by David Weber
“Exactly, Holiness,” Awstyn said. His voice was firm, but his expression was oddly gentle. “I know you still blame yourself for it,” he continued, “but you didn’t have any good options. All you had were bad and worse.”
“I know,” Rhobair sighed. “I know.”
And he did know. That was why, despite Mother Church’s ravaged exchequer, he’d insisted she had a moral and religious responsibility to see to it that her two million marooned defenders were cared for. He’d paid their salaries, somehow, for over half a year, and then he’d settled them on largely empty land in the western episcopates. They’d had to clear and consecrate much of that land, but the vast majority of Rainbow Waters’ veterans had been born serfs. They’d never owned anything, not even themselves, and the ferocity with which they’d attacked the task that would let them become landowners, on however small a scale, had been staggering to behold.
One thing he had held out for, though. If Waisu and his ministers—and his archbishops—refused to allow the Mighty Host’s return, then any of the Host’s officers’ families who wanted to join them in the Temple Lands must be allowed to do so. He’d sent Maigwair to make that point clear in person, and the Captain General had summoned Waisu’s ambassador to his office and flatly informed him that if those officers’ families were not allowed to join them, Mother Church would arm, supply, and support the Mighty Host when it came to get them.
Rhobair had meant it. In fact, he’d longed to make that an across-the-board demand, for the noncommissioned officers and the men in the ranks, but he’d known he couldn’t push that far. Not unless he really did want to invade. Waisu would let the officers’ families go, if that was what they wanted. After all, then he could expropriate their lands for the Crown or distribute them to new, more reliable favorites. But that was as far as he would go. Letting millions upon millions of serfs flee the land to join their husbands and brothers and fathers and sons in the Temple Lands’ freedom would have decimated his labor force … and left the still greater number of serfs who couldn’t flee even more embittered and restive. Waisu would let him have the officers’ families; if he’d wanted more, he’d have had no choice but to unleash the Mighty Host, and he’d settled for the best he could get.
“All right,” he said finally. “I think it’s obvious our worst fears are about to be realized. So, what can we do about it?”
“I don’t think there’s a lot we can do, unfortunately, Holiness,” Symkyn said. “We could always send money and supplies to the archbishops, but you and I both know where that money and those supplies would end up.”
Rhobair grimaced unhappily. The Harchongese clergy had officially accepted him as Grand Vicar Erek’s legitimate successor after Erek’s “spontaneous” abdication, but they’d stubbornly resisted all of his efforts to reform Mother Church’s abuses. They’d been careful to avoid statements of outright defiance, but Harchongese bureaucrats—and, it seemed, prelates—had no peers when it came to obstructionism. Every one of his reform initiatives had been stymied, stalled and ignored amid a gathering tension between the Temple and the Church in Harchong. Instead, the senior Harchongese clergy, almost without exception, had thrown its support behind the oppressive policies of Waisu’s ministers. After all, that was what Mother Church had done in Harchong since time out of mind! Any “humanitarian relief” Mother Church might send to Harchong would be diverted to the support of those same policies … or into the pockets of corrupt clerical and secular bureaucrats.
“What about Charis?” he asked and saw both Symkyn and Awstyn stiffen, although for rather different reasons, he suspected.
“I assume you mean what about the Church of Charis, Holiness?” the Chancellor said after a moment. Rhobair nodded, and Symkyn raised both hands in front of himself. “How would you approach them, Holiness?”
“I don’t know,” Rhobair said frankly. “I do know we can’t trust our own archbishops and bishops—even our parish priests—to do what we know needs to be done in Harchong.” His voice was as bitter as his eyes. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I should have been more … proactive about dismissing some of those archbishops and bishops from their sees. I know all the arguments about provoking another schism, and you were probably right, Tymythy. It would have created an official ‘Church of Harchong’ right alongside the Church of Charis. But that’s what we got anyway, no matter what they call it!”
Symkyn nodded unhappily, and Rhobair shrugged angrily. Not at Symkyn, but at the problem—the fresh problem—he faced.
“The fact that we can’t use our own clergy doesn’t absolve us of our responsibility to care for God’s children wherever they are,” he continued, “but I don’t see very many avenues open to us. To be brutally honest, I think that even if we tried to go around ‘our’ clergy and make direct contact with the rebels—assuming we could figure out a way to do that—they wouldn’t trust us. Why should they? The only Church they’ve ever known supports the very people they’re rebelling against! They’d probably murder anyone we sent to contact them!”
“You’re thinking about using Staynair and his people?” Maigwair said.
“Well, given that the rebels have every reason—from their perspective—to hate and distrust Mother Church, I think it’s only reasonable to assume they’d be more likely to at least give the Charisians a chance. After all, who did we just spend seven or eight years trying to massacre?” He shook his head. “As they say, my enemy’s enemy is my friend.”
“Holiness, with the deepest respect, I think that would be a mistake,” Awstyn said after a long, still moment. Rhobair raised an eyebrow, inviting the younger vicar to continue.
“Holiness, I can’t refute your logic but there are other implications. Please don’t think I’m offering a better solution, because I’m not. I don’t think there is one. But if we … I don’t know, delegate our responsibility as Harchong’s shepherds to Charis, then we give Harchong to the Church of Charis. I don’t see how it could work any other way. I know how the argument that souls matter more than bodies enabled Clyntahn’s madness, but that was because however he twisted it, it’s ultimately true. It can’t be an excuse for murdering and torturing, but it can’t be simply ignored, either. Would the amount of good the Church of Charis could accomplish against such enormous need justify consigning so many of God’s children to the other side of the schism?”
Awstyn’s brown eyes were deeply and sincerely troubled, and Rhobair sympathized. Vicar Zherohmy was a man of warmth and deep compassion, yet he was also one of the new vicarate’s conservative voices. Rhobair had made a point of incorporating both Conservative and Reformist viewpoints in the Church’s bureaucratic hierarchy, and Awstyn was one of those Conservatives. He accepted Rhobair’s decision that the Church of Charis must be allowed to go in peace, but he found it more difficult to accept the Grand Vicar’s view that any church which accepted the fundamentals of the Holy Writ couldn’t truly be heretical. His reason for that was simple—and inarguable: “fundamentals” was an inherently and dangerously elastic term. He supported the vast majority of Rhobair’s internal reforms, yet the Charisians’ refusal to acknowledge the paramount authority of the Grand Vicar, as Langhorne’s direct—and only—successor upon Safehold, to define right doctrine was farther than he could go. He could respect their sincerity, their piety, the strength of their faith; he could not accept that they might be right.
“Zherohmy, I understand what you’re saying,” the Grand Vicar said now. “You may even be right. But I can’t help the people, the children of God, I’m supposed to help as God’s steward and shepherd in this mortal world. The Holy Writ underscores that responsibility in every chapter of the Book of Bédard and the Book of Langhorne. We have no choice—we’re not given the option to do nothing for our brothers and sisters in God while they and their children starve.” His eyes burned as he remembered how many millions of other parents and children had already starved while Mother Church stood by. “If the only way we can do t
hat is to … coordinate with the Church of Charis, then I think that’s what God and Langhorne are telling us to do.”
Awstyn’s internal struggle showed in his eyes, and Symkyn reached out and laid a hand on his forearm.
“I share many of your concerns, Zherohmy,” he said quietly. “To be honest, if I’d truly understood what sorts of decisions we’d face when we were called to the orange, I’d have stayed a simple soldier and run the other way! But we’re here, and His Holiness is right. We don’t have any option but to do whatever we can.”
Awstyn looked at the Chancellor. Then, slowly, he nodded. Not in agreement, but in acceptance.
“At the same time,” Symkyn continued, turning back to Rhobair, “I have to say that I think Archbishop Maikel will also understand our concerns, Holiness. I may not see eye-to-eye with him on every issue, but you can’t read the man’s sermons or correspond with him as often as I have and not sense the depth and sincerity of his personal faith. He’d be more than human if he didn’t see the opportunity to make inroads for the Church of Charis, but I believe he’d be more than willing to publicly, firmly, and sincerely acknowledge that this is a joint, ecumenical initiative of Mother Church and the Church of Charis. That we’re both responding to a humanitarian crisis, not seeking converts … or to prevent anyone from converting.”
“I’m sure he will,” Rhobair said, and smiled sadly at Awstyn. “And I’m equally sure that whatever we proclaim we’re doing, the Church of Charis will make ground in Harchong, Zherohmy. We’ll just have to do our best to win some of those souls back in the fullness of time.”
“Of course, Holiness,” Awstyn said.
“In the meantime, though, Holiness,” Maigwair said, “I think we need to consider a more secular string to our bow, as well.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Rhobair said, smiling a bit crookedly at his old ally. “Should I assume this has something to do with Earl Rainbow Waters?”
“Of course you should.” Maigwair smiled back, then his expression sobered. “I think Gustyv and I need to have a talk with him. With your permission, I propose to tell him Mother Church is ready to provide funds and arms for him to organize a body of troops from the Mighty Host’s veterans. If what’s happening in Harchong continues to spread, it’s only a matter of time until it hits their eastern provinces, and that’s right on the other side of our border. God only knows how that might spill over into the western episcopates, especially with so many of the Mighty Host’s veterans settled there. At the very least, we need to organize a sufficiently powerful ‘local militia’ to deal with anything that does cross the border. And, if the situation continues to worsen, I think we have to very carefully consider the possibility of actually using him and those veterans of his to establish as much security as we can in Langhorne and Maddox and Stene, as well. There’s no way he could come up with the manpower to ‘pacify’ the rest of North Harchong, but maybe—maybe—we can at least minimize the carnage in those provinces. And I think we’d be far wiser to use Rainbow Waters’ Harchongians instead of inserting the Army of God into the mix. Shan-wei only knows where sending Mother Church’s army into armed conflict with Mother Church’s own, “true” bishops—which is exactly how the bastards will portray themselves if we do send in our own troops—would end.”
Rhobair looked at him, thinking about it. Then, finally, he nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I wish you weren’t, but you are. And you and Gustyv are definitely the best people to discuss that with him.”
.VI.
Imperial Palace, City of Cherayth, Empire of Charis, North Harchong.
“I really should have come to Manchyr,” a profoundly pregnant Sharleyan
Ahrmahk said as Sergeant Edwyrd Seahamper opened the private Audience Chamber’s door and bowed the wiry young man through it. A young woman, taller than he and with hazel eyes but the same determined chin, if in a somewhat more delicate version, followed him.
“Oh no, you shouldn’t have, Empress Sharley,” the young man said with a huge smile, waving her back as she started to lever herself upright. “Not this close!”
He crossed the chamber with quick, springy strides, bent over her comfortably padded chair, put his arms around her, and kissed her cheek. She reached up and patted his cheek in reply, then sighed as she settled back into the cushions.
“I won’t pretend it wasn’t a relief when you insisted I stay here,” she admitted. “And at least Cayleb came personally to get you in the Ahlfryd. Maybe your subjects will forgive us for taking your formal investiture out of Manchyr Cathedral. I really meant for us to come to Manchyr for it. Truly I did, Daivyn, but this time.…”
She shook her head,
“Everyone back home understands,” Prince Daivyn Daikyn told her, settling to perch on the ottoman beside her chair. “I think they’re just fine about it.”
“I’m sure they are,” his sister, Princess Irys Aplyn-Ahrmahk, Duchess Darcos, said. “There’s not a soul in Corisande who wants you taking any chances with your health, Sharley. On the other hand, there’s no point pretending he wouldn’t have insisted even if they hadn’t felt that way,” she added, as she reached Sharleyan’s chair.
She moved rather more sedately than her brother’s habitual headlong rush, and Sharleyan shook her head.
“He is aware that I’m not the only one who’s pregnant, isn’t he?” she asked, glancing rather pointedly at Irys’ remarkably flat midsection before she opened her arms to her daughter-in-law.
“True, but I’m only two months along, Mother,” Irys said demurely. “Unlike some people, who look ready to pop any minute.”
“I’m not as big as I was with the boys!” Sharleyan protested. “And that was your fault, young lady!”
“My fault?” Irys hugged her briefly, then straightened. “Unless I’m mistaken, I don’t believe I was involved in that bit of procreation at all.”
“No, but it was your twins that inspired Cayleb to emulate you and Hektor,” the Empress said severely. “There are no twins in my family, and precious few in his. But after you and Hektor got so carried away with the first pair and jumped ahead of Alahnah, he was determined to take the lead back.”
“And you didn’t have anything to do with the whole process? Do I have that right?” Irys inquired with a quizzical expression.
“He does the preliminary work, I do the heavy lifting. If anybody’s going to get blamed for it, it’s going to be him. Besides, I’m pregnant. I don’t have to be logical.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Irys grinned. “Mind you, the rest of it’s a nuisance. Oh, the ‘preliminary work’ is a lot of fun—and the final product is wonderful!—but I could do without the ‘heavy lifting’ bit.”
“Which is why we get to be irrational, emotional, weepy, snappish, and temperamental. Oh, and start craving all sorts of insane foods at ridiculous hours of the night and day until we drive our beloved spouses to frothing madness. It’s simply a just dispensation of nature, righting the scales after the cads do this to us.”
“You two do realize you’re giving away all your secrets, don’t you?” Daivyn looked back and forth between them. “I mean, Phylyp and Uncle Rysel keep telling me ‘forewarned is forearmed.’ If my wife—assuming we can ever find one who could put up with me—finds out the two of you ‘forewarned’ me about what to expect when she’s pregnant, I don’t think she’ll be very happy with you.”
“It would only matter if knowing would do you one bit of good, Daivy.” Irys ran a hand affectionately over his hair, the way she had when he was much younger. “It won’t. She’s going to make you just as miserable as I’ve ever made Hektor or Empress Sharley’s ever made Cayleb.”
“Actually,” the Duke of Darcos said as he and a fair-haired, immaculately dressed older man came into the room on Irys’ heels, “I don’t recall your ever actually making me miserable, love. A tad … impatient, once or twice, maybe. But if you’d really made me miserable, I’m sure I could
’ve gotten Domynyk or Dunkyn to send me back to sea while you got on with all that ‘heavy lifting.’”
“And would’ve done it, too,” Irys shook her head darkly. “But Daivy won’t have that unfair defensive weapon. He’s a prince. He has to stay home.”
“She’s got you there, Hektor,” Phylyp Ahzgood, the Earl of Coris and Prince Daivyn’s first councilor, observed. He smiled approvingly at his prince’s older sister. “She always knew how to go for the jugular!”
“Well, if I didn’t climb out of this chair for a reigning prince, I’m not climbing out of it for a mere earl or a duke,” Sharleyan declared, opening her arms to Hektor. Her adopted son leaned over her, embracing her with his functional arm. Then it was Coris’ turn, and she shook her head as he straightened.
“What?” the earl asked.
“Just thinking about how impossible to imagine this entire scene once would’ve been,” she replied. “It still sneaks up on me sometimes.”
“I don’t think any of us will ever be happy about the price we paid to get here, Sharley,” Irys said. “But I don’t think any of us would want to be anywhere else, either.”
“I know I wouldn’t.” Daivyn’s expression had gone unwontedly serious. “I miss Father, and Hektor. In fact, I miss them a lot sometimes, and it worries me when I feel their memories starting to … fade, I guess.” He shook his head, his brown eyes dark, then drew a deep breath. “I miss them, but I’ve still got you—and Hektor and Empress Sharley and Cayleb, Merlin and Nimue. Who else has a family like that? And my political tutors haven’t been all that bad, either. Even counting Phylyp.”
He smiled suddenly, and Coris chuckled, looking at the young man who would turn eighteen in eleven days. And on his birthday, Prince Daivyn of Corisande would reaffirm his oath of fealty to Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk and take up the crown of Corisande in his own right. There were times Coris could scarcely believe they’d made it to this point, but young Daivyn was right about his tutors. Coris himself was no slouch, but he knew even he had learned a lot watching Cayleb and Sharleyan in action. He couldn’t think of two finer examples for any young ruler who took his responsibilities seriously, and Daivyn did.