She paused yet again, the quiet so intense she could hear the surf once more, and the instincts developed in so many years on a throne tried to parse the mood of the people in the throne room. At least some of them seemed to be genuinely trying to reserve judgment, she thought. Others, however assiduously they might try to hide it, had clearly made up their minds already and weren’t about to be swayed by anyone’s words… especially hers. She couldn’t tell how many fell into which camp, but it seemed to her that the balance was tilted ever so slightly against those who had already committed themselves to hostility.
“We’ve made it clear we aren’t prepared to cavalierly strip Prince Daivyn of his birthright and inheritance,” she said finally. “Obviously, when a minor prince is in exile in a foreign court, far from his own lands, we can’t simply resign into his hands that which we’ve won on the field of battle. By the same token, we can understand why Prince Daivyn and those who genuinely have his best interests at heart should hesitate to deliver him back into the power of those many believe had his father and older brother murdered. Whether we did or not, simple prudence would dictate that he not be brought back into our reach until those responsible for guarding his life and well-being are fully satisfied it would be safe to do so. I don’t pretend we like the situation, yet I’m also well aware no one here in Corisande likes it, either.
“It was the need to bear all of those factors in mind which led Emperor Cayleb to recognize the Regency Council as representing Prince Daivyn, not the Charisian Crown. Obviously, the Regency Council must accommodate itself to the demands of Charis, just as Prince Daivyn would be required to do were he here and ruling in his own right. That, unfortunately, is the way things work in a world where disputes between realms are too often settled upon the field of battle. It’s our hope that in the fullness of time, and preferably sooner rather than later, all these issues will be resolved without further bloodshed here in Corisande, and we earnestly desire to find in that resolution a way to finally end the anger and distrust, the hostility, which has lain between Charis, Chisholm, and Corisande for so long. In the meantime, we have no intention of expropriating Prince Daivyn’s lands, whether as Prince or as Duke of Manchyr. Aside from the abolition of serfdom, we have no intention of interfering with Corisande’s traditional law or the traditional rights of her aristocracy or her commons. And aside from those actions necessary to purge Mother Church of the corruption which has infected and poisoned her, the lies which have been told in her name, we have no quarrel with her, either… and certainly not with God.
“And that, my lords and ladies, is what I’ve come here to Corisande to demonstrate for all to see. I will make no deals in secret. There will be no secret arrests and executions, just as there have been none yet. We will not torture confessions out of those we suspect of wrongdoing, and if we must inflict the death penalty, it will be carried out quickly and cleanly, without the torture in which Zhaspahr Clyntahn delights.
“In the end, you-as all of God’s children-have a choice to make. You may choose to align yourself with the Empire and Church of Charis against the evil threatening to twist Mother Church and all we believe in into something vile and dark. You may choose to stand with Corisande and the rightful Prince of Corisande, and it’s our hope that in the fullness of time Prince Daivyn will choose to stand with us. You may choose to reject the Empire and Church of Charis and fight them with all your power and all your heart, and that, too, is a choice only you can make. No Charisian monarch will ever seek to dictate your final choice to you, but we will do whatever we must to protect and nurture the things in which we believe, the causes for which we choose to fight and, if necessary, die. If our choices bring us into conflict, then so be it. Charis will not flinch, will not yield, and will not retreat. As my husband has said, ‘Here we stand; we can do no other,’ and stand we will, though all the forces of Hell itself should come against us. Yet whether you make yourselves our friends or our foes, I will promise you this much.”
The stillness was absolute, and she swept the listening throng with that level brown gaze yet again.
“We may fight you. We may even be forced to slay you. But we will never torture or terrify you into betraying your own beliefs. We will never convict without evidence. We will never ignore your right to trial and your right to defend yourself before God and the law, never capriciously sentence men and women to die simply because they disagree with us. And we will never dictate to your conscience, or murder you simply for daring to disagree with us, or torture you vilely to death simply to terrify others into doing our will, and call that the will of God.”
She looked out at those silent, listening faces, and her voice was measured, each word beaten out of cold iron as she dropped her sworn oath into the silence.
“Those things are what the Group of Four does,” she told them in that soft, terrible voice, “and we will die before we become them.” . V.
Imperial Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis
“I’m going to strangle that parrot,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said conversationally. “And if I weren’t afraid it would poison me, I’d have the cook serve it for dinner.”
The parrot which had just stolen a pistachio out of the silver bowl on the wrought-iron table landed on a branch on the far side of the terrace, transferred the stolen nut from its beak to its agile right foot, and squawked raucously at him. Obviously no respecter of imperial dignities, it proceeded to defecate in a long gray and white streak down the lime tree’s bark, as well.
There were quite a few similar deposits decorating the terrace, Cayleb noticed. In fact, there were enough of them for at least two heroic sculptures. Probably even three, unless they were equestrian sculptures.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Prince Nahrmahn said, reaching out and scooping up a handful of the same pistachios, “first you’d have to catch it.”
“Only if I insist on strangling it,” Cayleb retorted. “A shotgun ought to do the job permanently enough, if a little more messily. It might even be more satisfying, now that I think about it.”
“Zhanayt would be less than amused with you, Your Majesty,” Earl Gray Harbor pointed out from his seat beside Nahrmahn. The first councilor shook his head. “She’s turned that dratted bird into her own personal pet. That’s why it’s bold enough to swoop down and steal your nuts. She’s been hand-feeding them to it for months now to get it to ride on her shoulder when she comes into the garden and it thinks it owns all of them. She’ll pitch three kinds of fits if you harm a single feather on its loathsome little head.”
“Wonderful.”
Cayleb rolled his eyes while Nahrmahn and Gray Harbor chuckled. Princess Zhanayt’s sixteenth birthday would roll around in another few five-days. That meant she was about fourteen and a half Old Terran years old, and she was entering what her deceased father would have called her “difficult stage.” (He’d used a rather strong term when it had been his older son’s turn, as Cayleb recalled.)
Prince Zhan, her younger brother, was only two years behind her, but his engagement to Nahrmahn’s daughter Mahrya seemed to be blunting the worst of his adolescent angst. Cayleb wasn’t certain it was going to last, but for now at least the assurance that he would in just over three years’ time be wedding one of the most lovely young women he’d ever met appeared to be giving him a level of confidence the mere fact that his brother was an emperor (and that he himself stood third in the line of succession) wouldn’t have. Despite the inescapable political logic of the move, Cayleb had had his doubts about betrothing his baby brother to someone almost eight Safeholdian years older than he was, but so far, it was working out well. Thank God Mahrya took after her mother-physically, at least-rather than her father! And it didn’t hurt that Zhan was far more inclined to be bookish than Cayleb had ever been. Nahrmahn’s genetic contribution was obvious in Mahrya’s keen wits and love affair with the printed page, and she’d been subtly guiding Zhan’s choice of books for almost three years. He was even reading poetry now, which made him pretty nearly unique among fourteen-year-old males of Cayleb’s acquaintance.