In the meantime, the Kingdom of Dohlar had established remarkably cordial relations with the Empire of Charis. The fact that Cayleb and Sharleyan’s seijin allies had saved Thirsk’s family from almost certain death despite what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr and his men hadn’t been lost on the kingdom at large. Nor had the care Baron Sarmouth had taken to avoid civilian casualties in the attack on Gorath … or Caitahno Raisahndo’s return, unharmed, along with every Dohlaran sailor, soldier, and officer who’d surrendered to the Charisians. A lot of Dohlarans and Charisians had killed one another over the last eight years, but compared to the carnage in Siddarmark, they’d fought a remarkably clean war. It had ended in mutual respect, and according to Henrai Maidyn, at least a dozen Charisians, including Duke Delthak, were already pursuing Dohlaran investment opportunities.
In fact, Dohlar seemed poised to come out of the jihad in remarkably good shape. There were moments when Stohnar found himself resenting that, but Charis was making even more investments in Siddarmark. And however well Dohlar might be doing, Desnair and Harchong were a rather different story.
The Desnairians still had their gold mines. That was about it, and Desnairian fury had been unbridled, albeit impotent, when the Allies announced that the Republic and Empire of Charis jointly guaranteed the independence of the Grand Duchy of Silkiah in perpetuity. And Stohnar took a certain pleasure out of contemplating the reaction in Desnair the City when Emperor Mahrys learned about Charisian plans to deepen and broaden the Salthar Canal to permit actual oceanic shipping to cross the grand duchy without ever touching a Desnairian seaport. Delferahk probably wouldn’t be hugely pleased by the notion, either.
As for the Harchongians, South Harchong appeared to be relatively comfortable with Grand Vicar Rhobair’s reforms. For that matter, the South Harchongians were in the process of extending cautious feelers towards Charis and the acquisition of the new manufacturing techniques, as well. They weren’t pleased with the outcome of the war, and South Harchong had shown no desire to embrace the Church of Charis or the Church of Siddarmark, but they were … pragmatic. And they were eager to finalize a peace settlement with the Allies in order to reclaim their captured military personnel.
It was a very different story in North Harchong. The North Harchongians were clearly digging in to resist the changes sweeping towards them. Their aristocrats continued to reject the existence of the schismatic churches for a lot of reasons, including their “pernicious social doctrines.” And while their political establishment, including the professional bureaucracy, had professed its loyalty to the Temple, they were clearly unhappy with Grand Vicar Rhobair’s “liberalism.” In fact, the Church in North Harchong was dragging its feet about surrendering the Inquisition’s power, and Stohnar wouldn’t be surprised to see a Church of Harchong emerge. That could produce all sorts of interesting—and unfortunate—consequences. And while the South Harchongians wanted their soldiers returned home, North Harchong wanted nothing of the sort. Its aristocrats had been infuriated by Captain General Maigwair’s insistence on arming and training thousands upon thousands of serfs. The last thing they wanted, especially in light of Grand Vicar Rhobair’s reforms, was the Mighty Host back, and there was no doubt in Stohnar’s mind that Earl Rainbow Waters and most of his senior officers would be assassinated within five-days if they ever dared to go home.
“I suppose we should head on down to the dining room,” Cayleb said, pulling the lord protector back up out of his thoughts. “Wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting. And—” he smiled, and his smile was suddenly cold “—I imagine they’re going to enjoy supper rather more than your guest, Merlin.”
“One tries, Your Majesty,” Merlin said. “One tries.”
* * *
Zhaspahr Clyntahn looked around the chamber in which he’d been confined for the last three months.
It wasn’t a very large chamber, and its furnishings were austere, to say the least. Despite which, he felt a familiar flicker of contempt at the heretics’ flabby softness. He’d come to terms with his fate. He didn’t look forward to death, and especially not to execution like a common felon, but the cowards who’d condemned him lacked the courage—the strength of their own convictions—to send him to the Punishment. He took a certain pleasure out of that, out of reflecting upon the thousands upon thousands of heretics he’d sent to the Punishment as God demanded. In a way, it was almost as if he’d had his vengeance upon his captors before he ever fell into their grasp.
As for the traitors who’d deserted Mother Church in her hour of need, who’d betrayed him by their gutless incompetence, they’d learn the error of their ways in the end. The cowards who’d run at the heels of those bastards Duchairn and Maigwair like frightened dogs would know the full cost of their sin when they beheld him sitting in glory at Schueler’s right hand, waiting as the Archangel passed judgment upon them. And there’d be a special corner of hell, a pit deeper than the universe, for Rhobair Duchairn who’d betrayed God Himself and surrendered Mother Church to the perversion, the apostasy, the depravity of the “Church of Charis” and the so-called Reformists!
He looked at the remnants of his meal. His last meal, this side of Heaven. It was a far cry from the repasts he’d enjoyed in Zion, and the wine had been barely passable. Of course, that had been true of all the meals they’d allowed him, and he’d lost a lot of weight, although he could scarcely say he’d wasted away.
He pushed away the tray and stood, crossing to the window that looked out across the vast square in front of Protector’s Palace. It was too dark to see it now, but he’d seen the gallows waiting for him. They’d made sure of that.
He glanced at the copy of the Holy Writ on the shelf beside the window, but he wasn’t like Duchairn. He didn’t need to paw through printed words to know he’d been God’s true champion! Shan-wei had proved stronger this time, gotten her claws and fangs into too many men’s hearts, but in the fullness of time, God would avenge him. God knew His own, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn treasured the damnation, the devastation and ruin God, Schueler, and Chihiro would decant upon His enemies—His and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s—in the fullness of time.
He turned his back on the window and the Writ and stalked across to the narrow bed with the plain cotton sheets. He sat on it, irritated with himself when he realized that even now, even knowing Schueler and God waited to greet him as their own, there was the tiniest tremor in his fingers. Well, God’s champion or not, he was only mortal. The weakness of the flesh must overpower the strength of even the most brightly burning soul at times. And he’d shown his steel during that farce of a trial. For over a month they’d paraded their “witnesses,” adduced their “evidence,” whined to the judges about the death and the destruction—as if that could matter to a man defending God Himself!
He’d ignored them. Hadn’t deigned to cross-examine any witness, to challenge any evidence. It had been obvious the entire “trial” was only for show. The verdict had been passed before he’d ever been dragged off of that accursed Charisian ship in Siddar City. Everything else had been window dressing. But perhaps not. Perhaps they were such moral cowards that they’d really needed the entire circus, the entire pretense of justice, to steel their spines for what they’d intended to do all along.