think that, Your Majesty?”
“I don’t think it—I know it.” Onika’s voice brooked no argument.
“Yet you think you can trust us?” Raed stroked his beard and not for the first time wondered what exactly was concealed behind that mask. He was beginning to understand some of his grandfather’s irritation.
The Prince’s attention flicked in the Young Pretender’s direction, and though he could not see it, Raed had the distinct impression of a smile. “From what I have heard—yes.”
Sorcha shifted, and her fingertips, just for an instant, brushed her Gauntlets. “We’re flattered to have your confidence, but if you want us to stop these killings . . . ”
“They were related to me,” the Prince said smoothly. “And for you to understand the importance of that, I must tell you that I have very, very few relatives in this world.”
“You mean someone is killing those you have—even your Chancellor?” Raed was reminded of his own father’s conspiracyladen Court.
The beads rattled as the Prince nodded. “I have doubled the guards on all in the city and the palace that have a portion of my blood in their veins—yet still they die. Only a handful remain.”
Raed’s grandfather had called the Prince of Chioma a snake, suspected him of treason, and been insulted by his insolence. Could the same faults exist this, his descendant? It was impossible to judge behind that damned mask.
And then there was the question of the geist that had attacked him on the river. The gleam in the eyes of the woman as they tumbled into the water were burned into his mind. As much as he tried to avoid thinking of it, when he did, he knew instinctually that her attack on him had been very personal.
Sorcha stood up. “Then give us your leave to investigate. The Order is at the service of the Empire—not just the Emperor. And after last night, I am convinced there is some geist involvement.” Like all Deacons, she lied well.
Raed waited—either for the Prince to agree or perhaps to reveal that he had recognized the Young Pretender. Instead, the interior door popped open, and the heavily pregnant woman they had seen in the audience chamber the day before appeared. She was older than might have been expected to be a mother, but very beautiful. Her brown eyes, like those of a doe, widened further.
“I am sorry, Majesty,” she murmured, circling her hand protectively around her belly, and turning back as if to slip away.
“Japhne.” For the first time, raw emotion crept into the Prince Onika’s voice. “You do not need to go.” He held out his hand, and the woman grasped it immediately. She was elegant even while so large. Raed did not have much experience with pregnant women, but he knew that had to be rare.
The love and tenderness the two shared was immediately obvious. That, Raed knew full well, was a rarity in aristocratic unions—especially royal ones. Seeing the way Japhne looked down at the masked Prince made the Young Pretender ache a little. He doubted he would ever be free enough to look at Sorcha in that way.
“This”—Onika reached out and rested his hand against Japhne’s belly—“is the future—this is my son.”
Certainly for a Prince there could be nothing more important than an heir, but there was some other note in Onika’s voice—it was awe.
“I have had few other children in my life, honored Deacon, all of them girls—but this, this will be my very first son.”
Japhne’s smile at him was radiant.
“If they are in fact killing my blood,” the Prince of Chioma went on, “this is what they will come for.”
The look on Japhne’s face was calm—so she must have already heard this. It was the confidence of love.
Sorcha got to her feet. “We will try our best, Your Majesty. My partner has been called away for a short time, but I will give this investigation all of my attention.”
“Called away?” Japhne’s attention abruptly broke free of the Prince. “Is everything all right?”
Sorcha’s mind was already on the path of investigation, so she didn’t see the stricken look on the other woman’s face, but Raed did, and it didn’t make sense.
“Yes,” the Deacon said, already standing up. “He will be back.” She sounded so certain.
“Then find the truth.” The Prince held out a scrap of paper with his wax seal stamped on it. “This gives you freedom to roam anywhere in the palace.”
They made their bows and were about to exit the privy chamber when Raed spun about. “Your Majesty, one final question. Have you had any recent additions to your harem of late . . . any blonde women?”Onika frowned slightly but shook his head. “No, I have made it clear that there will be no more women added to my Court. Not until Japhne wishes it.”
The Young Pretender’s shoulders slumped, but he managed a “Thank you, Your Majesty,” before following the Deacon from the audience chamber.
Raed caught Sorcha’s arm and then, hidden by her cloak, squeezed her hand.
“I am sorry,” she whispered to him. “We have both lost people we care for, and both of us will get them back.” Raed nodded, fearing she might crack if he didn’t agree. She threaded her fingers with his. “We will get Merrick back, find your sister and hunt down whatever is responsible for these deaths.”
“Indeed,” he replied with plenty of conviction. He was tired of being chased and always losing. With Sorcha at his side, Raed felt more optimistic. They had already done incredible things together—defeated a Murashev and gotten Raed out of an Imperial prison. After that, surely everything would be easy.
Sorcha glanced at him, and he wondered if that Bond she talked of so often let her see into his soul—or maybe read his mind. Then, in a daring gesture, she raised his hand quickly to her lips, depositing the lightest of kisses on his knuckles.
“On to the Chancellor’s quarters, then,” she said and waved the Prince’s edict in one hand.
EIGHTEEN
Familiar Faces
He knew for fact things scholars of his own time would have killed to know—and he was with the woman he loved—the one who had died in his arms. But she wasn’t dead. It was almost enough to make him start believing in the gods of his childhood again. If he had time to stop and consider such things.
Nynnia’s hand was wrapped tightly around his, and she pulled him on as the rocks twisted under their feet. The smell of the loamy earth filled his nostrils, and they stumbled together a few times. Merrick smashed his knee into a jutting piece of rock, but the pain was a distant thing in the tumult of noise and fear. Blood poured down his shin, filling his boot, but there was certainly no time to stop and bandage it.
The Temple of Ehtia was tumbling in a roar of carved marble above them. As they scrambled down the hill, bits of it rolled and bounced past them. Merrick clutched Nynnia, yanking her back just as a piece of a carved column went flying past. The dust and rock pelted them, but they ran on.
Suddenly she grabbed him, wrapped her body around him, and rolled with him under an overhang as a rain of gravel poured down the side of the hill.
The roar of the earth beneath their feet filled their ears, yet all Merrick was aware of in that instant was her warm body pressed tightly against his. Her breath panted against his cheek, and despite the situation, it took a will of iron to stop him from kissing her then. It was not the rumble of the earth that stopped him—it was the knowledge that this might be Nynnia, but it was not the Nynnia who had fallen in love with him.
“We’re nearly there,” she said, her eyes dropping away from his. Still, she took his had, and once more they were running. Merrick cold see no destination, because the foothills of the mountain looked much as they were in his time, barren and rock-strewn.
Something snapped behind them, and he managed a quick glance over his shoulder. Half the mountain had slumped away completely, and a wave of rolling rocks was thundering toward them. It was Nynnia who saved him.
