“Indeed, Bright One,” Zofiya whispered, her eyes halfshut, “I will not fail you. Whatever you need done, will be done.”
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.
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?”
“
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.
