It felt very strange indeed to be at the head of a force of armed men walking with all speed back to the palace of her brother. The Grand Duchess Zofiya’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword, and she dimly felt the weight of her new rifle bang against her back. These things had given her confidence in the past, but now they felt rather hollow.
She knew luck was with her—for the moment at least. The airship nearest the Priory had been the
What was even luckier was that they made Vermillion city in five days. Revele burned every weirstone she had in the airship’s engines to make that happen. It was a risky course of action, because with no replacements the captain was entirely throwing the fate of herself, her crew and her ship in with that of the Grand Duchess.
Zofiya knew it and accepted that loyalty gratefully.
Even now, walking through the damaged streets of the capital, she was still not sure what she had done to warrant it though. She was a little afraid to ask. They passed over the Bridge of Whispers to the south of the ruined Mother Abbey of the Order. She did not want to see that broken edifice, nor did she want to draw too close to the new geists that surely must have been created there after the destruction Derodak and her brother had wrought.
The city was revealing her injuries gradually to Zofiya like a wounded animal. The smell was of death and smoke, but there was also a strange tang to the air—something sharp and hot. She had become reacquainted with it after months spent with the remains of the Order; geists left a peculiar scent behind them. It was impossible for a normal human to detect only one being but many could leave a residue like this.
Shooting a gaze out of the corner of her eye, she observed that she was not the only one affected. Revele’s eyes were wide with shock, and Zofiya suddenly felt very old—though she could only be ten years older than the captain.
“You don’t remember,” the Grand Duchess found herself speaking more to give herself something to do as they moved through the streets. “You weren’t in the corps when my brother and I arrived in Arkaym. The same smell hit us in the face as we landed for the first time.”
“I was there,” Petav ventured from behind her right shoulder, “and I hoped to never see it again.” She had almost forgotten about the Deacon. It made her feel almost normal to have one with her.
Zofiya was lost in the memory for a moment. “When the Arch Abbot led the charge, he was at the head of the largest Conclave ever assembled by any Order. It was magnificent.” Her throat strangely choked for a second. After a moment she went on. “And now that Order is broken, and we have only a small chance of recovering any of their number. With so few remaining, I do not know how any of us will survive this.”
The Deacon at her back did not comment, only shifted slightly and hugged the irreplaceable tube, which contained the Pattern of his Order. As a Sensitive he was probably already searching for his lost fellows—yet he did not share what he was finding. That was not a good sign.
Finally, Zofiya called a brief stop, drew Deacon Petav to one side and addressed him in an undertone. “Reverend Brother—a word if you will.”
He followed her obediently.
“What may I do, Imperial Highness?” Petav asked, his gaze narrowing on her face.
Zofiya looked him up and down. “Now we are here, I must ask you to take on a dangerous mission.”
The Deacon made no comment, so apparently the training of the Order held better than their Mother Abbey had.
The Grand Duchess still felt like it was a very fragile thing to hang her hopes on, but she understood it was all she had at this moment. “I want you to immediately head out and begin searching for your fellow Deacons. I need you to get them organized and their powers restored as quickly as possible.” She spared a look over her shoulder at the smoke-wreathed city. “I cannot guarantee your safety—since I may well be arrested and executed when we reach the palace—but your task is the more important.”
The Deacon tilted his head as if she had asked him to bring her a glass of water. “I understand Imperial Highness, the people must be protected at all costs. The Order has always put themselves in harm’s way.” With that he folded his cloak around him, gave her a faint bow and then strode away down the street. It did not take long for him to be swallowed by the smoke and debris.
Just the idea of not having the Deacons to protect the people from the undead made Zofiya very angry. Being very angry helped. It helped keep off the thoughts that what she was about to do was very, very wrong. She held it before her like a shield. Zofiya turned back to the task at hand and gestured the troops to follow her once more.
As they passed people on the street, she noticed that they did one of two things: they either cheered faintly, or fled back into their houses. Whatever protection moving water had once offered the citizens of Vermillion was long gone—as had been forewarned at that very first attack Sorcha had stymied right outside the palace. It felt like ages had passed, but it had only been two years ago.
Still the palace had to be taken—and this time by Zofiya—if she was to have any chance of setting herself up as regent until her brother could be brought back to his senses. Unconsciously, Zofiya lengthened her stride as they began to climb the hill.
The vast sprawl of the red palace was coming into view, and she found she was holding her breath, when Captain Revele spoke, “Your Imperial Highness, look!”
The airship captain pointed to the west side of the battlements; it was as if a great fist had been brought down on the wall. It lay in tumbled pieces.
The Grand Duchess’ thoughts raced to the map Captain Revele had shown her back on the
The captain leaned across to her. “It is as you said, your brother has gone mad, turned on his own people. No one will deny that you are the next legitimate ruler of Arkaym now.”
Zofiya gritted her teeth; her concerns suddenly going from how she was going to take the palace, to if there would be anyone left inside to put up a fight.
“Kal, what have you done?” she muttered softly to herself. It might have been Derodak that had turned her brother’s mind, but if he had been stronger . . .
“Follow me,” she snapped.
The cobbled square around the palace was very wide, but there were plenty of homes and shops around the perimeter. All looked sadly empty, but she had spotted a public house with a low stone wall around a small garden. It had fine lines of sight and an excellent view of the main entrance to the palace. Zofiya and her motley collection of airmen, marines and soldiers gathered there.
The Grand Duchess clenched her jaw and tried to imagine this was like any other tactical situation—and not the place that had been her home in Delmaire for so long. She had to quickly size up what was going on here and decide the best course of action.
Despite the condition of the rest of the defenses, the gate was manned. It should have made her fearful, but instead the Grand Duchess actually found she was pleased. If they could mount some kind of defense of the gate, then there had to be someone in charge. Still, despite all that, she did not want to simply lead her own group within rifle shot of them—not without knowing how they would react.
Zofiya yanked down on the edge of her borrowed uniform and gestured to the soldier standing nearby. “Spyglass!”
His cap was missing and the insignia on his shoulder torn off; he looked like a war victim rather than the supply sergeant of the Imperial docks. He gazed at her for a moment, and she could actually observe the clouds roll back from his eyes. He’d joined them at the airship port along with a few others, but the majority of their troops were marines from the
Recovering himself, he slapped a brass spyglass into her open palm; she trained it on the soldiers manning the defenses, running her eye over the squadron. Their uniforms were tidy enough looking, but through the glass she could see that they were hollow eyed. Some part of her was proud that the men she had trained had stayed at their posts, despite what her brother was doing.
