It was over in a bare handful of seconds, before Rayno could have poured himself a cup of tea. And the only reason it had taken even that long, he realized, was because the killers had had to wait for the falling bodies to get out of the way.
They walked out the other side of thirty fresh corpses, and Rayno swallowed sickly as he realized they’d never even broken stride.
“Archbishop Wyllym and Vicar Zhaspahr, I believe.” Mab’s deep voice was colder than a Zion winter, and his smile was even colder as blood ran down his sword blade and pearled from its chisel-like tip. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Please,” Rayno heard someone whimper, and realized it was him. “Please, I don’t—I mean—”
“What’s this?” Mab arched one eyebrow. “You’re not prepared to die for your faith after all, Your Eminence? I’m shocked.”
“I…” The archbishop shook his head and held out his hands pleadingly. “I don’t want to—”
He rose on his toes, his mouth opening in a perfect circle of agony, as the dagger drove into his back. He went to his knees, reaching back with both hands, trying in vain to reach the wound, and looked back over his shoulder with a fresh gasp of pain as Zhaspahr Clyntahn wrenched the dagger from his flesh.
“Traitor!” the Grand Inquisitor hissed. “You can at least die like a servant of God, you miserable, fucking excuse for an inquisitor!”
Rayno’s mouth worked, then he collapsed forward, quivered once, and lay still.
“That’s one sort of retirement package, I suppose,” Mab said thoughtfully, gazing down at the body. Then he raised his arctic eyes to Clyntahn. “And about the kind of loyalty I’d have expected out of you, Your Grace.”
“Go to hell,” Clyntahn said almost conversationally, and pressed the bloody dagger to the side of his own throat. “You’re not taking me anywhere! Unlike that miserable bastard, I’m not—”
His eyes were on Mab, not that it mattered very much. Even if he’d been watching her, he couldn’t have reacted before Gwyliwir Hwylio moved.
He cried out, in shock as much as in pain, as a small, impossibly strong hand locked on his wrist. It twisted, and his cry of shock became a squeal of anguish as his wrist snapped and the dagger fell from his hand. He struck at her with the other hand, beating at her in clumsy panic, but her forearm batted his punch effortlessly aside, and he cried out again as three of his fingers shattered as easily as his wrist. Then he was on his knees, staring up at her in horrified disbelief, terrified by the raw demonic strength of her, and she smiled.
She smiled.
“I’m sure Merlin would have preferred to be here in person,” Mab said as his companion held the Grand Inquisitor effortlessly, “but not even a seijin can be in two places at once. Don’t worry, though. You’ll get your opportunity to meet him.”
Clyntahn’s mouth worked, and Mab nodded to the woman. She lifted the taller, far heavier vicar to his feet as if he’d been a sack of feathers.
“I’m sure you’ll be brokenhearted to hear that Vicar Rhobair and Vicar Allayn have pledged us their word to try you within Mother Church and sentence you to whatever punishment Church law decrees for your offenses. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that would mean the Punishment … as a minimum.”
Clyntahn swallowed hard, and Mab shook his head.
“Don’t worry, Your Grace. There’s been a small change of plan. You don’t have to worry about Mother Church at all, because you’ll be facing a rather different venue. There’s an Imperial Charisian Navy ship waiting off the mouth of the Zion River. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be aboard her. And you’ll stay there, until she reaches Siddar City.”
Clyntahn’s normally florid face was pasty with combined shock, pain … and fear, and Mab’s smile was a razor of ice.
“I hope you enjoy the voyage, Your Grace.”
FEBRUARY
YEAR OF GOD 899
.I.
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“I’m sorry it took this long to get you back to our city, Your Majesty,” Greyghor Stohnar said, accepting a fresh wine glass from one of the efficient Charisian servants.
“Well, I’ve been a little busy,” Sharleyan Ahrmahk replied with a smile, and looked across the informal sitting room at her husband, who—exhibiting the restrained dignity appropriate to one of the two most powerful monarchs in the world—was busy crawling around on the carpet while he tickled their daughter. Crown Princess Alahnah, who would be five in another two months, was equally busy squealing, and her mother shook her head with a smile. Then she looked back at the lord protector, and her smile faded.
“I could wish it was a joyous occasion, My Lord, rather than simply a … satisfying one.”
“I think all of us feel that way,” Stohnar acknowledged. “Not your daughter, of course.” It was his turn to shake his head, his lined face—several years older than it had been when Zhaspahr Clyntahn unleashed the Sword of Schueler—wreathed in a smile of his own. “Mine are all grown, but I remember that age. And I know how much Cayleb missed both of you. I don’t know whether to envy the two of you for the partnership you have or to pity you for how long and how often it takes you apart.”
“Well, one thing about being married to a sailor, My Lord, is that you learn to deal with those lengthy separations. And—” she brushed the slight swell of her belly “—he’s always so happy to see me after them, you know.”
Stohnar’s lips twitched.
“I’d … ah, heard the Crown Princess is about to acquire a sibling,” he said.
“And at least one more cousin.”
“Really?” Stohnar cocked his head.
“Yes. Duchess Darcos is married to a sailor, too, you know.”
“Princess Irys is expecting another child? I hadn’t heard!”
“It hasn’t been announced. The last time, saluting guns started going off all over Manchyr Harbor fifteen minutes after the healers confirmed her pregnancy. Flattering, but she’d prefer a little more … private time with Hektor before going public with this one. In fact, she’s decided to make the announcement right after Zhan and Mahrya’s wedding. I think she hopes it will get lost in the festivities.” Sharleyan shook her head. “I believe that’s what they call a triumph of optimism. And I happen to know Mahrya is secretly hoping the news of Irys’ pregnancy will divert some of the public attention from her.”
“You do have an interesting family, Your Majesty.”
“As Merlin would say, ‘one tries,’ My Lord.” Sharleyan chuckled. “And that’s especially true of Cayleb. He can be very trying upon occasion.”
“I’m sure he can. But having him here in Siddar City made a tremendous difference, you know. And we couldn’t have had him without the way you two work together. I don’t think there’s ever been another marriage—another pair of monarchs—like the two of you.”
“Most of the secret’s simply trusting one another, My Lord, but another part—a huge part, really—is having councilors you can trust. Ministers whose judgment is sound and who you know are both capable and loyal. And, frankly,” she dimpled suddenly, “having Maikel Staynair on your side helps enormously!”
“And so did Merlin Athrawes’ council—and sword—I’m sure.”
“No, having Merlin at our side didn’t hurt a bit,” Sharleyan agreed softly. “But, to be honest, the thing that really made it work was Cayleb.” She looked back at her husband, who was upright now, with Alahnah on his shoulders. She had both hands on top of his head while her heels drummed on his chest, and Sharleyan’s smile softened. “He was the one who had the courage to propose a joint crown when we’d never even met. And would you like to know the truly remarkable thing about my husband, My Lord?”