someone she placed higher: Hatipai.
Unlike her father, who had been horrified and embarrassed at a showing of faith in his daughter, Kaleva was only saddened by it.
“Little Wolf”—a twin set of frown lines appeared on his handsome face—“I fear this addiction of yours will bring you nothing but ill.”
Standing in the blanketlike heat of Orinthal, she recalled with a smile his pet name for her and his easily given love. The Emperor was remarkably softhearted for one commanding such power.
“I think it i you who may be hurt,” she had replied. “With no faith to protect from the world, Brother.”
It was an argument that had spun on and on and round and round for years. So he had not questioned her plans while in Chioma, and Zofiya had not offered to tell him. Hatipai’s summons was something even an Imperial Grand Duchess could not ignore.
“Which direction is the Temple?” she asked calmly so as not to betray herself.
His face brightened as if lit by a weirstone. “We had reports, Your Imperial Highness, of you following our Bright Lady. Truly it gladdens the hearts of all in Chioma to know—”
“I am sure it does.” Zofiya held up her hand, cutting him off in mid-flow. “But it is many years since I have had the joy of worshipping in a Temple—I would like to partake of her presence immediately.”
Now it appeared as if the lit weirstone was under his feet, because he spun about and gestured her to follow him. Her Imperial Guard of six closed about her.
“Imperial Highness,” Ylo, her guardian since she had been only ten years old, whispered sharply in her ear, “is this wise? Into the streets with so few to protect you?”
He didn’t understand either. Nothing could touch her here in the land of her goddess. So she held up her hand, and he at least knew that gesture. Immediately he snapped to attention and followed her without further comment.
This was the city and the country where her goddess was still worshipped. The only one where faith still had a place. Certainly there were still other gods worshipped in the Empire, but mostly in quiet rural areas by simple folk who kept their altars by the hearth and gave small offerings when they could.
As the procession walked through the exotically scented streets of the city, Zofiya’s pace quickened until she was almost knocking on the heels of the official. He turned his head, surprised. “The Bright Lady is calling, is she, Imperial Highness?”
He couldn’t possibly know it was actually true, but he meant well. So she smiled and nodded. “It is a very, very long time since I have stood in one of her temples—back in my father’s dominion, in fact.”
“Forgive me, Imperial Highness”—a flicker of genuine interest overwhelmed his almost comical deference —“but is the Bright Lady widely worshipped there?”
A passing caravan of camels was apparently no respecter of high rank, and for a few minutes Zofiya’s guard had to push back at the stinking beasts. They traded insults and threats with the owner, until he realized who he was dealing with and urged his animals as best he could out of the Grand Duchess’ way.
Finally, when they were past them, she replied, “Her temples are very few indeed.” Those words stung.
She would not share with anybody the events of the day that had first driven her to the Bright One’s Temple. The memory of her father’s towering rage, when he had caught her practicing hand-to-hand combat with the guard for the third time was deeply ingrained on her psyche. He had wanted another princess to marry off and secure his kingdom—not one so committed to choosing her own path.
In the Temple of Hatipai, the young Zofiya had found the strength to follow her own heart. As it turned out, even the King of Delmaire had eventually given up on her, finally declaring he had a surplus of daughters—and that she should make herself useful and protect her broth on his ill-fated ascendancy to rule Arkaym.
All that good fortune she owed to Hatipai, and now that Kaleva was sitting more firmly on the throne, it was time to pay back that strength she had found at the feet of the goddess.
“There she is.” The official swept his arm up, indicating the slight rise in the road toward the Temple, as if he himself had conjured the magnificent red building from thin air.
The facade of the Temple had been masterfully carved. Vast friezes of the daily life of Chioma paraded around the outside of the Temple. All the trade and riches of the kingdom were depicted there; the smallest merchant to the greatest aristocrat were part of the magnificence. Every one of them, however, was climbing penitently up the walls toward the crowning glory of the building. The goddess sprawled atop her Temple, taking up all of the peaked roof, lying on her side, one hand propping up her grand head. The span of her wings beneath her served as a roof for the building.
Zofiya had never seen anything so complex or detailed—even in Delmaire—and it quite literally made her stop and choke back a breath of surprise.
“Would you—” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am sorry, what was your name?”
“Deren.” His eyes, which back at the waterfront had appeared so lifeless, were now full and gleaming.
“Deren”—Zofiya let out a breath—“is there any way that I may be able to pray alone?”
He gave a little bow. “I’ll run ahead and arrange it with the priestess. I am sure she will be able to accommodate your request, Imperial Highness.” And he scuttled off to do that.
The Grand Duchess stood in the shade, fanned herself, and tried to hold on to her frustration. Eventually Deren returned to them, his teeth flashing in his dark face with genuine pleasure. “The afternoon prayers have not yet begun, so the priestess has managed to clear the Temple for you, Imperial Highness.”
They climbed the steps to the doors, and Zofiya had a moment of disorientation—it was just as the goddess had shown her. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on the rest of her body, and her heart began to race in beneath her ribs. “Stay here, Ylo,” she whispered over her shoulder.
“But, Highness.” His voice was uncertain, but he still tried to do his duty—she wouldn’t fault him for that.
“Not this time.” Zofiya craned her neck, looking up at the Temple where the image of Hatipai stared down at her followers as if they were ants—which of course they were. “This,” the Grand Duchess said, “is private.” Then, knowing that for the first time in many, many years she would be alone in the Temple of her goddess, she walked reverently up the last few steps.
Inside, the heat was left behind, even though the light came in through the glassless windows and burned white on the red floor. Zofiya slipped off her shoes and felt the rough prickle of the fabulous carpets on her bare soles. To have such a place all to herself was one of the true joys of being royalty—maybe the only one, as far as she could see.
Despite her faith and her love of the goddess, that stung. Her nature rebelled against that. “I am the sister of the Emperor, Lady. I take care with his life. I counsel him as best I can.”
A lump formed in Zofiya’s throat. Arkaym and Delmaire had that in common. While many of the principalities that made up the Empire had female rulers, no Empress had ever sat on the grand throne in Vermillion. Empresses were made by marriage—not by birth.
“My brother was asked to come—to become Emperor,” she finally ventured, walking deeper into the Temple but with hesitation now in her stride. “I was never even considered. I could not possibly—”
The Grand Duchess’ confidence had been shaken. Suddenly the Temple was not cool and mysterious—it was positively freezing and deep in shadows. The holy water font, which in the goddess’ vision had seemed full of joy, was in fact rather menacing.
