Some talked of Otril and Eilse actively working against the Emperor marrying—though Zofiya was sure they were not that foolish.
No, she sighed, it was her brother. Other royals were comfortable with mistresses, affairs, concubines, but not Kaleva. To marry was to deny his feelings—and it was not like the Emperor of Arkaym could act as the Prince of Chioma did—keeping a large harem of lovers. Tradition had it there was one Emperor and one Empress.
Eilse could not be that woman. Her low birth would have been an insult to the role.
“Brother”—Zofiya laid her hand on his arm, dropping her voice to a whisper that would remain just between the two of them—“Father was wrong about many things, but he was right in that the prime responsibility of a monarch is to continue the bloodline. We have a tenuous fingerhold on this continent as it is.”
Kaleva turned his back to the magnificent view, leaned on the table and stared at his lovers. When he looked at his sister she saw him again: that little boy, the one she had perhaps read too many fairy tales to. Romanticism still clung to him miraculously, even after a war, assassination attempts and the machinations of a resentful Court.
Reaching behind him, he blindly picked one of the portraits; then, holding out his arm to Zofiya, he opened his hand.
Both of them looked down into the beautiful dark face of the Princess of Chioma.
Zofiya’s heart skipped a beat. “Random chance, Brother?” The Grand Duchess tilted her head and smiled at him. “Is that really how you will choose the next Empress for Arkaym?” She knew it was anything but random.
Kaleva shrugged. “They are all equally worthy, equally beautiful—if their portraits are to be believed. I think this lady is a good choice. Her father has never—”
The rest of her brother’s words faded from Zofiya’s hearing, because just then the clouds parted. For an instant her eye caught movement in the tower opposite the Long Gallery.
It was an older portion of the palace, made of rough stone and not the smooth marble of more recent additions. What this particular spire did have was a great round stained glass window, the type called a rose window.
When light filtered through this particular rose window, Zofiya caught a glimpse of the figure behind it.
“Protect the Emperor!” she screamed, shoving her brother off the table, sending him flying to the floor just as a shot shattered first the rose window and then the one they were standing right in front of. It hit one of the portraits, exploding it into a thousand porcelain shards. Then everything was a whirl of movement, as Imperial Guards rushed forward, and the small huddle of courtiers scattered like chaff.
Zofiya didn’t have time to notice any of that. Her brother was down, covered by those sworn to protect him, and now she had a job to do. The palace was a rabbit warren of rooms, passages and hidden entrances—the attacker could be away in an instant.
Zofiya flew down the Long Hall, skidding on the polished marble, but flinging open the latch in the wainscot in an instant. Down a set of stairs she ran, hearing the echo of the second shot dimly behind her. She made no effort to be quiet, but as she was wearing her practice slippers so as not to damage the floor of the Hall, she was considerably more silent than usual.
The Grand Duchess ran through the rough corridor, her arms pumping. In her mind’s eye, the castle opened before her—every corridor, every archway, every staircase. Through the pounding of her heart and her feet against the castle floor, her breath came easily enough. Both Zofiya and Kaleva were studious about not letting Imperial food send them to the way of fat, and now all those laps around the gardens proved very useful.
She burst out of the secret door and into the room at the top of the Maiden Tower with barely a break in stride. The would-be assassin was turning, the length of his rifle only just pulled away from the hole in the window. He was dressed in the red of the Imperial Guard—an insult that Zofiya could not let go unpunished.
However, there could not have been a worse time for the Grand Duchess to go into battle. She wore light linen breeches with a similar shirt and carried nothing of greater length than her ceremonial dagger of Hatipai.
Zofiya was, however, of the blood of kings and beloved of her goddess—she would triumph over some second-rate assassin naked from her bath if necessary.
She yelled, lunged and grabbed the barrel of the rifle with both hands. As the weapon came around, her forearms brushed against the barrel, pushing it up toward the ceiling. Once she felt the scalding metal sear her fingers, she pushed toward the assassin. Even over the sharp discharge of the weapon, she heard the crunch of the barrel slamming into the man’s nose. His scream was a strained, muffled sound as he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. It was most satisfactory when droplets of his blood splattered onto her face—this man had come the closest to killing Kaleva in all their years here.
With a savage snarl, she grasped the butt of the rifle and yanked it toward her. Following its natural momentum, she brought it up, and then back down straight into his groin.
With a labored gasp, the assassin dropped to his knees. Apparently he was unable to choose which was the most painful: his nose or his genitals. Whatever pain he felt, however, was not enough as far as the Grand Duchess was concerned.
Burying her hands in his hair like a lover, she tugged his head forward viciously, directly onto her upraised knee. Now his scream was reduced to a gurgle. Yes, it was gratuitous. Yes, it was unnecessary. Yes, it felt delicious.
The Grand Duchess felt her own blood boil, a heady mix of terrible rage and savage joy. Her right hand wrapped around the hilt of Hatipai’s dagger. Now her hand pulled his head back by his hair. Looking into his confused, pained eyes, Zofiya smiled.
“This isn’t political,” she hissed. “This is very, very personal.”
She needed him to know that, even as she jerked the blade across his throat. The scarlet blood of the assassin was quite impressive on the pure linen of her white training uniform. Looking down at the silver dagger, Zofiya was abruptly entranced by the coating of blood it had now acquired.
Hatipai’s dagger was meant only to show her willingness to s
More than that—it felt warm in her grip. Through the broken, glorious remains of the rose window, Zofiya saw something moving that was not just the clouds. Not putting away her knife, not even cleaning it as was proper, she walked over to the view, broken glass crunching under her nearly bare feet, and peered out.
The Grand Duchess did not look over to the Great Hall to see if her brother was safe; instead she looked up. The clouds were still skidding across the blue of the sky, but something else was moving even faster among them: clusters of shadow, balls of gray smoke were darting south, like a flock of supernatural birds heading for home before winter.
Yet it was not winter, and she should not be able to discern geists. Zofiya glanced down again at her hands, still coated in blood, and then up again, suddenly making the connection between blood, knife and what she was seeing.
They were spirits, and if she concentrated hard enough, she could hear their song. It was a hymn of adulation for Hatipai, and she knew who they were—the dead worshippers of her goddess. It was a revelation—a true goddess-given revelation.
But what could it mean? Where were the true followers of the goddess going so very quickly?
To me. They come to me.
The voice of Hatipai rang bell-clear in her head, and the vision of the angel appeared among the broken remains of the rose window. Suddenly Zofiya was glad of the assassin’s attempt on her brother’s life. Without today’s blood, she would never have been granted this wonderful vision.
Tears began to roll out of her eyes and down her cheeks, as if she were a child again. Her fingers grew numb, and the knife fell from her fingers to rattle among the ruined glass. It was unimportant. Nothing mattered now as much as the clear voice of Hatipai in her mind.
You must come to me. It was the voice of her mother—or rather the voice that she wished
her mother had used. Bring me this.
An image flashed in her mind. A grand Temple, with towering red walls, each one carved with scenes from the Holy Book of Beauty—the sacred text of Hatipai. The light that streamed in through the arched windows was yellow, bright and strong in a way that no sun in the north could possibly be. Zofiya saw the font where water was sacrificed to the goddess, and in rare and important moments other liquids. Her mind’s eye watched the font drain clear and a set of stairs grind into place—a marvel of ancient engineering. A cold dread formed in the pit of the Grand Duchess’ stomach—though she had no idea why.
Go down into the earth and bring me what only you can—my royal blood in Chioma has failed me. You shall not. The goddess’ tone grew harsh and angry, enough to make Zofiya quail.
As she trembled, the voice became soft again, bringing warmth to her suddenly cold limbs. I believe in your strength—you will not fail me, blessed child.
“Indeed, Bright One,” Zofiya whispered, her eyes halfshut, “I will not fail you. Whatever you need done, will be done.”
You must bring me what you find in the Temple. You will know it when you see it.
It was strange that the goddess would tell her no more—but it was not the place of even a Grand Duchess to questions. It was ai.
Tell no one what you are doing—there are many in this forsaken kingdom that would try to prevent you going.
It disturbed her to hear her brother’s Empire described thus, but she wouldn’t question what any of it meant. A sword did not question the motives of its wielder. She would immediately take the swiftest Imperial Dirigible south. How many weirstones they broke getting her there was of no account.
When the Imperial Guard found Zofiya, she was kneeling in the broken glass, looking out the window and weeping. She heard them whispering that she was a true and brave sister to cry for the salvation of the Emperor—but Zofiya knew better than they. She was weeping for the gift of sight. Something wonderful was happening to the south, and she would soon be part of it.
TWELVE
The Bond Reborn
“Still no sign?” Sorcha hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
The rest of the petitioners in the room took no notice—or at least pretended not to. The heat in the domed red room was stifling, and the Deacon could feel sweat coating her neck. Her robes had never felt a more foolish fashion choice. She would have been content to wait for Raed in the city, but the Prince apparently had different ideas. He had requested the Deacons from Vermillion be formally introduced to him.
Merrick, who sat opposite her in the room, wiped his own beaded forehead. “Raed is in the city, Sorcha, but I am no more able than you to say exactly where”—he gestured vaguely—“only that he is close.”
By the Bones, she needed a cigarillo, and it had to be now—etiquette be damned. Several of the other people in the room were already smoking; two beautifully carved pipes in the elegant fingertips of two merchants.
Obviously they were used to all this waiting, because they had the studied expressions of Sensitives at meditation. Actives were taught the very same lessons but were far less adept at it—Sorcha least of all.
Still, she had developed her own ways of coping. She lit her cigarillo, slumped back in her chair and contemplated seeing Raed again. He would not be able to sense they were in Orinthal, so she’d get a chance to observe his reactions. Maybe from them she could decide on what her own would be.
Leaning her forearms on her thighs, Sorcha glared down at the space between her feet, studying the mosaic floor. The question of her feelings for Raed was something she had avoided until now. Sorcha couldn’t decide which was worse: if she had been wrong about the giddy rush of desire, mistaking it for something deeper, or if she had been right.
In children’s stories when the Princess found her Prince, things were simple; they got married and lived that way forever. Life had taught her such things were oversimplifications—wishes that seldom came true in the complicated realities of existence. Most people never got to ride into the sunset with their one true love.
And yet Sorcha could not deny that in their brief time together, as tumultuous as it had been, she had felt more alive than in all her years with Kolya.
The smoke curled out of her mouth slowly, spiraling past her eyes. Through it, she could see Merrick watching her as covertly as the young man was capable of. The Bond was so fickle that she could barely tell what was y weng across to him.
Further thoughts were disrupted when the waiting room door burst open, and Ambassador Bandele strode through with two courtiers following his wake. Though his mission to Vermillion was over, he was not done with the two Deacons.
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.
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