“Yes.” Thirsk’s voice was barely audible, but he nodded slowly. “Yes, I do.”
Silence fell, perfected by the backdrop pound of winter rain. It lingered for several seconds before Thirsk straightened in his chair, still clutching the miniature of his long-dead wife.
“And now you intend to hold them over my head,” he said. “I don’t suppose I can blame you. God knows your Emperor has reason enough to hate me! In his place, I’d be remembering the mercy he showed off Armageddon Reef and comparing it to what happened to his men when they fell into Dohlaran hands.”
“I think you can take it as a given that neither he nor Sharleyan—nor I, for that matter—are likely to forget that, My Lord,” Merlin said bleakly. “But you’ve met Cayleb. Do you really see him using your daughters and their children as weapons? He’d die before he became Zhaspahr Clyntahn!”
The blue eyes were fierce this time, and shame twisted in Lywys Gardynyr’s soul, because he had met Cayleb, knew the man who lived behind the Charisian Emperor’s larger-than-life legend. Yet he knew too much of the necessities and imperatives of war, as well.
“Seijin Merlin, if I lived to twice my age, I could never express the gratitude I feel at this moment. You—and Cayleb—have given my family back their lives, and I genuinely believe you did it because it was the right thing to do.” He shook his head, faintly surprised to realize he truly meant that. “But Cayleb’s an emperor, and he’s at war with Mother Church. He can’t possibly fail to see the opportunity—the necessity—of compelling me to do his will. No ruler worthy of his crown could simply ignore that! And he wouldn’t have to threaten to harm them to accomplish that, either.”
“Of course not.” Athrawes nodded. “All he’d have to do is inform the world they’re alive and in Charisian hands. Clyntahn would no doubt deny that, given how it cuts against the narrative he’s constructed. But that wouldn’t keep him from recognizing that you’d just become a potentially deadly weapon in Charis’ hands, one he could no longer hope to control. At which point, his reaction would become a foregone conclusion. Unfortunately for that scenario, Cayleb and Sharleyan would really rather keep you alive and un-martyred.”
“Out of the goodness of their hearts, I’m sure,” Thirsk said dryly.
“Actually, there is quite a bit of goodness in those hearts. But, no, you’re right. They do have responsibilities of their own, and they’re as well aware of them as you are of yours. But they aren’t going to threaten your children, and they aren’t going to reveal the fact of their survival. I’m afraid they aren’t going to do what Lady Stefyny asked us to do, either, though.”
“What Stefyny—” Thirsk began, then stopped and shook his head. “Of course. She would ask you to ‘retrieve’ me, as well, wouldn’t she?”
“She loves you very much,” Athrawes replied, and the earl smiled at the seeming non sequitur.
“Unfortunately, though, that’s not why I’m here,” the seijin continued, and there was an edge of genuine regret in his deep voice. “I do have this for you.” He reached into his pouch once more and extracted a thick envelope, sealed with wax. “It’s briefer than I’m sure she would have liked it to be, because she knew the person who delivered it might not be able to spend a great deal of time in Gorath and she wanted time for you to write at least a brief reply. I’m afraid I do need to be gone before much longer, but I think I can give you a quarter hour or so in which to reply. And—” he held out the envelope “—I’ll also ask you to be sure you burn it afterward. Letting it fall into the Inquisition’s hands would probably be a bad idea.”
Thirsk glanced at the envelope, then almost snatched it from Athrawes’ hand as he recognized his daughter’s handwriting.
“I’m sure she’ll give you her own version of what happened that night, My Lord. Seijin Cleddyf promised her I’d deliver it unread, which I have, so I can’t be certain, but I doubt her account will differ much from the one he shared with me. Not that I expect it to be identical to his. She’ll have a rather different perspective, after all.” The seijin smiled again, briefly. But then the smile disappeared. “I’m afraid Cayleb’s asked me to deliver a rather different message to you, however.”
“What sort of message?”
“It’s a fairly simple one, actually. Just as you once sat across a table from Cayleb, he sat across that same table from you, and he’s almost frighteningly good at taking the measure of other men, He took yours, and he knows how little you’ve relished some of the actions the Church has demanded of you. Notice that I said the Church, not God. There’s a difference, and I think you know what it is.”
“I won’t pretend I don’t know what you mean. But the fact that Clyntahn’s vile and corrupt doesn’t automatically grant Cayleb and Maikel Staynair license to destroy Mother Church and defy God’s will.”
“And you don’t believe for a moment they are defying God’s will,” Athrawes countered. “I doubt you ever did. And even if you did once, you stopped believing it long ago.”
The seijin’s riposte lay between them, a steely challenge Thirsk declined to pick up. He only looked back at the other man steadily, refusing to admit the charge … or to deny it.
“My Lord, as I say, time is pressing, you have a letter to read and another to write, and I still have a long way to go tonight, so I’ll be brief. Cayleb and Sharleyan make no demands in return for your family’s safety. And they fully understand that not only were you raised a son of Mother Church but that you take your oaths to the Crown of Dohlar and your responsibilities to the navy you command seriously. A man of honor has no choice about that … unless an even greater duty, an even deeper responsibility, is used against him. That deeper responsibility’s been lifted from you now, yet neither Cayleb nor Sharleyan would expect you to act against what you believe are the best interests of your kingdom and your own soul. If they tried to force you to, they’d be no better than the Group of Four, and because they refuse to be that, they’ve sent me to give you the deadliest gift of all, instead.”
His level gaze held Thirsk’s in the lamplight.
“Freedom, My Lord. That’s Charis’ gift to you. The freedom to do what you think is right … whatever the consequences.”
NOVEMBER
YEAR OF GOD 897
.I.
Sheryl-Seridahn Canal,
South March Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“Shit,” Lieutenant Klymynt Hahrlys said with great precision and feeling as he got his hands under himself and pushed up out of the knee-deep mud which had just pulled the boot off his right foot.
“Getting a bit thick, Sir,” Gyffry Tyllytsyn, his platoon sergeant said sympathetically, and waded through the soupy, treacherous mess to extend a helping hand.
Hahrlys spat out a nasty-tasting glob of muck and scrambled up as Tyllytsyn half heaved him to his feet. The toes on his bootless foot cringed as the cold, wet mud enveloped them, and he wiped more of the slimy stuff from his face as the sergeant bent to thrust a hand into the churned swamp where the boot had vanished. Tyllytsyn felt around for a moment or two, then grunted in satisfaction as he found it. It took both hands and the full power of his arms to wrestle it out of the deep pothole the sea of mud had hidden, but he managed at last. Then he upended it, pouring out its porridge-like contents in a splattering, splashing stream. The flood dwindled to a trickle, and he shook the boot firmly before he handed it to its owner.