again since arriving with the Emperor. And it was Princes like this one who had asked—no, begged—both to come. If they had not, she and the rest of her fellow Deacons would not even be in Arkaym. It set her teeth on edge to hear such a questioning tone from one placed so high.
It was half in Sorcha’s mind to bite back with a harsh question of her own.
“Many things have changed, Your Highness.” Raed’s voice held no deference but a chill command that he might regret later. “But someone is definitely stalking your Court.”
“Then things are far worse than I feared.” The Prince paused, but his tone was carefully controlled and revealed nothing. “Sit and ask your questions; I will answer as best I can.”
It was perhaps not a ringing endorsement, but it would have to do for now. All three of them sat on the low stools that he indicated. As she folded herself into one, Sorcha surreptitiously opened her Center. It was not as powerful or as farreaching as that of a Sensitive, but it would have to do.
It was not an illegal thing to do—for the power of the Order went beyond even the power of a mere Prince of the realm—but it was more than a little impolite. Sorcha kept her voice light as she leaned forward. “What can you tell me, Your Majesty, about the first murder that took place?”
The Prince shifted, the strange crystals hanging from his mask swaying slightly. It was so irritating that Sorcha had to restrain herself from leaping up and knocking the damn thing off his head. The political implications of doing that might be a little too tricky. Instead, her hands clenched on each other, and she dared spreading her Center as far as an Active could.
She could sense the guards outside, stern and resolute, and Raed next to her. While he might be outwardly calm, the swirl of his emotions was like looking into a thunderstorm. He was terrified of not finding his sister and yet resolutely trying to ignore that possibility. And there was more—a bright mote that gleamed through all that. A tiny seed of feeling for her that could easily grow into something bigger.
Sorcha jerked back in shock, utterly unsure what to do with that knowledge and utterly disarmed by it. Instead, she swung her Center toward the Prince and was almost as shocked. The scintillating display of the mask was the same in the ether as in the physical world. It spun, turned, and behind it she had trouble seeing anything about the Prince of Chioma—instantly she understood that the tiny stones that made up the strings were not just diamonds—they were tiny weirstones.
“I think you can find out the details of the other murders in the city from my Chief of the Guards.” The Prince leaned back in his chair.
Focusing her Center on him was like bending light with a lens, but far less useful. Sorcha tried her best not to let her frustration show in her voice. “You must have an opinion on how or why these are happening, Your Majesty.”
“The Prince of Chioma has always had a reputation for insight.” Raed folded his arms. “I am sure you must know everything that goes on in your kingdom—let alone your own palace.”
It was a charming challenge, and Sorcha did not bother to conceal her smile. The Prince tilted his head, sending the confusing strings of his mask swinging. A tantalizing glimpse of a pair of full lips was all she got. The silence in the chamber was tense, however, and she wondered if this interrogation would end with them all thrown out into the corridor or maybe the dungeon.
“The first murder,” the Prince finally spoke, “was not the first murder.”
Sorcha reached into her pocket and fished out the piece of paper that she had scribbled on the previous night. “Someone was killed
“No.”
A trickle of fear down her spine made Sorcha sit straighter. “So, Your Majesty—who was the first victim?”
The fine, dark hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “My Chancellor, Devane.”
Raed glanced at her. “I heard the rumor when we arrived; he had died of old age in his room.”
The Prince’s laugh was dry. “Only if old age slits your throat.”
Sorcha leaned back and shot a look at Raed, whose shocked expression she imagined was the mirror of her own. The Chancellor of a kingdom was second only to the Prince—and if he had been murdered, then that cast a very different light on the whole situation.
Pressing her hands together, Sorcha cleared her throat. “I think you need to tell us the whole story, and please, this time no deceptions.”
He was a Prince—so she had no way of forcing him to give her that, but hopefully death on his doorstep would insure it.
SEVENTEEN
Out of Time
Merrick knew he had to be dreaming. Yet, as he sat up, his headache was disturbingly real, pounding in the rear of h of his kull with a strength that he had never felt before.
Cautiously he looked around. Under his legs was a floor of white marble, smooth and cool. Disoriented as he was, for an instant he worried he was still strapped to the draining table in Ulrich. Blood, they had wanted his blood—but Nynnia had sent him here for a reason—and he trusted her.
Perhaps he had just been traumatized by the sudden departure from the Otherside. Perhaps he had not really seen what he had seen. A strange scraping rattle caught his attention, and the young Deacon lurched to his feet.
Not three yards away Nynnia was hard at work. He noted her back stiffen, so she was aware of his presence, but she did not turn to face him—too busy in her task. She was standing next to a machine that was about the size of a saddle but made of gleaming brass rather than leather. At the front it had a layer of spinning cutting wheels that were busy desecrating the carvings on the stone pillar. The Deacon looked around wildly and saw that all of the pillars, bar this one and one other, had already been given this terrible treatment.
Merrick was on his feet and lurching toward Nynnia without even thinking. “Stop!” For he recognized these pillars—though when he had seen them last they had been covered in dirt and moss, having been recently dug from the earth.
She spun to face him, and Merrick felt immediately the dissonance. This was Arkaym, yet it was not. Nynnia was herself, yet not. He stopped in his tracks.
She was older. Lines of silver in her long dark hair gleamed in the morning sun, and a tiny landscape of wrinkles caused by laughter and frowns decorated her face. It did nothing to hide her beauty. Merrick felt as though he were sitting on a shifting ice floe, unsure which direction was safe.
“‘ Stop’ ? ” Her voice was the same. “What do you know about what I am doing? What do you care?” Behind her the machine continued its work, grinding its way up the pillar with amazing speed and efficiency—destroying as it went.
Merrick examined the towering, curved ceiling above them. It was similar to the Mother Abbey—but so much grander. Curls of carved words ran up the dozens of pillars—those that had not already been destroyed. Merrick’s world reorientated itself, and though it was disturbing, at least now he could understand it.
His breath came faster as he walked to them. “I know that these pillars are priceless treasures. They contain so much knowledge.” He held his hand out like that of a blind man looking to touch a face. The markings on the pillar were written in Ancient script, the one he had learned so easily while in the novitiate.
In the future. Merrick felt the whirling of the world about him; he was in fact in the spot his childish self would occupy hundreds of years hence.
“And that is why they must be destroyed,” she replied.
He recalled the toppled pillars in his grandfather’s garden and the strange scouring that had wiped away their meaning. If he could just stop this Nynnia from continuing—if just one pillar survived . . .
Then he thought of the consequences for his future and realized he would have to tread carefully. Merrick raised his hands in defeat. “You’re right—if I stop you, then who knows what changes could be effected in my own time—it is impossible to predict if the future would be better or worse.”
