“I can read you,” he said, clasping her around the waist from behind, and pulling her in tight, “but I cannot see what you will find in Vermillion.”
Zofiya turned in his arms. “Do not—”
He stopped her words with a finger placed over her lips. Once he would have earned a broken arm for such daring. “The city will be full of powerless Deacons, lost, bewildered, but they will still have the potential.” He cupped her face in his hands and rubbed his thumb over the curve of her lips. “Deacon Petav has been recording the works of the Patternmaker, and been learning the art of applying them to the skin. You must take him with you!”
The idea of that particular Deacon journeying with her was not very appealing; as far as she was concerned he was as dry as a stick that had been left out too long on a summer day. However, she understood what her lover was getting at. If she could resurrect at least some of the Deacons at the capital, then they could help bring the citizens of Vermillion some protection from the geists.
Zofiya nodded slowly. “If you think he is up to the task, then yes that would be very useful.”
Merrick chuckled. “Deacon Petav has proven himself very useful to me, but he would also welcome the chance to get out from under Sorcha’s gaze I think.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Zofiya replied with a twitch of her lips. Petav had been Sorcha’s husband once, as well as her partner. They had come to a working understanding, but things were still a little tense when they were both in the room—you didn’t need to be a Sensitive to feel that.
Merrick drew in a long breath. “Then there is another favor I must ask of you, Zofiya.”
She loved how her real name sounded on his lips. She so seldom heard anything but titles and platitudes from people. “Of course,” she whispered, holding herself as steady and far away from him as she could manage.
“When you reach Vermillion, can you please try to find out what has happened to my mother and brother? Aachon tried and failed to find them in the chaos after the destruction of the Mother Abbey.” His brow furrowed, and seeing his pain only made her love him more. “They have been on my mind ever since.”
“I will do all I can,” Zofiya said, pressing her lips together. She knew full well that he had lain awake many nights struggling with guilt over leaving them behind, so she just hoped that she could send good news back to him, rather than the other darker possibility that could be the reality. How much of a chance for survival could a mother and small child in a Vermillion lost to chaos have? Her skin prickled at the thought.
The world outside of the citadel was tearing itself apart. Her brother and the Arch Abbot of the Native Order had condemned it to be so. Once she and Merrick plunged back into all that, death was a real possibility—tonight’s events had reminded them all rather forcefully of that.
Zofiya rushed forward on the wings of that realization. The Deacon and the Grand Duchess clasped each other tight and kissed with the kind of desperation she had never known. It was a terrible thing to care for people, she thought angrily, and now her love for her brother and her love for Merrick were totally at odds. However, it wasn’t love for Kal that was taking her from the Deacon. It was her pledge as Grand Duchess.
As Hatipai had said in her holy books, “Each soul is given a purpose to bear.” Though the goddess Zofiya had hung her being on had been proven a geistlord, the Grand Duchess still remembered her words. Maybe as goddess and geistlord, she had been able to see the future that lay ahead.
Zofiya steeled herself, remembering that humiliation, and determined not to make a fool of herself again. Merrick let her go. “I will see you again.”
He said it with such conviction; Zofiya chose to believe that he had looked into the future with that Sensitive skill of his. It made it easier to step away from him and leave the citadel.
The Grand Duchess’ hand clenched tight on the warm weirstone, until her fingers ached, and she took her leave of Merrick and the citadel.
FIVE
Madness from Above
The world had become unhinged and so had its Emperor. Kaleva could tell that was what those around him were thinking. He stood on the deck of the airship Winter Kite and kept his eyes on the clouds rather than on the officers that stood on each side of him. The thrum of propellers sounded very much like war drums, and the strong wind at his back was pushing him onward.
Yet even in this moment of power, all he could think of was the open mouth of the Rossin, and the gleam in the eye of del Rue. Those were the images that chased him in his dreams, but haunted him just as much in the daylight.
He shook his head, trying to banish them. Kaleva knew he could trust no one—that had been proven in the disaster of the Mother Abbey. His advisors had been corrupted by runes and the undead—even his own sister had been tainted by association. It was as his father had told him. “A ruler stands alone, and no one is above suspicion.”
He’d always thought his father was just being cruel, but now the Emperor fully understood he’d been communicating the truth.
However, Kaleva smiled to himself, for a surplus Prince in a distant land, he had come far. His father, the King of Delmaire, had supplied him like a sacrificial calf to the bickering Princes of Arkaym as a figurehead of an Emperor, and he had shown them all.
He would fight the hallucinations of the geistlord and the unnatural man that commanded them. The Emperor would not give in to fear.
“General Beshan?” The Emperor shot the name over his shoulder, and the old man, with his salt-and-pepper beard and battle scars, snapped to attention.
“Imperial Majesty!”
“How long before we reach Sousah?” Despite the speed of the airships, they did not move as fast as Kaleva wanted. It made him more than a little irritable. He wanted to experiment with the tinker’s contraption immediately, and it would be a nice example for the rest of the rebel Princes; when they saw what he could do, they would scamper back into line.
“Another few hours,” the general muttered through his mustache.
The Prince of Sousah had declared for this Pretender, this sister of Raed Syndar Rossin. Many principalities—most in the west—had declared for her. They claimed the Conclave of Princes that had summoned Kaleva across the ocean to rule was invalid, and that they had been pressured to agree to his appointment. Instead, they wanted a scion of the Rossin house to rule over them. The very thought of that family made Kaleva grind his teeth together. The Rossins had been tainted right from the very beginning thanks to that geistlord. They were abominations and traitors to their race.
If certain of the Princes of Arkaym wanted a Rossin back on the throne, that did not matter to Kaleva; he had taken the crown, and he most certainly was not going to give it up. To spur those Princes that did remain loyal to him onward, the Emperor had promised that they could add any principalities they took in his name to their own. It had brought many Ancient enmities to fresh vigor, as they scrambled to fight over the bones he was throwing on the ground.
“Hold your course, I am attending my wife downstairs,” the Emperor said shortly, before striding off the deck and going down the polished wooden stairs to the stateroom.
He could hear her weeping long before he reached the door. Ezefia, Empress of Arkaym was wailing as though her life depended on it.
The Emperor could tell by their pressed lips and pale expressions that the screaming and wailing was bothering the two guards stationed at the door.
For too long, Kaleva had realized, in the burning remains of the Mother Abbey, he had been in everyone’s shadow; first his draconian father, the King of Delmaire, then later his martial sister who everyone had feared and respected. The Deacons, with all their twisted, demonic magic, had at least shown him that much.
He had to be Emperor. Alone and singular as it was meant to be. However, he would require an Empress and children to follow. The question was, would it be this one?
Kaleva pressed his hand against the door and listened to just on
e more sob. When he pushed the door open and stepped inside, her weeping stopped as abruptly as if it were attached to a string.
She was a great beauty even with tears, Ezefia of Orinthal; dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, and warm full lips. She was also a liar and had made him a cuckold.
The man, who had concealed himself in the Imperial Court, called himself Lord Vancy del Rue, and had given Kaleva so much useful advice, had also been the lover of the Empress herself.
Now Ezefia was trussed to the chair she sat on. Tears were running down her cheeks, but she was the daughter of royalty and pride kept her from weeping in front of her tormentor.
Kaleva smiled and shut the door quietly behind him. Ezefia was not gagged, but she did not say a word as he approached. So he spoke instead.
“We shall be over Sousah soon, and then I shall show them the power of an Emperor unleashed.” Kaleva tapped the top of her head sharply. “I shall make sure to bring you up on deck for the fireworks. Perhaps, if we are lucky, your lover is down there.”
Ezefia’s head came up at that. Her stunning green eyes were brimming nearly over, as she stammered, “My lord, it was not by choice. He cast a spell over me, enamored me. It was like I was trapped in my own body, howling to get out. He did things to me, and it may have seemed as if I were his, but in my heart I remained true to you.” She paused, and then managed to gasp out the rest of her pitiful attempt to win him back. “After all, my love . . . it was I who told you all, once his spell on me was broken.”
Perhaps, if he had loved her as he once had his favorites, perhaps if there were more than just a convenient connection between them, he might have found a morsel of sympathy. Yet now, as he looked down at her, he saw nothing but a duplicitous woman who had committed treason against the crown.
The fact that her belly was just beginning to swell with del Rue’s child only added to the offense. Kaleva’s face twisted into an ugly set of lines; he suspected that Ezefia might have tried to pass the bastard off as his own if the whole mess at the Mother Abbey had never happened.
Still, it had shaken him loose from his complacency. Everyone had thought the Emperor a kindly man, but kindly men were often taken advantage of.
“You were merely trying to pre-empt the servants’ gossip reaching me,” Kaleva hissed in reply.
Ezefia hung her pretty head at that—the tears apparently dried up—but her shoulders still shook. “Why don’t you simply have me killed then?” she said, her voice low and husky with resignation. History was ripe with tales of Empresses who had betrayed their marital vows as well as the punishments that were meted out on them. Kaleva knew that she was running over them right now in her mind.
The Emperor looked out the window of the airship and formulated an answer. “It was suggested that I seal you up in the walls of the palace, as the third Emperor did to his unfaithful wife. Others said I should have you defenestrated.” Kaleva tilted his head, rolling the oddly fascinating word around in his mouth. “I was tempted by that.”
He sighed and lightly touched Ezefia’s shoulder. “But the truth of the matter is, that by keeping you alive I may bring del Rue back. Oh, I am sure he has no concern for your welfare. No,” he said, pointing at her bulging belly, “I know he will come back for that, then he and I have some unfinished business to conclude.”
He wanted to show the man that had mastered him that he had no hold on him now. The orphaned Deacons had provided plenty of information on the art of manipulating the weirstones, and it had proved not nearly as difficult as the Order had tried to convey. In fact, the weirstones were very useful in so many ways.
Tinker Vashill had been brought in to consult on some new uses for the power of the weirstones, and his designs would be the hammer that Kaleva would bring down on the unruly Princes of the Empire—starting with Sousah.
The communication horn strung near the window blew a short note, and the Emperor picked it up eagerly. “Your Imperial Majesty, we are drawing over the target, and are awaiting you command.”
Kaleva smiled. Now, it was time to show them. It was strange how in all these years he had always believed that his father was a damned tyrant. He and Zofiya had lived in fear of his wrath—even though they were the youngest of his large brood of children. It had been ingrained in their psyche that he was an evil man. Lately Kaleva was beginning to wonder if they had been wrong all this time. Now, the words that the King of Delmaire had instilled in them were starting to surface.
“A ruler cannot afford to have any softness in him. He must play the game of royalty with ruthlessness that looks on even loved ones as pawns. Otherwise he will be swept from the board.”
The Emperor looked down at the Empress, and it felt as though he were observing her from a great distance; as a human might contemplate an ant. His feelings had been amputated by the man calling himself del Rue—and for that Kaleva had at least something to thank him for.
He strode to the door and told the guards to bring the Empress up on deck, tied as she was to the chair. Then without giving her any further thought, the Emperor climbed the stairs.
The Imperial Guards all stood erect at their stations, but the gangly figure of Vashill was at the controls of his dire machine. Kaleva’s eyes narrowed on the gleaming square brass device, and it brought a delighted smile to his face.
It had been installed at the very edge of the Winter Kite and took the place that some cannons had once occupied. All of the inner brass workings were visible, giving it the appearance of a vast gleaming insect. Three huge pipes ran from the machine over the side of the airship before spreading into wide funnels. The weirstones buried within could also be glimpsed; ink black and swirling. It used the system that had been harnessed to propel the Imperial Fleet of airships, but also tapped into the Otherside’s vast reserves of power.
Vashill, despite his disheveled appearance, was one of the greatest tinkers of the age, and by virtue of his skill had freed himself of the taint of infamy his mother had earned for the family. She had disappeared with the remnants of the Order under the control of the Deacon Sorcha Faris. Apparently the old widow had been giving them succor for some reason.
Her son had publicly disowned her and turned his skills to helping his rightful Emperor regain control of outlying provinces. As Kaleva stepped up to him, he executed a passable bow. “The machine is ready to do your bidding, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Kaleva tucked his hands behind his back, and stared down through the breaks in the clouds to the city of Sousah. It was set on a hillside above a river, with the ports clustered on a blue bend. Thousands of brightly polished tiles on all the roofs gleamed up at them, and the Emperor got a visceral thrill thinking of all the citizens below going about their daily lives, not even guessing everything was about to change.
The Imperial Guards finally brought Ezefia up on deck, and at the Emperor’s direction placed her down next to him. Under the sunlight, her bronze skin looked remarkably pale. The tracks of dried tears on her face were all that there were to tell that she’d been crying.
Her eyes darted over the edge of the airship to the city below. “My love, you cannot do this . . . an innocent city—”
“Innocent?” Kaleva leaned down and stared into her lying, deceitful face. “I think not. Your lover was from there! Don’t think I didn’t hear that accent in his voice—and then Sousah’s Prince declares for the Rossin bitch!”
Ezefia closed her eyes for a moment, but when she spoke her voice was as calm as his sister’s had sometimes been. “Kaleva, I know how del Rue works on your mind. I know how he can make anything seem reasonable, and I surely know best of all how much it hurts when he withdraws his influence. Please don’t let all of that warp you into killing innocent people. Del Rue could have come from anywhere. He is far older than you—”
For an instant—just the briefest of ones—he saw her coming off the airship for the first time only months ago, and how beautiful she had been. Even though it was an arranged marriage, they h
ad treated each other as best they could.
Then his hand arched back, and he slapped her hard across the face. The sound of the blow echoed across the deck and it left a scarlet mark on Ezefia’s cheek. The Emperor had to squeeze his jaw tight to regain control of himself because for an instant he imagined picking up her chair and throwing it over the side.
Instead, he turned to Vashill and managed to choke out, “Is it ready?”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the tinker said, not showing an ounce of reaction to his ruler’s display of temper. If he had not been such an excellent maker, then he might have prospered in diplomacy.
“Then let us begin,” Kaleva replied, folding his hands once more behind his back and drinking in the last normal moments of the city beneath.
The tinker jerked his head at the Imperial Guard assigned to the machine. Two on the far side worked levers, while on the side closest the Emperor, another two began to spin a crank. The machine ground gradually to life.
It really was a miracle of the art of tinkering. Kaleva almost forgot his rage watching the pistons and cogs work their magic within. It was no wonder that Vashill had not given it a case of some kind—it was quite a spectacle—but nothing like what was to come.
Rain began to fall on Sousah. The clouds around the airship were light, and stretched; they contained not a drop of water. Instead, rain was coming from the machine that Vashill had created. It poured through the pipes, the rain sieve, then it fell from the Winter Kite on the city below.
The inventor’s brow was furrowed, his dark bushy eyebrows knitted together. He held out his hand and gestured to the captain, who relayed the order “Ahead, slow” through the communication funnel. The airship engines whined only faintly, and the vessel began to move. All the time the rainmaker chugged on, sending droplets down on the folk below.
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 6