As his sharp eyes descended on the other occupants of the room, they scurried to vacate it. Merrick rose to his feet, but Sorcha merely watched Bandele. He’d been of mild importance when they’d been protecting the deputation, but now in her opinion he was just another painful hanger-on.
The Ambassador looked Sorcha and Merrick up and down. His brown eyes flickered over their rather plain Deacon robes as if he somehow found them offensive. He gestured, and one of his followers darted forward with a scarlet robe draped over an arm.
“This will do the trick for you, Deacon Faris.” He made to hold it in her general direction.
Sorcha knocked the top off her cigarillo and considered how on earth to reply without shouting.
“I am sorry”—Merrick stopped him, though he did look suspiciously as if he were about to burst into laughter—“but the Order specifically forbids us to wear anything but our robes. We are supposed to reject the perils of the material world, you see.”
“But this is hardly a peril”—Bandele waved the outrageously colored length—“just enough to make you acceptable in the Prince’s Court.”
Sorcha swallowed her anger. “Are you saying we are not ‘acceptable’ here?”
Bandele opened his mouth, but Merrick was quicker. “It is just not possible, Ambassador. Thank you for your kind offer, though.”
He glanced between the Deacons and then admitted defeat. Bandele waved away his helpers. “I can hardly believe”—he sighed—“that I am introducing such dull birds to the greatest Court of finery and beauty in the world.”
That was quite a sweeping statement. “It is impossible,” Sorcha replied sharply, “that the Court of your Prince can match that of the Emperor in Vermillion.”
The Ambassador tilted his head and grinned. “Oh, the Emperor’s Court is indeed most”—he pursed his lips—“civilized. But the beauty of it cannot compare to the silks and organzas of Chioma.” He glanced over them one last time. “Are you sure you will at not least put on the more acceptable robes that our Order wear?”
“Your Order?” Sorcha’s jaw clenched. “As far as I know, the Order belongs to itself and not—”
Merrick gave a hasty bow. “The ways of the Chiomese Deacons are for its citizens alone—and not for us, I am afraid.”
The Ambassador sniffed, but seeing no flicker of compromise in either of them, he turned back to the door. “The Prince will see you now, then—as you are.”
The inside of the palace was even more beautiful than the outside. Long galleries that somewhat resembled ones back at the Mother Abbey opened out onto many little gardens with intricate plantings and burbling fountains. Each one was a gulp of blessed cool in the heavy blanket of heat that existed outside of the thick walls of the palace. They passed under the red mud ceilings and, craning her neck as surreptitiously as she could, Sorcha saw how intricately they were carved. She was used to the Imperial Palace, but she still managed to be impressed with the Prince of Chioma’s residence. Naturally she would not let a bit of it s to Bandele.
Merrick leaned over and murmured in her ear, “I think he already knows.”
Sorcha shivered, thrusting up the mental shields that all Initiates learned to hold against geists—she hoped it would provide some protection from the leaking of thoughts across the Bond. Merrick was lifting more and more of them from her mind, and she was concerned that her partner was less and less aware that he was doing it.
As they passed through the palace corridors and drew closer to the throne room, she began to smell the thick odor of frankincense—it was beautiful and exotic.
They reached the waiting room directly outside the throne room where there were crowds of people. These were not aristocrats; these were the common folk: traders, penitents, the desperate and those looking for advancement. Women with eyes of ebony chatted in corners and watched them cautiously. Sorcha suddenly did feel underdressed—and realized Bandele had been right—she and Merrick were dull indeed. The riot of blazing purples, rich reds and eye-popping oranges were almost blinding. Sorcha had never before had cause to feel jealousy for another woman’s dress, but she found that she did feel self-conscious.
As they trailed at the rear of the procession, surreptitiously eyeing the waiting crowds, a strange sensation began to build inside the Deacon. It was so warm and deep down that for a second she was almost embarrassed at its primitive nature. Sorcha dared not show her reaction, but she was confused by her body’s odd reaction.
She glanced up at Merrick to ask him if he too felt it, perhaps offer some Sensitive insight. Instead, over his shoulder Sorcha glimpsed the face she had been looking for—but had not expected to find here.
Bandele, totally unaware, strode on toward the doors, while both Deacons stopped dead in their tracks.
Sorcha forgot to breathe. The world narrowed until there was only the three of them: her, Merrick and Raed, the Young Pretender, the third in their Bond. Her eyes couldn’t get wide enough to soak all of him in. Suddenly the worries and cares she’d held on to so tightly meant nothing.
He was wearing the traditional Chiomese head scarf and bright, loose clothing—so his face was partially concealed—but she would have recognized him anywhere. Raed, however, was talking to a tall young man and didn’t notice them. He was so unreal in a real situation that she stood stock-still, examining him, feeling a ridiculous smile spread on her lips. She took half a step toward him, her mouth opening to say his name.
Wait, Sorcha! The words in her head were like a slap in the face, and then Merrick’s hand clamped down on her arm, as if she was a little child who would run and throw herself on Raed.
He might not have been able to feel their Bond, but the Young Pretender heard her indrawn breath. He turned and saw them both. The Bond flared, releasing a rush of sensation that almost toppled her. Every memory, every sensation of their time together came racing forward. Sorcha had been trying not to think of them, tried to deny their power—under this new assault she had no defenses.
Raed’s hazel eyes held hers. She noted the flex of his hands into fists and the tremble in his posture as if he too was holding back movement.
So many people stood around them, chattering, arguing, lost in their own world. Sorcha realized she was not free to simply walk over and throw herself into Raed’s arms. They were in a foreign Prince’s Court, with eyes everywhere watching them, observing, noting. She knew full well how the report of a Deacon flinging herself on a man in Orinthal would go. It could be even worse, if she drew attention to the fact that the Young Pretender was that man.
Deacon Sorcha Faris was frozen with indecision. She had so much to say to him—but dared not voice it.
“Honored Deacons?” Bandele had breezed right past the mass of people and was now standing before the massive cedar doors, his brow furrowed. The Chiomese guard, with their rifles on their shoulders and elaborate feather headdresses, were waiting to announce them. Gradually the heads of everyone in the hallway were turning toward the motionless Deacons.
“Walk on,” Merrick whispered, his voice taut. When she did not, he hissed again, “Keep walking, Sorcha!”
By the Bones, she needed to smile, and with difficulty she managed it. “Coming, Ambassador,” she called cheerily.
Walking past Raed felt deeply wrong, but as they did so, Sorcha flicked her head to the left and caught his eye; she hoped he could see or sense how much it hurt to turn her back on him.
“Wait here,” she mouthed to him while her heart raced. Please don’t die before I can warn you.
He stayed where he was, and then she saw him no more. Sorcha barely heard the seneschal announce them or saw the Court itself. It was only feeling Merrick at her shoulder that kept her moving.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured to her. “He’s here, but he’s alive. We have time.”
Sorcha took a breath, and it felt like the first. Her partner was correct. They were in foreign territory, and she had better take notice of the Court around t
hem.
A subtle glance to her right told her that Merrick was already entranced. It was, she supposed, a feast for the eye. The people of Chioma, with their high cheekbones and gleaming dark skin, were even more impressive when dressed in Court attire. Servants stood in the corners, beating the air with fans of peacock feathers, while another played a curved flute, filling the room with a strangely melancholy tune. Upon the dais were a rank of beautiful woman—the most striking collection of slightly dressed women that Sorcha had ever seen.
The women of the Imperial Court were lovely too, but their charms were considerably more hidden. The Deacon suddenly made the connection; these exquisite women who peered down with somnolent assurance of their place in the world were members of the Prince’s harem.
It took a moment for her to notice the man buried in among them. Seated at the top of the dais was a throne carved from dark wood, and on it was the most extraordinary man she had ever seen—or not seen.
He was totally cloaked in the deepest blue, swathed so completely that she could not have said if he was tall or short, thin or fat. The real strangeness was that she could not make out a single feature of his face. The Prince of Chioma wore an odd headdress with a bar of silver across his forehead from which hung rows upon rows of tiny white glass beads. They gleamed and danced and were very pretty—but they also denied anyone any chance of seeing his face.
Sorcha shot a glance across at Merrick—and he gave the slightest of shrugs. Apparently this scholar of all things Chioma was just as baffled. The Prince was an enigmatic figure, he’d told her that, but obviously he hadn’t been expecting him to be this enigmatic.
Bandele was bending low in a bow that bordered on that which might be given to the Emperor. “Majesty, these are the Deacons from Vermillion who escorted us safely here. I present Deacons Faris and Chambers.”
“Welcome to Orinthal.” The voice that emerged from behind the beaded headdress was deep, smooth and remarkably young. “It has been a long time since any Deacon from the Mother Abbey has ventured this far south.”
Sorcha and Merrick sketched a bow, but it was the Sensitive who replied. “Your Majesty, it has long been my dream to visit Chioma.”
The Prince nodded, the only gesture that Sorcha could be sure of behind that strange mask. “I have long wished to see the Imperial City myself. But perhaps I can send my daughter in my stead.” It was the most polite and gentle probe, delivered in a perfectly level tone of voice. “What do you think, Deacon Faris—shall my daughter see Vermillion?” The Prince shifted, and the crystals swayed as his head turned in her direction.
Sorcha, used to her partner’s handling these subtle interactions, found herself caught unawares. “I . . . I truly cannot say, Your Majesty. I know he has received the suits of many ladies from all over the Empire.”
The gasp that ran through the crowd implied that might not have been the best choice of words. Sorcha felt increasingly frustrated and irritated. She had stood before Princes before, even the Emperor, and yet this one was so hard to judge with the royal face obscured.
Merrick could not step in; to do so would imply weakness in his partner. Sorcha did, however, feel him stiffen at her side.
When Onika, Prince of Chioma, laughed, the pressure valve was let off a little. “Very true—I can only be grateful not to have to choose from so many.” His voice was laced with amusement and irony—as it should be, considering the women of his harem stood not five feet from him.
While the Court tittered at their Prince’s little joke, a small brass door opened behind the throne. A group of five young women with one older and heavily pregnant entered. These newcomers were far more demurely dressed, and Sorcha knew immediately that the youthful ones were his daughters. They whispered among themselves and moved to the other side of the throne, well away from the women of the harem. Among them was a tall, striking girl with such a look of confidence that the eye was immediately drawn to her. It was not a great stretch to guess that this had to be the Princess Ezefia who was suing for the Emperor’s favor. Her eyes darted to the Ambassador, but seeing nothing, she quickly replaced the mask of boredom. So, she was an expert in the games of Court—she would have to be if she were to become the next Empress.
The older woman, swaying slightly with her swollen belly, still moved with the economy and grace that would put a dancer to shame. Her dark braid swung down her back, and she smiled beatifically at the Court—the smile of the truly happy. The Prince turned and held out his hand to her; however, it was impossible to tell if he smiled or not. Sorcha guessed that he did. He did not introduce the newcomer, but she slipped into a place just at the foot of his throne.
And then across the Bond Sorcha felt Merrick fall into a well of panic. It was so deep that she jerked around to look at her partner, wondering what in the Bones could be the cause. Nothing on his face could possibly have told her that he was close to bolting—his expression remained clear and calm.
Unaware of any change in the Deacons, the Prince fixed his gazut them once more. “I will have many questions for you, Deacons.” He paused. The Order stood apart from the usual machinations of the Princes: their rules, their squabbles. The only people whom Merrick and Sorcha had above them were the Priors and Abbots of the Order of the Eye and the Fist—and ultimately the Emperor.
Perhaps the Prince realized that he had pushed the line between Order and aristocracy a little too far, because his voice softened. “It would assist me, honored Deacons, if you could talk with me later about your Emperor. I would know his mind on some matters.”
Sorcha’s stomach clenched for two reasons: the way he said “your Emperor” as if he had no connection with the man and the idea that they were to be quizzed about politics. The Deacons could refuse, use the vaunted independence of the Order, but they were a long way from a Priory or Abbey—and even farther from the Mother Abbey itself.
However, it was the perfect chance to stay on in Chioma—the perfect chance to save Raed.
Sorcha reached out along the Bond, seeking Merrick’s opinion. However, there was nothing. Somewhere during the confusion, he had slammed down his shields. Sensitives were always better than Actives at such things, but she would never have expected it from Merrick—especially right now.
She used another bow, perhaps one too many, to hide her confusion. “It would be our pleasure to offer assistance, Your Majesty,” she said as graciously as possible.
They were swiftly dismissed by the Prince, but she made damn sure that they did not back out of his presence—there were some local customs she was determined not to adopt.
Outside, she scanned the petitioners, looking for Raed, but he was gone. When she turned for advice to Merrick, he held up his hand. “I really need to rest, Sorcha.” His tone was clipped, rough and distant. “We can talk about this later.”
He sounded like a different person—not her partner, not her friend. As Sorcha watched in shock, he turned on his heel and left her standing there with absolutely no explanation. Her frown was deep but robbed of a target.
Merrick and his mystery would have to wait; for now she had to hunt down Raed—and quickly—before the spectyr’s vision came true.
THIRTEEN
Returning Home
Merrick was glad that, in the manner of the Chiomese, the male and female accommodation was separate. He didn’t want to see Sorcha, didn’t want to keep the shields up on her and most certainly did not want her questions. His thoughts needed to be his own.
She had recognized him. He had seen that in the flicker of a frown on her brow; a tiny gesture that no one else could have spotted. However, he had grown up watching her beautiful face.
Merrick sat on the bed, his hands clenched on the edge. So it was that simple, that easy, to throw him straight back into the tumult of his childhood. His training as a Deacon might never have even happened.
He was just a boy again.
The door creaked open, because he had not locked it. He didn’t turn, but
he heard her slip into the room.
The Deacon took a long breath and then faced her. He realized age had not dimmed the beauty of his mother; it had placed a fewe lines around her brown eyes but had left her thick, dark hair alone. His eyes drifted down to her swollen belly, and her hands strayed there as if protecting it.
“Ales.” She whispered the name he had given up.
“No, Mother”—he tugged his cloak tighter around him, so that the badge of the Eye and the Fist gleamed in the candlelight—“I gave up that name when I entered the Order.”
With a wince Japhne del Torne, once Baroness, still his mother, looked away. “We scoured the woods for you, then the city, but we just couldn’t find you . . . ”
“Merrick.” He spoke his chosen name. The hardness in his voice was completely beyond his control.
“Merrick.” Then she did the one thing that every mother held as a trump card—she cried.
He was ten again, standing in her chamber holding the broken remains of a delicate bowl her own dead mother had given her. He’d felt like a terrible human being when she’d burst into tears. Then as now, there was nothing to do but run to her and let the apologies flow.
It was different: her belly made any hug awkward, and now he towered above her. She still smelled the same, however: roses and warmth. The scent hit him in a primitive way, and Merrick cried too. The memories of leaving, the burning vengeance in his heart that had driven him from home, were as fresh as the day that they had happened.
“Mother”—he held her back at arm’s length—“what are you doing here? What of del Torne? Tell me what has happened!”
“Your half brother rules there,” she said flatly. “Berne came of age, and suddenly his stepmother was surplus to requirement.”
When her shoulders slumped, he guided her over to sit on the bed. Merrick dropped down to his knees and looked up at her. His elder half brother had been sent to be educated in the nearby Abbey when Ales had been just a toddler. He recalled that Berne looked very like their father, and he’d always assumed that the heir to the estate had a similar personality. Guilt washed over Merrick; blinded by his own pain and misery, he’d never spared a thought for his mother.
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