Wrayth (9 page)

His walk to the palace was brisk, but with each step he took he thought about how much farther Sorcha was getting away from him. He barely took in the finery of the Imperial Island anymore—the bustle of important people to and fro simply did not register—yet as he approached the palace, Merrick did glance up.

The palace and the Mother Abbey were the oldest buildings in Vermillion, and bore the scars of many years and many owners. However there was a grace to the low, rambling structure that covered the highest points of the island. Carved representations of geists and geistlords served as
water conduits on the parapets. However no real geists could cross the water to this spot, and the Deacons made sure every soul that died here was sent to the Otherside before it could make trouble.

The only danger on the Imperial Island was the living.

Merrick was expected and indeed a little late. The guards at the gate nodded and waved him through—just as they had all the other times. If they wondered at his invitation to a party rather than coming during the day, they did not show it. Gossip however, he was sure would be hard on his heels. He tried not to show his nerves by scampering up the main path, and instead slowed his steps.

Impatient as the Deacon was, he could not afford to let anyone know it. Also, he must perform the task Zofiya had set him. Thinking all this, steeling himself to be as he was not used to being, Merrick let the rest of the partygoers filter past him. Immediately he knew he was proved right—he was a crow among hummingbirds.

Certainly not every Prince in the vast Empire was here tonight, but ambassadors and their entourages were—and in greater number than the pigeons perching on the crenellations. Every one who had a beautiful son or daughter appeared to have decked them out with pearls and gems, and the latest fashions. Merrick couldn’t help blinking and staring about as the youthful best of the aristocracy sailed about him. Men wore stiff collars and sharply tailored suits, while ladies in tight-fitting bodices trailed next to them, their skirts considerably shorter than would have been dared on the streets.

Merrick was still young enough to remember the fashions when the Emperor had first come to Arkaym. It appeared that Emperor Kaleva had brought a new level of restraint to the trends of the day. The Emperor did not like to see money spent idly, and so the yards of fabric a woman once wore had been consigned to the history books.

He was just musing on that as he walked up the stairs toward the ballroom, when he heard his name called.

“Deacon Chambers!”

He turned and there stood Grand Duchess Zofiya, sister to the Emperor and second in line to the throne. For a second, all thoughts of Sorcha and his cunning plan evaporated. She stood in her finery, one gloved hand holding an ivory fan, the other extended toward him in greeting. Her evening gown was the color of fresh green leaves, standing out against the fine polished bronze of her skin. It was cut low and square across her bosom, embroidered and beaded so that it appeared pale pink peonies trailed down across her right breast over her hips, and fell across the small train at her feet. It did indeed have little fabric, but it in no way could be considered austere. Meanwhile her thick, dark hair was piled up in elaborate braids that only served to accentuate her elegant neck and shoulders.

Merrick had never seen the Grand Duchess like this. She was known for her martial nature, for being a crack shot, and for pruning out the members of the aristocracy who disagreed with her brother. None ever really dared to comment on her beauty.

In that moment Merrick was struck by even greater doubts. Maybe he had misread the situation. Maybe Zofiya was in no way interested in him—perhaps she only thought of him as a friend and confidant. She was a highborn lady, sister to an emperor, and daughter to a mighty king. Though he had some aristocratic blood in him, it was very minor compared to hers. What’s more, she was a dazzling dark star who could have any man in the Empire. What would she possibly want with him?

All these things ran through his head as he stood gaping up at her. Never had the Order’s archaic dress felt so dowdy. In his confusion he sketched a bow—a far too deep one. The Deacons were not exempt to showing deference to the royal family, but the form was the most fleeting of any rank. She smiled at him, and the look of it quite washed away the memories of her stern past.

On the airship back from Orinthal, they had both had
their perceptions and attitudes turned all upside down—some for the better.

Then the Emperor Kaleva himself appeared at his sister’s side. With him was his new bride, the once Princess of Chioma, Ezefia. They were scarce a month married, and already everyone was looking to her belly for a child to secure the succession. She was a beautiful enough woman, darker of skin than the Emperor, with eyes of deep blue—but there was also a deep scar in her mind. It fairly blazed in the ether, so that even those not of the Order could see it. He had seen such things before; the result of a traumatic event. The new Empress had certainly suffered not just one—but many—of those. Her father had been killed and his principality had been lost along with him.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on the point of view, Merrick had larger things to worry about. As long as his new brother, Lyon and their mother were safe he really didn’t mind that they could have had more. In his experience such jockeying for position only ended badly for the families.

“Deacon Chambers, indeed!” The Emperor’s smile did not reveal any ill will. “A pleasure to see you once more in our halls.” He shot a sideways glance at his sister. “We have become quite used to your presence.”

Zofiya did not move, but Ezefia flicked open her fan and began to wave it back and forth. Her eyes were fixed on Merrick with something that might have been a baleful look. “His presence did my father little good.”

The Emperor glanced at her and Merrick sketched a brief rune of Kebenar in his mind. It was another advantage of being a Sensitive Deacon—most of their runes did not require their talisman to be activated or even touched. Actives were considerably more flashy and less subtle. Kebenar unrolled before him, laying out the strains and stresses, the structure and the curvature of the situation. The russet air between the Emperor and the Empress spoke of a not entirely content marriage. Kaleva still had both of
his favorites within the Court, and the lines that stretched between them were a fiery red of passion. His bond to his sister looked strained also, though still the soft, rose pink of affection. Hers in return was thicker, but the pink was slightly stained with green. A change was coming over her.

Merrick closed his eyes, dropped them away from Ezefia, which neatly concealed him pulling back his Center and letting the rune fade in his mind. “Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, but my partner and I tried our best to save the Prince of Chioma. He made a valiant sacrifice for his people—but it was a path he chose willingly.”

Zofiya turned on Ezefia. “Sister, you should honor his choice, and hold his memory dear. He did what all sovereigns should be willing to do.” The words were said pleasantly enough, but the look on her face was as sharp as a blade. The Grand Duchess was never unarmed, even when she carried no weapon.

“Ah, Little Wolf,” the Emperor interrupted, “you have such a sharp bite—even on the defenseless.”

His sister glanced at him, a flicker of a frown on her brow. She did not reply, but instead, turned to Merrick and held out her hand. “I have been told that the Order does not prohibit dancing. Do you know how, Deacon Chambers?” Then before he could answer, she whisked him away from her brother, up the stairs to the ballroom.

The largest and most ostentatious room in the palace, it looked even more so tonight. Exotic flowers were crammed in every vase, and filled the room with a cacophony of scents. Gaslights, so unlike the candles used at the Mother Abbey, reflected off every polished window and gleaming brass surface, while an orchestra of beautifully dressed musicians played on a balcony above the dancers.

Merrick found himself out on the floor with the best and brightest of the Empire, moving as agilely as he could to the Drevense quadrille. It was lucky indeed that the Order had taught the basics in Court etiquette for those living and working at the Mother Abbey. This had included two days
on the favorite dances of the Court. He’d thought it quite the most useless class in the novitiate—but now he was extremely grateful for this passing acquaintance with dance. Even so, he was in deadly peril of squashing the Grand Duchess’ toes at every move. The strange thing was she was allowing him to lead—a totally unexpected turn of events.

“I never used to wear anything but my uniform,” Zofiya whispered, and smiled somewhat sadly, “but many things have changed since Chioma—my fashion and my brother for example.”

Her voice was so melancholy that Merrick couldn’t help pulling her a little closer. “He still loves and cares for you, Zofiya.” Her name just slipped out over his tongue.

It was the kind of error that she’d challenged men to duels for in the past. When she pulled back and stared at him, Merrick felt his throat grow a little dry.

Her smile was dazzling, but her eyes still darted around the room.

“Do you see him over there?” she whispered in his ear, as she danced a circle behind the Deacon. Aside from the words, the feel of her breath on his neck was quite distracting.

He had in truth almost forgotten her mission, in the turmoil of thinking of his own. As he turned to face Zofiya he managed to catch a glimpse of the person who had her so worried—and instantly his vague interest sharpened to something else. It was a face that he could not forget.

In the tunnels beneath Orinthal, Merrick had faced a group of people who wore the insignia of the Order of the Circle of Stars—the native Order of Arkaym. They had tried to take his mother from him, and he had only managed to recover her by using his own shameful and hidden wild talent.

The face of the other Deacon was burned into Merrick’s mind. He was not wearing the cloak of his Order, but the finery of a minor lord as he chatted amiably to an older lady over by where they were serving wine on a
damaskcovered table. Merrick did not know his name, but he knew one thing—that he was here in the center of the Empire boded ill.

He glanced down at the Grand Duchess and feverishly considered his options. Should he tell her? Should he shout and point the finger at this man right now? What would Zofiya’s reaction be if he did anything like that? Merrick realized it would be his word against that of a member of Court.

So instead he spoke as calmly as he could manage, “I shall have to speak to him to find out.” Then, with his heart pounding in his chest, he worked his way toward the so-called del Rue. His coming did not go unnoticed. The gray eyes lifted from the woman and fixed on the young Deacon.

The older man stepped forward to greet him and raised his glass. “Why Deacon Merrick Chambers. I did not expect to see you here—but I can say it is not unpleasant to run into you like this.”

It was just as it had been when they had “run into” each other in the tunnel. Merrick could feel his rage begin to boil again. He sorely felt Sorcha’s absence at his back. However, thinking of his partner helped him keep a hold on his anger. Yet only just.

“What are you doing here?” Merrick managed to keep his tone soft, but not necessarily civil.

“I should ask you the same question.” The man, whose real name was most likely nothing like del Rue, smiled and took a long draft of his wine. “After all, I am not the one with a darkling shard in my soul.” That piercing gaze narrowed—in an instant going from charming to razor sharp.

Merrick jerked back, feeling his skin grow suddenly cold. In Ulrich he had been forced to take a sliver of the soul of a slain Deacon into himself to unravel a conspiracy within a Priory. It had been his only choice, and he thought
to outrun any consequences from it. Yet here was this man pointing it out like it was a red letter painted on his cheek.

“It does make you rather stand out my young friend.” Del Rue picked up one of the tiny cups filled with candied fruit and began to nibble at it. “As does that wild talent of yours. Quite the conflicted little bundle aren’t you?” He tapped his spoon against the bowl. “Still I am not surprised anyone in your Order missed it. They are as near blind as to make no difference.”

It was unnerving that the man was able to place verbal jabs into the most vulnerable places. However Merrick was not going to show how well they were hitting home. “Maybe I am conflicted, but if I turn around and tell everyone here how we met it is
you
that will be reduced to a little bundle.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he put down his little half-eaten cup of fruit. He smiled. Then he laughed. It was loud enough to draw the attention of the glittering folk nearby. Undoubtedly they were wondering whatever a dour Deacon could possibly say to get such a reaction.

The older man’s expression was now ice-cold. “Tread carefully, Merrick. I am a close confidant of the Emperor. He trusts and values my opinion, whereas you are merely a Deacon—a Deacon with a terrible reputation.” He leaned forward. “Who will believe you—the Emperor? Or perhaps your Arch Abbot who hates you?”

Merrick felt his throat close up, words deserting him. Yet he opened his Center and examined the older man through it. Nothing. Despite what he had seen in the tunnels in Chioma, and the sly smile on the Native Deacon’s face, not a trace or hint of power could be seen. It was impossible. Merrick knew himself to be one of the strongest Sensitives in the Order, and yet this man was a blank slate—no more talented than the servers whisking away their used dishes.

All he could tell—and that was by looking—was that
del Rue was amused. He flicked his fingers at the Deacon. “Now go on, scuttle away. I have more important matters to attend than yours.”

He turned away from Merrick.

As the young Sensitive made his way back to the Grand Duchess’ side, his mind swirled chaotically. His first thought was of his mother. She was kept largely away from Court life, and had Lyon to look after, so she must not have ever run into del Rue; something that her older son could only be grateful for. Yet, if he tried to use her as a witness, then perhaps she would be a target again. He wasn’t even sure how clearly she had seen her abductors in Chioma. Too much had happened in one night, and it would take a few moments to come to any kind of decision.