“All of those things are true,” she said sternly. “However—however, I say—there’s the matter of Stefyny.” Her expression softened suddenly and she looked up at Merlin. “She misses you, you know. And if we really are going to send her and her family to Maikel and Sharleyan in Manchyr, this is probably the best time to do it, since Sandaria won’t be there in the Cave to keep them company any longer.”
“I’m glad the two of them will be going home to Tellesberg, but I really wish Sharley was coming here, instead,” Cayleb said a bit sourly.
“I know you do,” Merlin said. “And so does she. But one of you really does have to check in with Trahvys, Bynzhamyn, and Ahlvyno from time to time. It’s how empires run … or so I understand. And at least Alahnah’s turning into a bit better sailor. One of these days, she’s actually going to realize she’s a Charisian, isn’t she?”
“I believe you’re right. And at least they’re going to have an interesting evening before they leave, aren’t they?” Cayleb’s smile was a bit crooked. “That being the case, I think Aivah has a point about your accompanying her. For that matter, why don’t you go ahead and take the recon skimmer for the trip to the Cave? Then you could zip right back here—with Aivah, for that matter—while Owl flies the air van to Manchyr with the Mahlards. He could always drop Sandaria off here the next night.”
“Actually, that might not be such a bad idea,” Merlin said thoughtfully. Assuming, of course,” he glanced at Aivah, one eyebrow raised, “that Aivah won’t mind being cooped up with me in the skimmer that long.”
“The mere thought is unspeakably repugnant,” Aivah assured him, lifting her nose with an audible sniff. Then she looked at him and smiled soulfully. “However, I am far too refined and proper to ever admit any such thing. So instead of being truthful, I will bend my neck to the yoke of good manners, smile, and say—lying through my teeth the entire time, you understand—nothing could possibly give me greater pleasure.”
“You did that very well,” Merlin said admiringly and offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
.VII.
Manchyr Palace, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande, Empire of Charis
“Good evening, My Lord.”
Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley, Baron Sarmouth, paused as the red-haired, blue-eyed armswoman with the black, gold, blue, and silver blazon of the Charisian Empire on her breastplate bowed in polite greeting.
“Good evening, Captain Chwaeriau,” he replied.
He’d come to know the exotically attractive imperial guardswoman at least slightly over the last several five-days, since Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk—despite his marriage and his wounds—officially remained Sarmouth’s flag lieutenant. Despite that, he still wasn’t positive what to make of her. Given the stories about her and a certain Charlz Sheltyn, late of the Royal Corisandian Guard, there was no question in Sarmouth’s mind that she was amply qualified for her present duties, and he made a conscientious effort to think of her as he would have thought about any other obviously competent officer of his acquaintance.
It was just that he found it difficult to picture someone whose head barely topped his shoulder—and who looked like one of his niece’s schoolmates at St. Areetha’s Convent—as a deadly warrior out of Safehold’s most ancient lore.
Of course, that was also the mistake Sheltyn had made, now wasn’t it? Not the company he wanted to be in.
“Her Majesty is expecting you,” Chwaeriau continued, nodding to the graying sergeant standing watch outside the polished wooden doors with her. Sergeant Seahamper came briefly to attention and saluted her, and she pushed the door open and bowed Sarmouth through it.
“If you’ll accompany me, My Lord,” she invited.
* * *
Sarmouth fought down a smile as Chwaeriau escorted him into the large, airy dining room. It was on the uppermost floor of Manchyr Palace, looking to the east across the harbor through a glass wall, and a large, sumptuous buffet had been arranged along its inner wall. The sun was sliding steadily down the western sky, and the palace cast tall shadows across the manicured grounds between it and the water battery which protected its eastern approaches. That wasn’t what made him want to smile, however.
“Sir!” The Duke of Darcos shot to his feet, making no effort to hide his enormous smile, and held out his right hand. His left arm remained motionless at his side, but there was nothing weak or hesitant about the arm clasp he bestowed upon the admiral. “It’s good to see you again, Sir!”
“Forgive me for mentioning this, Your Grace,” Sarmouth said a bit pointedly, “but I understood that this was to be a social occasion. In which case, unless I’m sadly mistaken, a duke takes precedence over a mere baron and doesn’t address him as ‘Sir.’”
“Don’t encourage him to become any snootier than he already is, please, Sir Dunkyn!” Irys Aplyn-Ahrmahk implored, coming forward to greet him in turn.
She didn’t bother with any arm clasps, and Sarmouth hesitated as she hugged him with a familiarity which would undoubtedly have horrified eighty or ninety percent of her brother’s subjects. It was only a brief hesitation, however, and he found himself hugging her back as the smile he’d tried to restrain broke free. He’d never married—it had always seemed to him that a serving sea officer had no business asking a woman to share his life when he’d be away at sea for half or more of that life—but thirty years’ worth of midshipmen had given him ample sons. It would never have done to admit that that was how he saw them, of course, and especially not in the case of those who’d happened to belong to the royal family of Charis. But there was no point pretending to himself that Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk didn’t hold a special place in his heart … or that the five-days Irys had spent aboard HMS Destiny hadn’t given him a heart-daughter, as well.
“I hadn’t observed any snootiness on his part, Your Highness,” he observed, standing back from her with a twinkle. “Laziness, perhaps. But surely ‘snooty’ is putting it at least a little too strongly, isn’t it?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been the one who caught him practicing looking down his nose at himself in the mirror,” Irys assured him, tucking his left hand into the bend of her right elbow. She shuddered daintily. “It was quite horrible,” she said faintly.
“Pay no attention to either of them, Sir Dunkyn,” another voice said, and Sarmouth turned quickly, bowing deeply as Empress Sharleyan and Archbishop Maikel swept into the receiving room. “They’ve been practicing on me and the Archbishop all day. Please don’t encourage them!”
“I’ll … try to bear that in mind, Your Majesty.” Sarmouth rose from his bow, then bowed again, not quite so deeply, as he kissed the ring Maikel Staynair extended to him.
“Your Eminence,” he murmured.
“Admiral,” Staynair responded. “It’s good to see you looking so well, My Lord.”
“Well, it’s even better when I see His Grace and Her Highness looking as well as they do,” Sarmouth said much more seriously. “The first reports we had in Destiny sounded … bad.”
“Without Hektor, we’d both be dead,” Irys said softly, and her husband looked down at her quickly. Shadows of memory stirred in her hazel eyes. He put his good arm about her and squeezed gently and she shook herself, then looked back up at him with a quick smile before she turned back to their guest. “I suppose that’s the reason I keep him around. Well, that and this. So … expeditious, those Charisian seamen.”
She touched her stomach, which was ever so slightly more domed than it had been, and Sarmouth heard Empress Sharleyan snort in amusement.
“Of course, if the cad had warned me that twins run in his family, I’d never have married him, of course.”
“I did warn you!” Hektor said virtuously. “I even introduced you to two or three pairs of them.”
“Don’t try to squirm out of it, you scoundrel!” She smacked her husband, then blinked soulfully at Yairley. “You see what I have to put up with, Sir Dunkyn?”
“Ah, yes, Your Highne
ss,” the baron managed. “I, ah, understand the news was … received enthusiastically by your brother’s subjects.”
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Irys’ eyes twinkled demurely. “It’s not every girl who has cannons going off all over the waterfront when the world finds out she’s pregnant. And aboard Destiny, for that matter, if I’m not mistaken. That happened pretty expeditiously, too, now that I think about it.”
“Mercy, Your Highness!” Sarmouth raised his free hand in capitulation.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, My Lord.” Irys raised her eyebrows in a politely questioning expression, and Hektor laughed, tucking her in tightly at his side.
“You’d almost think she was Charisian, wouldn’t you, My Lord?”
“Because she is now, Your Grace, to Charis’ great good fortune.” The words came out quickly and lightly, but Sarmouth’s brown eyes were serious.
“I think I agree with you, My Lord,” Sharleyan said, then waved gracefully at the buffet. “As you can see, we’re dining informally this evening. I rather regret that you won’t be transporting the Archbishop and myself back to Tellesberg. Somehow, it seems wrong to be sailing aboard a ship other than Destiny. That’s one reason—among others—we asked you to join us, and Irys and Hektor were adamant that we could manage for ourselves without servants.”
“I’m honored, Your Majesty,” Sarmouth said sincerely. “May I serve a plate for you?”
“No, you may not, although I certainly appreciate the offer. Tonight we serve ourselves, and since you’re the guest, please be good enough to get things started, My Lord.”
Sarmouth considered arguing. He knew he ought to argue—that serving his own plate before the Empress of Charis was served was the height of impropriety. It was the sort of behavior which would have gotten the knuckles of any midshipman who’d ever sailed with him severely cracked … before another portion of his anatomy was thoroughly warmed by the boatswain. It was also the sort of behavior which made Sir Dunkyn Yairley acutely uncomfortable. Or would have, at least, under other circumstances. Sharleyan and Cayleb’s informality with those they knew and trusted had long since become a byword—scandalously so, in some quarters—however. And this, he realized, was the empress’ way of telling him she’d decided to include him in that select company.
It was, he decided, the greatest honor which had ever been bestowed upon him.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
He bowed deeply, took a plate from the stack at one end of the buffet, and began filling it with food.
* * *
Sir Dunkyn Yairley sat back in his chair and sipped the excellent Zebediahan port after-dinner wine with a sense of pleasant repletion.
Corisande was much smaller than Old Charis, even though its total population was several million greater. Charis, however, had Howell Bay, which had been the true focus of the kingdom’s growth and development. Its population was heavily concentrated along the bay’s shores, whereas far more of the Corisandian interior had been turned into well-tilled farmland. That difference between the princedom and the kingdom undoubtedly explained the variance in their cuisines, as well, and he’d been very happily surprised by it. Charisian cooking, while delicious in its own right, tended to focus on seafood, whereas Corisandian cuisine merged the seafood to be expected from an island people with more “inland” foods. He doubted that combining mutton, chicken, wyvern, and shrimp with onions, mushrooms, bamboo, broccoli, carrots, and pineapple in a single stirfried dish would have occurred to most Charisians, but he’d already decided to get the recipe for his own chef aboard ship.
“That was delicious, Your Majesty,” he said, and Sharleyan smiled at him. There was something just a bit odd about that smile.
“I appreciate the compliment, Sir Dunkyn,” the empress said before Sarmouth really noticed that oddity. “The menu was Irys’ choice, however, and the chefs are Prince Daivyn’s, not mine. And so, alas, I can claim very little credit. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “I did select the wines.”
“Which were an excellent accompaniment for the meal,” he said.
“I told you Sir Dunkyn had trained me properly, Mother,” Hektor said from his end of the table. “See how adroitly he recovered after your correction?”
“Stop picking on the Baron,” Irys said sternly, and poked her husband in the ribs. “He deserves much better treatment than that.”
“In fact, he does.” Sharleyan’s voice was lower than it had been, almost solemn, and when Sarmouth turned back to her, her brown eyes were dark. “That’s rather the point of tonight’s dinner.”
Sarmouth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she nodded to him.
“The truth is, Sir Dunkyn,” she said, “that this isn’t a purely social affair after all. Mind you, it’s also a social affair—an opportunity for Irys and Hektor and my entire house to thank you for your many services to us. While I’m sure Hektor would find it difficult to express in so many words, you’ve become very important to both him and Irys … and to me. Not simply as a loyal, courageous, and highly competent servant, but as an individual we treasure for who you are as much as for what you are.”
Sarmouth felt his cheeks tighten with an unaccustomed heat, but the empress held his eyes levelly.
“All that’s true,” she told him softly, “yet tonight, we’re about to ask something … extraordinary of you. Something you may not be able to give us, and something which—I’m afraid—places you in peril of your life. I hope you can forgive us for that.”
She paused, and the baron set his wine glass down on the spotless white tablecloth.
“Your Majesty,” he told her simply, “there’s nothing to forgive. I am your servant, and the Empire’s. It would be my honor to grant you any service within my power.”
“Don’t be too hasty, Sir Dunkyn.”
Sharleyan smiled again, and this time he recognized the oddity, the edge of apprehension and … sorrow in that smile. She looked at him for a second or two, then glanced over her shoulder to where Captain Chwaeriau had stood post behind her chair for the entire meal.
“Nimue?” she said quietly.
Sarmouth’s eyes snapped to the seijin, who bowed briefly but deeply to the empress, then stepped around the table to face the baron across it.
“My Lord,” she told him, “when Her Majesty said she was about to ask you for something ‘extraordinary,’ she was referring to me. To your ability to accept who and what I truly am, and how Seijin Merlin and I came to serve Charis. We want you to know how that happened, what it truly means, and what the war against the Group of Four is truly about. Because what it’s truly about is far greater than the corruption of the Group of Four and the current vicarate, and it goes back far, far farther in time than you could possibly know.”
Sarmouth stared at her, then darted a quick look at Sharleyan while his brain tried to grapple with what she’d just said. The empress’ expression was impassive, and he flicked a look at Hektor and Irys. Their expressions were tauter than Sharleyan’s, worried—possibly even frightened—yet he found that somehow reassuring. They were worried about him, he realized. Not about whatever the seijin was about to say to him, but about him, as someone who was as important to them as a person as Sharleyan had just told him he was. He looked into his flag lieutenant’s eyes for a moment, then back at Captain Chwaeriau.
“I’m prepared to hear whatever it is you have to tell me, Seijin,” he said without a quaver, and realized it was true.
She gazed back at him for a handful of heartbeats, then bowed across the table almost as deeply as she’d bowed to Sharleyan.
“I believe you are, My Lord,” she said as she straightened. “I hope you’ll still feel that way when we’ve finished.”
She paused, as if drawing a deep breath, then squared her shoulders.
“My Lord, the truth is that everything you’ve ever been taught about the Church and the Archangels is a lie.” He stiffened, but she went on in that same meas
ured voice. “A thousand years ago, before human beings ever touched the surface of Safehold, there was a war. It was a war between something called the ‘Terran Federation’ and something called the ‘Gbaba,’ and it began at a place called Crestwell’s Star when a ship named Swiftsure first encountered—”
* * *
“You were serious when you said you were going to ask something extraordinary of me, weren’t you, Your Majesty?” Sir Dunkyn Yairley said slowly the better part of four hours later.
His brown eyes were haunted as he looked back and forth between his empress and the blue-eyed, red-haired young woman who claimed to be more ancient than the Creation itself … and yet less than three months old. Those eyes traveled to the side table where the fireplace poker she’d tied into knots to demonstrate her strength lay beside the “communicator” over which Emperor Cayleb himself had spoken and the “hologram projector” which had shown him the fallen Archangel Kau-yung personally speaking to a woman a thousand years dead. He looked at all those items, remembered all those things, and he wanted, more than almost anything in the world, to lick his lips, but he refused to.
He sat very still, aware that even though they’d been very careful not to say it, his life hung by a thread. They’d told him too much, shown him too much, for it to work any other way. And deep within him a part of him wanted that thread to snap. Wanted to turn away, to wail a grief-ridden lament over the dead corpse of all he’d believed in, everything he’d ever known was true. What they wanted—what they demanded—that he believe instead turned the Archangels he’d trusted and revered for his entire life not simply into mortals, not simply into imposters and liars, but into traitors. Into betrayers and mass murderers on an inconceivable scale. And at the same time, it transformed Shan-wei and Kau-yung from the greatest traitors in history into the honorable and blameless victims of those murderous “Archangels” he’d loved so deeply. It was impossible, it simply couldn’t be true, and his skin crawled at the thought of giving his service—and his soul—to Shan-wei herself.