Cayleb gazed at her in silence for several seconds, then twitched his head in an odd little half nod. She had the strange sensation that it was directed to someone else, someone not present, but he never looked away from her.
"I proposed the union of Charis and Chisholm because it seemed a military necessity," he told her. "I had reports about you and your court, of course, much as I'm sure you had about Charis and about me. From those reports, I hoped I'd find not just an alliance with your Kingdom, but an ally in you." His nostrils flared. "I have to tell you, Sharleyan, that even on this brief an acquaintance, it's obvious to me that the reports of your wisdom and courage failed to do you justice."
"Indeed?" She tried to keep her tone light as she studied his face as closely as she could in the available light. Then she laughed softly. "I was thinking much the same about you, as it happens. I do hope this isn't a case of two hesitant suitors deciding to make the best of their situation!"
"If either of us should be in that position, My Lady," he said, bowing with a gallant flourish, "it must be you. Now that I've seen you and met you, I assure you that I've decided this was one of the best notions I've ever had. On a great many levels."
He straightened, and Sharleyan felt a pleasant tingle inside at the frank desire he had allowed into his expression.
She squeezed his arm again, then turned to look back out over Tellesberg while she sorted through her own feelings. As the daughter of a king, and then as a queen in her own right, Sharleyan Tayt had accepted long ago that her marriage would be one of state. She'd also realized that as a queen in a kingdom which had shown so little tolerance for a woman's rule in the past, marriage would pose particular dangers for her, and yet there'd been her clear responsibility to provide a legitimate, acknowledged heir to her throne in order to secure the succession. With so many needs, opportunities, and threats to balance, there'd been no room in her life to worry about whether or not she might love—or even like—the man to whom she eventually found herself wed.
And then this. Barely five months ago, she'd been certain Charis—and Cayleb—were doomed, and that she would be forced to participate in their murder. She'd never imagined, in her wildest flight of fantasy, that she might actually find herself entertaining the possibility of marrying him. Of binding her own kingdom irrevocably to Charis and to Charis' rebellion against the oppressive authority of Mother Church. And to whatever fate that rebellion ultimately produced. Even now, there were moments when she wondered what insanity had possessed her to even contemplate such a union.
But only moments, and they were becoming steadily fewer.
It's Cayleb himself she thought. I've seen so much cynicism, so much careful maneuvering for position, and spent so much of my life watching for the hidden dagger in the hands of supposed friends. But there's no cynicism in Cayleb. That's the most remarkable thing of all, I think. He believes in responsibilities and duties, in ideals, not just in pragmatism and expediency, and he's got all the empty-headed, invincibly optimistic enthusiasm of one of those incredibly stupid heroes out of a romantic ballad somewhere How in God's name could he have grown up as a crown prince without discovering the truth?
It was all madness, of course. In the darker moments of the night, when doubt came to call, she realized that with agonizing certainty. Despite Charis' present naval advantage, the kingdom was simply too small, even with Chisholm's support, to resist indefinitely the massive power the Church could bring to bear upon them. In those dark watches of the night, it was all dreadfully clear, inevitable.
But not anymore. She shook her head, marveling at the simple awareness which flowed through her. Before she'd arrived in Charis, her belief that Charis—and Chisholm—might survive had been a thing of intellect, the triumph of analytical intelligence over the insistence of "common sense." And, she admitted to herself at last, a thing of desperation. Something she'd been forced to believe—to make herself believe—if there were to be any hope of her own realm's survival in the face of the Church's obvious willingness to destroy anyone even suspected of disobedience to the Group of Four.
That had changed now. Changed when she realized Cayleb in person, despite his youth, despite his undeniable charm, was even more impressive in fact than in rumor. There was something incredibly engaging about his flashes of boyish enthusiasm, but behind those flashes she saw the implacable warrior who had won the most smashing naval victories in the history of Safehold. Who was prepared to go on however long he must, to win as many more victories as his cause required, because he truly believed men and women were supposed to be more than the obedient slaves of corrupt men who claimed to speak with the authority of God Himself.
And even more impressive, perhaps, was the fact that his kingdom and his people believed with him. Believed in him. They were prepared to go as far as he led them, to face any foe—even Mother Church herself—at his side. Not at his heels, but at his side.
And she, she realized wonderingly, wanted to do the same thing. To face whatever storm might come, whatever odds might be, because it was the right thing to do. Because he and his father, Archbishop Maikel, his nobles and his parliament, had decided it was their responsibility. Because they'd been right when they made that decision, that choice . . . and because she wanted to share in that same ability to do what was right because it was right.
And the fact that he's not just cute, but probably one of the sexiest men you've ever encountered, has nothing at all to do with it, does it, Sharleyan? a corner of her brain insisted upon asking her.
Of course it doesn't, she told that pesky corner sternly. And even if it did, this is hardly the time to be thinking about that, you silly twit! Go away! Still . . . I've got to admit that it doesn't hurt, either.
"Can we really make this work, Cayleb?" she asked him softly, turning back to face him. "Not just us, just you and me—Cayleb and Sharleyan. All of it. After what Madame Dynnys told us this evening, with all the wealth and the manpower the Group of Four command, can we make it work?"
"Yes," he said simply.
"You make it sound so easy." Her voice was wondering, not dismissive, and he smiled wryly.
"Not easy, no." He shook his head. "Of all the words you might use to describe it, 'easy' is the last one I'd choose. But I believe it's something more important than easy. It's inevitable, Sharleyan. There are too many lies in Zion, too much deceit and corruption, more even than anyone suspects. I'm not so foolish as to think truth and justice must inevitably triumph simply because they deserve to, but liars ultimately destroy the things they lie to protect, and corruption, ambition, and betrayal inevitably betray themselves, as well. That's what's happening here. "
"The Group of Four made a serious error in judgment when they thought they could just brush Charis aside, crush one more inconvenient gadfly. They were wrong about that, and the proof of that error, as much as the proof of their corruption, is what ultimately dooms them. They've made the mistake of trying to enforce their will through force and terror and the shed blood of the innocent, and they thought it would be simple, that the rest of the world would continue to accept it. But Maikel is right when he says the purpose of the Church must be to nurture and teach, not to enslave. That was the source of Mother Church's true authority, despite the existence of the Inquisition. And now that authority, that reverence, is gone, because everyone's seen the truth. Seen what the Inquisition did to Erayk Dynnys, what it's prepared to do to entire kingdoms . . . and why."
"And you really think that makes enough of a difference?"
"Yes, I do. All we really have to do is to survive long enough for that truth to percolate through the minds of other rulers, other parliaments. In the end, the Group of Four was right about at least one thing. It's our example, far more than our actual military strength or wealth, which poses the true threat to them."
"That's what Mahrak said," she told him. "And what I said to myself when I could convince my emotions to listen to my intellect. But it's different, somehow,
hearing you say it."
"Because of my noble demeanor and inspiring stature?" he asked lightly and she shook her head with a laugh. "Not quite," she said dryly. "Then how?" he asked more seriously.
"Partly, I think, because you're a king yourself A fairly impressive one too, I'm forced to admit, and not just because of Rock Point, Crag Reach, or Darcos Sound. When you say it, it carries that ring of authority, of coming from someone in a position to truly judge possibilities.
"But even more, it comes from who you are, what you are. I wasn't prepared for Archbishop Maikel, or for the way the rest of your people are prepared to follow wherever you and he lead. You're scarcely the Archangels come back to earth, but I think that's actually part of your secret. You're mere mortals, and mortals are something the rest of us can understand."
"I think perhaps you give us too much credit," he said soberly. "Or perhaps I should say you give other people too little credit. No one can drive an entire kingdom into standing up in defiance of something like the Group of Four. That comes from within; it can't be imposed from without. You know that as well as I do—it's the reason you've been able to rule Chisholm so effectively, despite the fact that your nobility obviously remembered the example of Queen Ysbell. It's the reason you were able to come here in acceptance of my proposal without seeing Chisholm go up in a flame of rebellion behind you. Your people understand as well as mine do, and that's the true reason why, in the end, we will win, Sharleyan."
"I think you're right," she told him, reaching out to touch the side of his face for the first time. Her fingers rested lightly against his cheekbone, against the strong line of his jaw, and she looked into his eyes.
"I think you're right," she repeated, "and that alone would make this marriage the right thing for me to do. It doesn't matter how I feel, what I want. What matters is my responsibility to Chisholm, and that responsibility is to see my people free of the Group of Four's yoke."
"And is that the only thing that matters?" he asked softly. "Oh, no," she said. "Not the only thing."
He gazed down into her face for several endless seconds, and then, slowly, he smiled.
"I have to admit I hoped you'd say that," he murmured.
"Isn't this the place, in all of those sappy romances, where the hero is supposed to press a burning kiss upon the chaste maiden and sweep her off her feet in steel-strong arms?" she asked him with a lurking smile of her own.
"I see we both wasted our time when we were younger reading the same frivolous entertainment," he observed. "Fortunately, I'm sure we're both also wiser now, with better judgment and a greater grasp of reality than we had then."
"Oh, I'm sure we are," she said with a soft little chuckle.
"That's what I thought, too," he assured her, and then his lips met hers at last.
.XII.
A Palace Ballroom,
Tellesberg Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis
Ehdwyrd Howsmyn and Ahlvyno Pawalsyn stood beside the punch bowl and watched the colorful crowd.
The two men were old friends, and one of their favorite entertainments at formal balls and parties was to count noses and see who managed to turn up fashionably later than anyone else. Howsmyn's wealth and Pawalsyn's title as Baron Ironhill—and his position as Keeper of the Purse—virtually guaranteed that both of them would be invited to any social gathering. Neither of them were particularly fond of such affairs, especially Howsmyn, but neither of them was foolish enough to think he could have gotten away with avoiding them, either. So they tended to gravitate toward a quiet corner somewhere, sometimes accompanied by a handful of their closer personal friends, and observe the plumage displays of the wealthy, the powerful, and—above all—the foolish.
"Now there's a gown," Howsmyn murmured, twitching his head unobtrusively in the direction of a matron of middle years who had just sailed majestically into the palace ballroom with what looked like half a dozen marriageable-age daughters bobbing along in her wake. The confection she was wearing must have cost at least enough to feed a family of five for half a year. As such, it was ample evidence of her wealth; unfortunately, it was also ample evidence of her taste.
"Well," Ironhill observed philosophically, "it may hurt your eyes, but at least Rhaiyan must have collected a pretty pile of marks from her to pay for it. And," he grinned, "speaking as the Crown's tax collector, I'm delighted to see him doing so well!"
"You really shouldn't remind me on social occasions that you're the enemy," Howsmyn replied.
"Me?" Ironhill said with artful innocence.
"Unless it was someone else who just set the new wharf taxes. Oh, and the warehouse inventory duties, too, while I'm thinking about it."
"But, Ehdwyrd, you're the one who told me that the Kingdom's merchants and manufacturers ought to be willing to pay a little more in order to finance the Navy."
"Obviously, that represented a moment of temporary insanity on my part," Howsmyn shot back with a chuckle. "Now that I've regained my senses, I've become aware of that hand slipping into my purse again. You know—the one with your rings on it."
"Ah, but I do it so smoothly you'll hardly even notice the pain. I promise."
Howsmyn chuckled again, then turned to survey the ballroom once more.
If pressed, he would have been forced to admit that he found this evening's gala less of a burden than most. His wife had been delighted when the invitations had been delivered, and this time he hadn't even tried to convince her she should go and have a good time while he stayed home with a book. Or perhaps arranged an emergency visit to the dentist, or something else equally enjoyable. Zhain Howsmyn was the daughter of an earl, whereas Howsmyn had been born a commoner and still hadn't gotten around to acquiring the patent of nobility which his wealth undoubtedly deserved. For the most part, Zhain had absolutely no objection to being plain "Madame Howsmyn," rather than "Lady Whatever," but she did have a much more highly developed sense of the social dynamics of Tellesberg and the kingdom as a whole.
Howsmyn was very well aware of just how great an asset his wife was. Not only did they love one another deeply, but she refused to allow him to retreat into the social hermitage which, in many ways, would have suited him far better. Whether he wanted to go to affairs like tonight's or not, he truly couldn't justify avoiding them entirely. A man of his wealth had no choice about that, but Zhain generally saw to it that he attended the ones he had to and gracefully avoided every single one that he could.
No one on the invitation list could have avoided tonight's formal ball, however. Not when it was being hosted by Queen Sharleyan of Chisholm in a ballroom she'd borrowed from her affianced husband.
Howsmyn gazed across the room to the thick cluster of exquisitely attired, lavishly bejeweled courtiers gathered around King Cayleb and his bride-to-be and felt a stab of sympathy as he watched Cayleb smiling, acknowledging greetings, and chatting away as if he were genuinely enjoying himself.
And he may well be, actually, Howsmyn thought, noting how close to Sharleyan's side Cayleb seemed to be glued. Obviously, no man with any sense was going to just wander off and leave his fiancée standing alone and forlorn at her own party. Cayleb, on the other hand, hadn't even allowed anyone else a dance with her yet. For that matter, Howsmyn rather doubted that anyone could have fitted a hand between the two of them. And, judging from Sharleyan's expression and body language, she was perfectly happy with that state of affairs.
"I think this is going to work out even better than I'd hoped," Ironhill said very quietly, and Howsmyn glanced back at his taller friend.
"I assume you're referring to the unfortunate twosome at the bottom of that feeding swarm of krakens?" he said dryly.
"They do seem to be feeding a bit more aggressively than usual tonight," Ironhill acknowledged. "Hard to blame them, really, I suppose."
"Oh, on the contrary, I find it very easy to blame them." Howsmyn grimaced. "Have you ever noticed how it's th
e most useless people who fight hardest to corner the guest of honor at something like this?"
"I don't know if that's quite fair," Ironhill said, his eyebrows rising at the unusual asperity of Howsmyn's tone. The ironmaster had never had a very high opinion of "court drones," as he was wont to call them, but he normally regarded them with a sort of amused toleration. Tonight, he sounded genuinely disgusted. "Very few of those people have the sort of access to the King that you and I enjoy, Ehdwyrd," he pointed out. "Social occasions like this one are the only real opportunity they have to get the Crown's attention."
"Oh, I know that." Howsmyn's left hand chopped at the air in a gesture which mingled acceptance of Ironhill's point with impatience. "And I also know that everyone wants to get as close to the Queen as he can, and why. I'm even aware that it's not all simply because people are looking for advantages and opportunities. But still. . . ."
He shrugged irritably, his mood obviously darkening, and Ironhill frowned.
"I've known you a long time, Ehdwyrd," he said. "Would you like to tell me exactly why you've got a spider rat up your leg tonight?"
Howsmyn looked at him again, and then, as if against his will, laughed.
"You have known me a long time, haven't you?"
"I believe I just made that same observation myself," Ironhill said with a patient air. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"It's just—"
Howsmyn broke off for a moment, then sighed heavily.
"It's just that I'm beginning to find myself in agreement with Bynzhamyn where the Temple Loyalists are concerned."
"What?" Ironhill didn't quite blink, despite the apparent non sequitur. "And what, pray tell, brought that on just now?"
"They've burned down the Royal College, they've attempted to murder the Archbishop in his own cathedral, and they're tacking printed broadsides denouncing the 'schismatics' and calling on 'all loyal sons of the true Church' to resist by any means necessary on walls all over the city," Howsmyn replied his voice harsh. "I'd say that was more than sufficient reason, personally. I understand that the King and the Archbishop are leaning over backwards to avoid outright repression, but I think they may be taking it too far."