At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.VI.

The Temple,

City of Zion,

The Temple Lands.

“I suppose you’re still going to insist Walkyr was the best man for his command, Allayn?” Zhaspahr Clyntahn asked unpleasantly.

The heavyset Grand Inquisitor leaned forward, forearms planted on the conference table as he thrust his face belligerently in Allayn Maigwair’s direction. Rhobair Duchairn sat on the opposite side of the table, beside Maigwair, and the pile of reports and memos in front of him was almost as tall as the one in front of the captain general. Zahmsyn Trynair sat at the head of the table, because it was nominally his responsibility to chair their meetings this five-day, but the table in front of him was almost completely bare and it was painfully obvious he would have preferred to be just about anywhere else.

He wasn’t about to attempt to exert any actual control over Clyntahn, at any rate. He simply sat there, and Maigwair gave him a disgusted look before he turned his attention to Clyntahn.

“Given the fact that Gustyv’s managed to hold his army together despite getting the shit hammered out of it by two entire heretic armies, yes, I’m going to do exactly that,” he said, meeting the other vicar’s belligerent gaze levelly. “He’s managing to retreat, Zhaspahr, when a lot of armies would have broken and run, and Rhobair here—” the captain general twitched his head in Duchairn’s direction “—has actually managed to get Ahubrai Zheppsyn’s band—that’s another thirty thousand men and close to two hundred guns—forward to join Klemynt Gahsbahr at Glydahr. That brings the Glydahr garrison back up to almost forty thousand, despite the troops he pulled out in response to Rainbow Waters’ request, and Zheppsyn and Gahsbar are continuing to extend and improve the entrenchments Silken Hills left when he moved south.” Maigwair emphasized the last four words ever so slightly. “And in the meantime, Gustyv is building a solid line between St. Vyrdyn and the headwaters of the Sair.”

“A ‘solid line’ over three hundred miles north of his original positions!” Clyntahn pointed out nastily. “Chihiro preserve us from more military triumphs like that! And then there’s the little matter of what happened at Mercyr, isn’t there?”

“I won’t pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Maigwair conceded. “If we’d had more dragoons forward it might not have happened, but without a bigger mounted force of his own, Brygham couldn’t prevent Eastshare from getting his mounted infantry around behind him. And after that, there was no way he could have gotten the bulk of his troops out, whatever he’d done. As it is, he’s still putting up one hell of a fight and locking down that part of the high road. Would I rather have his band out of the trap and available to Walkyr? Damned right I would. But he and his men have nothing to be ashamed of. For that matter, they’re still accomplishing the objective they were assigned in the first place!”

Clyntahn made a disgusted sound, but he didn’t pursue it, Duchairn noted. That probably had something to do with the fact that Lainyl Brygham was the son of one of his longtime allies on the Council of Vicars. He also happened to be a capable commander who’d shown plenty of bulldog tenacity, however, as he was demonstrating yet again even now, and appointing him to command one of Walkyr’s bands had been one of Maigwair’s more inspired personnel decisions.

The captain general was undoubtedly right about how Brygham had ended up trapped at Mercyr, and the fact that Maigwair had tried so hard for so long to build a mounted force which might match—or at least offset—the Imperial Charisian Army’s mobility probably didn’t make the captain general feel one bit better. But, by the same token, mounted infantry was scarcely at its best amid the dense trees of the Great Tarikah Forest, and Brygham had refused to panic. Instead, he’d settled in with just over forty percent of his original infantry—and all his artillery—to hold his blocking position and deny the high road to the oncoming Siddarmarkian Army of the Sylmahn for as long as humanly possible. The remainder of his infantry had been ordered north to join Ahntohnyo Mahkgyl’s band at Blufftyn, banking on the forest to slow and hamper any pursuit. Unfortunately, only about a thousand of them had made it before Mahkgyl was forced to retreat; the rest had been cut off when Stohnar’s and Eastshare’s spearheads met at Blufftyn.

With that position in their hands, the Siddarmarkian general was theoretically able to join the advance of Eastshare’s right flank, but his logistics remained badly constrained by the limited capacity of the farm roads and dirt tracks between Blufftyn and the Waymeet-Five Forks High Road. He simply couldn’t get enough food, ammunition, and—especially—artillery forward. So as long as Brygham held Mercyr and Earl Golden Tree’s forces continued to block the high road at Sairmeet, the Great Tarikah Forest retained its value as the roadblock covering the Northern Mighty Host’s right against Stohnar’s army.

Of course, all of that paled into insignificance compared to what had happened north of the forest, the treasurer reflected gloomily. He was less worried by the loss of Lake City—he’d recognized that Rainbow Waters would never be able to hold the provincial capital the same day he’d realized how badly they’d been fooled about the Charisians’ southern strategy—than by the way in which Green Valley had blasted his way through the last defensive line before the city. He didn’t have as much information on that as Maigwair did, but the information he did have was terrifying to the man in charge of providing Mother Church’s weapons. It was clear the Charisians and Siddarmarkians had brought more than just their infernal balloons to this year’s campaign, and not even Brother Lynkyn could begin to suggest how they’d made their shells so much more destructive virtually overnight!

“I can’t say any of our peerless military commanders fill me with a superabundance of confidence,” the Grand Inquisitor observed bitterly. He’d begun to criticize even Rainbow Waters, especially after the earl had strongly defended Earl Crystal Lake’s decision to retreat from Lake City … and since he’d received Ahlbair Saintahvo’s report about the earl’s meeting with Gustyv Walkyr. “And what’s this business about Silken Hills planning to retreat, too?”

“It’s a contingency plan, Zhaspahr.” Maigwair shook his head. “It’s obvious now that the heretics have no intention of attacking the Tymkyn Gap … if they ever actually did. At the moment, his forces at Tallas are holding firm, though. The problem is that High Mount seems to be throwing most of his weight against the Reklair Gap and it’s pretty clear at least a third of Symkyn’s army’s turned south to join him instead of continuing farther north, with Eastshare. When you combine that with how hard the heretics worked to convince us they meant to attack the Tymkyn Gap, that strongly suggests that what they really want is for Symkyn and High Mount to punch through at Reklair—and Tallas, if they can, no doubt—to capture Wedthar. That’s the biggest South March town we still hold, which would make it valuable enough under any circumstances, but it gets one hell of a lot more valuable given what’s happening in Dohlar.”

Clyntahn’s sour expression turned thunderous at the mention of Dohlar. He continued to hold Earl Thirsk personally responsible for the Dohlaran Navy’s reverses, and the fact that the earl remained that navy’s commander stuck in his craw like a sliver of bone. The fact that no one could have fought more effectively—or with more imagination—against the Imperial Charisian Navy’s armored fleet meant nothing to him. He continued to rail against Thirsk’s “defeatism” and “unreliability,” and he’d predicted nothing but disaster when word reached Zion that Charis had begun its long-awaited assault on the city of Gorath.

“I know you don’t want to hear about Dohlar, Zhaspahr,” Maigwair continued, facing the issue squarely, “and I know we’re all worried about what’s happening in Gorath right now. But even if the Dohlarans beat off this attack, the heretic navy will keep the Gulf effectively shut down indefinitely. We simply don’t have any way to keep them from doing that, and that’s what makes Wedthar so important. It’s a critical road junction, and with the Gulf … unavailable, it’s the linchpin for Silken Hills’ supply line. If the heretics punch through to it, we can write off all of his artillery, at an absolute minimum, because he won’t be able to get it out.” He shrugged. “I’m actually relieved that he’s drawing up movement plans already. It doesn’t mean he’s planning to retreat, Zhaspahr; it means he’s planning how he’ll retreat—and fight the most effective delaying action possible while he does it—if he’s forced to retreat. That’s a pretty important distinction.”

“All I see is that every Shan-wei-damned army we have is moving west, not east!” Clyntahn snarled. “It’s bad enough when a gutless bastard like Thirsk bends over and invites the frigging heretics to bugger him, but now every commander we’ve got is too damned busy thinking about ‘contingency plans’ and ‘fighting withdrawals’ to give any goddamned thought to actually defeating the heretics! If it’s all the same to you, Allayn, I’d like to see just one of them—just one!—with the guts to actually stand his ground and fight like someone worthy of the trust God’s placed in him!”

Desperation must really be getting to him, given how he’s starting to criticize the Harchongians, not just our own people, Duchairn thought, watching the Grand Inquisitor’s angry expression.

It was easy enough to understand the reasons for Clyntahn’s anxiety. Charis and Siddarmark hadn’t achieved an outright breakthrough anywhere … yet. Lake City came close, but Crystal Lake’s prompt withdrawal had prevented a complete rupture of Rainbow Water’s front north of the Tarikah Forest. Yet they were pushing the Church’s forces back everywhere, and the junction between Eastshare’s Army of Westmarch and Stohnar’s Army of the Sylmahn was enough to frighten anyone. It was also what made Brygham’s continued stand at Mercyr so important. But sooner or later, Mercyr was going to fall, however valiantly Brygham and his men fought. Even Clyntahn had to realize only a direct miracle could prevent that now. And once Eastshare and Stohnar’s quartermasters were able to use the high road through the Great Tarikah Forest, they’d be ready for their next lunge forward.

The question was the direction in which they’d do the lunging.

If they struck due west and threw their full weight against Walkyr’s retreating army and successfully stormed Glydahr, they’d almost certainly drive the Princedom of Sardahn out of the Jihad. It would also cut the primary supply line for any of the archbishop militant’s forces which survived Glydahr’s fall and let them threaten the Holy Langhorne Canal west of the Tairohn Hills, which would cut Earl Rainbow Waters’ line of supply—or retreat—as well.

But they might also choose the option Rainbow Waters obviously believed was their best choice and continue northwest instead of west, across the line of the Ferey River, and strike for Mhartynsberg in the Barony of Charlz in order to cut the Holy Langhorne there. Or, for that matter, they could continue due north, along the western face of the Tarikah Forest, and attempt to envelop Rainbow Waters’ West Wing Lake positions from the south while Green Valley’s frontal attacks held the earl in place.

So far, Mother Church’s generals had continued their stubborn fighting retreat, giving ground slowly or, like Brygham at Mercyr, digging in and continuing to resist ferociously even when surrounded. In the process, they were inflicting heavy casualties on their enemies, especially the Charisian Army. But Charis and the Republic were clearly prepared to pay the price. There was no sign Green Valley’s offensive in the north was weakening, their artillery’s newly revealed capabilities were a terrifying portent of what might be about to come, and if they truly were about to launch a fresh, major offensive against Silken Hills in the south, it seemed likely that—

The treasurer’s gloomy train of thought came to a sudden halt as the council chamber door slid unexpectedly open.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Your Graces,” Wyllym Rayno said quickly, addressing all four of the vicars, although his attention was obviously focused on Clyntahn. “I’m afraid we’ve just received some … disturbing news.”

“What sort of ‘disturbing news’ would that be?” Clyntahn demanded. “Schueler knows we’ve already heard enough of it without your bursting in to deliver still more, Wyllym!”

“I realize that, Your Grace. Unfortunately, I saw no option but to bring this to you immediately.” The Archbishop of Chiang-wu drew a deep breath and braced himself visibly. “Your Grace, it appears Duke Fern has resigned and King Rahnyld has named Earl Thirsk to replace him as First Councilor.”

“What?!” Clyntahn shot upright in his chair, his face darkening. “Thirsk?!”

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.” To his credit, Rayno met his superior’s suddenly fiery eyes without flinching. “We have only fragmentary information at this point, but according to first reports, he’s placed Bishop Executor Wylsynn and Father Ahbsahlahn under arrest. Many of our agents inquisitor in Gorath have also been seized, apparently by Dohlaran Army troops under Sir Rainos Ahlverez’ command. And—” the archbishop’s eyes wavered finally “—Thirsk has negotiated a cease-fire with the heretic Sarmouth.”

“I knew it!” Clyntahn slammed both fists on the conference table. “I frigging well knew it! I’ve been telling the rest of you for months that that gutless bastard would turn his coat the first moment he could! But this—this!” He pounded his fists up and down, his face purple with rage. “The whole damned kingdom’s turned against Mother Church—betrayed God Himself! Shan-wei must be cackling in hell, and you three are the ones who kept me from hauling Thirsk back here and dealing with him before he could sell his entire kingdom to her! What do you think’s going to happen now that he’s gotten away with it? You think some of the other weak-kneed gutless wonders out there won’t be thinking about doing exactly the same thing? Of course they will!”

Duchairn glanced at Maigwair from the corner of one eye, but neither of them spoke, and Clyntahn’s lip curled in contemptuous fury. Then he turned back to Rayno, jabbing the air with an emphatic forefinger.

“I want every Dohlaran in the Temple Lands taken into custody—immediately!” he snarled. “Every one of them, Wyllym—do you understand me?! I want them arrested, and I want them sifted, and any of them—any of them—with any connection to Thirsk or the other traitors to Mother Church will face the Question and the Punishment! I don’t give a spider-rat’s arse who they are, what they are, or who they’re related to. I want every one of them in custody within twenty-six hours!”

“I’ve already directed our agents inquisitor to bring in the most prominent of them, Your Grace,” Rayno replied. “There are a great many Dohlarans in the Temple Lands, however. Many of our foundry and manufactory supervisors are Dohlaran, in fact, and so is quite a bit of our labor force. I’m not certain we have enough manpower to arrest all of—”

“Don’t frigging tell me we don’t have enough manpower!” Clyntahn barked. “Find it! Transfer whoever you have to transfer, but get it done, Wyllym!”

“Of course, Your Grace!” Rayno bowed deeply. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

“See that you damned well do. Now go get started!”

“At once, Your Grace!”

Rayno bowed again, deeper even than before, and vanished, and Clyntahn settled back into his chair. Fury continued to radiate from him, and the council chamber’s very air seemed to quiver with it.

“I told you this would happen.” The words came out remarkably quietly, but they were wrapped around a core of white-hot rage. “I told you, but would you listen? No, of course you wouldn’t!”

“We don’t know for certain yet what’s happening,” Duchairn said very cautiously. Clyntahn’s furious glare focused on him, and the treasurer shrugged. “I’m only saying that Wyllym himself said his reports were fragmentary, Zhaspahr.”

“Of course we know!” Clyntahn snapped. “This is what the miserable prick’s been planning from the beginning—from the first time he didn’t want to surrender his precious heretics to the Punishment!”

Duchairn started to reply, then stopped himself, and a deadly silence fell as the implications of a complete Dohlaran collapse went through all of their minds.

In many ways, it really changed nothing, Duchairn thought. Charisian control of the Gulf of Dohlar had already severed both South Harchong and Dohlar from the Temple Lands and the northern front, where the decisive grapple was underway. A Dohlaran withdrawal from the Jihad would free Earl Hanth’s Army of Thesmar to reinforce High Mount, making Silken Hills’ withdrawal even more urgent, but it would take time, and probably a lot of it, for Hanth to redeploy. Not that it really mattered how long it took—not in the end.

Mother Church had been reduced to the resources of the Temple Lands, whatever minor contribution the Border States could make, and North Harchong. And what that really meant was that her field armies had been reduced solely to the Temple Lands for their support.

The Mighty Host might still be in the field, and additional troops might still be on the march from the Empire, but Charisian control of the Harchong Narrows had already cut off every North Harchong foundry, mine, and farm west of the Chiang-wu Mountains from the day they’d retaken Claw Island. Now, with the entire Gulf closed, the only remaining Harchongese water transport to the Temple Lands was down the St. Cahnyr River out of the Langhorne Mountains or along the Hayzor-Westborne Canal out of the extreme eastern edge of Maddox Province. Those routes served less than five percent of the total Empire; everything else might as well be on the moon for all the good it did the Jihad.

And the Border States won’t be able to supply anything remotely close to our requirements, Duchairn thought. For that matter, how many of them will even try to? Because Zhaspahr has a point, damn him … especially if Charis and Siddarmark are smart enough to offer Thirsk generous terms. With Charisian and Siddarmarkian armies marching steadily deeper into their own territories, the Border State rulers will be looking at the example of Dohlar—and Chisholm, and Emerald, and Corisande, and Tarot, and every other realm that’s made its peace with Charis or simply dropped out of the Jihad, like Desnair.

It’s over.

The thought went through his mind softly, quietly, with something almost like a sense of … relief. No, not relief. That was the wrong word. But he couldn’t think of the right word for the strange empty, singing silence deep within him.

It doesn’t matter what Brygham or Walkyr or Rainbow Waters can do in the field, he thought. Not anymore. There’s simply no physical way we can haul enough food, enough ammunition, or enough men forward to support them. They could fight like Chihiro himself come back to earth, and it wouldn’t change one damned thing in the end.

He saw the same awareness, the same recognition, in Allayn Maigwair’s eyes, and he started to open his mouth. He wasn’t certain what he was going to say, how he’d find the words, and someone else spoke before he found them.

“I think it might be time to … seek direct contact with Cayleb and Sharleyan and Stohnar.”

The hesitant voice was Zahmsyn Trynair’s, and Duchairn’s eyes widened in astonishment as the Chancellor looked nervously at Clyntahn.

The Grand Inquisitor seemed not to have heard him for a handful of seconds. Then he turned his head, looking back at Trynair.

“What did you say?” he asked, and Duchairn’s astonishment grew.

The question had come out calmly, almost courteously, as if Trynair’s suggestion had been perfectly reasonable, and now Clyntahn cocked his head. His expression was almost as calm as his tone, and he made a little encouraging motion with his right hand.

“I said … I said it might be time to seek contact with Cayleb and Sharleyan and Stohnar,” Trynair said, and leaned forward slightly. “I know none of us want to even contemplate that, but if … if the situation’s as … as serious as it seems to have become, then it seems unlikely we can expect a … successful resolution on the battlefield. So perhaps it’s time we sought a diplomatic approach.”

“A diplomatic approach,” Clyntahn repeated. He leaned back in his own chair, folding his hands across his midsection, and raised his eyebrows. “What sort of ‘diplomatic approach’ did you have in mind, Zahmsyn?”

“Well,” Trynair said a bit hesitantly, “I think we probably have to begin by forming a … a realistic view of what Mother Church’s prospects are if we continue the war. I mean, we need to have an accurate understanding of our capabilities—and how they compare to the heretics’—before we can assess what we can realistically ask for.”

“Ask for at the negotiating table, I presume you mean?”

“Yes.” Trynair nodded, his expression more animated at the evidence of Clyntahn’s willingness to hear him out. “It’s always important to decide ahead of time what points are and aren’t negotiable, Zhaspahr. And it’s just as important to evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of both sides’ positions before sitting down at the table. Each of them is going to assess what it demands—or what it’s willing to concede—based on what it expects continuing the war would cost it.”

“And I imagine it’s equally important to decide what’s the minimum you’re prepared to accept from the other side. Especially when you’re negotiating on God’s behalf,” Clyntahn observed in that same calm, reasonable voice, and something in his eyes sent a thousand tiny, icy feet scuttling up and down Duchairn’s spine.

“Oh, absolutely!” Trynair nodded again, firmly, and Duchairn could almost physically feel the Chancellor’s eagerness. It was like watching someone awaken from a trance, rousing as he realized his diplomatic competence and experience had suddenly become relevant once more.

“You always have to understand what you can and can’t bargain away,” he went on. “And it’s always important to remember that you’re not going to get everything you ask for. In this case, I think we’re all in agreement that Mother Church can’t bargain away her religious authority. That has to be guaranteed at an absolute minimum. But we might be willing to offer some accommodations to the Reformists’ less outrageous demands.”

“I don’t think it would be acceptable for Mother Church to surrender any significant doctrinal points, Zahmsyn,” Clyntahn said thoughtfully.

“Oh, no! Not permanently,” Trynair agreed. “I’m not suggesting we should do anything of the sort! But we might need to convince them we’d be willing to, if only to get them started talking to us. If we tell them we’re prepared to negotiate and both sides agree to a cease-fire in place while we do, I’m sure we could spin the talks out at least to the end of summer. Trust me, my people and I are old hands at that sort of thing!” He smiled. “If we get them talking in the first place, I’m confident we can keep them talking until the first snow shuts down the fighting. That would give us all winter to improve our military position, and if we did that, we’d be able to hold out for much better terms next year. The longer they give us to recover, the more expensive it becomes for them to defeat us militarily. And the more expensive that becomes, the more … amenable to reason they’ll be.”

“And you genuinely think you could negotiate an acceptable balance of authority between Mother Church and someone like Cayleb Ahrmahk or Greyghor Stohnar? Forgive me if I seem just a trifle skeptical about that, after all this time and all this bloodshed.”

“I don’t know,” Trynair said frankly. “I only know it’s our best chance—our only chance, really—given how bad things look. I may not be able to get them to agree to our minimal terms, but there’s at least the possibility that I can. On the other hand, if we continue the Jihad and lose—and that’s exactly what seems to be happening, Zhaspahr—they’ll be in a position to dictate any terms they want, and I think we can all imagine what those terms would be like.”

“I imagine we can,” Clyntahn agreed. He sat for several more moments, his lips pursed in thought, then gave a small nod and stretched out an arm. He passed one hand over the glowing God light on the table before him, and the council chamber door slid open once more as one of the purple-cassocked agents inquisitor in the antechamber answered the soft chime.

“Yes, Your Grace?” he said, signing himself with Langhorne’s scepter and bowing to the Grand Inquisitor.

“Arrest him,” Clyntahn replied conversationally, and pointed at Trynair.

Zahmsyn Trynair slammed back in his chair, staring at Clyntahn in disbelief, but the agent inquisitor only nodded, as if the order to arrest Mother Church’s Chancellor was nothing out of the ordinary. The sound of his heels was loud in the brutal, echoing silence as he crossed to Trynair’s end of the table.

“If you’ll accompany me, please, Your Grace.”

The words were courteous, but the tone was icy and Trynair shook his head, still staring at Clyntahn.

“Zhaspahr, please,” he whispered. “You can’t! I mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean, Zahmsyn,” Clyntahn said, and the veneer of thoughtful, interested curiosity had vanished. “You mean you’re willing to sit down across a table from that bastard Cayleb and that harlot Sharleyan and bargain away God’s own authority to save your worthless arse.” His voice was as implacable as his frozen eyes. “I should’ve realized long ago that you’d betray Him and His Archangels anytime you saw an advantage to it. But just as God knows His own, His Inquisition knows how to deal with Shan-wei’s own.”

“But I’m not!” Trynair rose from his chair, holding out an imploring hand. “You know I’m not! I’m trying to save Mother Church from losing everything if the heretics defeat our last armies!”

“Don’t be any stupider than you have to be,” Clyntahn sneered. “Mother Church is God’s Bride. She can’t lose—not in the end—so long as one faithful, loyal son stands to fight for her! But I don’t suppose a traitor to God could be expected to understand that, could he?”

“I—”

Trynair broke off, his face paper-white, terror beginning to flare in his eyes as panic leached away the anesthetic of shock. He stared at Clyntahn, and then his eyes darted desperately to Duchairn and Maigwair.

“Don’t expect them to save you,” Clyntahn said flatly, jerking the Chancellor’s eyes back to him, and contempt edged his voice. “Unlike you, they’re dutiful sons of Mother Church. They understand their responsibilities … just as they understand the consequences of failing to meet those responsibilities.”

Duchairn’s jaw clenched so tightly he expected his teeth to shatter, but he managed to hold his tongue. It wasn’t easy when he saw the horror in Trynair’s eyes, but he couldn’t miss the message in Clyntahn’s. The Grand Inquisitor was perfectly prepared to make a clean sweep, to have all of them arrested to free his own hand for the Jihad. If he did, the consequences would be disastrous for Mother Church, but none of them would be there to see it when he took the entire Church down in ruin with him.

He’s mad, Duchairn thought. He’s finally gone completely mad. He knows—intellectually, he knows as well as I do—the Jihad’s lost. As Allayn and Zahmsyn do. But he’ll never admit it. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s ready to ride the Jihad all the way to Mother Church’s total destruction if God isn’t willing to validate him by producing the miracle it would take to prevent that. And he’ll kill anyone who disagrees with him.

The awareness, Clyntahn’s challenge, lay between them, stark and ugly, and Rhobair Duchairn made himself sit back in his chair. He forced himself to meet Clyntahn’s cold serpent’s eyes without flinching … but he said nothing.

Clyntahn’s nostrils flared and his lip curled. Then he looked back at the agent inquisitor.

“Take him,” he said, and the agent inquisitor laid a hand on Trynair’s arm.

Trynair stared down at it for a single heartbeat. But then his eyes closed and his shoulders slumped. He stood a moment longer, until the agent inquisitor tugged. When his eyes opened again, they were empty—empty of fear, of hope, of anything at all—and he followed the agent inquisitor from the chamber, walking like a man lost in nightmare.

Clyntahn watched him go, then rose from his own chair and stood facing Duchairn and Maigwair across the table.

“Nothing can excuse the treason of a vicar—especially of Mother Church’s own Chancellor—when she’s fighting for her very life against the forces of hell unleashed upon the world.” Every word was carved out of ice, and his eyes were colder still. “Understand me well, both of you. Anyone who betrays the Jihad, regardless of position or power, betrays God, and that will never be tolerated, never pass unpunished. Never. The Inquisition’s rod will find him out, and it will break him.”

He held them with those frozen eyes, daring them to speak, then inhaled deeply.

“Perhaps it’s as well this has happened,” he said then. “It’s time all of God’s children were made aware that anyone who fails God must pay the price. And so they will. The Holy Inquisition will teach them that when Zahmsyn faces the Punishment tomorrow.”

He gave them one final, icy look, then stalked from the chamber in silence.