.II.
HMS Destiny, 56, Chisholm Sea
Irys Daykyn had never particularly cared for needlework. In fact, given her choice between having a tooth pulled and spending an afternoon embroidering, she would have required several minutes to make up her mind. Nor would her final choice have been a foregone conclusion.
Nonetheless, she sat in a canvas sling chair on HMS Destiny’s stern walk between Empress Sharleyan of Charis and Lady Mairah Breygart, setting relatively neat stitches into a napkin, of all useless things, while water bubbled around the rudder and sea wyverns swirled and darted above the ship’s wake. Those wyverns had come well over a hundred miles, from Wyvern Beak Head, the northwestern tip of the large island of Zebediah, and she heard a triumphant whistle from one of them as a ship’s cook dumped a load of garbage over the side. Half a dozen wyverns swept down, plucking the choicest morsels with glee, then squawking in outrage as their greedier brethren decided it would be simpler to steal someone else’s treasure than to go hunting for their own.
I suppose they’re not so very different from men, after all, she thought wryly.
There was an edge of darkness to the reflection as thinking of those wyverns’ origin reminded her of her father’s conquest of Zebediah. His armies had occupied the island before she herself was out of diapers … and he’d mounted his last punitive expedition against Zebediahan rebels less than a year before the attack on Charis. Of course, the rebels in question had been aristocrats, not the common folk of Zebediah, but those common folk had felt no loyalty to their Corisandian conquerors, either.
And burning their towns and villages around their ears—and over their heads—because the local nobles had shown the poor judgment to rebel against Father didn’t make them feel any more loyal, did it?
“Not even embroidery should cause that much unhappiness, Your Highness,” Lady Mairah said with a chuckle, and Irys looked at the countess and felt her tanned cheeks darken as she realized she’d sighed more heavily than she’d realized.
“When you’re as poor a hand at it as I am, embroidery’s cause enough for a screaming tantrum, My Lady,” she replied lightly. “Or to justify a fit of deep, dark depression, at least.” She held up the embroidery ring, showing off the lopsided wyvern she’d been working on. It was colorful enough—she had to give it that—but she was pretty sure it would have been anatomically incapable of flight. “As you can see, it’s not exactly my strong suit.”
“You could always try knitting,” Sharleyan offered, looking up from her busily clicking needles.
The empress’ tone was light, but there was something in her eyes which made Irys wonder if Sharleyan had followed the thought she’d chosen not to voice more clearly than Irys might have wished. In the five-days they’d spent aboard Destiny, the princess had come to the conclusion that while there was obviously no truth in the Inquisition’s claims of sorcery and fornication with demons on Sharleyan’s part, she might very well be capable of reading minds after all.
“It’s still a matter of manual dexterity, Your Majesty.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m afraid that would make knitting a … poor choice on my part. At least when I’m embroidering the interval between stitches is longer. It may not sound like much, but it slows the rate at which I can do damage.”
Both the other women laughed, and Irys returned to her stitchery.
The odd thing was that as much as she hated embroidery, she found herself actively enjoying her afternoon sessions with Lady Mairah and Empress Sharleyan. She’d discovered she liked both of them far more than she really ought to, and for all her size and stability, Destiny was a small world, particularly given how many people had been packed aboard the galleon. It had been far too long since she’d been permitted to spend the long hours on horseback that she truly craved—not counting the grueling overland flight across Delferahk to safety—and the lack of scope for physical activity of any sort was the worst aspect of the trip. And while embroidery work might not exactly come under the heading of physical exercise, at least it gave her something to do. Something she could go on doing for a long, long time, as a matter of fact, if the object was to actually become proficient at it.
Even Daivyn and Haarahld Breygart had begun to run out of ways to get into trouble, and at Baron Sarmouth’s suggestion, Captain Lathyk had incorporated all of the boys into the midshipmen’s daily lessons. Daivyn—predictably—had whined and attempted to sulk when his regular expeditions down into the hold, or up the ratlines, or into the middle of the drilling gun crews—“just to get a really close look at the breeching tackle and the gunlocks, Irys, honest!”—had been preempted for something which smacked inescapably of study. But Lady Mairah and Irys had been implacable, especially after he’d come within inches of having his left foot crushed under a gun truck when the crew ran it inboard for practice. If Rahskho Mullygyn, Tobys Raimair’s third in command, hadn’t been hovering to snatch Daivyn—and Haarahld—out of the way in the nick of time, Corisande’s rightful prince would undoubtedly have gone down in history as “Daivyn the Lame.”
Rather to Daivyn’s surprise (although astonishment might have been a better word) the lessons had proved be anything but boring. Irys had sat in on a few of them herself, and she’d been almost as surprised as he had as she watched his intent expression and saw him scratching numbers onto a slate right along with all the rest of Destiny’s midshipmen. She’d known Charis was in the process of revolutionizing arithmetic; they’d been doing that ever since they introduced the oddly named “arabic numerals” six years ago. What she hadn’t realized was how much more than a simple new notation method they’d produced. The clicking beads of the abacuses—themselves an incredibly useful tool—had competed with the sound of wind and wave as the midshipmen labored to solve a problem in what the Charisians had christened “trigonometry,” by which they’d actually been able to determine (more or less; as a group, their math skills still left something to be desired) the ship’s latitude and longitude.
People had known since the Creation what latitude and longitude were; they were marked (in the cumbersome old-style numerals) on Archangel Hasting’s master maps in the Temple. But actually managing to calculate them from observations of the sun and the stars … that was something entirely new. She could see where it would be useful, although Captain Lathyk made remarkably little use of it, except as an occasional check on his estimated position. He preferred the art of dead reckoning—steering headings calculated by compass, wind direction, time, and the ship’s speed through the water referenced against the sailing directions Charisian seamen had spent decades assembling. The Royal College had played its part in that effort as well, compiling and filing the sailing directions as they came in. All the originals in their files had been destroyed when the original College burned, but virtually all of the sailing directions extracted from them had been broadly distributed first. In addition, most of the original effort had been the work of hundreds, if not thousands, of individual Charisian captains who’d painstakingly recorded their courses as they picked their way from point to point, and the majority of them had kept their original copies, which had helped insure that the precious knowledge wasn’t lost in the fire.
A good navigator accustomed to using the directions—and so far as Irys could tell, all Charisian captains were good navigators—could make landfall within thirty miles of his intended destination even after a voyage of thousands of miles, relying upon nothing more than a compass, his measured speed, and the wind. That ability explained why Charisians had taken the lead in sailing beyond sight of land, why they were more proficient (and far more confident) navigators than anyone else … and why Charis had so heavily dominated Safehold’s merchant traffic even before she’d systematically exterminated everyone else’s after she found herself at war with all the world.
In the fullness of time, Irys suspected, the new ability to navigate free of charted routes would become more and more important. For now, experienced seamen like
Captain Lathyk clearly regarded it as little more than a useful adjunct, but there were far more uses for the new arithmetic than simple navigation. And even if it had possessed no practical utility at all, Daivyn would have been fascinated by it. She could almost see the little gears and wheels turning in his brain as he discovered an entire world of numbers he’d never known existed. There were times he reminded her irresistibly of Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s brother Chestyr.
She sighed again, much more circumspectly this time as that familiar thought ran through her brain. She’d come to the conclusion that there were far worse men her brother might have patterned himself upon than Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk, and the lieutenant was no dilettante where the new math was concerned, himself. But the thought of what the Inquisition and Corisande’s Temple Loyalists might do with Prince Daivyn’s interest in the “unholy, unclean, and blasphemous knowledge” of the Royal College if that interest ever became generally known was not one to gladden her heart.
Especially because you feel the same temptation, Irys, she told herself tartly. You should’ve remembered that old warning to be wary of Charisians bearing gifts! Too bad not even Phylyp thought to warn you about the blandishments of learning to understand how God and the archangels set the world into operation.
That was the true beauty of it. It had taken her less time than it probably ought to have to get past her own fear that the College truly was unholy and unclean. She’d realized that nothing Doctor Mahklyn or the College’s other scholars were learning and discovering on a daily business subtracted one iota from the magnificent craftsmanship God and the archangels had lavished upon the creation of Safehold. The marvelous intricacy of the rules they’d established, the processes they’d set into motion, the miracles of subtlety and beauty, were enough to make anyone drunk with admiration and awe, and how could God, having given man the ability to reason and understand, not want him to explore all the beautiful marvels with which He’d surrounded him?
She looked down at the embroidery in her lap and realized her hands had stopped moving. She wondered how long she’d been sitting that way, and she sat staring at those motionless fingers, unwilling to look up and meet Sharleyan or Lady Mairah’s eyes.
I think, a small, quiet voice said in the back of her brain, that this is what they call an epiphany. Funny. I always wondered what one of those felt like. Now it’s here, and I still don’t know.
Her hands tightened on the embroidery hoop, and her own, utterly familiar fingers looked different as if they belonged to a stranger. Or perhaps as if they were simply one small part of an entire world which had turned into something else between one breath and the next.
That’s what it’s all about, really, isn’t it? She felt tears welling behind her eyes—tears of wonder, of terror and joy and a wild, strange elation. Clyntahn and the Inquisition can claim Charis has fallen to the Temptation of Proctor, given themselves to the unclean and the forbidden, but it’s a lie. There’s nothing “unclean” about studying and seeking to understand all the glorious complexity of the world that encircles us, gives us life. That world is one huge, magnificent portrait, the mirror of God Himself, and all people like Doctor Mahklyn and Doctor Brahnsyn and Doctor Lywys want is to see that portrait more clearly. To look into the face of God and find Him looking back at them. How can that be evil? How can it be wrong? And if Charis and the Church of Charis are right about that, how can they be wrong about the dark, twisted thing men— men like Zhaspahr Clyntahn, not God!—have made of Mother Church? It’s not death and evil and destruction they worship; it’s life and love, understanding and acceptance, and the tolerance to defend even their enemies’ right to believe whatever their consciences demand of them. Whatever Clyntahn may think, they celebrate the joy of God, not the darkness to which he’s given himself. And if they have fallen prey to Proctor, or even to Shan-wei herself, I would rather stand with them in the darkest corner of the deepest pit of hell than stand with Zhaspahr Clyntahn at the right hand of any God who agreed with him.
An icicle of terror ran through her as she realized what she’d just thought, yet it was true. The old proverb about knowing someone by the company he kept flowed through her mind, and she drew a deep, shuddering breath, wondering how something like this could have happened at such an unlikely moment. Wondering where her new realization would take her and what fate awaited her and her brother.
She raised her eyes, gazing across the water, watching those jeweled wings beat and sweep or hold rigid, riding the wind, and the beauty of God’s handiwork looked back at her from them. The wind swirled about her, plucking at her hair, stirring the loose edges of the napkin, filling the space about her with life and movement and energy. It was a completely ordinary sight, something she’d seen virtually every day of the voyage. And yet it was the farthest thing from ordinary she’d ever seen in her entire life.
“Irys?” She turned her head, looking at the empress as Sharleyan spoke her name gently. “Are you all right?” Sharleyan asked quietly.
“I—”
Irys stopped, laid the embroidery ring aside, and used both hands to wipe the inexplicable tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed. Her nostrils flared, and she shook her head.
“I … don’t know, Your Majesty,” she admitted after a moment. She drew another deep breath, then stood, feeling somehow awkward and off balance.
“It’s not anything for you to worry about,” she continued, wondering even as she spoke whether or not her own words were accurate. “I’ve just—” She shook her head. “I’ve just realized there’s something I have to think about, Your Majesty. Something I have to think about very carefully. With your permission, I think I need a little time alone to grapple with it.”
“There’s no need to ask my permission for that,” Sharleyan said, even more gently, and looked at Countess Hanth, who shared one of Destiny’s small cabins with Irys. “Do you think Irys could have your cabin to herself for a while, Mairah?”
“Of course she can.” Mairah nodded quickly and reached out to squeeze Irys’ hand quickly. “Take as long as you need, Your Highness. Would you like me to send Father Bahn to you?”
“No, thank you,” Irys said, and felt another of those strange shivers of elated terror as she realized she truly wanted to grapple with this herself, without the aid of her confessor and chaplain. What did that say about her … and about her sudden, overwhelming temptation—her need—to decide this question for herself?
“If I decide I need his counsel, I’ll send for him, of course,” she continued, knowing that whatever else happened, she would never do that. Not this time, not about this question.
“Of course,” Mairah repeated. “Would you like me to … ah, divert Daivyn when he finishes his current smudgy excursion into the wonder of mathematics?”
“I’d appreciate that, actually.”
Irys’ lips quirked in a smile, and that smile was genuine, even though her amusement carried its own razor-sharp edge of uncertainty. The Inquisition would have denied she had the right to decide something like this even for herself, far less anyone else, so what right did she have to decide it for Daivyn? And there was no doubt in her mind that her decision would be pivotal for Daivyn. There was no question that the bright and shining wonder of the world he was discovering under the corrupting Charisian influence already drew him like an insect to a flame. If she surrendered herself to it, there’d be no stopping him from plunging into it right beside her, and what would the consequences of that be? Not simply for her baby brother’s soul, but for the princedom he’d been born to rule and every other soul in it?
I’m not even twenty yet, a voice wailed somewhere deep inside. I’m not supposed to have to make these kinds of decisions—not yet! It’s not fair. It’s not my job!
Yet it was her job, however fair or unfair that might be, and she realized that was one reason this moment had been so long coming. She’d been frightened of it, sensed its irrevocable import, and no wonder. Was this what it had been
like for Cayleb, for Sharleyan, when the same moment came for each of them? When they realized they had to decide where they stood, whatever anyone else might think or tell them or insist upon, in the full knowledge of what their decisions would mean for the people they ruled? And how in the name of God and all the archangels had they found the strength to face it with such unswerving courage? The question burned through her, for now it was her turn to need that courage, and she didn’t know if she possessed it.
There’s only one way to find out, she told herself, and then she felt herself blushing as another thought ran through her. It’s not Father Bahn you want to ask about this, lean on, is it, Irys? It’s someone else entirely, and it’s tempting, so tempting. He’d have every reason in God’s creation to lie to you, to convince you to surrender to Proctor’s seduction along with his brother and his monarchs … and himself. It would be his duty to do that, just as clearly as it’s your duty to remember all the implications of whatever you decide today … and you know he’d never do it, anyway.
It seemed to be a day for realizations. She looked back out across the wyverns, and the blue water of the Chisholm Sea and the sunlight, and wondered where the earthquake and tempest might be, the pillar of fire and the terrible flash of the Rakurai that were supposed to mark moments like this. But what she saw instead was only the severe beauty of wind and salt water, the white froth of the wake, the glassy crests of the waves … and the mental image of a smiling, dark, strong-nosed face.