By Schism Rent Asunder
David Weber
By Schism
Rent
Asunder
Safehold
Book II
David Weber
Synopsis
The world has changed. The mercantile kingdom of Charis has prevailed over the alliance designed to exterminate it. Armed with better sailing vessels, better guns and better devices of all sorts, Charis faced the combined navies of the rest of the world at Darcos Sound and Armageddon Reef, and broke them. Despite the implacable hostility of the Church of God Awaiting, Charis still stands, still free, still tolerant, still an island of innovation in a world in which the Church has worked for centuries to keep humanity locked at a medieval level of existence.
But the powerful men who run the Church aren't going to take their defeat lying down. Charis may control the world's seas, but it barely has an army worthy of the name. And as King Cayleb knows, far too much of the kingdom's recent good fortune is due to the secret manipulations of the being that calls himself Merlin—a being that, the world must not find out too soon, is more than human. A being on whose shoulders rests the last chance for humanity's freedom.
Now, as Charis and its archbishop make the rift with Mother Church explicit, the storm gathers. Schism has come to the world of Safehold. Nothing will ever be the same.
Tor Books by David Weber
Off Armageddon Reef
By Schism Rent Asunder
Contents
Prologue
Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
.V.
.VI.
.VII.
June, Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
.V.
.VI.
.VII.
.VIII.
.IX.
.X.
.XI.
.XII.
.XIII.
July, Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
.V.
.VI.
.VII.
August, Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
.V.
.VI.
.VII.
.VIII.
.IX.
.X.
.XI.
.XII.
.XIII.
.XIV.
.XV.
September, Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
.V.
.VI.
October, Year of God 892
.I.
.II.
.III.
.IV.
November, Year of God 892
.I.
Characters
Glossary
Biography
Prologue
It was very quiet in the inverted recon skimmer.
It tended to be that way in orbit, aside from the quiet chirping of an occasional audio signal from the skimmer's flight computers, and those only seemed to perfect the silence, rather than interrupt it. The man who had once been Nimue Alban leaned back in the pilot's couch, looking down through the clear armorplast of his canopy at the planet beneath him, and treasured that quiet, serene calm.
I really shouldn't be here, he thought, watching the gorgeous blue-and-white-swirled marble of the planet called Safehold while his skimmer swept steadily towards the dark line of the terminator. I've got way too many things to be doing back in Tellesberg. And I've got no business at all hanging around up here, stealth systems or no.
All of that was true, and it didn't matter. Or, rather, it didn't matter enough to keep him from being here, anyway.
In one sense, there was absolutely no need for him to be up here physically. The Self-Navigating Autonomous Reconnaissance and Communication platforms he'd deployed were capable of transmitting exactly the same imagery to him, without any need for him to see it with his own eyes . . . if, indeed, that could be said to be what he was doing. And the SNARCs were far smaller, and even stealthier, than his recon skimmer. If the kinetic bombardment system that lunatic Langhorne had hung in orbit around Safehold really did have first-line passive sensors, it was far less likely to detect a SNARC than the skimmer, and he knew it.
Yet there were times when he needed this silent, still moment, this vacuum-clear eyrie from which he could look down upon the last planet mankind could claim. He needed the reminder of who—what—he truly was, and of what he must somehow restore to the human beings thronging that planet so far below him. And he needed to see its beauty, to . . . cleanse his thoughts, recoup his determination. He spent so much time poring over the take from his network of SNARCs, studying the spy reports, listening in on the plans and conspiracies of the enemies of the kingdom he had made his home that it sometimes seemed that that was all there was to the universe. That the sheer -weight of opposition towering up all about him was too vast, too deep, for any single creature to oppose.
The people around him, the people he'd come to care for, were the true antidote to the despair which sometimes threatened him as he contemplated the enormous scope of the task to which he had been summoned. They were the ones who reminded him why humanity was worth fighting for, reminded him of the heights to which mankind could aspire, of the courage and the sacrifice—the trust—of which Homo sapiens was capable. Despite the way their history and their religion had been cynically manipulated, they were as strong and vital, as courageous, as any humans in the history of the race which had once been his own.
Yet, even so, there were times when that wasn't quite enough. When his awareness of the odds against their survival, his sense of desperate responsibility, and the sheer loneliness of living among them but never truly being one of them pressed down upon him. When the burden of his potential immortality against the ephemeral span of the lives to which they were condemned filled him with an aching grief for losses yet to come. When his responsibility for the wave of religious strife even now beginning to sweep around that blue and white sphere crushed down upon him. And when the question of who—and what—he truly was filled him with a loneliness that sucked at his soul like the vacuum outside his skimmer.
It was against those times that he needed this moment, gazing down upon the world which had become his charge, his responsibility. Needed to once more look upon the reality, the fledgling future, which made all the present's harsh demands worthwhile.
It really is a pretty world, he thought almost dreamily. And looking at it from up here puts it all into perspective, doesn't it? Beautiful as it is, important as the human race may be to me, it's only one world among billions, only one species among hundreds of millions, at the least. If God can put that much effort into His universe, then I can damned well do whatever He demands of me, can't I? And—his lips quirked in a wry smile—at least I can be pretty sure He understands. If He can put all of this together, put me right smack in the middle of it, then I've just got to assume He knows what He's doing. Which means all I really have to do is figure out what I'm supposed to be doing.
He snorted in amusement, the sound loud in the cockpit's silence, then shook himself and let the flight couch come upright once again.
Enough planet-gazing, Merlin, he told himself firmly. It's going to be dawn in Tellesberg in three more hours, and Franz is going to be wondering where his relief is. Time to get your molycirc butt home, where it belongs.
"Owl," he said aloud.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?" the distant AI in the cavern under Safe-hold's tallest mountain replied almost instantly over the secure communicat
ions link.
"I'm headed home. Run a hundred-klick sweep around the alpha base and make sure there's no one hanging around to notice the skimmer on its way to the garage. And take a look at my balcony, too. Make sure no one's in a position to see me when you drop me off."
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," the AI acknowledged, and Merlin reached for the skimmer's controls.
Year of God 892
.I.
Eraystor Bay,
Princedom of Emerald
Bright morning sunlight glittered on the crossed golden scepters of the green banner of the Church of God Awaiting. The twin-masted courier ship flying that wind-starched banner as she scudded along on the brisk breeze was little more than seventy feet long, built for speed rather than endurance . . . or even seakeeping and stability. Her crew of sixty was small for any galley, even one as diminutive as she was, but her slender, lightly constructed hull was well suited for rowing, and her lateen sails drove her in a rapid flurry of foam as she went slicing across the brilliant sun-splintered water and foaming white horses of the thirty-mile-wide passage between Callie's Island and the northeastern shore of Eraystor Bay.
Father Rahss Sawal, the small fleet vessel's commander, stood on his tiny quarterdeck, hands clasped behind him, and concentrated on looking confident while he gazed up at the seabirds and wyverns hovering against the painfully blue sky. It was harder than it ought to have been to maintain the outward assurance (it would never have done to call it arrogance) proper to the master of one of Mother Church's couriers, and Sawal didn't much care for the reason he found it so.
The Temple's messengers, whether landbound or afloat, enjoyed absolute priority and freedom of passage. They carried God's own messages and commands, with all the authority of the archangels themselves, and no mortal had the temerity to challenge their passage wherever God or His Church might send them. That had been true literally since the Creation, and no one had ever dared to dispute it. Unfortunately, Sawal was no longer certain the centuries-old inviolability of Mother Church's messengers continued to hold true.
The thought was . . . disturbing, in more ways than one. Most immediately, because of the potential consequences for his own current mission. In the long run, because the failure of that inviolability was unthinkable. Defiance of the authority of God's Church could have only one consequence for the souls of the defiers, and if their example led others into the same sin . . .
Sawal pushed that thought aside once more, telling himself—insisting to himself—that whatever madness had infected the Kingdom of Charis, God would never permit it to spread beyond Charis' borders. The universal authority of Mother Church was the linchpin not simply of the world in which he lived, but of God's very plan for Man's salvation. If that authority were challenged, if it failed, the consequences would be unthinkable. Shan-wei, lost and damned mother of evil, must be licking her fangs at the very possibility in the dark, dank corner of Hell to which the Archangel Lang-horne had consigned her for her sins. Even now she must be testing the bars, trying the strength of her chains, as she tasted the overweening, sinful pride of those who sought to set their own fallible judgment in place of God's. Langhorne himself had locked that gate behind her, with all the authority of eternity, but Man had free will. Even now, he could turn the key in that lock if he so chose, and if he did . . .
Damn those Charisians, he thought grimly. Don't they even realize what door they're opening? Don't they care? Don't—
His jaw tightened and he forced himself to relax his shoulders and draw a deep, cleansing breath. It didn't help very much.
His instructions from Bishop Executor Thomys had been abundantly clear. Sawal was to deliver the bishop executor's dispatches to Bishop Executor Wyllys in Eraystor at all costs. That phrase—"at all costs"—had never before been part of Sawal's orders. There'd never been any need for it, but there was now, and—
"Deck there!" The shout came down from the crow's nest. "Deck there! Three sail on the port bow!"
* * * *
"Well, well," Commander Paitryk Hywyt, Royal Charisian Navy, murmured to himself as he peered through the spyglass. "This should be interesting."
He lowered the glass and frowned thoughtfully. His orders were perfectly clear on this point. They'd made him more than a little nervous when he first received them, but they were definitely clear, and now he discovered that he was actually looking forward to obeying them. Odd. He wouldn't have thought that was likely to happen.
"It's a Church courier, all right," he said a bit louder, and Zhak Urvyn, HMS Wave's first lieutenant, made a distinctly unhappy sound.
"Some of the men may not like it, Sir," Urvyn said softly. Hywyt glanced sideways at him, then shrugged.
"I've got a feeling the men's attitude may just surprise you a bit, Zhak," he said dryly. "They're still about as pissed off as I've ever seen them, and they know who that courier's really working for this morning."
Urvyn nodded, but he looked gloomier than ever, and Hywyt grimaced mentally. It wasn't the men Urvyn expected to be unhappy; it was Urvyn himself
"Bring her three points to port, if you please, Lieutenant," Hywyt said, speaking rather more formally than was his wont. "Let's lay out a course to intercept her."
"Aye, aye, Sir." Urvyn's expression was worried, but he saluted and passed the order to the helmsman while other hands pattered across the wooden decks to tend sheets and braces.
Wave changed course, slicing across the water close-hauled on the port tack, and Hywyt felt a familiar surge of pleasure as his vessel responded. The sleek, flush-decked, twin-masted schooner was just over ninety-five feet long on the waterline, and mounted fourteen thirty-pounder carronades. Unlike some of her sisters, Wave had been designed and built from the keel up as a light cruiser for the Royal Charisian Navy. Her revolutionary sail plan made her faster and far more weatherly than any other ship Hywyt had ever encountered, far less commanded, and she'd already taken no less than seven prizes—almost half of those captured by the entire blockading squadron— here in Emeraldian waters since the Battle of Darcos Sound. That was what speed and handiness meant, and the comfortable sound prize money made falling into their purses had helped overcome any lingering qualms his crew might have cherished. They were Charisians, after all, he thought with a gleam of humor. Charis' numerous detractors were wont to refer to the Kingdom as a "kingdom of shopkeepers and moneylenders," and not in tones of approval. Hywyt had listened to their rancorous envy for years, and he had to admit there was at least a little truth to the stereotype of the Charisian constantly on the prowl for ways to make a quick mark.
Of course, we're also very good at it, aren't we? he reflected, and felt himself smiling as the courier boat with the dark green flag drew rapidly nearer.
He couldn't be positive the other ship had come from Corisande, but no other explanation seemed very likely. The dispatch boat had obviously approached through Dolphin Reach, which certainly meant it had also crossed the Sea of Zebediah. No courier from Haven or Howard would have been coming from that direction, and Hywyt rather doubted Sharleyan of Chisholm was particularly interested in corresponding with Nahrmahn of Emerald at the moment. And judging from the way the fellow had chosen the strait between Callie's Island and the Emeraldian coast, he definitely didn't want to attract the attention of the blockade squadron.
Unfortunately for him, he already had, and it was evident that his ship, for all its sleek design, was quite a bit slower than Wave under these conditions.
"Clear for action," he said, and watched the gap between the two ships narrow as the drum began to beat.
* * * *
Rahss Sawal tried very hard not to swear as the Charisian schooner swept towards him. Obviously, his information was even more out-of-date than he'd feared when Bishop Executor Thomys gave him his orders. He hadn't expected to see Charisian warships actually inside Eraystor Bay proper. Then again, he hadn't expected to see the gold kraken on black of the Charisian flag flying above wha
t used to be the Emeraldian fortress on Callie's Island, either.
The dispersal of the Charisian warships was the clearest possible evidence of the totality of their victory at the Battle of Darcos Sound. The true extent of the allied fleet's defeat had still been unclear when Sawal left Manchyr. That it had been crushing was obvious, but everyone in Corisande had clung to the hope that the majority of the ships which had not returned had found refuge in Emerald, where they were even then helping Nahrmahn defend their anchorage.
Obviously not, Sawal thought sourly.
He could see exactly four ships now, counting the schooner charging down on his own command, and every one of them flew Charisian colors. They were spread out widely, as well, to cover as much of the bay as they could, and they wouldn't have been doing that if there'd been any possibility at all that someone might consider attacking them. That, coupled with the fact that all the island fortifications Sawal could see from his quarterdeck had clearly become Charisian bases, not Emeraldian ones, made it abundantly clear that there was no "allied fleet" any longer, much less one that was still defending its anchorage.
Sawal had never before encountered one of the Charisians' new schooners, and he was astonished at how close to the wind the thing could sail. And by the size and power of its sail plan. His ship had the same number of masts, but the Charisian had to have at least twice the sail area. It also had the stability and size to carry more sail, and it was driving far harder under these conditions than his own ship could manage.
The number of gun ports arranged along its side was at least equally impressive, and he felt his stomach muscles tighten as the stubby muzzles of cannon poked out of them. "Father?"
He glanced at his own second-in-command. The one-word question made the other priest's tension abundantly clear, and Sawal couldn't blame him. Not that he had an answer for what he knew the man was actually asking.
"We'll have to see what we see, Brother Tymythy," he said instead. "Hold your course."
* * * *
"He's not changing course," Urvyn said.
As redundant statements of the obvious went, that one took some beating, Hywyt thought.
