By Schism Rent Asunder (13 page)

Duchairn's lips tightened angrily, but he didn't reply immediately. Clyntahn had been in an ugly mood for five-days, even before the messages from Charis arrived. Although he was famed for his bouts of temper and his ability to hold grudges forever, neither Duchairn nor anyone else had ever seen the Grand Inquisitor as furious—or as
persistently
furious—as he'd been ever since the Church's semaphore system reported the disastrous consequences of the battles off Armageddon Reef and in Darcos Sound.

Of course we haven't,
Duchairn thought disgustedly.
This entire disaster is the consequence of our letting Zhaspahr rush us into his damned “final solution of the Charisian problem!” And no wonder Maigwair's just as pissed off as Zhaspahr. After all,
he
was the one who made it all sound so simple, so foolproof, when he laid out his brilliant plan for the campaign
.

He started to say exactly that aloud, but he didn't. He didn't say it for several reasons. First, however little he wanted to admit it, because he was frightened of Clyntahn. The Grand Inquisitor was undoubtedly the most dangerous single enemy within the Church anyone could possibly make. Second, however much Duchairn might have argued initially against taking action against Charis, it hadn't been because he'd somehow magically recognized the military danger no one else had seen. He'd argued against it because, as the Church's chief accountant, he'd realized just how much of the Church's revenue stream Clyntahn proposed to destroy along with the Kingdom of Charis. And, third, because the disaster which had resulted was so complete, so overwhelming, that the Group of Four's hold upon the rest of the Council hung by a thread. If they showed a single sign of internal disunion, their enemies among the vicarate would turn upon them in a heartbeat … and the rest of the vicars were just as frightened as Duchairn himself. They were going to be looking for scapegoats, and the consequences for any scapegoats they fastened upon were going to be … ugly.

“They may very well be heretics, Zhaspahr,” he said instead. “And no one disputes that matters of heresy come rightfully under the authority of your office. But that doesn't make anything I just said untrue, does it? Unless you happen to have another fleet tucked away somewhere that none of the rest of us know anything about.”

From the dangerous shade of puce which suffused the Grand Inquisitor's heavy face, Duchairn thought for a moment that he'd gone too far, anyway. There had always been a dangerous attack dog (some had even very quietly used the term “mad dog”) edge to Zhaspahr Clyntahn, and the man had demonstrated his utter ruthlessness often enough. It was entirely possible that he might decide his best tactic in this instance lay in using the power of his office to turn upon the other members of the Group of Four and transform them into his own scapegoats.

“No, Rhobair,” a fourth voice said, preempting any response Clyntahn might have been about to make, “it doesn't make what you've just said untrue. But it
does
tend to put our problem rather into perspective, doesn't it?”

Zahmsyn Trynair had an angular face, a neatly trimmed beard, and deep, intelligent eyes. He was also the only other member of the Group of Four whose personal power base was probably as strong as Clyntahn's. As Chancellor of the Council of Vicars, it was Trynair who truly formulated the policies which he then slipped into the mouth of Grand Vicar Erek XVII. In theory, that actually made him more powerful than Clyntahn, but his power was primarily political. It was an often indirect sort of power, one which was most effective applied gradually, over the course of time, whereas Clyntahn commanded the loyalty of the Inquisition and the swords of the Order of Schueler.

Now, as Duchairn and Clyntahn both turned to look at him, Trynair shrugged.

“Zhaspahr, I agree with you that what we've seen in the past few five-days, and even more what's contained in these”—he reached out and tapped the parchment documents which had occasioned this particular meeting—“certainly constitute heresy. But Rhobair has a point. Heretics or not, they've destroyed—not defeated, Zhaspahr,
destroyed
—what was for all intents and purposes the combined strength of every other navy of Safehold. At this moment, there's nothing we can do to attack them directly.”

Maigwair stirred angrily, straightening in his chair, but Trynair pinned him with a single cold stare.

“If you know of any existing naval force which could possibly face the Charisian Navy in battle, Allayn, I suggest you tell us about it now,” he said in a chill, precise tone.

Maigwair flushed angrily, but he also looked away. He was well aware that his fellows regarded him with a certain contempt, even though they were normally careful about showing it. The truth was that it was his position as the commander of the Church's armed forces, and certainly not his inherent brilliance, which made him a member of the Group of Four. He'd enjoyed his chance to take center stage when it came to coordinating the attack on Charis precisely because it had finally allowed him to seize the limelight and assert his equality among them, but things hadn't worked out quite as well as he'd planned. Trynair watched him coolly for a handful of seconds, then returned his attention to Clyntahn.

“There are those on the Council, as I'm sure we're all well aware, who are going to seek any opportunity to break our control, and Staynair's ‘open letter' to the Grand Vicar hasn't exactly done anything to
strengthen
our position, has it? Some of those enemies of ours are already whispering that the current … unfortunate situation is entirely the result of our own precipitous action.”

“The Inquisition knows how to deal with anyone who seeks to undermine the authority and unity of the Council of Vicars in the face of such a monumental threat to the soul of every living child of God.” Clyntahn's voice was colder than a Zion winter, and the zealotry which was so much a part of his complex, often self-contradictory personality glittered in his eyes.

“I don't doubt it,” Trynair replied. “But if it comes to that, then we may well find ourselves replicating this … this
schism
within the Council itself. I submit to you that any such consequence would scarcely be in the best interests of the Church or of our ability to deal with the heresy in question.”

Or of our own long-term survival
, he very carefully did not add aloud, although all of his companions heard it anyway.

Clyntahn's puffy, heavy-jowled face was like a stone wall, but, after several tense seconds, he nodded minutely.

“Very well.” Trynair managed to show no trace of the profound relief that grudging acquiescence engendered as he surveyed the other three faces around the table. “I think we have two separate but related problems. First, we must decide how Mother Church and the Council are going to deal with
these
.” He tapped the parchment documents again. “And, second, we must decide what long-term course of action Mother Church and the Council can pursue in the face of our current military … embarrassment.”

Duchairn wasn't quite certain how he refrained from snorting derisively. Trynair's “separate but related problems” just happened to constitute the greatest threat the Church of God Awaiting had faced in the near millennium since the Creation itself. Hearing the Chancellor talk about them as if they were no more than two more in the succession of minor administrative decisions the Group of Four had been required to make over the past decade or so was ludicrous.

Yet what Trynair had said was also true, and the Chancellor was probably the only one of them who could genuinely hope to manage Clyntahn.

The Treasurer General reached out and drew the nearest document closer. He had no need to consult its text, of course; that much was already branded indelibly into his memory, but he ran his fingertips across the seals affixed to it.

Under other circumstances, it would have been unexceptionable enough. The language was the same as that which had been used scores—thousands—of times before to announce the demise of one monarch, duke, or other feudal magnate and the assumption of his titles by his heir. Unfortunately, the circumstances were anything but normal in this instance, for the monarch in question, Haarahld VII of Charis, had not died in bed.

And there is that one
minor
difference between this writ of succession and all the others,
Duchairn reminded himself, letting his fingers trace the largest and most ornate seal of all. By both law and ancient tradition, no succession was valid or final until it had been confirmed by Mother Church, which was supposed to mean by the Council of Vicars. But this writ of succession already bore Mother Church's seal, and Duchairn's eyes slipped to the second—and, in his opinion, more dangerous—succession writ.

Neither of them could have been more politely phrased. No one could point to a single overtly defiant statement. Yet the seal affixed to the first writ of succession belonged to the Archbishop of Charis, and in the eyes of Mother Church, there
was
no Archbishop of Charis. Erayk Dynnys, who had held that office, had been stripped of it and was currently awaiting execution for the crimes of treason, malfeasance, and the encouragement of heresy. The Council of Vicars had not yet even considered a replacement for him, but the Kingdom of Charis clearly had … as the second writ made abundantly clear.

It was, for all the blandness of its phrasing, a clear-cut declaration of war against the entire Church of God Awaiting, and just in case anyone had failed to notice, there was always the
third
document … the original copy of Staynair's letter to Grand Vicar Erek.

Duchairn was certain that the blandness of the two writs of succession, the contrast between their traditional phraseology and terminology and Staynair's fiery “letter,” was intentional. Their very everyday normality not only underscored the deadly condemnation of Staynair's accusations, but also made it clear that Charis intended to continue about its own affairs, its own concerns, without one iota of deference to the desires or commands of the Church it had chosen to defy.

No, not simply
defy
. That was the reason the writs of succession had been written as they had, sent as they had. They were the proof that Charis was prepared to
ignore
Mother Church, and in many ways, that was even more deadly.

Never in all of Safehold's history had
any
secular monarch dared to name the man of his own choice as the chief prelate of his realm.
Never
. That was the Council of Vicars' official position, although Duchairn was well aware of the persistent, whispered rumors that Mother Church's traditions had not always supported that view of things.

But this was no hypothetical age which might have existed once, centuries ago. This was the
present
, and in the present, it was a patently illegal act. Yet the writ of appointment naming Maikel Staynair Archbishop of all Charis carried not simply Cayleb Ahrmahk's signature, but also the signatures and seals of every member of his Royal Council, the Speaker of the House of Commons … and of nineteen of the twenty-three other bishops of the Kingdom of Charis. The same signatures and seals had been affixed individually to Staynair's “letter,” as well, which was even more frightening. This wasn't one man's, one king's, one usurping archbishop's, act of defiance; it was an entire
kingdom's
, and the consequences if it was allowed to stand were unthinkable.

But how do we
keep
it from standing?
Duchairn asked himself almost despairingly.
They've defeated
—
as Zahmsyn says,
destroyed—
the navies of Corisande, Emerald, Chisholm, Tarot, and Dohlar. There's no one left, no one we can possibly send against them
.

“I think,” Trynair continued into his colleagues' angry, frightened silence, “that we must begin by admitting the limitations we currently face. And, to be honest, we have no choice but to confront openly both the failure of our original policy and the difficulties we face in attempting to recover from that failure.”

“How?” Maigwair demanded, obviously still smarting from Trynair's earlier remarks.

“The charge which is most likely to prove dangerous to Mother Church and the authority of the Council of Vicars,” Trynair replied, “is that the attack directed against Charis has somehow pushed Cayleb and his adherents into this open defiance and heresy. That had we not acted against Haarahld's earlier policies as we did, Charis would not have been lost to us.”

He looked around the table once more, and Duchairn nodded back shortly. Of course that was what their enemies were going to say. After all, it was true, wasn't it?

“I suggest to you,” Trynair said, “that these documents are the clearest possible proof that there is no accuracy at all to such a charge.”

Duchairn felt his eyebrows trying to arch in astonishment, but he somehow kept his jaw from dropping.

“It's obvious,” the Chancellor continued, still sounding as if what he was saying actually had some nodding acquaintance with reality, “no matter whose name is signed to this so-called ‘open letter,' that the hand truly behind it is Cayleb's. That Staynair is simply Cayleb's mouthpiece and puppet, the sacrilegious and blasphemous mask for Cayleb's determination to adhere to his father's aggressive and dangerous foreign policy. No doubt some people will see Cayleb's undeniable anger over his father's death and the attack which we supported as impelling him to take such defiant steps. However, as has been well established, it was not Mother Church or the Council of Vicars, but the Knights of the Temple Lands who supported the resort to arms against Haarahld's overweening ambition.”