The room distorted through it, but still enough to see the final howls of the girl’s shade in it. The ghast was outlined in fire, the dark orb of its eye fixing on the Deacon, but then it faded back into the ether.
They stood there for a long moment, panting, Yevah enclosing them. Merrick, by the Bones, she missed Merrick.
Finally and with caution, Sorcha let the Rune fade from her Gauntlet. The gagging smell of rotten eggs and a faint burn mark on the carpet where there had once been blood was all that remained to say anything had happened.
The geist had only come to destroy the shade—not, it appeared, to take on one of the Order. Sorcha let out a ragged breath and turned to Raed.
“Are you all right?”
His face was pale, his jaw set, but he nodded tightly. “Yes, but by the Blood, I have not seen a geist so close without the Rossin”—he cleared his throat—“appearing.”
Sorcha reached out along the Bond, twisting past the coil of Raed’s fears and deeper into the Rossin. The geistlord was close to the surface, and she caught a glimpse ohis great muzzle, yet he did not venture out.
It was not just unusual—it was against the very nature of the geistlord. The Rossin was designed to feast on both human and geist. It reveled in destruction, blood and pain. Now it was something odd indeed: cautious.
“He’s afraid.” Rossin’s shoulders were tense. “Only the Murashev has ever made him feel like this. It . . . it can’t be another one, can it?”
She would have loved to deny it—but she didn’t have enough information to be sure. “I hope not. I am not much of a Sensitive, but I can tell this much—something was controlling that ghast.” She touched the back of his hand lightly, just enough, she hoped. “I think it is about time we went back to the harem and find out how many blue-eyed women it has.”
“I wish Merrick were here.” It was good for him to say it—it meant Sorcha didn’t have to. She merely nodded in reply.
As they stepped out into the corridor, they were almost knocked down by a flood of young bureaucrats racing down the hall. Raed put an arm across Sorcha and held her back against the wall as half a dozen footmen dashed in the other direction.
It was as if they had stepped into a completely different palace from the one they had entered. Something was most assuredly up.
Sorcha exchanged a glance with Raed, and together they grabbed a passing servant who was laden down with a stack of books.
“What’s going on?” The Young Pretender inquired, managing to sound both commanding and kindly at the same time.
“The Grand Duchess,” the boy gasped, struggling to keep his pile straight. “Word came from the port—she is making her way to the palace this very minute.”
Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, trying to balance this new information, but like the boy, she was failing miserably. Zofiya—of all people!
“What is she coming here for?” Raed, who had only briefly met the Grand Duchess when he was saving her in Vermillion, could not possibly comprehend how much trouble the cursed woman was.
“No one knows,” the boy squeaked, trying to tug his arm free and keep his pile from falling on the floor at the same time. “But nothing is prepared, and she may want to see the Kingdom’s tax records.”
“Thank you, lad.” Raed released him, and the poor thing scampered off to join the melee. By the Blood, those papers better be in order!
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Sorcha hissed into her lover’s ear. “Zofiya isn’t the type of person prone to flights of fancy—and there was no word of her visiting here when I left Vermillion. She could have come with the Ambassador, and yet she didn’t.”
Raed closed his eyes for an instant. “The ossuary wasn’t everything, then.”
It wasn’t a question, and Sorcha knew they had better hurry. The Grand Duchess meant not just panic for the palace, she also created a delicious target for whoever was manipulating geists in Orinthal. The mess had just gotten larger.
TWENTY
A Grand Arrival
Zofiya stepped off the dirigible to be immediately bathed in sweat. They had burned four weirstones to get here in th days, and two engineers had been injured replacing the last one. The curious mathematics of this did not matter. She was here as her goddess had commanded.
“Perhaps the Grand Duchess would like to change into Chiomese silks?” The minor official who Orinthal had managed to rustle up on short notice was bent in an appropriately low bow.
Zofiya took a long breath and let the warm air fill her lungs. The nights it had taken to get here had been sleepless, and she was fully aware that her mood was less than perfect.
Still, she had been born to royalty and managed to control the outward display of her emotions—occasionally. Luckily for the trembling official, this was one of those times. “That will not be necessary—I will, however, require transportation to the Temple of Hatipai.”
The man’s eyes flickered behind her, and Zofiya concealed a smile as he took in her pitifully small entourage: only half a dozen Imperial Guards. Even when she was traveling without her brother, Zofiya should have by rights been accompanied by ten times that number.
However, when your goddess calls, you do not linger to gather what is proper. She could sense that the official was dying to ask more, full of questions he could not quite work out how to get answers to. Let him squirm, she thought; there would be plenty more Chiomese who she was bound to unnerve.
“The Temple is not far, Imperial Highness, but we have to assemble the proper carriage and honor guard. It will take us an hour or two.” He actually winced.
The image of her goddess’ Temple burned in Zofiya’s mind. “We shall walk then and enjoy the views of your fine city.”
The man’s eyes widened, but he dared not deny her. “If I may be so bold”—a trail of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down the side of the man’s face—“may I ask what has brought this great honor of your visit to Chioma? The Prince will be most . . . surprised and delighted.”
The movements of the Emperor’s sister were always of the greatest interest to everyone—not least the hornet’s nest of quarreling Princes. Yet Chioma was the seat of the worship of her goddess and the Prince of the kingdom was known for his reclusive nature and iron will. Zofiya anticipated no problems with him.
She had an excuse ready for just such an inquiry. “I have come to meet the charming Princess suing to become my Imperial brother’s Empress.”
It was at least a half-truth. When she had stood before Kaleva, he had not believed it. They knew each other too well, and he was able to read the look in her eyes enough to know her trip was connected to Hatipai.
It was one of the few things the siblings argued over. He had never felt the righteous burn of the faith she had found so early in her life. Zofiya loved her brother more than anything in this world, but there remained someone she placed higher: Hatipai.
Unlike her father, who had been horrified and embarrassed at a showing of faith in his daughter, Kaleva was only saddened by it.
“Little Wolf”—a twin set of frown lines appeared on his handsome face—“I fear this addiction of yours will bring you nothing but ill.”
Standing in the blanketlike heat of Orinthal, she recalled with a smile his pet name for her and his easily given love. The Emperor was remarkably softhearted for one commanding such power.
“I think it i you who may be hurt,” she had replied. “With no faith to protect from the world, Brother.”
It was an argument that had spun on and on and round and round for years. So he had not questioned her plans while in Chioma, and Zofiya had not offered to tell him. Hatipai’s summons was something even an Imperial Grand Duchess could not ignore.
“Which direction is the Temple?” she asked calmly so as not to betray herself.
His face brightened as if lit by a weirstone. “We had reports, Your Imperial Highness, of you following our Bright Lady. Truly it gladdens the hearts of all
in Chioma to know—”
“I am sure it does.” Zofiya held up her hand, cutting him off in mid-flow. “But it is many years since I have had the joy of worshipping in a Temple—I would like to partake of her presence immediately.”
Now it appeared as if the lit weirstone was under his feet, because he spun about and gestured her to follow him. Her Imperial Guard of six closed about her.
“Imperial Highness,” Ylo, her guardian since she had been only ten years old, whispered sharply in her ear, “is this wise? Into the streets with so few to protect you?”
He didn’t understand either. Nothing could touch her here in the land of her goddess. So she held up her hand, and he at least knew that gesture. Immediately he snapped to attention and followed her without further comment.
This was the city and the country where her goddess was still worshipped. The only one where faith still had a place. Certainly there were still other gods worshipped in the Empire, but mostly in quiet rural areas by simple folk who kept their altars by the hearth and gave small offerings when they could.
As the procession walked through the exotically scented streets of the city, Zofiya’s pace quickened until she was almost knocking on the heels of the official. He turned his head, surprised. “The Bright Lady is calling, is she, Imperial Highness?”
He couldn’t possibly know it was actually true, but he meant well. So she smiled and nodded. “It is a very, very long time since I have stood in one of her temples—back in my father’s dominion, in fact.”
“Forgive me, Imperial Highness”—a flicker of genuine interest overwhelmed his almost comical deference—“but is the Bright Lady widely worshipped there?”
A passing caravan of camels was apparently no respecter of high rank, and for a few minutes Zofiya’s guard had to push back at the stinking beasts. They traded insults and threats with the owner, until he realized who he was dealing with and urged his animals as best he could out of the Grand Duchess’ way.
Finally, when they were past them, she replied, “Her temples are very few indeed.” Those words stung.
She would not share with anybody the events of the day that had first driven her to the Bright One’s Temple. The memory of her father’s towering rage, when he had caught her practicing hand-to-hand combat with the guard for the third time was deeply ingrained on her psyche. He had wanted another princess to marry off and secure his kingdom—not one so committed to choosing her own path.
In the Temple of Hatipai, the young Zofiya had found the strength to follow her own heart. As it turned out, even the King of Delmaire had eventually given up on her, finally declaring he had a surplus of daughters—and that she should make herself useful and protect her broth on his ill-fated ascendancy to rule Arkaym.
All that good fortune she owed to Hatipai, and now that Kaleva was sitting more firmly on the throne, it was time to pay back that strength she had found at the feet of the goddess.
“There she is.” The official swept his arm up, indicating the slight rise in the road toward the Temple, as if he himself had conjured the magnificent red building from thin air.
The facade of the Temple had been masterfully carved. Vast friezes of the daily life of Chioma paraded around the outside of the Temple. All the trade and riches of the kingdom were depicted there; the smallest merchant to the greatest aristocrat were part of the magnificence. Every one of them, however, was climbing penitently up the walls toward the crowning glory of the building. The goddess sprawled atop her Temple, taking up all of the peaked roof, lying on her side, one hand propping up her grand head. The span of her wings beneath her served as a roof for the building.
Zofiya had never seen anything so complex or detailed—even in Delmaire—and it quite literally made her stop and choke back a breath of surprise.
“Would you—” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am sorry, what was your name?”
“Deren.” His eyes, which back at the waterfront had appeared so lifeless, were now full and gleaming.
“Deren”—Zofiya let out a breath—“is there any way that I may be able to pray alone?”
He gave a little bow. “I’ll run ahead and arrange it with the priestess. I am sure she will be able to accommodate your request, Imperial Highness.” And he scuttled off to do that.
The Grand Duchess stood in the shade, fanned herself, and tried to hold on to her frustration. Eventually Deren returned to them, his teeth flashing in his dark face with genuine pleasure. “The afternoon prayers have not yet begun, so the priestess has managed to clear the Temple for you, Imperial Highness.”
They climbed the steps to the doors, and Zofiya had a moment of disorientation—it was just as the goddess had shown her. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on the rest of her body, and her heart began to race in beneath her ribs. “Stay here, Ylo,” she whispered over her shoulder.
“But, Highness.” His voice was uncertain, but he still tried to do his duty—she wouldn’t fault him for that.
“Not this time.” Zofiya craned her neck, looking up at the Temple where the image of Hatipai stared down at her followers as if they were ants—which of course they were. “This,” the Grand Duchess said, “is private.” Then, knowing that for the first time in many, many years she would be alone in the Temple of her goddess, she walked reverently up the last few steps.
Inside, the heat was left behind, even though the light came in through the glassless windows and burned white on the red floor. Zofiya slipped off her shoes and felt the rough prickle of the fabulous carpets on her bare soles. To have such a place all to herself was one of the true joys of being royalty—maybe the only one, as far as she could see.
You are a child of Kings, but you do not enjoy the privileges that it brings, Hatipai’s voice whispered, and Zofiya could not be sure if she was hearing it in her head or if the dimly seen lofty ceiling might contain a hidden angel.
You need to learn to take the reins of power. Be what your heritage commands youto be.
Despite her faith and her love of the goddess, that stung. Her nature rebelled against that. “I am the sister of the Emperor, Lady. I take care with his life. I counsel him as best I can.”
And you never think that the royal blood he has also runs through your veins. Foolish girl—you are as born to rule as he. Only the ridiculous tradition of males on the throne of Arkaym prevents you from your real potential.
A lump formed in Zofiya’s throat. Arkaym and Delmaire had that in common. While many of the principalities that made up the Empire had female rulers, no Empress had ever sat on the grand throne in Vermillion. Empresses were made by marriage—not by birth.
“My brother was asked to come—to become Emperor,” she finally ventured, walking deeper into the Temple but with hesitation now in her stride. “I was never even considered. I could not possibly—”
And that is why you always remain in the shadows. The goddess’ voice was now sharp and actually hurt Zofiya, as if she were being pummeled. As she winced and pulled back, the goddess’ tone changed, becoming softer and gentler. You have much to learn yet, child—now is not the time. Go to the font.
The Grand Duchess’ confidence had been shaken. Suddenly the Temple was not cool and mysterious—it was positively freezing and deep in shadows. The holy water font, which in the goddess’ vision had seemed full of joy, was in fact rather menacing.
Do you not love your goddess? Hatipai’s whisper echoed around the vaulted chamber. You are a good child, covered in faith—do as I ask.
Zofiya swallowed, closed her eyes and thought back to her first visit to the Temple in Delmaire. When she concentrated hard, she could recall that moment of utter acceptance, complete love and being part of something—when in her parents’ eyes she was merely a spare. Clutching onto that memory, she was able to go forward into the shadows.
The Temple was very sparse, the focus being an unadorned bowl of silver buried in the floor. It was ten feet wide, and worshippers had floated fr
agrant flowers on its still surface. The scent was exhilarating and somehow steadied her.
She reached the stairs and climbed up to the altar—but in the proper way—on her knees. Finally she began to smile as the warmth of her faith began to wrap itself around her. With hesitation dissolving, Zofiya stretched out her hand and dipped it into the water. It was icy cold. She pressed her wet fingertips to her own mouth and let the water enter her.
Now go down into the dark—bring me back what I need.
Climbing to her feet, Zofiya did what all worshippers of Hatipai would have considered blasphemy—she stepped into the font itself. Now her body was given over to the goddess. Now she could do what was required of her.
For the longest moment it felt like nothing was going to happen, and then a loud groan filled the room, mechanical and deep, from somewhere below her. Water began to drain out of the font as a crack appeared around the rim. It was pouring into a hidden space, while the altar itself began to come apart. Dust and stale air billowed up from below, making Zofiya cough and splutter—very unflattering in the house of her goddess.
When it finally cleared, she could see a spiral staircase that was thick with dirt and could have been a thousand years old. For all she knew, it was. Dripping with holy water, Zofiya steppd out of the font and onto the stairs. They creaked under her weight, but the light, supple metal, apart from being dirty, felt strong. As she walked down deeper, she saw that the stairs were in fact hanging from silvery chains, yet she could see no sign of a mechanism.
None of this looked like the work of a goddess, and the faint carvings on the interior of the staircase walls were unfamiliar. Zofiya didn’t quite understand what her goddess was asking of her, why she could not send someone else down here.
Finally the Grand Duchess reached the bottom. Lights flickered and then sprang to life, illuminating the room with a blue gleam that unnerved her a little. She had danced beneath the red glow of chandeliers in the palace of Vermillion and lived her life by the amber flicker of candles and lanterns—what she had never done was see any sort of blue light in her life.
Spectyr Page 21
