Spectyr (18 page)

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Authors: Philippa Ballantine

BOOK: Spectyr
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Sorcha knocked the top off her cigarillo and considered how on earth to reply without shouting.
“I am sorry”—Merrick stopped him, though he did look suspiciously as if he were about to burst into laughter—“but the Order specifically forbids us to wear anything but our robes. We are supposed to reject the perils of the material world, you see.”
“But this is hardly a peril”—Bandele waved the outrageously colored length—“just enough to make you acceptable in the Prince’s Court.”
Sorcha swallowed her anger. “Are you saying we are not ‘acceptable’ here?”
Bandele opened his mouth, but Merrick was quicker. “It is just not possible, Ambassador. Thank you for your kind offer, though.”
He glanced between the Deacons and then admitted defeat. Bandele waved away his helpers. “I can hardly believe”—he sighed—“that I am introducing such dull birds to the greatest Court of finery and beauty in the world.”
That was quite a sweeping statement. “It is impossible,” Sorcha replied sharply, “that the Court of your Prince can match that of the Emperor in Vermillion.”
The Ambassador tilted his head and grinned. “Oh, the Emperor’s Court is indeed most”—he pursed his lips—“civilized. But the beauty of it cannot compare to the silks and organzas of Chioma.” He glanced over them one last time. “Are you sure you will at not least put on the more acceptable robes that our Order wear?”
“
Your
Order?” Sorcha’s jaw clenched. “As far as I know, the Order belongs to itself and not—”
Merrick gave a hasty bow. “The ways of the Chiomese Deacons are for its citizens alone—and not for us, I am afraid.”
The Ambassador sniffed, but seeing no flicker of compromise in either of them, he turned back to the door. “The Prince will see you now, then—as you are.”
The inside of the palace was even more beautiful than the outside. Long galleries that somewhat resembled ones back at the Mother Abbey opened out onto many little gardens with intricate plantings and burbling fountains. Each one was a gulp of blessed cool in the heavy blanket of heat that existed outside of the thick walls of the palace. They passed under the red mud ceilings and, craning her neck as surreptitiously as she could, Sorcha saw how intricately they were carved. She was used to the Imperial Palace, but she still managed to be impressed with the Prince of Chioma’s residence. Naturally she would not let a bit of it s to Bandele.
Merrick leaned over and murmured in her ear, “I think he already knows.”
Sorcha shivered, thrusting up the mental shields that all Initiates learned to hold against geists—she hoped it would provide some protection from the leaking of thoughts across the Bond. Merrick was lifting more and more of them from her mind, and she was concerned that her partner was less and less aware that he was doing it.
As they passed through the palace corridors and drew closer to the throne room, she began to smell the thick odor of frankincense—it was beautiful and exotic.
They reached the waiting room directly outside the throne room where there were crowds of people. These were not aristocrats; these were the common folk: traders, penitents, the desperate and those looking for advancement. Women with eyes of ebony chatted in corners and watched them cautiously. Sorcha suddenly did feel underdressed—and realized Bandele had been right—she and Merrick were dull indeed. The riot of blazing purples, rich reds and eye-popping oranges were almost blinding. Sorcha had never before had cause to feel jealousy for another woman’s dress, but she found that she did feel self-conscious.
As they trailed at the rear of the procession, surreptitiously eyeing the waiting crowds, a strange sensation began to build inside the Deacon. It was so warm and deep down that for a second she was almost embarrassed at its primitive nature. Sorcha dared not show her reaction, but she was confused by her body’s odd reaction.
She glanced up at Merrick to ask him if he too felt it, perhaps offer some Sensitive insight. Instead, over his shoulder Sorcha glimpsed the face she had been looking for—but had not expected to find here.
Bandele, totally unaware, strode on toward the doors, while both Deacons stopped dead in their tracks.
Sorcha forgot to breathe. The world narrowed until there was only the three of them: her, Merrick and Raed, the Young Pretender, the third in their Bond. Her eyes couldn’t get wide enough to soak all of him in. Suddenly the worries and cares she’d held on to so tightly meant nothing.
He was wearing the traditional Chiomese head scarf and bright, loose clothing—so his face was partially concealed—but she would have recognized him anywhere. Raed, however, was talking to a tall young man and didn’t notice them. He was so unreal in a real situation that she stood stock-still, examining him, feeling a ridiculous smile spread on her lips. She took half a step toward him, her mouth opening to say his name.
Wait, Sorcha!
The words in her head were like a slap in the face, and then Merrick’s hand clamped down on her arm, as if she was a little child who would run and throw herself on Raed.
He might not have been able to feel their Bond, but the Young Pretender heard her indrawn breath. He turned and saw them both. The Bond flared, releasing a rush of sensation that almost toppled her. Every memory, every sensation of their time together came racing forward. Sorcha had been trying not to think of them, tried to deny their power—under this new assault she had no defenses.
Raed’s hazel eyes held hers. She noted the flex of his hands into fists and the tremble in his posture as if he too was holding back movement.
So many people stood around them, chattering, arguing, lost in their own world. Sorcha realized she was not free to simply walk over and throw herself into Raed’s arms. They were in a foreign Prince’s Court, with eyes everywhere watching them, observing, noting. She knew full well how the report of a Deacon flinging herself on a man in Orinthal would go. It could be even worse, if she drew attention to the fact that the Young Pretender was that man.
Deacon Sorcha Faris was frozen with indecision. She had so much to say to him—but dared not voice it.
“Honored Deacons?” Bandele had breezed right past the mass of people and was now standing before the massive cedar doors, his brow furrowed. The Chiomese guard, with their rifles on their shoulders and elaborate feather headdresses, were waiting to announce them. Gradually the heads of everyone in the hallway were turning toward the motionless Deacons.
“Walk on,” Merrick whispered, his voice taut. When she did not, he hissed again, “Keep walking, Sorcha!”
By the Bones, she needed to smile, and with difficulty she managed it. “Coming, Ambassador,” she called cheerily.
Walking past Raed felt deeply wrong, but as they did so, Sorcha flicked her head to the left and caught his eye; she hoped he could see or sense how much it hurt to turn her back on him.
“Wait here,” she mouthed to him while her heart raced.
Please don’t die before I can warn you.
He stayed where he was, and then she saw him no more. Sorcha barely heard the seneschal announce them or saw the Court itself. It was only feeling Merrick at her shoulder that kept her moving.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured to her. “He’s here, but he’s alive. We have time.”
Sorcha took a breath, and it felt like the first. Her partner was correct. They were in foreign territory, and she had better take notice of the Court around them.
A subtle glance to her right told her that Merrick was already entranced. It was, she supposed, a feast for the eye. The people of Chioma, with their high cheekbones and gleaming dark skin, were even more impressive when dressed in Court attire. Servants stood in the corners, beating the air with fans of peacock feathers, while another played a curved flute, filling the room with a strangely melancholy tune. Upon the dais were a rank of beautiful woman—the most striking collection of slightly dressed women that Sorcha had ever seen.
The women of the Imperial Court were lovely too, but their charms were considerably more hidden. The Deacon suddenly made the connection; these exquisite women who peered down with somnolent assurance of their place in the world were members of the Prince’s harem.
It took a moment for her to notice the man buried in among them. Seated at the top of the dais was a throne carved from dark wood, and on it was the most extraordinary man she had ever seen—or not seen.
He was totally cloaked in the deepest blue, swathed so completely that she could not have said if he was tall or short, thin or fat. The real strangeness was that she could not make out a single feature of his face. The Prince of Chioma wore an odd headdress with a bar of silver across his forehead from which hung rows upon rows of tiny white glass beads. They gleamed and danced and were very pretty—but they also denied anyone any chance of seeing his face.
Sorcha shot a glance across at Merrick—and he gave the slightest of shrugs. Apparently this scholar of all things Chioma was just as baffled. The Prince was an enigmatic figure, he’d told her that, but obviously he hadn’t been expecting him to be
this
enigmatic.
Bandele was bending low in a bow that bordered on that which might be given to the Emperor. “Majesty, these are the Deacons from Vermillion who escorted us safely here. I present Deacons Faris and Chambers.”
“Welcome to Orinthal.” The voice that emerged from behind the beaded headdress was deep, smooth and remarkably young. “It has been a long time since any Deacon from the Mother Abbey has ventured this far south.”
Sorcha and Merrick sketched a bow, but it was the Sensitive who replied. “Your Majesty, it has long been my dream to visit Chioma.”
The Prince nodded, the only gesture that Sorcha could be sure of behind that strange mask. “I have long wished to see the Imperial City myself. But perhaps I can send my daughter in my stead.” It was the most polite and gentle probe, delivered in a perfectly level tone of voice. “What do you think, Deacon Faris—shall my daughter see Vermillion?” The Prince shifted, and the crystals swayed as his head turned in her direction.
Sorcha, used to her partner’s handling these subtle interactions, found herself caught unawares. “I . . . I truly cannot say, Your Majesty. I know he has received the suits of many ladies from all over the Empire.”
The gasp that ran through the crowd implied that might not have been the best choice of words. Sorcha felt increasingly frustrated and irritated. She had stood before Princes before, even the Emperor, and yet this one was so hard to judge with the royal face obscured.
Merrick could not step in; to do so would imply weakness in his partner. Sorcha did, however, feel him stiffen at her side.
When Onika, Prince of Chioma, laughed, the pressure valve was let off a little. “Very true—I can only be grateful not to have to choose from so many.” His voice was laced with amusement and irony—as it should be, considering the women of his harem stood not five feet from him.
While the Court tittered at their Prince’s little joke, a small brass door opened behind the throne. A group of five young women with one older and heavily pregnant entered. These newcomers were far more demurely dressed, and Sorcha knew immediately that the youthful ones were his daughters. They whispered among themselves and moved to the other side of the throne, well away from the women of the harem. Among them was a tall, striking girl with such a look of confidence that the eye was immediately drawn to her. It was not a great stretch to guess that this had to be the Princess Ezefia who was suing for the Emperor’s favor. Her eyes darted to the Ambassador, but seeing nothing, she quickly replaced the mask of boredom. So, she was an expert in the games of Court—she would have to be if she were to become the next Empress.
The older woman, swaying slightly with her swollen belly, still moved with the economy and grace that would put a dancer to shame. Her dark braid swung down her back, and she smiled beatifically at the Court—the smile of the truly happy. The Prince turned and held out his hand to her; however, it was impossible to tell if he smiled or not. Sorcha guessed that he did. He did not introduce the newcomer, but she slipped into a place just at the foot of his throne.
And then across the Bond Sorcha felt Merrick fall into a well of panic. It was so deep that she jerked around to look at her partner, wondering what in the Bones could be the cause. Nothing on his face could possibly have told her that he was close to bolting—his expression remained clear and calm.
Unaware of any change in the Deacons, the Prince fixed his gazut them once more. “I will have many questions for you, Deacons.” He paused. The Order stood apart from the usual machinations of the Princes: their rules, their squabbles. The only people whom Merrick and Sorcha had above them were the Priors and Abbots of the Order of the Eye and the Fist—and ultimately the Emperor.
Perhaps the Prince realized that he had pushed the line between Order and aristocracy a little too far, because his voice softened. “It would assist me, honored Deacons, if you could talk with me later about your Emperor. I would know his mind on some matters.”
Sorcha’s stomach clenched for two reasons: the way he said “your Emperor” as if he had no connection with the man and the idea that they were to be quizzed about politics. The Deacons could refuse, use the vaunted independence of the Order, but they were a long way from a Priory or Abbey—and even farther from the Mother Abbey itself.

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