"To be honest? No." He shook his own head. "I'm beginning to come to Chiyan's view of the future, I'm afraid. By the time we're able to convince the Council that the Group of Four is leading all of us to disaster-if we ever manage to convince the others of that-too much blood will have been shed, and too much hatred will have been engendered. I'm very much afraid that whatever else happens, the schism between Charis and the Temple is unhealable."

The silence in the rain-lashed church was profound as the Circle's leader finally admitted that.

"In that case, is Clyntahn's determination to forcibly suppress the schismatics really wrong?" Holdyn asked. All of them looked at him, and he waved one hand in the air before his face. "I'm not saying the man isn't a monster, or trying to suggest that his initial solution to the 'Charisian problem' wasn't loathsome in the eyes of God. But if we've reached a point where the Charisians will never return voluntarily to Mother Church, what other option than forcing them to return will lie open to us as the vicars of God's Church?"

"I'm not certain forcing them to return, by any means, is the right course," Wylsynn replied, facing the issue squarely. "With all due respect for the traditions of Mother Church, perhaps the time's come for us to simply accept that the people of Charis are not going to submit to what amounts to foreign rule of their own church any longer."

He looked around the other, worried faces and wondered how many of them were thinking what he was. The Church's "traditions" didn't always perfectly reflect historical truth. That was one of the things which made Maikel Staynair's appointment as Archbishop of Charis-and his letters to the Temple-so dangerous. It was enormously ironic that the rebellious archbishop had chosen to base so much of his argument on Grand Vicar Tomhys' writ, On Obedience and Faith. That writ of instruction's true purpose had been to establish the doctrine of the Grand Vicar's infallibility when he spoke in the name of God. Which, as Wylsynn, for one, knew perfectly well had been a new and radically different formulation of doctrine, justified on the basis of "necessary change." And the same writ had moved the Church's confirmation of bishops and archbishops from the archdiocesan level to that of the vicarate itself.

That had been in the year 407, and in the five centuries since, it had become the Church's tradition that it had always been so. Indeed, most people- including many of the clergy, who should have known better-truly believed that to have been the case. Which was what made the fact that Staynair had used the same writ's authorization of canonical change when events within the world made it necessary so damnably ironic . . . and dangerous. For the Church to deny the authority of Tomhys' writ in Charis' case was to deny its authority in all cases. Including that which, ultimately, had made the vicarate the undisputed master of the Church in the first place.

From Wylsynn's perspective, that would almost certainly be a very good thing. From the perspective of the Group of Four and those like them, it was anathema, complete and total.

"All of you know my son was Dynnys' intendant," he continued. "In fact, he understood from the beginning the reasons why I actually helped Clyntahn engineer his 'exile' to Tellesberg rather than trying to fight it. I've shared most of his private letters with other members of the Circle. He's convinced-and I have great faith in his judgment-that whatever else the Charisians may be, they aren't servants of Shan-wei, and that their general hostility towards Mother Church is directed at her hierarchy-at the Group of Four . . . and at the rest of the vicarate because of our failure to restrain people like Clyntahn. So I believe we have to ask ourselves a fundamental question, Brothers. Which is more important? The outward unity of Mother Church, enforced by swords and pikes against the will of God's children? Or the continued, joyous communion of those children with God and the Archangels, even if it be through a hierarchy other than our own? If the only point of true doctrinal disagreement lies in the infallibility of the Grand Vicar and the overriding authority of the vicarate, isn't it perhaps time we considered saying to our brothers and sisters in Charis that they are still our brothers and sisters, even if they refuse to submit to the authority of the Temple? If we let them go their own way to God, with our blessing and continued prayers for their salvation, rather than attempting to force them to act in violation of their own consciences, perhaps we can at least blunt the hatred between Tellesberg and the Temple."

"Accept the schism as permanent, you mean?" Hysin asked. The Harchongese vicar seemed surprised to hear such sentiments from any Schuelerite even a Wylsynn.

"So long as it's only schism, and not true heresy, yes," Wylsynn agreed.

"That's getting much too far ahead of ourselves," Tanyr said after a moment. "First, we have to survive, and somehow Clyntahn and the others have to be taken out of the decision-making positions of Mother Church." He smiled without any humor at all. "That's quite enough of a challenge for me, I think."

"To be sure." Wylsynn nodded.

"Actually, in some ways, I find Duchairn more worrisome than Clyntahn at the moment," Hysin said. Several others looked at him questioningly and he frowned. "Unlike the rest of the Group of Four, I think Duchairn's actually rediscovered the Writ. Everything I've seen suggests a genuine resurgence of faith on his part, but he's still wedded to the rest of the Group of Four. In an odd sort of a way that actually serves to legitimize the Group of Four's policies in a way Clyntahn doesn't. . . and can't."

"Because it's obvious that unlike Clyntahn, he's not making cynical calculations-anymore, at least-you mean?"

"That's exactly what I mean, Hauwerd." Hysin nodded. "Even worse, I think he may well prove a rallying point for vicars who might otherwise support the Circle. Vicars who're genuinely tired and heartsick over the Church's abuses may see in him and in his regenerated faith the model for their own regeneration. And I'm very much afraid that whatever we may think about the acceptability of a permanent schism, Duchairn isn't prepared to entertain that concept at all."

"Perhaps it's time we started thinking about recruiting him for the Circle," Foryst suggested.

"You may be right," Samyl Wylsynn said after several seconds of careful thought. "But even if it might prove possible to recruit him, we need to be very, very cautious about how we approach him. First, because we might be wrong-he might regard us as traitors, as an internal threat to Mother Church's unity at the greatest moment of crisis in her history. But, second, because he's so close to Clyntahn. And Trynair, of course; let's not forget that our good Chancellor is scarcely an idiot, however much he may act like one upon occasion. But I would be absolutely astonished to discover that Clyntahn isn't using the Inquisition to keep tabs on his three 'allies.' If he is, and if we approached Duchairn even a little clumsily, it could be disastrous for everyone."

"Agreed," Foryst said. "And I'm not suggesting we rush right out and invite him to our next meeting. But I do think it's time we began considering this possibility seriously, and thinking about ways we might approach him if the time should come when it seems appropriate. Arguments to convince him we're right, and ways of presenting those arguments that aren't likely to trigger any alarms in Clyntahn."

"I see you haven't lost your taste for formidable challenges, Erayk," Hysin said dryly, and a chuckle ran around the seated vicars and bishops.

"Very well," Samyl Wylsynn said after the chuckle had died. "We've all been brought up to date, and we've all had a chance to discuss our current thinking where the schism-and the Group of Four-are concerned. I don't believe we're in a position to decide on any new policies or strategies at this point. Not, at least, until we've had an opportunity to see how the Group of Four's version of events in Ferayd, Charis, and Emerald plays out once it's finally presented to the rest of the Council. Between now and then, I think all of us need to pray and meditate in hopes that God will show us our true path."

Heads nodded gravely, and he smiled more naturally and openly than anyone had since their arrival.

"In that case, Brothers," he said, "won't you join me in a moment of prayer before we venture back out into all that wind and rain?"

.V.

Army Training Ground

and Manchyr Cathedral,

Duchy of Manchyr,

Kingdom of Corisande

The SNARCs deployed sensor was parked on Hektor of Corisande's right shoulder, where it provided Merlin with, among other things, an exquisitely detailed view of the prince's ear hair. There were times-many of them-when Merlin had felt severely tempted to use the sensors' self-destruct capability to remove Hektor from the equation once and for all. The remotes had been designed to be capable of working together with their clones to destroy specifically targeted circuits in enemy installations with their incendiary shaped-charge "suicide pills," and it wouldn't have been particularly difficult for him to maneuver several of them deep into the Corisandian's ear canal and use their combined charges to eliminate him while he slept.

Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to disguise what had happened, and even if Safeholdian healers had been trained by rote according to The Book of Pasquale rather than on any scientific basis, an explosive burst of flame sufficient to burn holes through tempered steel plates inside an ear canal would be hard for any postmortem exam to miss. The questions that would raise- including the inevitable allegations that the Charisians must have done it using black arts provided to them by their true mistress, Shan-wei (which, after all, would be uncomfortably close to the truth)-scarcely bore thinking upon.

It's bad enough that everyone in Corisande already thinks we tried to kill him once Merlin reflected, swiveling the sensor's field of view away from the prince's hairy earlobe and back out across the grassy hillside on which Hektor, his daughter, and the Earl of Coris sat their horses with Earl Anvil Rock. Adding charges of witchcraft to the mix couldn't make anything better!

The thought brought a slight smile to his lips, but his amusement vanished as he reflected upon what Hektor had come here to see.

Manchyr was six hours ahead of Tellesberg. Although it would be some hours yet before the sun rose over Cayleb's capital, the morning was already well advanced in Corisande, and the troops who'd been detailed to demonstrate their new weapons for Hektor had been waiting for him and the princess for almost an hour.

"All right, Rysel," Hektor said. "Your reports have been interesting enough. I'm looking forward to seeing the actual guns."

"I don't think you'll be disappointed, My Prince," Anvil Rock told him.

"I'm not expecting to be," Hektor assured the earl.

Anvil Rock grinned at him, then nodded to the youthful officer standing beside him. The young man picked up a flag from the grass at his feet and waved it vigorously overhead. Someone down at the deployed battery of guns saw it and waved another flag in response, and the waiting gun crews swung into action.

The guns themselves looked odd, especially in comparison to the pieces Seamount was in the course of providing for Charis. The barrels were short and stubby, which only made sense, Merlin supposed, since they'd been copied directly from the sketches Captain Myrgyn had sent home. Myrgyn had sketched only the carronades the Charisian galleys had mounted in their broadsides, not the long guns they'd mounted as chase weapons, and most of the new Corisandian artillery was being made to that pattern.

Earl Tartarian had recognized the implications of the carronades' shorter inherent range once the Navy had begun test firings, and the third pour of naval artillery had increased barrel length to extend the weapons' range-Anvil Rock and his son were familiar with the modified, longer naval pieces, but they'd chosen to stick to the carronade pattern for their new field artillery That let them put considerably heavier guns into the field for the same weight of metal, and even the "field carronades," as Merlin had decided they needed to be called to separate them from proper field guns, had several times the effective range of smoothbore matchlock muskets. Against that sort of infantry weapon, the artillery Anvil Rock had designed made excellent sense. Unfortunately-or, perhaps, fortunately, from Merlin's perspective-Anvil Rock wasn't aware of the fact that the Charisian Marines were now armed with rifles, not smoothbores.

Not that his carronades aren't going to be a big enough pain in the ass to go on with, Merlin thought grimly. And he and his son were certainly right about the throw-weight side of things. They're going to be deploying twenty-four-pounders on carriages the size of the ones we're using for twelve-pounders, and there are going to be plenty of instances in which we can't make use of our rifles' maximum ranges against them. Which is going to hurt. A lot.

And if they haven't figured out about rifles, Anvil Rock's over-clever, pain-in-the-ass son has obviously figured out the implications of the flintlocks our artillery uses instead of slow match.

The new musket-sized flintlocks already being issued to the Corisandian Army might still be smoothbores, but they were going to fire a lot faster and be a lot handier than the old-style matchlocks. Fortunately, the Corisandians had run into a bottleneck producing the smaller, lighter wooden stocks for the converted weapons, but they were still going to have a lot more of them available than Merlin and Cayleb had hoped.

The gun crews had been busy while he pondered the gloomy implications of the field carronades' existence and the new muskets. They'd made full use of the concept of bagged charges, as well, he observed. They were still using meal powder, at least-Myrgyn's notes clearly hadn't told them how corned powder was made-which meant it was weaker, weight for weight, and that even the individually bagged charges had a tendency to separate into their constituent ingredients if they were carried very far. But while that was all well and good, they'd still improved their artillery's rate of fire considerably.

And that's another place where their shorter gun tubes are going to help them, Merlin reflected. Their gunners are going to be able to fire more rapidly than ours can, which means that shoe, at least, is going to be on the other foot. . . and pinching hell out of our toes, at that.

The distant flag down by the artillery waved once again, and then the guns boomed. The flat, hard, dull concussion pounded at the witnesses' ears, their horses twitched under them at the unfamiliar noise, and the weapons' shorter barrels made their muzzle flashes even more impressive. Perfectly round, dirty-white smoke rings drifted off on the gentle breeze, and the guns' round shot smashed into the waiting targets with terrific force.

Baron Seamount favored straw-stuffed mannequins as demonstration targets, and Merlin had always found the clouds of flying, golden hay highly-even gruesomely-effective for making his point. Earl Anvil Rock on the other hand, favored casks of water, and the huge, sun-shot spray patterns as the round shot tore through the barrel staves were spectacular. So was the rate of fire the gunners demonstrated as they moved through the routine of serving their pieces as smoothly and efficiently as any Charisian gun crew.

I do wish the other side could be composed solely of idiots, Merlin thought glumly, watching the nascent Corisandian field artillery demonstrate its paces for Prince Hektor. Those things are going to he copper-plated bitches to deal with, especially in any sort of close terrain. And given how much less metal there is in each carronade, their foundries can turn out more of them-and faster-in the time they've got.

In the long run, he felt confident, Seamount's longer field guns ought to be able to master their shorter-ranged Corisandian counterparts. But "the long run" wasn't something he especially wanted to rely upon, not when "the short term" was going to be punctuated with Charisian bodies. At least the lack of any Corisandian experimentation with rifles meant Charisian infantry was going to retain a major advantage in any sort of ranged combat. That alone ought to pretty much guarantee tactical superiority on the battlefield.

On the other hand, the French rifles were superior to the Prussians' in the Franco-Prussian War, and that didn't keep the Prussian artillery from kicking the French Army's ass. Now there's a cheerful thought, Merlin!

He grimaced, continuing to watch the demonstration play out across the backs of his eyelids as he sat in his darkened room. Cayleb wasn't going to be happy to hear about this, he decided, but that could have its good points, as well. Now that Nahrmahn was no longer the enemy, the question as to what constituted the next natural strategic objective for Charis had been drastically simplified. Now, watching the new weapons Hektor was putting into the field, it was obvious to Merlin that it was time to accelerate their timetable for the invasion of Corisande.

I just hope we can accelerate it enough, he thought.

"That was truly impressive, Rysel," Prince Hektor told Anvil Rock with simple sincerity as the gun crews swabbed out the bores of their weapons.

"You can thank Koryn for most of it." Anvil Rock smiled, his pride in his eldest son evident. "Well, him and Charlz Doyal. We'll have three complete batteries in service by the end of next five-day, and they're concentrating on grapeshot and canister for field use. I don't suppose we'll be battering any walls down anytime soon."

"I don't imagine so." Hektor smiled thinly. "In point of fact, I'm fairly confident Cayleb expects to be the one doing any wall-battering. I'm going to rely on you and Koryn to see to it that he's disappointed in that respect."

"We'll do our best, My Prince." Anvil Rock touched his breastplate in formal salute, half bowing in the saddle, and Hektor nodded.

"I know you will, Rysel. I know you will."

Anvil Rock straightened, then glanced down the hill to where the artillerists were almost done with their post-demonstration cleanup.

"My Prince, it would do morale a world of good if you could have a few words with the men."

"I'd be delighted to," Hektor said with a smile. "And do you think having Irys say a little something might help, too?"

"My Prince," Anvil Rock smiled at the princess, "most of these men are young, impressionable, and away from home for the first time in their lives. Having a beautiful young princess tell them how wonderful they are is bound to help morale! But it would probably be a good idea for me to go and warn them they're about to be visited by royalty before you suddenly turn up."

" 'Beautiful!' " Irys sniffed, then smiled at her cousin. "Go and warn them to be suitably stricken by my incomparable loveliness, you mean, don't you, Uncle Rysel?"

"Actually," Anvil Rock said with an expression of unusual sobriety, "you need to spend a little more time looking into your mirror, Irys. Since all those knobby tomboy knees and scraped elbows became things of the past, you've started to look a lot like your mother. And, to be perfectly honest, your mother was the one thing I ever truly envied your father over." His eyes softened for a moment, then brightened with a gleam of humor. "Of course, it was an arranged marriage. Otherwise, I'm certain, she would have opted for my own incomparable masculine grace and charm. I certainly tried hard enough to convince her to elope with me, but she was always a slave to family duty."

"No doubt," Hektor said dryly, then smiled himself "I think it's time you trotted on over and warned your artillerists about our impending arrival. I'd hate to be forced to deprive myself of my best field commander by beheading you for lese-majeste on the very eve of invasion."

"Of course, My Prince!" Anvil Rock slapped his breastplate again, wheeled his horse, and went cantering down the gentle slope in a spatter of damp clods of earth.

"Did Uncle Rysel really want to marry Mother?" Irys asked her father softly as the earl rode away.

"No." Hektor shook his head, smiling faintly after Anvil Rock. "Oh, he adored her, no question of that. But he was already very happily married, and he loves his wife, too. Actually," he turned to look at his daughter, "everyone adored your mother, I sometimes think. And Rysel's right. You do look more and more like her every day, despite your hair. Hers was closer to chestnut Your brother got that. It's a pity he didn't get anything else."

"Father-" Irys began, and Hektor grimaced.

"I'm not going to start in on him again, I promise. And you're right. He is young, and there's still time for him to grow into the crown. Or, there ought to be, anyway. But as much as you love him, I can't help wishing he could develop at least a little of the urgency you seem to feel over our imminent invasion by Charis. I'd feel a lot happier over the succession if he would."

Irys' expression was obviously unhappy, but she only nodded.

"And speaking of the succession," Hektor continued, lightening his tone deliberately as he turned to the Earl of Coris, who'd sat his horse to one side while he and Irys talked, "are there any further clues as to who was behind that assassination attempt?"

"No, My Prince," Coris admitted. "My agents have interviewed every shop owner, street vendor, and beggar in Manchyr looking for witnesses who might be able to identify the assassins or tell us where they went after the attack. We've even tried-without success-to find the maker of the arbalests on the off-chance that he might remember who bought them from him. The only thing I can tell you for certain is that their proof marks aren't Corisandian."

"They aren't?" Hektor rubbed his chin contemplatively. "That's interesting. Do we have any idea whose proof marks they are, since they aren't ours?"

"I suspect they're Harchongese, My Prince. Unfortunately, Harchong is rather outside our normal area of interest. I'm trying to get confirmation of that, but so far without much luck."

"But they're not Corisandian, and they're from far enough away- wherever they were actually made-that you're finding it difficult even to identify the maker," Irys said, her hazel eyes as thoughtful as her father's. "That's significant itself, don't you think?"

"Possibly." Coris nodded. "The same thought had occurred to me, Your Highness. Foreign weapons, difficult to trace, might well suggest this was carefully planned by foreigners. I don't think we ought to jump to any conclusions in that regard, however. That's not to say I'm not strongly inclined towards the same one you're suggesting, only that I'm trying to keep my mind open to other possibilities."

"I understand, My Lord." Irys smiled at him. "And I'm grateful to you for reminding me of the need to consider possible culprits besides Cayleb."

"If anyone in the entire Princedom, besides the two of you, is blaming anyone but Cayleb for it, I haven't heard anything about it," Hektor said wryly.

"Good!" Irys turned back from Coris and showed him her teeth. "If it wasn't Cayleb, I'm not going to shed any tears over seeing him blamed for it anyway. And judging from the reactions I've been seeing, the idea that he tried to kill you has truly infuriated quite a few of your subjects, Father!"

"Amazing how a foreign assassination attempt can make people forget all the reasons they have for being . . . irritated with their own prince, isn't it?" Hektor observed with a chuckle.

His daughter's eyebrows furrowed, and he chuckled again, harder.

"Irys, no matter how good a prince may be-and I've never made any pretensions to sainthood, sweetheart-at least some of his subjects are going to be unhappy with him about something. It happens. I couldn't make everyone happy even if I tried, and it's not really the fault of those I make unhappy that they don't like me very much. That's one reason I try not to step too heavily on any one group-here at home, at least-and one reason to balance the nobility and its demands and desires against the commons and their demands and desires. I don't lose any sleep over the fact that I can never satisfy everyone, but the ruler who forgets that at least some of his subjects have legitimate reasons to be unhappy with him isn't likely to continue to rule very long."

She nodded very seriously, and he smiled at her.

Rysel is even righter than he knows, he thought. You're so much like your mother. And Hektor isn't enough like me . . . or your mother. But at least he'll have you, won't he, Irys? And maybe he'll actually be smart enough to listen to you. I'm sure a more unlikely miracle has happened somewhere in history. . . even if I can't think of one right offhand.

"Earl Anvil Rock is waving his flag again down there, My Prince," Coris observed.

"Then let's ride down and enhance a little morale, shall we, Irys?" Hektor said lightly, and turned his horse towards the waiting artillerists.

"I hate relying on anyone from Siddarmark," Bishop Executor Thomys Shylair said unhappily.

"As do I, My Lord," Father Aidryn Waimyn, Bishop Executor Thomys' intendant, agreed. "At the moment, however, we don't have very much choice, do we?"