Sharleyan nodded, but her eyes were on the figure Gray Harbor had discreetly pointed out to her.
They were still too far away for her to make out any details, but she could see he was taller than almost any of the men standing around him. Indeed, she observed with a certain satisfaction, only the black-and-gold-clad guardsman standing alertly at his back seemed to be taller.
She saw the chain Charisian custom used in place of her own presence crown glittering about his neck in gold and green fire and felt a distinct sense of relief that Cayleb had foregone court regalia. She'd expected that, but as they'd approached the harbor and she'd found herself looking for things to worry about, it had occurred to her that she might have been wrong. After all, whatever could go wrong usually did, and the last thing she needed would have been to appear underdressed beside her prospective groom. And the next worst thing would have been to appear overdressed.
Will you stop this nattering! she scolded herself. Even if Gray Harbor's right, you're still a queen. You still have responsibilities, appearances to maintain.
Besides, he can't possibly be as good-looking as that painting.
Despite herself, a gurgle of laughter escaped her as she finally permitted herself to think the ridiculous thought. Of all the stupid, silly things she could be worrying about at a moment like this, that had to be the most empty-headed, fluttery, useless one of all.
Which didn't make it go away.
Gray Harbor glanced sideways at her when she laughed, and she shook her head with a smile. It would never do for her to explain her amusement to him. Even if he did have a daughter of his own.
Oddly enough, the laughter seemed to have helped. Or perhaps it was simply that she'd finally allowed herself to admit that even a reigning queen could nurse at least a few romantic fantasies.
But I bet he really isn't as cute as his painting.
* * * *
The galleon nuzzled to a halt alongside the wharf under the ministrations of the oared tugboats. Hawsers came ashore, tightened about the waiting bollards as the crew took tension on them, and an ornate gangplank, its spotless white hand ropes gleaming in the sunlight, was maneuvered smoothly into position. The final saluting gun thudded, the gunsmoke drifted away through the sunlight, and there was a brief moment of near total silence, broken only by the sounds of seabirds, wyverns, and the voice of a young child loudly asking his mother what was happening. And then, as a slender, regal figure appeared at the top of the gangway at the entry port in the galleon's tall side, the trumpets massed behind Cayleb sounded their rich, golden fanfare of welcome.
Sharleyan paused as the trumpets sounded, and Merlin wondered if she realized the fanfare they were playing was reserved for the royal house of Charis alone. He didn't know about that, but his enhanced vision brought her expression to within arm's reach. He saw her eyes widen slightly, saw her head rise with even more pride, saw the color in her cheeks. And then she was coming down the gangway.
No one escorted her. Her own guardsmen hovered behind her, their faces expressionless despite an anxiety which could almost be physically touched Thanks to the SNARC which had been keeping a protective watch over Sharleyan from the moment Gray Harbor arrived in Chisholm, Merlin knew she had specifically ordered her guard to remain aboard Doomwhale while she advanced by herself to meet her new husband and greet her new people.
None of them had liked it, and, indeed, Captain Wyllys Gairaht, their commander, had argued against her decision until she'd told him—in a most uncharacteristic display of temper—to shut up. And she'd told Sergeant Edwyrd Seahamper, her personal armsman since childhood, the same thing, albeit a bit less forcefully. If, she had pointed out acidly to both of her guardians, any of her proposed husband's subjects were sufficiently crazed with hate against a queen they had never even met to attempt a suicidal assassination in the face of all of the guardsmen Cayleb was going to have present, then no one would be able to protect her in the long run, whatever they did.
Captain Gairaht and Sergeant Seahamper clearly hadn't been concerned with "the long run." They'd been concerned with keeping her alive right now, and Merlin found himself in ungrudging sympathy with them. Despite that, Merlin knew, as the Charisians' cheers redoubled in strength and volume, that Sharleyan's instincts had not played her false. As that solitary, slender figure made its way down the gangway to greet her prospective husband's people for the first time, the symbolism of her gesture was not lost upon those people.
She's got them in the palm of her hand, Merlin thought admiringly. And maybe the best thing about it is that she made the decision first, and got around to figuring out why only second.
Nor was the gesture lost on Cayleb.
"Stay here—everyone!" he half-shouted through the bedlam of cheers, whistles, and shouts.
More than a few of the people among the designated official greeting party turned their heads as the king's command was relayed to them. One or two of those people's faces showed resentment, but most of them only blinked in astonishment as he summarily jettisoned the entire carefully choreographed ceremony which had been planned to welcome Queen Sharleyan.
Get used to it, people, Merlin thought with sardonic delight as Cayleb stepped forward all by himself. These two are both bad enough by themselves where protocol is concerned. Wait until you see the two of them in action at the same time!
* * * *
My God, he's better looking than the painting!
The thought flared through the back of Sharleyan's brain as Cayleb advanced to the foot of the ceremonial gangway, smiling up at her, extending a powerful, muscular hand that glittered with gem-set rings. He stood tall and straight, broad-shouldered in his thigh-length linen tunic and loose cotton silk breeches. The tunic flashed back the morning sunlight from gold and silver bullion embroidery. Tiny gems flickered amidst the traditional, swirling, wave-like patterns, and his belt of intricately decorated, seashell-shaped plaques of hammered silver gleamed with near-mirror brightness.
But it was his eyes she truly saw. Those smiling, brown eyes that met hers not with the duty of a monarch marrying to serve his people's need, but with the genuine welcome of a young man greeting his awaited bride.
* * * *
Merlin was out of his mind. She is so beautiful!
Cayleb knew he was staring like some oafish, backwater idiot, but he couldn't help it. Despite everything Merlin had said to him, he'd dreaded this moment, in many ways. Part of it, he'd come to suspect, was that a corner of his mind couldn't dismiss the stubborn pessimism that anything this important, this crucial to his people's survival, had to be solely a thing of cold political calculation. And sacrifice.
But the young woman reaching out her slender, fine-boned hand to him was not the stuff of calculation and sacrifice. Her black hair gleamed in the sunlight under her golden presence crown, and her huge eyes sparkled with intelligence. Her deceptively simple gown was woven of steel thistle silk, even lighter and smoother than cotton silk, and cut to an unfamiliar pattern. Charisian styles, for both men and women, favored loose-fitting, swirling garments well suited to the equatorial climate. Sharleyan's gown was far more closely tailored, revealing a richly curved figure, despite her slenderness, and she tilted back her head as he took her fingers carefully, almost delicately, between his own and raised her hand to his lips.
"Welcome to Charis, Your Majesty," he said as the cheers from the shore behind him redoubled yet again.
* * * *
"Welcome to Charis, Your Majesty."
Sharleyan could scarcely hear him through the tumult of voices surging all about them like some hurricane of human energy. Her own hand tightened on his, feeling the sword calluses on his fingers, the strength of his grip, and an odd sense of pleasure filled her as she realized her head didn't quite come as high as his shoulder. Earl Gray Harbor's wardrobe had prepared her for the exoticness of Charisian styles, and as she gazed at Cayleb, she realized that those loose, colorful garments wer
e perfectly suited to his muscular figure.
Which was undoubtedly a silly thing for her to be thinking about at this particular moment.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she said, raising her voice against the crowd sound. "Your people's welcome is . . . overwhelming."
"They've awaited you eagerly ever since your letter arrived," Cayleb explained. Then his eyes softened. "As have I."
It could have been a courtier's polite, flattering nothing. It wasn't, and Sharleyan smiled as she heard the genuine welcome, the pleasure, in his tone
"Your portrait didn't do you justice, Your Majesty," she replied with a devilish sparkle, and saw him color slightly. Then he laughed and shook his head.
"If you can say that after actually seeing me, perhaps we'd better have the royal optician check your eyes!"
His own eyes brimmed with humor, and she laughed back. Then it was her turn to shake her head.
"Your Majesty—Cayleb—I'm sure we'll find time to know one another. For now, though, I believe your people are waiting for us."
"No, Sharleyan," he said, stepping beside her and tucking her hand into his elbow as he turned to escort her the rest of the way down the gangway. "No, our people are waiting for us."
.X.
Archbishop's Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis
Forgive me, Your Eminence."
Maikel Staynair looked up from the latest stack of paperwork as Father Bryahn Ushyr opened his office door. Given the tumult and excitement of Queen Sharleyan's arrival this morning, the archbishop had managed to get very little done this day, and some of the documents on his desk simply had to be dealt with as expeditiously as possible. It hadn't been easy to carve the necessary couple of hours out of his schedule to deal with them, and Father Bryahn knew that as well as Staynair did. On the other hand, the under-priest hadn't been chosen lightly as the archbishop's personal secretary and aide. Staynair trusted his judgment implicitly, and, in normal circumstances, Ushyr was as unflappable as any archbishop might have asked. Yet there was something peculiar about his voice this afternoon. Something very peculiar.
"Yes, Bryahn?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Eminence. I know how busy you are. But. . . there's someone here I believe you should see."
" 'Someone'?" Staynair's eyebrows rose quizzically. "Would it happen that this someone has a name, Bryahn?"
"Well, yes, Your Eminence. It's just that—" Ushyr paused most uncharacteristically, then shook his head. "I believe it might be better if I simply showed her in, if that's acceptable, Your Eminence."
Staynair's curiosity was well and truly piqued. He couldn't imagine what could have flustered Ushyr this way. From what his secretary had just said, the visitor in question was obviously female, and Staynair couldn't think of a single woman in Charis—with the possible exception of Queen Sharleyan— who could have engendered that reaction in him. But he'd known the young priest long enough to accept his request, even if it wasn't exactly the normal protocol for visiting the primate of all Charis.
"Very well, Bryahn. Give me a moment or two to tidy this up," he waved one hand at the report he'd been perusing, "and then show her in."
"Yes, Your Eminence," Ushyr murmured, and the door closed quietly as he withdrew.
Staynair gazed thoughtfully at that door for several heartbeats, then shrugged, inserted a slip of paper to mark his place, and began jogging the sheets of the report into order.
Whatever might have caused his secretary's almost flustered reaction, it hadn't affected Ushyr's sense of timing, or his ability to estimate how long his archbishop needed. Staynair had exactly enough time to set the report aside, brush his desk into a semblance of neatness, and straighten himself alertly in his comfortable chair. Then the door opened, and Ushyr stepped back through it with a plainly dressed woman whose dark hair was lightly touched with silver, accompanied by two boys. The boys' features made it abundantly clear they were her sons, yet there was something else about them, as well. Something . . . familiar, although Staynair couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was. The older of them looked to be somewhere in his teens; the younger perhaps ten or eleven. That was the first thing that went through Staynair's mind, but another thought followed it almost instantly.
They were terrified. Especially the boys, he thought. Their mother hid it better, but despite the strength of character in her face, there was fear in her eyes, as well. And something else. Something dark and passionate and ribbed with iron pride.
"Your Eminence," Ushyr said quietly, "may I present Madame Adorai Dynnys."
Staynair's eyes went wide, and he surged to his feet without even realizing he had. He was around the desk and across the office to her in three quick strides, and he held out his hand.
"Madame Dynnys!" He heard the astonishment in his own voice, and it was as if he were listening to someone else. "This is most unexpected!"
Her hand trembled slightly in his fingers, and he looked into those eyes saw the exhaustion—and the desperation—behind the fear and the pride How she could possibly have managed to travel all the way from the Temple Lands to Charis without being identified and taken by the Inquisition was more than he could begin to imagine.
"Truly," he told her, squeezing her trembling hand gently as his own astonishment began to ebb at least a little, "God works His mysteries in ways beyond human understanding or prediction. You and your family have been in my prayers ever since Bishop Executor Zherald and Father Paityr received your husband's final letter, yet I never imagined that He would be gracious enough to allow you to reach Charis!"
"Letter, Your Eminence?" she repeated. He heard the fatigue and tension in the depths of her voice, but her eyebrows rose and her eyes sharpened. "Erayk got letters out?"
"Indeed, indeed he did," Staynair said. He extended his other hand, gripping both of hers, and shook his head. "At least one of them. I have no idea how he managed it, and I will not pretend Archbishop Erayk and I often failed to see eye-to-eye. Obviously, what's transpired here in Charis since his last visit is proof enough of that. But from the final letter he somehow arranged to have delivered to the Bishop Executor and Father Paityr, I can tell you that at the end of his life, your husband remembered the true touch of God." He shook his head again. "We've had no confirmation of his death here in Charis, but from the letter he sent—and from your own arrival here—I must assume the end he foresaw has indeed overtaken him."
"Oh, yes," she half-whispered, chin trembling at last, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Oh, yes, Your Eminence. It has. And you're right. I believe he did feel God's finger, despite all that it cost him."
"What do you mean?" Staynair asked gently, for there was something in her voice, in her manner, that said more than her words. She looked at him for a moment, then glanced at the two boys, who were watching her and the archbishop with wounded, anxious eyes.
"Your Eminence," she said obliquely, "these are my sons, Tymythy Erayk and Styvyn." Tymythy, the older of the two, bobbed his head, his expression wary, as his mother introduced him, but Styvyn only stared at the archbishop. The younger boy's grief and tension cut Staynair like a knife, and he released one of Madame Dynnys' hands to reach out to the youngsters.
"Tymythy," he said, and gripped the lad's hand in the clasp of an equal before he released it to lay that same hand lightly on the younger boy's head. "Styvyn. I know what's happened in your lives over the last few months has been frightening. I can't begin to imagine how your mother managed to get you to Charis. But know this, both of you. You're safe here, and so is she. No one will harm you, or threaten you, and I know I speak for King Cayleb when I tell you all three of you will be taken under his personal protection. And mine."
Styvyn's lower lip quivered. Tymythy's expression was more guarded, more wary, but after a moment, he nodded again.
"May you and I speak privately for a moment, Your Eminence?" Adorai requested. Her eyes darted once more b
riefly towards the boys, both of whom were still looking at Staynair, not her, and the archbishop nodded.
"Of course." He stepped to the office door and opened it, looking out into Ushyr's office space. "Bryahn, would you please take Tymythy and Styvyn here down to the kitchen and see if Cook can't find them something to eat?" He looked back over his shoulder with a smile. "It's been quite a while since I was your age, boys, but I seem to recall that it was impossible to ever really keep me fed."
The briefest of answering smiles flashed across Tymythy's face, then vanished. He looked anxiously at his mother for a moment, and she nodded.
"Go with the Father," she said gently. "Don't worry about me. As the Archbishop says, we're safe now. I promise."
"But—"
"It's all right, Tym," she said more firmly. "I won't be long."
"Yes, Ma'am," he said after one more moment of hesitation, and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Come on, Styv. I'll bet they've got hot chocolate, too."
He walked Styvyn out the door. The younger boy's head turned, keeping his eyes fixed on his mother until the door closed between them, and Staynair turned back to face her himself.
"Please, Madame Dynnys," he invited. "Be seated."
He ushered her to a seat at one end of the small sofa in a corner of his office, then sat at the other end, half turned to face her, rather than resuming his place behind his desk. She looked around the chamber, biting her lower lip, obviously seeking her composure, then returned her eyes to him.
"My boys know their father is dead," she said, "but I haven't told them yet how he died. It hasn't been easy, but I couldn't risk their betraying themselves until I had them someplace safe."
"They're safe now," he reaffirmed gently. "You have my promise, both personally and that of my office."
"Thank you." She looked at him steadily, then her nostrils flared. "I'm truly grateful for your promise, and I know nothing you've done was done out of personal enmity to Erayk. And yet, I hope you'll forgive me, but I can't quite separate your actions from what happened to him."