.II.

Royal Palace, City of Cherayth, Kingdom of Chisholm, Empire of Charis

Sharleyan Ahrmahk stifled a smile she knew would have turned into something entirely too much like a grin as she watched Irys and Daivyn Daykyn walk solemnly into the long receiving room that overlooked the palace garden’s cherry trees. It was one of her favorite rooms, but for the moment she’d loaned it to Archbishop Ulys Lynkyn, who was here, officially, for a simple dinner with his empress and her family. Actually, there was rather more to it, and she watched Lynkyn’s expression as the two young people approached him.

She’d gotten to know her new archbishop better over the last few five-days, although she still didn’t know him as well as she’d known Pawal Braynair. She was of the opinion, however, that as Mahrak Sahndyrs had said, she and Cayleb would find him even more apt to their needs than Braynair had been. Except for one small, possible problem, the thought of which erased her temptation to smile.

Lynkyn was a stocky, gray-eyed man, three inches or so shorter than Cayleb, with dark, bushy, brick red hair and an even bushier mustache of which he seemed inordinately proud. He was also young for an archbishop—very young, in fact, only forty years old—and a Chihirite who’d come up as one of the Church’s bureaucrats. That pedigree had concerned Sharleyan, since the Church’s bureaucracy had been the path of self-aggrandizement for so many prelates over the years. She’d worried that Lynkyn might be one of those, someone more concerned with seizing a chance for power and wealth when it came rather than someone driven by conviction. She’d wronged him in that regard, however, for Mahrak Sahndyrs had read the new archbishop’s character with all his usual acuity. Lynkyn’s outrage burned hot and fierce, with a clear, terrible flame, just below the surface of those thoughtful gray eyes.

And he shared something with Maikel Staynair, as well. He, too, was one of the clergy the Church hadn’t moved when his priest’s cap received the white cockade of a bishop. His superiors had left him in the kingdom of his birth, rather than reassigning him beyond reach of the potential temptations of patriotism, and, as with Staynair, that had been a serious mistake. He was fiercely loyal to Sharleyan herself, not simply as his empress but as his queen, and by extension to Cayleb and the Charisian Empire, which was good. But one of the factors which explained much of his loyalty to Sharleyan’s ferocity was the fact that his father, his elder brother, and one of his uncles had been killed in the same “piratical attack” which had killed King Sailys.

Her new archbishop, Sharleyan had discovered, was a man who did nothing by halves. In many ways, his personality was diametrically opposed to Maikel Staynair, driven by an energy and a need to grapple with anything that stood in the path of what he believed to be right that were almost frightening to behold. Those beliefs of his included loyalty, compassion, and commitment, all of which made him such a tower of strength for the Church of Charis. But they also included a burning sense of justice—one whose power had only fanned the heat of his personal hatred for Hektor of Corisande, the murderer of the father and the brother he’d loved … and his king.

And now he was about to come face-to-face with Hektor’s only surviving children.

Irys, at least, knew what had happened to Lynkyn’s family, and Sharleyan knew how little the princess looked forward to this interview. Irys also knew how important the political, as well as the religious, support of someone like Lynkyn was likely to prove, however. It wasn’t that the archbishop could prevent Sharleyan—or Irys—from making whatever decisions they chose, but there was an enormous difference between “couldn’t prevent” and throwing his weight behind a decision. And given the Church’s centrality to every aspect of Safeholdian life, having the backing—the active backing—of the Empire’s senior prelates could well prove critical. All of which was more than enough to explain why Irys might approach this meeting with trepidation.

If she was nervous, however, there was little sign of it. She moved withall of her usual graceful carriage, resting her right hand lightly on Daivyn’s shoulder. She looked magnificent, Sharleyan thought. A very attractive young lady at any time, this afternoon she looked positively regal, her head high, the formal coronet of a princess glittering on her dark hair. Her hazel eyes were no more than calmly attentive, and yet.…

That temptation to grin returned, almost overpowering this time, as Sharleyan watched the one absolute giveaway of Irys’ internal tension. She never so much as glanced at Phylyp Ahzgood, her mentor, where the Earl of Coris stood to one side, resplendent in formal attire. Nor did she look in Sharleyan’s direction, or to where Queen Mother Alahnah stood beside Mahrak Sahndyrs’ wheeled chair.

Oh, no, not at any of them. And yet, for all her discipline, all her awareness of this meeting’s importance, those eyes of hers strayed repeatedly to the left. She pulled them back resolutely whenever they did, and yet as soon as she’d recalled them to order, they began wandering ever so slightly yet again, returning once more to the wiry young man who looked almost drab in that audience chamber in the gold-laced dress uniform of a lieutenant in the Imperial Charisian Navy.

His Grace the Duke of Darcos, on the other hand, had no need to command his eyes into obedience. After all, no one was looking at him, so he could gaze unbrokenly at Irys.

Which was precisely what he was doing.

Sharleyan was fairly certain it had genuinely never occurred to Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk that anything remotely like a betrothal between Irys Daykyn and him could ever happen. One of the most charming things about him, in Sharleyan’s opinion, was that despite his elevation to the pinnacle of the Empire’s nobility, deep inside he remained the same young man he’d always been. He genuinely didn’t think of himself as important, as privileged, and even now, he thought of himself as Hektor Aplyn first, and the Duke of Darcos only second. It would never in a thousand years have occurred to him that Irys Daykyn—daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of reigning princes—could see him as anything other than the young man whose barely middle-class parents had sent him off to sea in his King’s uniform when he was ten years old.

Personally, Sharleyan suspected that was largely why he’d been so comfortable with Irys. He’d been deeply attracted to her, but he’d “known” anyone had to recognize his complete ineligibility as a serious contender for her hand. He’d been confident enough of his own noble rank to be perfectly willing to lean on it to allow him to spend time talking with her, but at the same time he’d known she couldn’t possibly see him as any sort of marital prospect. If it had crossed his mind even once—or perhaps it might have been more accurate to say if he’d allowed it to cross his mind even once—that anyone might see him as anything of the sort, he probably would have bolted in confusion. And if anyone had suggested Irys might be compelled to marry him, the notion would have filled him with dismay.

In fact, Sharleyan had been afraid it might do just that even now. Fortunately, she was a seasoned, cunning, and unscrupulous monarch. As such, she’d known better than to announce the decision to him. Instead, she’d let Irys inform him of it, which the princess had done in a fashion which had made it quite clear, even to Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, that she was anything but dismayed by the prospect.

One of our better notions, my love, she thought at the absent Cayleb. I don’t know if they’ll be as good a match as you and I turned out to be, but the early indications seem favorable. Of course, there is something just a little disturbing about the absolute mindlessness I’m surprising in Hektor’s eyes every so often when he looks at her now. I’ve got a feeling I know what’s behind it, though. He is a sailor, after all.

This time she really did have to raise her hand to hide a smile as she thought about another sailor whose last name was Ahrmahk and the look she’d seen in his eyes upon more than one occasion.

And a very satisfying look it was, too, she admitted cheerfully. She strongly suspected Irys would find herself in agreement on that point in the fullness of time.

While she’d been thinking, Irys had reached the end of the receiving line and curtsied to the archbishop. Beside her, Daivyn bowed, and then both of them kissed Lynkyn’s ring when he extended it. The archbishop was taller than Irys, and those gray eyes were dark, unreadable, as he gazed at her. Then he looked down at Daivyn, immaculately dressed in court clothes, unruly hair momentarily tamed, scrubbed face shining … and sporting an absolutely magnificent black eye.

The archbishop’s mustache seemed to twitch ever so slightly and he put a hand under Daivyn’s chin, tilting his head back and to the side gently, the better to appreciate the splendor of that purple, black, and delicately yellow work of art. It covered his eye, reached up over the arch of his eyebrow, and spilled out over his right cheekbone as well. It was obviously a couple of days old, but time had only broadened its palette.

“Your Highness had a quarrel with someone?”

“No, Your Eminence.” Daivyn was clearly more nervous—or, at least, more visibly nervous—than Irys, and he had to pause to clear his throat, but he never looked away from Lynkyn. “I was playing baseball with Lady Mairah’s sons and some of the other kids here in the Palace. Haarahld hit a fly ball to right off Zhaky’s best pitch—a really good fastball—and Tym caught it. But it was deep enough for Alyk to tag from first, and I was playing second, waiting for the throw from Tym, when Alyk came down the line. I was sort of blocking the baseline, really.” His eyes gleamed in memory for a moment; then he shrugged. “Alyk didn’t stop … and I didn’t duck in time.”

“I see.” Lynkyn took his hand from under the youngster’s chin and brushed it lightly across the boy’s hair. “Did you have it seen to immediately, Your Highness?”

“Well.…” Daivyn seemed to wiggle slightly and glanced up at his sister’s profile. “It was tied, with two out in the ninth, Your Eminence,” he explained, “and after Alyk got to second, they had the winning run in scoring position. And we didn’t have anyone else who could’ve played second. So, you understand I couldn’t possibly’ve gone to the healers just then.”

His voice ended on a slightly rising note, turning his final statement into a question, and this time Sharleyan was certain she saw Lynkyn’s mustache quiver. The archbishop glanced sideways at Irys, and his gray eyes narrowed in amusement as they saw the martyred older-sister’s resignation in her hazel ones. Then he looked back down at the son of the man he’d most hated in all the world and ruffled his hair again.

“I understand entirely, Your Highness,” he assured the boy. Then he held out his hand. Daivyn took it, and the archbishop smiled a bit crookedly at him. “Why don’t you—and your sister, of course—” he looked back at Irys for a moment, “take a little walk with me while we get to know one another better?”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Daivyn said obediently, and the three of them moved towards the open glass doors looking out over the blossom-laden cherry trees.

Sharleyan watched them go, and then glanced at the other archbishop in the room, standing at her elbow.

“That went better than I was afraid it might, Maikel,” she said quietly, and he smiled.

“I, on the other hand, was quite certain it would go splendidly,” he assured her. “By the time they leave for Corisande with me at the end of the month, he’s going to be heartbroken at seeing them leave. Mark my words.”

“And you were absolutely positive that was what was going to happen, were you? That’s what you want me to believe?”

There was an undeniable, if perhaps unbecoming, edge of skepticism in her tone as she looked at the supreme religious leader of the Church of Charis.

“I am a man of great faith, Sharleyan,” he replied serenely.

“And God told you this was going to work out, is that it?” she inquired even more skeptically, and he shook his head.

“Oh, I never had to consult God about this one, my dear,” he told her, smiling even more broadly as he captured her right hand and tucked it into the crook of his left elbow. “I would, of course, have trusted Him to get it right if I’d had to, but, fortunately, I didn’t.”

“But you just said—” she began.

“I said I’m a man of great faith,” he interrupted her, “which is true. It’s simply that in this case, my faith was placed in something rather more earthly—a certain scamp of a prince.” His smile faded gently, and he shook his head. “My dear, that boy, despite everything that’s happened in his life, could melt an iceberg with a smile. A mere archbishop’s heart never had a chance.”