“My Lord, your daughters are alive,” Athrawes told him unflinchingly. “So are your grandchildren and your sons-in-law. All of them.”
Lywys Gardynyr raised a clenched fist, prepared to assault the towering seijin physically as the Charisian mocked his pain. But Athrawes made no move to deflect the blow. He simply stood there, arms folded unthreateningly across his breastplate, and his unflinching eyes froze the earl’s fist in mid-strike.
They were very dark, those blue eyes, Thirsk thought, a sapphire so deep it was almost black in the lamplight, but they met his fiery gaze without flinching. That was what stopped him, for there was no lie in those eyes, no mockery … and no cruelty.
And yet Athrawes’ words were the cruelest trap of all, for they held the whisper of possibility, an invitation to breach the armor of acceptance, to open his heart once more, delude himself into hoping.…
“So are you going to tell me now that Charis can bring people back from the dead?” he demanded bitterly, grinding that deadly temptation under his heel. “Not even Langhorne could do that! But they do call Shan-wei Mother of Lies, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. And I don’t blame you for a certain … skepticism, My Lord. But your family wasn’t aboard Saint Frydhelm when she blew up. They were aboard a schooner, with two of my … colleagues.”
Thirsk blinked. Then he stood there for a heartbeat or two before he shook his head like a weary, bewildered bear.
“What?”
The one-word question came out almost calmly—too calmly. It was the calm of shock and confusion too deep to express. And the calm of a man who dared not—would not—allow himself to believe what he’d just been told.
Merlin reached into his belt pouch. His hand came back out of it, and the earl sucked in a deep, shocked breath as gold glittered across a calloused swordsman’s palm. Disbelief and fear froze the earl and he stood as if struck to stone, listening to the pound of rain, the crackle of the hearth fire, eyes locked to the miniature he’d known he’d never see again. He couldn’t—for at least ten seconds, he literally couldn’t—make himself touch it. Yet then, finally, he held out a trembling hand and Athrawes turned his wrist, spilling the miniature and its fine golden chain into his cupped fingers.
He held its familiar, beloved weight, looking down at the face of a gray-eyed, golden-haired woman—a very young woman. Then his stunned gaze rose again to Merlin Athrawes’ face, and the compassion which had edged the seijin’s tone filled his sapphire eyes, as well.
“I’m sure there are all sorts of ways that might’ve come into my possession, My Lord. And many of them would be little better than what you thought actually happened to Lady Mahkzwail. But I could hardly have obtained it if it had gone to the bottom of the Gulf of Dohlar, could I?”
Thirsk turned the miniature in his hand, seeing the intertwined initials engraved into its back. It was hard, with only one working hand, but he managed to wedge a thumbnail into the thin crack, and the back of the glass-fronted locket sprang open. He turned it to catch the light, and his own face—as young as his beloved Kahrmyncetah’s—looked back at him from the reverse of her portrait.
He stared at that image of a long-ago Lywys Gardynyr, then closed the locket and gripped it tightly enough to bruise his fingers. It was possible someone in Charis might have known his daughter Stefyny wore that miniature around her neck day and night. They might even have known about the initials on its back. But no mortal hand could have so perfectly forged its duplicate. So unless Cayleb and Sharleyan of Charis truly served demons.…
“How?” His legs collapsed abruptly, refusing to support him, and he thudded back down in his chair, scarcely noticing the white-hot stab from his shoulder. “How?!”
“My Lord, Cayleb and Sharleyan have known for years how the Group of Four’s held your family’s lives over your head. It’s hardly surprising Clyntahn would do something so contemptible, and you’re scarcely the only one to whom he’s done it. If he understood how to inspire the Church’s children a tenth as well as he understands how to terrify them, perhaps the Temple wouldn’t be losing this jihad! But there’s a problem with terror; if the threat’s removed, it becomes useless. Is it really so hard to believe Cayleb and Sharleyan would strike that sort of weapon from Clyntahn’s hand if they could?”
“But.…”
“You may have noticed that our spies are very good.” For a moment, Athrawes’ smile turned almost impish. “We knew about Clyntahn’s plans to move your family to Zion even before you did, My Lord. It took longer to discover how he meant to transport them, but once we did, my companions intercepted Saint Frydhelm. The weather was on their side, and they managed to board undetected.”
Thirsk had suffered too many shocks in far too short a time, but he’d been a seaman for well over half a century. He knew exactly how preposterous that statement was, and Athrawes snorted as he saw the incredulity in his expression.
“My Lord, the world insists on calling me a seijin. That being the case, my fellows and I might as well act the part from time to time, don’t you think? And there is that little matter of Irys and Daivyn, you know. With all due modesty, this was no harder for Gwyliwr and Cleddyf than that was. It was certainly over sooner! And it seems to be becoming something of a specialty of ours. I’m thinking that after the jihad we seijins might go into the people-retrieving business. Just to keep our hands in, you understand.”
Thirsk blinked in incipient outrage that the seijin could find anything amusing at a moment like this! But then he drew another deep breath, instead.
“A point, Seijin Merlin. Definitely a point,” he conceded. “However, there was still the matter of a war galleon’s entire crew to deal with.”
“Which they did.” The amusement of an instant before vanished, and Athrawes’ face tightened. “Seijin Gwyliwr saw to your family’s transfer to their fishing boat—where, I might add, she says your sons-in-law and young Ahlyxzandyr and Gyffry made themselves very useful—while Seijin Cleddyf … prevented the crew from intervening.”
Thirsk looked at that grim expression for a long, silent moment, then nodded slowly. He’d heard the stories about the bloody path Merlin Athrawes had carved through the crews of no less than three Corisandian galleys. How he’d cut his way single-handed through a wall of swords and pikes, leaving no man alive behind him, as he’d raced to save Haarahld of Charis’ life. How he’d held Royal Charis’ quarterdeck alone against twice a hundred enemies while his mortally wounded king died behind him in a midshipman’s arms. They were incredible tales, whispered to close friends over tankards of beer or glasses of whiskey when there were no Inquisition ears to hear, and Thirsk had seen far too much of battle and death to believe the half of their wild exaggerations … until tonight.
“They deserved better, those men,” Athrawes said now, harshly. “But the moment Clyntahn put your family aboard that ship, he signed their death warrants.”
“You blew her up, didn’t you?” Thirsk said softly, and it wasn’t truly a question.
“We did.” Merlin’s nostrils flared, but he refused to look away. “We had no choice. If Clyntahn had suspected for a moment that your family was alive—far less that they might be in Charisian hands—you and I would never have had a chance for this conversation. You know that as well as I do.”