By Schism Rent Asunder Read online

  "At this time, again as all of you are aware, we remain technically at war with Charis. Unfortunately, that war has not prospered. And I suspect it will surprise none of you to discover that the decision to join that war in the first place was never truly our own."

  Several councilors, including her uncle, stirred uneasily in their chairs, and two or three pairs of eyes swiveled sideways to Father Carlsyn. The priest, for his part, only sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him, head cocked slightly to one side, while he listened to the queen and watched her with bright, alert eyes.

  "In fact, of course," she continued, "Chisholm 'agreed' to join the League of Corisande and the Princedom of Emerald only at the . . . strong urging of the Chancellor of the Knights of the Temple Lands. The Knights desired us to assist Prince Hektor against Haarahld of Charis for reasons which no doubt seemed good to them, but which—let us be honest here among ourselves, My Lords—were never truly critical, or even relevant, to Chisholm's own interests. We had no just cause for enmity with Charis on our own part, and we had many reasons for regarding our 'ally' Hektor with suspicion and caution.

  "Nonetheless, we acceded to Chancellor Trynair's urging when Arch­bishop Zherohm delivered his message to us on behalf of the Knights of the Temple Lands." Her uncle, she observed, winced visibly at her repeated use of "Knights of the Temple Lands." She wished that could have come to her as a surprise. "There were several reasons for that, but—being honest, once again— the primary reason was fear. Fear of what the Knights might do to Chisholm if we declined to do as they 'requested' in this instance."

  She paused, with a wintry smile which should have turned every square inch of exposed skin in that council chamber blue. Her uncle's face had tight­ened at the word "fear," and one or two other faces had turned into blank walls.

  Well, that's scarcely a surprise, she told herself tartly.

  She was aware of a bright, singing tension deep inside her. It was a sen­sation she'd felt before—the taut recognition that she danced upon the edge of a sword. Every monarch must know that feeling, sometimes, at least, she thought. There had been times—like the signing of Duke Three Hills' death warrant—when she'd faced it, rendered her decision, and then retired to her private chambers to throw up. Those times had been more common in the first year or two after she took the crown, however. Now, it was something to be embraced. The proof she was doing her job, meeting the challenges the world sent to her. And, she admitted to herself, there was something almost addictive to it and to the hard-won knowledge that she was good at the task to which birth had called her. To the awareness that the is­sues she grappled with, the decisions she made, were important. That she had to get them right if she was going to meet her father's spirit with the ability to look into his eyes without shame. It wasn't the power itself which gave her that sense of being alive, so much as it was the determination to do her very best, the satisfaction she took from knowing that she had. It had to be the same sort of emotion a star athlete felt when he pushed himself ruth­lessly in training to reach a higher plateau of performance. The satisfaction he felt within himself, not the one which came from the cheering adulation of his fans. Or perhaps, as she often thought, it must be akin to what a champion swordsman felt in that first, breathless moment when he stepped into the lists at a competition.

  Or, she admitted to herself, what a duelist feels like when his opponent draws his sword.

  "My Lords," she allowed her voice to turn chiding, "does anyone around this table pretend to truly believe that Haarahld of Charis intended to invade Corisande? That he had some sort of malign intent to seize control of all the world's commerce?"

  "With your permission, Your Majesty," Duke Halbrook Hollow said, keeping his voice almost painfully neutral, "that seems to be exactly what's happening now."

  "Yes, Your Grace," she acknowledged. "It does indeed seem to be what's happening now. But the critical word is 'now,' is it not? Charis has just beaten off the attack of no less than five navies, including our own, and King Cayleb is obviously aware of the pretext upon which the attack, and the re­sultant death of his father"—she let her eyes bore into her uncle's—"was or­chestrated by. . . the Knights of the Temple Lands. What Charis never sought to seize in time of peace may very well have become something she has no option but to seek in time of war if she hopes to survive the attack upon her."

  Please, Uncle Byrtrym, she thought pleadingly behind the confident façade of her calm eyes and firm mouth. I know what you're thinking. Please, support me in this.

  The duke opened his mouth, then closed it once more.

  "The plain truth of the matter, My Lords," she continued as her uncle backed away from the challenge, for the moment at least, "is that I was con­strained against my will to attack a peaceful neighbor. And another plain truth is that the attack which was intended to overwhelm and destroy Charis failed miserably. Those truths, among others, are what King Cayleb sent Earl Gray Harbor to Chisholm to discuss."

  The distant sound of a hunting wyvern's piercing whistle, coming through the council chamber's window, was plainly audible in the intense si­lence which hovered above the table. All eyes were riveted to Sharleyan, and one or two faces were undeniably pale.

  "My Lords, the . . . Knights of the Temple Lands decreed Charis' destruction. They failed. I believe they will continue to fail. And I believe that if they don't fail, if they can decree the destruction of one realm for arbitrary reasons of their own, they can—and will—decree the destruction of others. I used the example of a ship at sea, and I chose it deliberately, for many reasons. We've navigated through many a storm together, since that day I first came to the throne, but the hurricane which is about to sweep across the face of Safe­hold is unlike any other storm we have ever seen. There will be no safe har­bor against it, My Lords. It must be met and survived at sea, in the very teeth of its thunder and lightning and wind. Never doubt that. Never forget it. And, My Lords"—her eyes were hard as polished brown agates—"never for­get who set that storm in motion."

  Duke Halbrook Hollow's shoulders tightened, and his jaw clenched. He'd been dismayed enough when she refused to hand Gray Harbor to Tiang, but he'd swallowed it. And so had Tiang, although the Harchong-born bishop executor's fury had been obvious. Unfortunately for him, he'd demanded she surrender Gray Harbor to him, as Mother Church's representative in Chisholm, without reflecting upon the fact that—as Sharleyan herself had just stressed—it was "the Knights of the Temple Lands," and not the Church of God Awaiting, which had declared war upon Charis. Without specific direc­tions from Zion and the Temple, Tiang had been unwilling to abandon the le­gal fiction that there was a difference between them.

  Which doesn't mean anyone in the entire world believes there is, she told herself grimly, watching her uncle's expression and body language.

  "I'm quite certain all of you have guessed that King Cayleb sent Earl Gray Harbor to us with the proposal of an alliance," she continued, speaking clearly and unhurriedly. "He's already returned our warships—such of them as survived the battle to which we were ordered to commit them, at any rate— and he's pointed out, with reason, that Chisholm and Charis have far more in common, when it comes to threats and enemies, than could ever divide us."

  "Your Majesty, I beg you to think most carefully about these matters," Halbrook Hollow said, meeting his niece's eyes. "You've been very careful to refer only to 'the Knights of the Temple Lands,' and no one in this chamber can doubt the reason you have. Yet it isn't the Knights to whom Charis has bidden defiance. It's Mother Church herself. Whatever his reasons, and however warranted he may believe himself to be, Cayleb hasn't restricted himself to denouncing the attack launched upon him. No, Your Majesty. He's seen fit to defy Mother Church's authority to name her own archbish­ops. He's accused Mother Church herself of corruption and tyranny, and of betraying the will of God. He's informed the Grand Vicar himself that Charis will never again submit to the authority of Mother Church. What­ever jus
tification he may feel he has—whatever justification we may feel he has—he's surely gone too far when he threatens the sanctity and supremacy of God's own Church."

  He started to say something more, then cut himself off with a hard, tight shake of his head. It was a sharp, abrupt gesture, and silence gripped the council chamber once again in its wake. But now that silence was brittle, bro­ken into fragments and heaped in the corners of every councilor's mind.

  "Your Grace—Uncle," Sharleyan said softly, "I know how you feel on this issue. Believe me, I know. And I would not, for all the gold and power in the world, cause you the pain I know this is causing. Yet I have no choice. Chancellor Trynair and Vicar Zhaspahr have left me none. Either I must as­sist in the murder of an innocent victim, knowing Charis will be but the first of many victims, or else I must defy . . . the Knights of the Temple Lands."

  "You're talking about God's Church, Sharleyan," Halbrook Hollow half whispered. "You can call it the Knights of the Temple Lands, if you wish, but the truth won't change."

  "And neither will the fact that they started this war, Uncle Byrtrym. Nei­ther will the fact that they sent no warning, no demands, no tribunals to in­vestigate. They never even bothered to truly examine the facts at all. They simply ordered five realms to destroy a sixth, as if it were of no greater concern than deciding which pair of shoes to wear. Because it wasn't even worth their time to make certain that all of the thousands upon thousands of God's chil­dren they proposed to kill really needed to die. Because it was their decision, not His. Never His. That is the truth, as well, and you know it as well as I do."

  "But even if that's all true," he replied, "think about where this must end. If you ally with Charis and Charis loses, then Chisholm will be destroyed as well. Yet terrible as that is, if you ally with Charis and Charis wins, you—you, Sharleyan—will be as responsible before God as Cayleb himself for destroy­ing the authority of the Church Langhorne himself commanded us to obey in God's name for the preservation of our very souls."

  "Yes, Uncle, I will be," she acknowledged quietly. "But the Church Langhorne commanded us to obey lies in the grip of men, and those men have betrayed their own responsibilities to God. If I support them, I acquiesce—I become their accomplice—in the murder of innocents and the perversion of God's will in the name of God's Church. I can't do that. I won't. Before God Himself, I won't."

  Halbrook Hollow's face was drawn and white, and Sharleyan shook her own head sadly, but firmly.

  "I said King Cayleb has proposed an alliance between our kingdoms," she said then, looking around the council chamber once more. "That state­ment was true enough, but it falls short of the full truth. Because, My Lords, the full truth is that Cayleb has proposed not mere alliance, but marriage."

  An invisible lightning bolt struck that council chamber. Men jerked back from the table, faces startled, shocked, even frightened. Other men sat sud­denly straighter, eyes brighter. But whatever their response, it was obvious not one of them had suspected what she had just told them.

  Duke Halbrook Hollow stared at his niece in horror. She looked back at him, seeing the beloved uncle who, with Green Mountain, had been her strong shield and buckler. Who had helped to raise her. Who had watched with obvious pride as the child-princess became a queen in truth.

  "Understand me, My Lords"—her voice was tempered steel—"there is no burden I will not bear in the service of Chisholm and of the people God has entrusted to my care. There is no danger I will not face. There is no choice I will refuse to make. I have thought, I have pondered, I have prayed, and only one answer presents itself. There is only one decision I can make without betraying my duty to God, my duty to Chisholm, and my duty to myself, and I have made it."

  Halbrook Hollow was shaking his head mutely, again and again, his eyes like holes burned into his face. Sharleyan made herself ignore that, and her voice continued, strong and unflinching.

  "Cayleb of Charis has offered honorable marriage, complete equality be­tween Chisholm and Charis, and I have decided to accept that offer. I have decided. I do not intend to debate that decision. I do not intend to discuss it. And I will not change it. As Cayleb has said, and as God Himself has wit­nessed, here I stand."

  .X.

  Tellesberg Palace,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Charis

  It was very late—or possibly very early, depending upon one's perspective— and Merlin Athrawes sat at the desk in his modest, if comfortable, quarters in Tellesberg Palace while his long fingers skillfully reassembled the pistol on his desk. If anyone had happened to open the door at that particular moment, they might have been just a bit curious as to why Captain Athrawes had cho­sen to perform that intricate task in the dark. Of course, the room wasn't dark for someone with a PICA's built-in light-gathering optics, but that didn't re­ally matter one way or the other. Despite the fact that Merlin's eyes were open and clearly gazing at the pistol upon which he was working, he was actually watching something else entirely.

  The most recent imagery from the SNARCs he had deployed across the surface of Safehold played itself behind those open eyes while he worked. As the struggle against the Group of Four and its proxies broadened and the events he found himself trying to keep track of snowballed, there was more and more of that imagery. In fact, there was quite simply too much of it for him to properly review, even with Owl's assistance. And the fact that, as the commander of Cayleb's personal guard detachment, he had even less free time in which to do the reviewing didn't help.

  The last of the current day's imagery from Emerald finished, and he gri­maced.

  "Write that up for Wave Thunder, Owl," he directed. "Standard format."

  "Yes, Lieutenant Commander," the distant AI said obediently, and Mer­lin nodded in satisfaction. The computer would use the graphics interface in the cavern in the Styvyn Mountains which Merlin had converted into his forward base here in Charis to produce a complete summary of the day's events in Emerald, in Merlin's handwriting, on proper Safeholdian stationery, complete with the occasional, carefully inserted correction and blot. When it was done, Owl would use another of the stealthed SNARCs to deliver it (and the other summaries Merlin had asked for) through Merlin's open window via tractor beam. Owl's writing standards weren't quite up to Merlin's own, but it was one way to get the necessary information written down and delivered to Wave Thunder. By now, the baron had to be wondering just how Seijin Merlin found time to jot down so many notes, but if he was, he'd very carefully not asked.

  Merlin smiled in amusement at the thought, then refocused his attention on the pistol as he completed its reassembly. There'd really been no point in taking it apart in the first place, but he'd enjoyed the minor task. He'd discov­ered that he liked the way fine machinery fitted together, the way smooth and reliable function emerged from the careful assembly of all of the puzzle's many pieces. Besides, he'd wanted to see how the inside of this one actually looked.

  The pistol in his hand was a perfect duplicate of one of the pair of pis­tols Seamount had presented to Merlin at the same time he presented a rather more finely ornamented pair to Cayleb. Appearances, however, could be deceiving, and these pistols had been manufactured by Owl, using the same fabrication unit in Nimue's Cave which had produced Merlin's battle steel katana, wakazashi, and armor. Outwardly, they might be indistin­guishable from the originals, but internally there was one significant differ­ence.

  Every member of Cayleb's personal detachment had been issued his own pair of pistols. The decision had been made not to divert any significant man­ufacturing capacity away from the desperately needed rifled muskets, but given the nature of the Royal Guard's duties, Lock Island, Seamount, and Howsmyn had pretty much insisted upon producing enough of them for the Guard. They were part of the Guard's uniform now, and Seamount had de­signed sturdy, practical leather holsters for them. Overall, Merlin heartily ap­proved, but even though the rifled pistols were deadly accurate, they still possessed one signific
ant drawback. For all of its greater efficiency and reliability as compared to a matchlock, a flintlock remained vulnerable to misfires, which wasn't something Merlin was prepared to put up with when it came to protecting Cayleb Ahrmahk's life.

  Which was why his pistols, unlike those of anyone else on the entire planet, had hidden power cells built into their butts. When Merlin squeezed the trigger, the flintlock hammer snapped down, just like it was supposed to. And, at the same instant, the electronic igniter installed at the base of the pis­tol barrel flashed white-hot. One way or the other, Merlin reflected, that pis­tol would fire when he needed it to.

  He chuckled softly at the thought, then slid both pistols into their wait­ing holsters, got up and walked across to his chamber's window to gaze out across the darkness of Tellesberg, sleeping under the light of the large single moon the "Archangels" had named Langhorne. It was a peaceful scene, and for just a moment, he felt a familiar, soul-deep longing for the merely mor­tal body of flesh and blood which had been Nimue Alban's. He could do marvelous, miraculous things with his PICA's molecular circuitry, sensors, and synthetic muscles. He could go without sleep, he could—theoretically at least—live literally forever . . . assuming that he was, indeed, alive in the first place. But he could never again know what it was to collapse into peaceful, genuine sleep knowing it would wash away the fatigue he no longer felt. That had been taken from him forever with the death of Nimue's body.