NINE
In the Sanctuary
Zofiya’s fingers tightened on Merrick’s as she drew him with her down the corridors. Most of the folk, both high and low were busy celebrating, yet her heart was pounding harder than any of theirs.
Her head was full of concerns for her brother—for the Empire itself—but she was also exhilarated by the nearness of the Deacon. Still, she told herself, she had good reason to bring him to her chambers. Good reason, yes indeed.
Her few maids had been dismissed to enjoy the evening, and as usual there were no sentries on her door. She was the head of the Imperial Guard and, as was her habit, had no one watching her apartments. If danger was coming to an Imperial sibling, she would rather it came to her than her brother. Now this worked to her advantage.
“Quick,” she said, tugging Merrick into her privy chamber. “This is the only place where I am sure it is safe to speak.” She pressed shut the redwood doors behind them. The room was quiet and lit only by two flickering sandalwood-scented candles in the sconces. None of her ladies had really been expecting her to return so soon. They were alone.
The doors on the other side of the rather sparse privy chamber were ajar, providing a glimpse of the far more opulent bedroom. Pride of place was a vast and silk-shrouded bed carved to resemble a ship. It was a ridiculous indulgence, but it was one of the few Zofiya allowed herself.
The young Deacon glanced around, his eyes slightly wider than usual, a sure sign he was using his Sight. “We do indeed appear to be alone.”
Zofiya shivered. When the Order used their powers so flippantly she was reminded how little she understood what they did. Certainly, they were invaluable in maintaining the integrity of the Empire, and giving the ordinary folk some reassurance that their grandmother was not going to vomit acid, but they were also a dangerous power.
As the Grand Duchess circled the room, trailing her hand over her trinkets, she watched Merrick Chambers out of the corner of her eye. The Order had done things that the Empire could only be grateful for, but she had always been cautious around them. Zofiya did not like how much power they wielded. Merrick was the only Deacon she actually had learned to trust.
“Tell me what you know about del Rue,” she commanded. Her hand now rested on an onyx box, but she did not reach in to take out what it contained. Not yet.
The Deacon took a breath, and his eyes darted away from hers. He was not a very good liar—even his expression gave him away.
Zofiya’s finger traced the sharp edge of the box. “Tell me,” she repeated, but this time not in her Grand Duchess voice. Instead, she whispered it—almost like a normal woman.
Merrick cleared his throat. “I am sure you know the history of the native Order that was here before my own.”
She tilted her head. She had been expecting something else—something related to a minor nobleman seeking advancement, or a Prince of the Empire annoyed at some petty oversight by her brother. When the Deacon mentioned history she was surprised, intrigued and just a little worried. Although the mysteries of the Order and its kind were not unknown to her, she was not foolish enough to believe that she knew everything about them.
When Zofiya did not speak, Merrick paused and glanced up. His eyes were dark pools in the half-light, and they were so very earnest. “We thought they were gone, wiped out and stricken from the records. Stranger still, there was no remnant in the oral tradition, and several of my own Order have suggested this was…deliberate. We knew they existed, but that is all.”
The concept that anyone could remove memories from the entire population of Arkaym was a terrifying one. And yet she had seen far more terrible things; recollections of when a geistlord had taken residence in her body welled up. She swallowed them back. “But you don’t think they have gone at all, do you?”
“I know they have not. I saw them beneath Chioma—they tried to take my mother from me.” He swallowed hard. “That man was leading them; the man you know as del Rue.”
While he talked in a calm, flat tone she flicked open the box and looked in. The shiny pendant inside gleamed back at her, almost mocking. It was the sigil of Hatipai—her greatest mistake. It was a reminder not to fail like that again. Her brother and the Empire were at stake.
“That is a concern,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry,” Merrick replied, and despite everything Zofiya smiled.
“How is that your fault, pray tell? The Empire is under constant attack every day. There is always someone trying to destroy my brother, unbalance the Princes, and cause mayhem.”
“Arkaym was not perhaps what you expected when you came over with your brother.” The Deacon took a step toward her, a rather telling step.
“No, and neither was finding a Deacon as an ally.” Zofiya flicked the onyx box shut with a snap. “I do confess facing another Order like your own is something I didn’t expect. I am not quite sure how to fight back against them.”
Merrick tucked his hands into the sleeves of his rather plain cloak. “I think we should take this to the Mother Abbey in the morning. They may have more knowledge of the Native Order than I am aware of. Unless you think we should try and talk to your brother about this?”
Zofiya pressed her lips together. “I have already tried asking about del Rue, and he tells me nothing. It is as if my voice no longer matters.” It hurt to admit that. She and Kal had been as close as twins when growing up. They’d weathered the storms of their father’s Court in Delmaire together, and she could never have imagined a time when he would take no notice of her counsel. Yet, that time was upon her.
She could not have pinpointed the exact moment when that had changed. It had been gradual, and so subtle that it had snuck up on her. And so had loneliness. She had few friends in Vermillion and none close enough that she could share these fears with. The Court was a cesspit of intrigue and backstabbing. Those that she chatted with daily, even her Imperial Guardsmen, or her body servants, could be working for any number of factions and being paid to bring them information.
When Merrick’s hand touched her shoulder, the Grand Duchess did not flinch away. He rubbed gently, and whispered, “I am sure we can get him back. These rogues cannot have that deep a hold on him that he would forget his sister. Everything will be all right in the end.”
It was such a ridiculous statement that Zofiya should have laughed, and most definitely should have pushed him away for his temerity in daring to touch the Grand Duchess. Those are the things she should have done. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch. The moments where she allowed herself to feel weakness were few and far between, but something about this earnest young man had already breached her defenses and perhaps, if she was truthful with herself, she had just been waiting for a chance to let him in.
Everyone in Court would have been truly amazed at the next words that came out of her mouth. “Don’t leave.” Her voice was soft, yearning, and utterly alien even to herself.
With the little light in her room Merrick’s eyes were hard to read, but as a Sensitive he had to know what she wanted. They were not a celibate group she knew, and though inviting a Deacon into one’s bed was not forbidden by anyone, it was a little rash. If the gossips in the Court got wind of the Emperor’s sister bedding Merrick Chambers, it would be the talk of the season. Yet, at the particular moment, she didn’t care. She was sick of weighing every move, every person, and considering how it would affect her brother’s Empire. He had taken a little-known aristocrat into his trust after all. It was time she had something for herself too.
Merrick stood silent, a still, dark shape against the faint starlight coming in through the window. “Zofiya, I don’t think it is wise for me to stay. People will get the wrong impression—”
He wasn’t going to make this easy for her—either that or he was quite without a clue. That was the problem with being the Grand Duchess; everyone was always so damned afraid to approach her. “Perhaps they would get the right impression,” she growled, and cupped his face in both of her hands. He was taller than her, so it was a strangely penitent gesture.
He did not pull away. “I would not want you to think I was taking advantage—”