeze across a sea of reeds, ran through the throne room as more than one of those nobles and prelates realized exactly what she was implying. No one dared speak out in open rejection, however, and she sat silently, letting the thought sink home for a full ten seconds before she resumed.
“I fully realize that the Group of Four has excommunicated both me and Cayleb and laid the entire Empire of Charis under the interdict,” she said then. “As such, in the eyes of Temple Loyalists, any oaths you may swear to us or to the Church of Charis have no force. Obviously, we disagree, and we have no option but to hold those who swear to the terms of that to which they have sworn. No ruler, even in time of peace, can accept anything less; no ruler, even in time of war, has the right to demand anything more.
“I’m here in Corisande, in no small part, because of that. All of you know what I refer to when I say that. I regret that such a reason should have brought me here, and I regret that many whose only crime was loyalty to Corisande, to the House of Daykyn, and to the clergy they’d been taught to revere were caught up in the treachery and plotting of a handful of individuals who saw the opportunity to take power into their own hands for their own uses and their own purposes. I have no choice—Charis has no choice—but to exact justice, yet I will endeavor as Charis has always endeavored to mitigate justice with mercy wherever that may be possible.”
She paused yet again, the quiet so intense she could hear the surf once more, and the instincts developed in so many years on a throne tried to parse the mood of the people in the
throne room. At least some of them seemed to be genuinely trying to reserve judgment, she thought. Others, however assiduously they might try to hide it, had clearly made up their minds already and weren’t about to be swayed by anyone’s words … especially hers. She couldn’t tell how many fell into which camp, but it seemed to her that the balance was tilted ever so slightly against those who had already committed themselves to hostility.
“We’ve made it clear we aren’t prepared to cavalierly strip Prince Daivyn of his birthright and inheritance,” she said finally. “Obviously, when a minor prince is in exile in a foreign court, far from his own lands, we can’t simply resign into his hands that which we’ve won on the field of battle. By the same token, we can understand why Prince Daivyn and those who genuinely have his best interests at heart should hesitate to deliver him back into the power of those many believe had his father and older brother murdered. Whether we did or not, simple prudence would dictate that he not be brought back into our reach until those responsible for guarding his life and well-being are fully satisfied it would be safe to do so. I don’t pretend we like the situation, yet I’m also well aware no one here in Corisande likes it, either.
“It was the need to bear all of those factors in mind which led Emperor Cayleb to recognize the Regency Council as representing Prince Daivyn, not the Charisian Crown. Obviously, the Regency Council must accommodate itself to the demands of Charis, just as Prince Daivyn would be required to do were he here and ruling in his own right. That, unfortunately, is the way things work in a world where disputes between realms are too often settled upon the field of battle. It’s our hope that in the fullness of time, and preferably sooner rather than later, all these issues will be resolved without further bloodshed here in Corisande, and we earnestly desire to find in that resolution a way to finally end the anger and distrust, the hostility, which has lain between Charis, Chisholm, and Corisande for so long. In the meantime, we have no intention of expropriating Prince Daivyn’s lands, whether as Prince or as Duke of Manchyr. Aside from the abolition of serfdom, we have no intention of interfering with Corisande’s traditional law or the traditional rights of her aristocracy or her commons. And aside from those actions necessary to purge Mother Church of the corruption which has infected and poisoned her, the lies which have been told in her name, we have no quarrel with her, either … and certainly not with God.
