wall and her own eyes on her robe as she shuffled out of the line of sight of the two washing women and into earshot of an intriguing conversation.
“ . . . Japhne—it is always Japhne.” The unseen female’s voice was laced with such bitterness that Sorcha pressed herself closer to the fountain head so that she was less likely to be seen around the curve of the wall.
“Well, she is pregnant with his child,” another, soter voice went on.
“A miracle,” the other snapped. “An old baggage like her, full with his child? Surely the world is laughing at us—you know she usually walks the garden at night.”
Sorcha glanced around, but none of the other women were close enough to overhear as she was—and they appeared not to be taking any notice of her anymore. In a closed world of women, where they were all vying for the attention of one man, intrigue, jealousy and backbiting were to be expected. Yet, with the murders in Orinthal, such events took on a new, sinister meaning.
“Hush,” the quieter woman hissed. “Don’t speak such things!”
“But it’s true.” Her companion gave a little harsh laugh. “Japhne walks in the courtyard just before bed every night—if she had last night, who is to say that it would not be her being buried in the ground—”
“Myel—if our Prince heard you say such things, you would be joining them!”
“It was not I, Emelie,” the other replied. “But it would have been convenient for us if she had just . . .”
Such ill-wishing was far too much for the other woman, and Sorcha had to duck back as a thin blonde scuttled from the shower room. Carefully, the Deacon finished washing herself and thought.
Speaking in such a fashion, right out in the open, meant that the woman just beyond the curve of the wall was an idiot. And whoever was committing these murders was not. Nor had all the murders been conducted in the confines of the harem. It was highly unlikely that such a woman could have snuck out of the shelter of the woman’s quarters, beyond trained guards whose lives depended on staying alert, and slain so many without notice.
Yet this Myel had revealed one thing to Sorcha—the Prince’s consort, the one pregnant with a rare child, had been the real target. Whatever had caused her to break her usual habit had been a lucky chance.
Now there was Raed’s problem to consider. Sorcha slid as nonchalantly around the wall of the room as she could. Three young women remained, all completely ignoring her. The Deacon pressed her lips together for a moment and wished Merrick was with her. She was certain her partner would have very much wanted to be there.
It had come to Sorcha’s attention since getting her new Sensitive that she was perhaps lacking in the social graces. Without him, now was the perfect time to try to find some.
“Lovely weather,” she barked at the nearest blonde beauty.
The girl spun around like she’d been shot and stared at the naked Deacon in open hostility. Stripped of her Order’s insignia and cloak, Sorcha realized she was also denied its inherent command. She could actually feel her cheeks begin to grow redder.
“Who are
“Too old to be a new arrival,” the first said very matter-of-factly.
“Deacon Sorcha Faris, of the Order.”
They blinked at her.
It was truly fortunate for them she did not have her Gauntlets. “Have you had any new arrivals in the last week to the harem?”
Her tone, if not her attire, must have convinced them, because the second womas aowly shook her head. “Not for the last two months.” Then both of them made a hasty exit. If they believed she was a Deacon, then they had just insulted her, and if they thought she was lying, then she was clearly mad.
The Deacon’s good mood went with them. Not only had she lost her partner, but she had nothing to report to Raed either.
Sorcha washed off, dried herself on the thick towels and, wrapping her robe about herself, hurried back to her room. She got dressed quickly, her mind buzzing.
Raed was there waiting in the antechamber, his face tight and drawn.
On his right was an older woman with a trim form and dark hair licked with gray. Despite everything, Sorcha felt a little flare of jealousy. On Raed’s left stood the tall, handsome young man she had seen yesterday.
Raed gestured to the woman. “This is Captain Tangyre Greene, one of my old friends and protectors, and this is Isseriah, who managed to get us inside the palace.”
The women nodded, but the man sketched a bow.
“Where is Aachon?” Sorcha asked. “Did something—”
“Oh no.” Raed flinched. “I instructed him to remain with the
“Raed said you might be able to help us find some trace of Fraine.” Tangyre tucked her hands behind her back. “Our trail has run cold in the palace.”
Sorcha heard the stiffness in her own voice. “I will do my best, but I hardly think it is coincidence you were led here, and now there seems to be some kind of geist activity.”
“They seek the royal blood again?” Raed’s jaw tightened. “They could not get me—so they took her!”
“We don’t know that.” Sorcha didn’t want him to do anything foolish, and she certainly didn’t want the Rossin turning up to complicate things.
Their hushed conversation was interrupted by Bandele striding down the corridor toward them. His former jovial nature must have been lost somewhere in the night, for he bowed very slightly when he reached Sorcha. “Deacon, my Prince is calling for you.”
He did not wait for a reply, instead spinning around and walking brusquely away. “Come on.” Sorcha wrapped her fingers around Raed’s forearm. “I want you with me.”
Tangyre and Isseriah glanced at each other.
“He is under the protection of the Order,” Sorcha snapped. “Raed will come to no harm with me.” Then, before they could argue, she and the Young Pretender trotted to catch up with Bandele.
“If we can convince the Prince that he needs our assistance, we will have the run of Orinthal,” she murmured, “and then we will have a much better chance of finding your sister.”
Raed’s fingers brushed hers, a little squeeze. “They are going to notice I am not Merrick, you know.”
“Trust in the Order.”
She was prepared for the seneschal’s query, but everyone must have been in a dreadful mess after last night’s panic, because he just ushered them in.
The sheer blind daring of bringing the Young Pretender into the presence of the Prince of Chioma satisfied some deep part of Sorcha. The only thing that would have been more so was bringing him into the presence of the Emperor himself.
For all the wealth and luxury of Chioma, its Prince kept a remarkably stark private room. The bright yellow light of the morning was filtering through the open window and illuminating the red earth walls. The Prince was sitting at the opposite end of the small room, robed in a similar shade, but still with the gleaming mask in place. Behind it there were only glimpses of dark skin, but it was impossible to tell anything else about the face beyond.
Sorcha sketched a bow of the appropriate depth. “Your Majesty.”
“Deacon Faris.” Without the echoing effect of the throne room, his voice was much softer but still melodious and deep. The Prince’s head turned toward Raed. “But this is not your Sensitive!”
Sorcha straightened taller. “Indeed he is not. My partner Deacon Merrick Chambers is missing after the events of last night. This man is one of our trusted lay Brothers from the Mother Abbey. He will be assisting me to locate my Sensitive.”
“This is dire news indeed.” The Prince sat back farther into his chair.
Sorcha took a long, slow breath. “It is indeed, but that is why I am here, Your Majesty, to ask a few questions of the other murders and in the process get my partner back.”
“I thought your intention was to protect the people, not to interrogate Princes—is that not why your Order exists? Or am I perhaps mistaken?” The outrageousness of this statement, even from royalty, was enough to stop Sorcha’s breath in her throat.
Perhaps people did question the Deacons still, but they had proven their worth against the geists again and
