At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.I.

St. Kahrmyncetah’s Abbey,

Talon Branch Mountains,

Green Tree Island,

Sea of Harchong.

“—So I don’t think there’s any need for long-term worry, My Lady,” the nun in the caduceus-badged green habit of a Pasqualte said. “Zhosifyn is a … sturdy little girl.” The nun smiled wryly. “In fact, I think I can safely say she’s going to be a right handful in nine or ten years! She reminds me quite a bit of me, in that respect. But as far as the dreams are concerned, I think they’ll pass. I’m no Bédardist and, unfortunately, we don’t have any Bédardists here on Green Tree, but Pasquale only knows how many children I’ve taught over the years!” She shook her head, brown eyes twinkling, but then her expression softened. “I know what she saw and heard aboard ship was ugly and terrifying, but this is a little girl who knows she’s deeply loved, who has her family around her, and knows she and that family are safe. It may take some time, but it’s been less than three months, and the dreams are already less frequent. In time, I’m confident they’ll fade completely.”

“Thank you, Sister Mahryssa,” Lady Stefyny Mahkswail said sincerely.

She rose from her rattan chair and walked to the edge of the shaded veranda. It was technically only spring, but Green Tree Island lay less than a thousand miles south of the equator—little further below it than the city of Gorath lay above it—and she was deeply grateful for the shade as she looked out across the peaceful garden at the small cluster of children busily spading what would eventually be a tomato patch. She smiled at all of them, although her eyes lingered longest on the fair-haired toddler gleefully flinging trowel loads of dirt in every direction as she “helped.” Then she looked back over her shoulder at the nun.

“I appreciate your taking the time to put my fears to rest,” she said, “and the truth is that I pretty much knew what you were going to say.” Her smile turned into something suspiciously like a grin. “God knows you’re absolutely right that she’s a ‘sturdy’ little girl, and I won’t have to wait any nine or ten years for her to turn into a handful, either!”

The nun chuckled, and Stefyny turned to face her squarely. She leaned a hip against the veranda’s waist-high stone wall, and her expression turned serious once more.

“We tried to protect her from … unpleasant realities back home,” she said, her tone somber. “It wasn’t the easiest thing to do—all of them are really smart kids, and Bédard knows they’re sensitive to emotions at that age. They couldn’t help knowing that all of us were worried as Shan-wei about their grandfather. And about what might happen to them, to be honest. And you’re right about what it was like aboard that ship.” She shuddered, chilled to the bone for a moment despite the sunlight and heat. “That was absolutely terrifying to me; God only knows how badly it frightened her! But I’m not surprised she feels safe here.”

“Because she is, My Lady,” Sister Mahryssa said firmly. “And so are you.”

“I certainly feel a lot closer to ‘safe’ than I did back in Gorath!” Stefyny snorted harshly. “It’d be hard not to. But I’m afraid I’ve learned just a little more than Lyzet has about how even the ‘safest’ place can turn out to be less safe than you thought. And in some ways, feeling safe myself only makes me worry more about … other people.”

“I’d be astonished if you felt any other way,” Sister Mahryssa said simply. “And what I just said about Lyzet’s true for you, too, My Lady. It hasn’t been three months yet. I’m sure you’re still processing what’s happened.”

“Oh, I think you could definitely put it that way!” Stefyny agreed. “On the other hand, I—”

“Excuse me, My Lady.”

Stefyny turned as another nun stepped onto the veranda.

“Yes, Sister Lytychya?”

“Mother Superior asked me to find you and tell you a messenger’s arrived with a letter for you.”

* * *

Sister Lytychya paused outside the study door and rapped gently.

“Enter,” a clear soprano called, and the nun smiled at Stefyny, opened the door, and waved for her to precede her.

A tall, red-haired man with a spade-shaped beard and dark blue eyes turned from his conversation with Mother Superior Ahlyssa as they entered the book-lined room. He bowed gracefully to Stefyny as she paused on the threshold, obviously surprised to see him. She stood for a moment, gazing at him, her eyes suddenly touched with a sharper anxiety. Then she gave herself an almost invisible shake and crossed the room to him, holding out one hand with an air of composure.

“Thank you for fetching Lady Stefyny so promptly, Sister,” Mother Ahlyssa said. “Now if you’d be so good as to go help Ahbnair rescue the kitchen garden from the children’s ministrations, the entire Abbey will be eternally in your debt!”

“Of course, Mother,” Lytychya agreed with a smile. “My Lady, Seijin Cleddyf.”

She inclined her head to each of the mother superior’s guests in turn, then withdrew and closed the door behind her, and Ahlyssa turned to Stefyny.

“As you can see,” she said with a smile, “there’s someone to see you, my dear.”

* * *

Cleddyf Cyfiawnder, who actually rather favored Merlin Athrawes around the nose and eyes, watched Stefyny Mahkswail’s face as the silver-haired mother superior smiled at her. Stefyny looked better than the last time he’d seen her with his own eyes, just before the boatswain’s chair lifted her to HMS Fleet Wing from the deck of the fishing boat he’d never gotten around to naming. This elegantly groomed, assured-looking young matron—at thirty-seven, she wasn’t quite thirty-three terrestrial years old—was a far cry from the frightened nightgown-clad mother trying desperately to reassure her terrified children that they were safe when she was far from certain of that herself.

“Lady Stefyny.” He took the hand she’d offered and bent from the waist to kiss its back. “It’s good to see you looking so well.”

“Mother Ahlyssa and the sisters couldn’t have been kinder or more attentive, Seijin Cleddyf,” she replied. “In fact,” she met his eyes levelly, “they’ve been everything you and Seijin Gwyliwr said they’d be. I’m glad to have this opportunity to thank you for our rescue in more … seemly fashion, but I must confess I’m also surprised to see you. Especially so soon.”

“My Lady,” Cyfiawnder said in his mellow tenor, “I promised you we’d get your message to your father as quickly as possible.”

“So you did, but I hardly expected a seijin to personally spend his time delivering my mail. I’m sure Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan have all sorts of other things they rather desperately need you to be doing at the moment. Besides, Green Tree Island’s almost six thousand miles by sea from Gorath, and I’m an admiral’s daughter.” Her smile was quite a bit tighter than it had been. “I also know the prevailing winds between here and Gorath. You’ve made what I could only describe as … miraculous time if you traveled all the way to Gorath with my letter before coming here.”

“First, My Lady,” he said calmly, “I didn’t have to personally deliver your message to your father; Seijin Merlin did that.” He smiled considerably more broadly than she had. “It seemed to us that the Earl might find it easier—or at least marginally less difficult—to accept the word of a seijin he’d personally met than of someone who simply walked in and announced you’d sent him.”

“Merlin?” Her gray eyes widened. “But he’s—”

She cut herself off, and he nodded.

“You were about to say that he’s in Siddar City with Emperor Cayleb.”

“Since you brought it up, yes, I was, which brings me back to that adjective—the ‘miraculous’ one—I used a moment ago.” She regarded him narrowly. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I wonder how he could possibly have reached Gorath from there? Particularly with my letter to Father in hand?”

“Well, Siddar City is better than a thousand miles closer to Gorath than Green Tree Island is,” he pointed out with a lurking smile. Then his expression sobered. “My Lady, I understand exactly why you used the word ‘miraculous,’ just as I know the other sorts of adjectives you might have used instead. And in some ways, I wouldn’t have blamed you, given how many lies—even more of them than usual—Clyntahn’s spun about Merlin and the rest of us. But while that man wouldn’t recognize the truth, much less the true will of God, if it walked up and bit him, the truth is that we do have certain advantages over other messengers. We seldom display them openly—or any more openly than we can avoid, at any rate—because of those lies of his. In this instance, however, Merlin and the Emperor decided to make an exception to the rules. I won’t pretend their motives were completely altruistic, but I will say that reaching your father with the news that you were still alive as quickly as we could, to spare him as much pain as we could, was a factor in their thinking. As for how your letter reached Merlin before he set out for Gorath himself, there are such things as messenger wyverns, you know.”

“I suppose there are.”

Stefyny glanced quickly at Mother Superior Ahlyssa, but if the nun was perturbed by the suggestion that the seijins serving Charis truly were capable of superhuman feats, there was no sign of it in her calm expression.

“I suppose there are,” Stefyny repeated, turning back to Cyfiawnder. “And while a dutiful daughter of Mother Church probably shouldn’t admit it, I wouldn’t be terribly astonished to discover that that lying bastard in Zion truly has lavished a few of his lies on you and Seijin Merlin.”

“My father always told me you could tell even more about someone by the enemies he made than by the friends he kept,” the seijin said.

“My father told me much the same thing, upon occasion.” She smiled again, briefly. “And speaking of fathers, how did mine react to the news?”

“I think it would be best to let him tell you that in his own words,” Cyfiawnder said gently, reaching into his tunic. “He didn’t have a great deal of time in which to write, under the circumstances, but Merlin promised we’d deliver his reply to your letter, as well.” He extended an envelope to her. “I wish there had been time for him to write a longer response,” he said seriously. “Still, I hope this will ease your heart at least a little. There are several things you and I need to talk about while I’m here, but I think they can wait until after he’s spoken to you.”

Despite her formidable self-control, Stefyny’s fingers trembled as she took the envelope from him. She held it in both hands, staring at him, and then her eyes flicked to the mother superior as Ahlyssa cleared her throat.

“My dear,” she said, indicating the door behind her desk, “why don’t you retire to my private chapel while you read that? And don’t rush yourself, child! Seijin Cleddyf and I will keep one another entertained until you’ve had time to fully digest it.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Stefyny said gratefully, and glanced back at Cyfiawnder. “And thank you, Seijin, as well.”

“Go, read your letter.” The seijin smiled at her. “As Mother Ahlyssa says, we’ll be here when you’ve finished.”

She nodded, still clutching the envelope in both hands, and vanished through the chapel door.

Cyfiawnder watched her go, then crossed to gaze out one of the study’s windows across the manicured lawn of St. Kahrmyncetah’s Abbey while he thought about the woman who was even then opening that envelope. He could have watched her through one of the SNARCs’ remotes, but he spent too much time spying on people already. There was no need to play the voyeur this time, and Stefyny Mahkswail—yes, and her father—deserved for her to read his letter in privacy.

“How would you say they’re adjusting?” he asked over his shoulder, and Mother Ahlyssa stood and walked around her desk to join him.

“As well as anyone might have expected.” She shrugged. “Certainly better than anyone could have counted on! After all, it’s been a bit difficult for me to accept there are true seijins once more walking the living world in my lifetime, and I had Mother Nynian’s letters to help.”

She snorted, and Cyfiawnder chuckled softly as he nodded in acknowledgment of her point.

It’s a good thing she did accept it, too, he thought. Of course, most of the Sisters of Saint Kohdy seem to be rather more … flexible-minded than other people. I suppose that’s a requirement for the Sisterhood, when you come down to it.

St. Kahrmyncetah’s Abbey—and the true ironic appropriateness of that name hadn’t struck him until he’d accepted the miniature of Stefyny’s mother from her as her token to her father—was far from the largest religious institution on the face of Safehold. It was bigger than many abbeys, or even a few full-scale convents, perhaps, but certainly not huge, although many of those larger, grander convents would have envied the sheer beauty of the spectacular view laid out before the mother superior’s window. The abbey looked down from its perch in the Talon Branch Mountains on Green Tree’s northern coast across the deep blue of Markys Bay, stretching to the sun-drenched horizon, and the steep slopes of even taller mountains rose behind it like huge, sleeping dragons furred in lush, green trees. It was officially affiliated with the Order of Pasquale, and all of its sisters truly were Pasqualates. The majority of them, however, were also Sisters of Saint Kohdy, which made it a bit easier for them to accept the extraordinary comings and goings of “seijins” in general. Unfortunately, not all of them were adherents of the outlawed saint, and the number who weren’t had risen over the last year or two as the abbey’s mother order reinforced it in light of Green Tree’s recent upsurge in immigration.

Green Tree Island had long been a place of refuge, and many a would-be refugee had paid a steep price to reach it. The Straits of Queiroz, which separated it from the Harchongese province of the same name, were almost two hundred miles wide. That was enough to pose a formidable challenge, and over the centuries, hundreds—probably thousands—of Harchongese serfs and their children had drowned trying to cross it. But other thousands had succeeded, fleeing the Empire’s repressive regime, and they and their descendants had emerged with the kind of stubborn independence that sort of test engendered. They were, he thought, quite possibly the only people he’d ever met who were even stubborner—in their own very Harchongese way—than Zhasyn Cahnyr’s Glacierhearters. The flow had eased considerably over the last century or so, as the institution of serfdom had lost much of its rigor in South Harchong. But there’d still been a steady trickle, including hundreds of serfs who’d somehow made their way south from North Harchong, where the institution remained at least as harsh as it ever had been. No one knew exactly how the story of Green Tree had made its way into the folklore of those brutalized serfs, but somehow it had, and as the jihad’s intensity grew and worsened, the refugee volume had begun growing again.

The authorities in Queiroz Province were just as happy to funnel every refugee they could straight through to Green Tree, even though they were fully aware that many of them had fled the land to which they were legally bound in perpetuity. For that matter, they were equally well aware that a very high percentage of the male refugees were fleeing—with their families in many cases; by themselves in most—involuntary service with the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels.

In Cyfiawnder’s opinion, that said some really interesting things about the provincial governor and his staff. South Harchong had never been especially sympathetic to its northern compatriots’ savage abuse of its serfs. Indeed, quite a few of its more powerful merchant and banking families were quietly agitating to have the institution completely abolished, at least in the southern half of the Empire. But serfdom remained the official law of the land and powerful North Harchongese nobles were vociferous in their demands that any escaped serfs be seized and “repatriated” … where they were inevitably turned into object lessons for the benefit of their fellow serfs, and Cyfiawnder made another mental note to have Nahrmahn and Owl take a closer look at Queiroz’s internal dynamics. If its administrators were prepared to turn that blind an eye to that sort of traffic, who knew what else they might be prepared to ignore?

More to the immediate point, however, the Sisters of Saint Kohdy had infiltrated—or, more accurately, co-opted—St. Kahrmyncetah’s Abbey over two hundred years ago. Not because they’d seen any tactical or strategic advantage in it, but because one of their number who was also a Pasqualate had been assigned as the abbey’s mother superior and been allowed to select a half-dozen assistants to accompany her to her new posting. She’d seen no reason not to take advantage of the opportunity, and the Sisterhood had effectively controlled the abbey ever since. When the plan to rescue Earl Thirsk’s family had first been discussed, Aivah Pahrsahn had been quick to suggest that St. Kahrmyncetah’s would be a perfect place to hide them away. After all, they’d hardly be the first refugees she’d hidden there. And not only was the abbey isolated, the sparsely settled island’s inhabitants provided a defense in depth against any outsider.

Like all Pasqualate abbeys and monasteries, St. Kahrmyncetah’s was as much hospital as house of worship, and the sisters had cared for the islanders for centuries. They midwifed their births, nursed them and their children through illnesses, and buried them in Mother Church, and the islanders repaid their care with a fierce devotion. The fact that St. Kahrmyncetah’s sisters’ version of the Church of God Awaiting was more “humanist”—and far, far gentler—than the one in which the islanders or their parents and grandparents had been reared didn’t hurt one bit, either. Nor did the fact that they remembered the oppression they’d fled, which meant any outsider would meet an automatic conspiracy of silence if he started asking questions about anyone on Green Tree, much less about the sisters.

Given how vital it was to prevent Zhaspahr Clyntahn from ever suspecting that Thirsk’s daughters and grandchildren were alive, concealment was the order of the day. And hiding them someplace they could live almost normal lives, confident no one would recognize them or report them to the Inquisition, had been almost equally important in the inner circle’s eyes. Cayleb and Sharleyan truly had no intention of holding their safety over Earl Thirsk’s head, and sending them to St. Kahrmyncetah’s—where their only “guards” were nuns sworn to a healing order—had struck them as the best way to make that point to Stefyny and her sisters and, especially, to their children, as well.

And it’s not as if they’re completely unprotected, either, he reminded himself.

Concealment was their best defense, and the only one that would keep the earl himself alive, but Ahbnair Truskyt, St. Kahrmyncetah’s chief gardener and handyman, was more than he seemed. As a member of Helm Cleaver who’d attracted the Inquisition’s attention just a bit too closely, he’d found it expedient to emigrate from the Temple Lands when he was much younger, and Nynian Rychtyr had sent him here almost twenty years ago. He’d overseen the abbey’s physical security ever since, and Zhustyn Kyndyrmyn, his “assistant gardener” had once been a sergeant in the Temple Guard.

Unfortunately for the Temple Guard, Kyndyrmyn had become thoroughly disgusted by some of the things the Guard had been called upon to do in the Inquisition’s service. The true turning point for him had come when he’d been required to falsify the report of his investigation into the death of young Dahnyld Mahkbyth on the direct orders of Wyllym Rayno. He and Sergeant Ahrloh Mahkbyth had been friends for over seven years at the time, and he’d longed to tell Ahrloh the truth about how his little boy had died. He’d known Ahrloh too well, though, and Zhulyet Mahkbyth had needed her husband alive. So Kyndyrmyn had kept his mouth shut, but his rage had slowly, slowly eaten him up inside, and hard though he’d tried to hide it, that festering anger had been evident to his platoon commander. Indeed, that anger—though the lieutenant hadn’t known its source—had led him to ask his battalion CO to have a word with the sergeant, see if he could get Kyndyrmyn to open up before whatever demon was riding him destroyed him. And that battalion CO had been a young auxiliary bishop, not yet a vicar, named Hauwerd Wylsynn.

Hauwerd had always been the sort of officer who attracted the trust and loyalty of men under his command, and he’d been a Wylsynn. That combination had been enough to convince Kyndyrmyn to open up, and that was how Hauwerd and Samyl’s circle of reformers first learned the truth about the carriage accident and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s intervention to suppress the investigation into it. Kyndyrmyn had been astonished by Hauwerd’s reaction to his bitter charges of corruption at the Inquisition’s highest levels, and even more when Hauwerd asked him to write up an accurate version of his report for the files the reformers were assembling in hopes of someday bringing Clyntahn down.

That had never happened, unfortunately, but the same reports had drawn Nynian Rychtyr’s attention to the sergeant, and he’d been quietly recruited for Helm Cleaver … which was probably the only reason he was still alive. When Clyntahn purged the Wylsynns, Nynian had whisked Kyndyrmyn and half a dozen other members of the Guard who’d been too close to Hauwerd out of Zion and sent them to places of safety. Three of them—four, counting Kyndyrmyn—had ended up at St. Kahrmyncetah’s, where they were safely out of sight and simultaneously provided Truskyt with a few trained soldiers.

It’s not like they could stand off any sort of organized assault, Cyfiawnder acknowledged. They’re certainly able to look after Thirsk’s family, and especially to keep an eye on the kids, though. He shook his head, lips twitching on the brink of a smile. Their parents know to keep their heads down, but that’s a little harder to explain to kids, so I’m in favor of giving them all the babysitters—especially tough, competent babysitters—we can find! And if it comes to anything more serious than that, I can trust Ahbnair and Zhustyn to at least get them all out from under long enough for one of the “mysterious seijins” to swoop in and get them the hell out of Dodge.

Of course, the temptation to smile faded, if that ever happens, it’s probably going to mean Thirsk is dead. I never thought that would be a good idea, and judging from his conversation with Maik, it would be an even worse idea now! Besides, I like that man … and his family. And it’s about goddamned time I got to keep someone alive instead of killing them for a change!