Aachon nodded. “He concurs then. Very well, I shall requisition the
While she screamed and struggled inside her head, Garil bent, gathered up her Gauntlets and placed them on her chest. “It is a blessing that the fires have burned so low in her.” Touching another’s talismans while they still lived, even for a Bonded partner, was a dangerous action. The thick leather gloves, carved with terrible runes, were now no more dangerous than any other lady’s adornment that might be found in a market. While her old partner stared down at her from his scarred and battered face, Aachon gestured and two hooded figures entered the room, bundled her up in a blanket and hoisted her between them.
The logical part of her brain, which miraculously was still functioning, was wondering just how they planned on smuggling a Deacon from inside the Mother Abbey. In the end it turned out to be remarkably easy.
Her powers were indeed very far gone. Unable to even reach her Sensitive, hanging on the edge between life and death, she appeared nothing more than any other patient. As they approached the gate, she could see out of her eye the duty Sensitive talking and laughing with one of the lay Brother guards. A small stream of traffic was heading out of the Mother Abbey; merchants come to deal with the kitchen staff, workers and labors returning to their homes beyond the Imperial Island, and many family members, taking home their loved ones from the infirmary.
Aachon and his small band of men, accompanied by an old Deacon, blended right in. Nothing in the ether said that they were passing an Active Deacon out under the noses of her compatriots.
Her howls only echoed inside her own head. The Sensitive didn’t even look up as they filtered past him, and the gate to the Abbey was shut tight behind them.
“This isn’t how I imagined things,” Aachon murmured in her general direction. “If it makes a difference, I am sorry Sorcha.”
It didn’t matter. For the first time in her life, Sorcha was cut off from the Order, and truly alone.
THREE
Rare Feelings
Grand Duchess Zofiya did not like the company her brother was keeping. Not one little bit.
She stood with her eye pressed to the peephole and observed the dark corridor with the intensity of an owl waiting for a mouse. Except, she was positive this man was far more dangerous than a mouse. The width of his shoulders leaned toward brawler rather than dandy, while his long strides spoke of a man on a mission. Zofiya felt something else about him—something that she was very well acquainted with. Danger.
Ever since the Emperor’s sister had lost her faith, she had deliberately tried to steer away from superstition in all its forms. After her goddess was exposed as a fraud in a violent public display that nearly killed her, Zofiya had decided a new path was the best course. Huddled on the Imperial Airship the
Lord Vancy del Rue did not live up to his slightly comical name. He was tall, with a gray beard and hair, but a face that looked much younger. He wore the thinnest of calfskin gloves, and never removed them—even in the heat of the palace. He was the newly appointed ambassador from Ensomn, though he did not look to be of that western principality. Zofiya had never personally spoken to the man, but he had certainly caught her attention.
A soft knock on the door meant an end to her covert and definitely frustrating observations. Moving down from the step at the peephole, she quickly exited the wardrobe, replaced the false back, and retook her seat in her privy chamber. It was a private and intimate space that she only let people she trusted come to, so consequently it had very few visitors.
At her command Deacon Merrick Chambers entered and made a very proper and well-executed bow. As he did so, Zofiya couldn’t help smiling. The Deacon just had that effect on her. However, she would never tell anyone —especially him—about it. By the time his dark head rose, she had succeeded in secreting the expression away.
“Your Imperial Highness.” Merrick might have got over his initial nervousness around her, but she could not shake him of the habit of addressing her so formally in private. She had decided to look on it as an endearing trait. “You summoned me?”
She had found quite a few reasons to call Deacon Chambers to her in the months since their flight from Chioma. At first they had been real ones, concerning his mother, who had birthed the heir to that principality within the Imperial Palace. But after it became apparent the Emperor would not support an immediate return, to claim Chioma for the new infant Prince, she had found other excuses to bring the young Deacon out from the Mother Abbey. She was worried that the Court gossip would become unbearable, that maybe her brother would ask her questions—or worst of all Merrick himself might notice. Yet, despite all that she persisted.
“I need your help, Merrick.”
The Deacon’s brown eyes widened and an expression of vague confusion darted across his face. Zofiya wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to use his first name, as if they were friends or even more intimately acquainted. “Is it about my brother?” he blurted out.
He was always most concerned about Lyon’s future, but perhaps he was starting to guess her brother’s intentions. She did not want to disappoint Merrick by telling him that the Emperor had no intention of raising another Prince in Chioma. Recently married, he hoped to have his own son and immediately make him ruler of that realm. For all intents and purposes the quasi-independence of the south was done.
Zofiya did her best to hide her emotions while rearranging her skirts. Perhaps there was a use for women’s fripperies after all. “No,” she said smoothing the lace with one hand. “It is something else entirely.”
“Whatever service I can offer is yours, Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, and drew in a careful breath before continuing, “Providing it does not go against my vows as a Deacon.”
“Naturally.” She got up, placed her hand daringly under his elbow, and drew him over to the window. A small enameled tea set was already laid out as per her instructions. The insulated teapot had kept the brew at just the right temperature, and as the Grand Duchess sat down, she could smell the apples of Delmaire. It was a perfume that brought back beautiful and painful memories of her birthplace. “Please join me, Deacon Chambers. I have this tea shipped in from my father’s capital city, and it is a pleasure to share it with someone who I know is not out to seek advantage.”
After a moment’s pause, Merrick flicked his cloak back and took a seat opposite her. The slight twist in his mouth made him look about as happy as a cat dunked in water. He was making a polite attempt to conceal it—but was not very good at it—at least to the Grand Duchess’ eyes. Unfortunately for him, Zofiya was very good at spotting such things. Growing up surrounded by intrigue and aristocrats out to ingratiate themselves had taught her a thing or two. Since he seemed incapable of knowing where to begin, she did it for him.
“I know you Sensitives see things that others cannot,” she said pouring the tea, and sliding the delicate cup over to him, “and I have need of such a person. A very great need.”
“The Order is always ready to fulfill the requirements of the Emperor and his family. The Sensitive Deacon assigned to your brother, Deacon Lolish, is very good, but if you aren’t happy with him, I am sure you could request someone from the Mother Abbey to—”
He remained as dedicated to his work as she remembered, but Zofiya had to stop him before he got completely the wrong idea. “That’s true. But a thing like that would be noticed in the Court—and I wish it not to be.” She fixed him with a hard look. “Have you heard of Lord Vancy del Rue?”
After a quick sip of his tea, Merrick shook his head. “You’ll have to forgive me—I am not very well versed in the comings and goings in your brother’s palace. Deacons generally do not involve themselves with politics.”
“A wise decision to be sure.” Zofiya stirred her drink with a tiny brass spoon and considered how much to tell this Deacon. It was a very long time since she had trusted anyone with her thoughts. Even Kaleva, her brother and Emperor, did not know every concern and dark musing that passed through her mind, and though she’d taken lovers
