Magnhild, King of Delmaire, to send his second son to be their Emperor. They had considered calling back Raed’s father, the Unsung, from his island exile, but in the end he was considered too divisive.
Raed knew that factions within the Assembly had worked against his father. In the end it was purely the fact that they knew nothing of then-Prince Kaleva, whereas the Unsung was of a line of kings who had riled and annoyed generations of those warring rulers.
The Prince’s attitude grated on him, but he spread his hands and tried to look as inoffensive as possible. “I need a safe harbor, Prince Felstaad. My crew must have fresh supplies. My ship requires urgent careening and repairs.”
“Fueled no doubt by a desperate need to remain faster than the Imperial Fleet?” The old man grinned thinly. The joke was in poor taste, but unfortunately very close to the mark. The bounty on his head fluctuated with the times, but it remained somewhat of a problem. Raed smiled smoothly rather than deny it.
“I know that your familial association with my family has cost you dearly in the past, but all I ask is a little time. Your court is far from the Vermillion Palace . . .” It had been years since he’d been in a princely court and yet he could hear himself dipping once more into the language and cadence of its speech. Raed hated that.
Felstaad’s eyes narrowed only slightly. “But the new Emperor’s reach is long. Brought up in that sweltering court of his father’s, he is always looking for the knife lurking behind the curtain. None of us can afford to be complacent.”
Raed took a breath, letting his eye wander over the audience chamber. Felstaad was indeed far from the glittering center of the Empire, yet around him he saw signs of opulence; a jeweled clock here and a very fine portrait there.
Such little clues made the Pretender consider the uncomfortable possibility that this prince was doing more than making gestures of obedience to the Emperor; he could be in his employ. To be certain, the bounty on Raed’s head was lower this year than last, but perhaps the Prince needed to buy a new toy for his mistress. Anything was possible, yet he had no choice but to take the chance.
Raed gestured to the side, a little away from prying ears. Felstaad paused a second and then joined him in his walk to the window. The Prince was not quite as tall as the Pretender, and off his dais he was forced to look up a little to meet the other’s steady hazel eyes. Raed enjoyed that little moment.
“Lord Prince,” he whispered under his breath. “The Empire is still new, the usurper on my father’s throne still struggles with the Assembly, and all I am asking is a small harbor in one of your out-of-the-way villages to make repairs.” He fixed Felstaad with a calm look. The Unsung might never leave his island of exile, but Raed wanted the Prince to know that was not true of himself; he would not be so easily dismissed.
His host was a political beast and a fence sitter by his very nature. Those sharp eyes measured the ill- dressed man before him; Raed hoped they saw more than his clothes. The Prince smoothed back his small mustache carefully before answering the request. “In the far north there is a fine little town called Ulrich, with a good-sized fishing fleet. The place itself is inhospitable to any but the locals and perchance there you could make good your repairs.” He shrugged. “It is also too small a place for me to keep a representative, so I am unlikely to hear of any unusual visits until well into the spring . . . if at all.”
It wasn’t the answer that Raed had been seeking. He knew of Ulrich only by reputation. Other trading vessels avoided it, as the waters were rough in winter and the harbor was not an important one for fishermen. It was also near the Imperial Dirigible way station, one of the new Emperor’s experiments to bridge the vast distances of the continent. Raed had been hoping for a warm-water port in the very south of Felstaad’s dominion; his crew deserved it. Yet, by the look on his host’s face, this was going to be the only deal on offer.
Repressing a sigh or indeed any sign of his disappointment, Raed nodded. It was nearing late autumn. Snow was already on the ground in most places that got it. If he wanted to make Ulrich before winter truly set in, there was no time to waste.
Felstaad was about to return to his courtiers when he raised one finger to his lips and spun back to Raed. The nasty smile he wore boded ill. “I do hope,” he half whispered in a slightly exaggerated fashion, “that this little stay on dry land will not prove inconvenient . . . considering your unfortunate condition?”
Raed’s back stiffened, but out of long practice, distaste did not reach his face. The Prince had heard the rumors and wanted confirmation: Raed would give him none. “I can assure you, Felstaad, that my health is not your concern. I shall manage as I always have.”
The Prince’s jaw clenched a little on such an abrupt dismissal. It was something he was not used to, but what he was referring to went beyond the bounds of good taste and he knew it. The lingering possibility that Raed might one day be a force to be reckoned with held back any further questions. It usually did with these petty princes.
Moving back to his courtiers, Felstaad brushed his coat as if some of Raed’s presence had caught on it. “I am sorry that I cannot help,” he said somewhat loudly for their audience’s benefit.
Such a shoddy dismissal made the Young Pretender want to slap the ignoble Prince right in the face. In the old days, before the foolishness of his grandfather, such an insult would have been met with steel. But those days were well gone, and Raed had to live in these new ones.
He did not bow as he left the perfumed audience chamber. He did, however, wink at the prettiest of the young ladies-in-waiting, the one who had called him “almost handsome.” If he ever managed to return in splendor and with the right clothes on his back, he might just change her mind on that particular score.
“Can I get you anything, Deacon Faris?” Arch Abbot Hastler, despite his rank, always asked that question of those who were lucky enough to gain an audience with him.
Lucky was not something Sorcha was feeling right now. She looked up blankly from the embroidered stool on which she sat in the Abbot’s inner chamber. “Sweet tea if you have any, Reverend Father.”
He nodded and gestured for the waiting novice to fetch some from the kitchens. It didn’t take long. Soon warm liquid was poured into tiny white china bowls, emulating a quaint, friendly domestic scene that was at odds with the dire circumstances of the moment. Steam chugged out of the pot and collected on the lavender-colored stained glass window, making intricate and tiny wet patterns. The scent of sugar and roses should have calmed Sorcha, but it instead disturbed her, coming on the heels of yesterday’s madness.
After he had poured them each a bowl, the Abbot sat opposite her and they drank in silence. Sorcha felt at any moment she might drop the fine china from her bandaged hands. His chain of office, with each link bearing one of the ten Runes of Dominion and seven Runes of Sight, reflected the weak sunlight into her eyes, occasionally blinding her. His Gauntlets and his Strop rested on a velvet stand atop the marble mantelpiece. He was the only member of the Order allowed to practice both disciplines—even the members of the Circle of Abbots could have only one. It took quite a man to handle that sort of power.
As such, he was a formidable person to be seated opposite. Though Sorcha knew Hastler’s methods, she still cracked under them. She broke the quiet first. “So . . . when is the Episcopal inquiry due to start?”
His bright blue eyes were suddenly aimed right at her and any pretense of kindliness was swept away. When he had been tested as a Deacon, it was rumored that Hastler had ranked so high as an Active and Sensitive that it had been a close call which he would choose. In the end Sensitive won out, and it was only when he was raised to Arch Abbot that he had taken up the Gauntlets. Sorcha felt intimately aware of this fact as she sat pinned under that gaze. She understood he could literally see right through her—a talent no doubt very useful in his position.
“Perhaps you should be asking about your husband, instead of the consequences of activating Teisyat?” His voice remained quiet, as if they were discussing doctrine rather than the likelihood of her dismissal from the Order.
She tried to keep her tone as level as possible. “I was with Kolya all night, Reverend Father. I know he will be fine.”
“Eventually, perhaps. But he will not be suitable for duty for several months at least. The geist exacted a terrible toll on him.” The Arch Abbot set down his half-empty bowl and folded his hands, waiting for her to reveal all.
If he wanted to, he could see everything anyway. Kolya had mentioned once that sometimes what people didn’t reveal was more telling than what they did. What concerned her, apart from her husband’s injuries and her possible dismissal, was the nature of the geist responsible for both.
“It wasn’t a normal unliving entity,” she began.
