The room smelled of linseed oil, and the air was sharp in her nostrils. The only experience she could compare it to was the time she had spent in Tinkers’ Lane, watching the construction of the engines for her brother’s newest airship. The heavily guarded mysteries of the Guild of Tinkers had fascinated her. Yet, merely by looking around, Zofiya knew that this place was far older than anything she had seen in Vermillion—except for the prison from which she’d helped the angel escape.
Then, warmth and her goddess’ voice had carried her on, insulating her from the strangeness of that place. However, now she was alone, shivering in a room that was bone-achingly cold and strange. The wall was carved with numerals and figures and, under her fingertips, felt metallic. The light was coming from the eyes of the people depicted, each of them a piece of blue glass. Yet the pictures were similar to the ones in the palace. People crying out in terror as the Revelation of the Otherside began, the Season of Supplication—but this time there were no other gods represented—just Hatipai.
The people crying out this time were obviously citizens of Chioma, with their high headdresses and sumptuously draped clothes. The artisan who had made this was incredibly skilled at capturing the anguish in the people’s faces and postures. Except for one.
Zofiya stood frowning for a moment. A central figure stood in the middle of the almost prostrate crowd—but where they were bent and knotted in fear, he was erect, proud, looking directly up at the representation of Hatipai.
Unconsciously, one of the Grand Duchess’ hands stole to her throat, because two things disturbed her greatly. That man, carved with such drama and precision, was unfamiliar, but he wore something she had read of. The mysterious headdress of the Prince of Chioma had been widely reported. She had learned of this ruler who rarely traveled beyond his own borders and whose face was never seen.
In the frieze the artist had depicted the headdress in great detail and embellished it with the different colored clear glass so it fairly blazed in contrast to the other parts of the image.
The second detail that caused a deep frown in the forehead of the Grand Duchess was the depiction of her goddess. This was nothing like the images in the Temple above. This Hatipai was a nightmare, her hair flying wide like a nest of angry vipers, and long, predatory teeth visible in a mouth that was spread wide—yet she knew it was her goddess because of the symbol hanging about her.
Words were written beneath, obviously words, but not any that Zofiya—even with a royal education—could understand. A lost language; it had to be. It was terribly frustrating, and she made a de. Thehat when she got aboveground, there would be scholars questioned rather vigorously.
As in Vermillion, she followed the frieze around to the end of the chamber. Here the image was stranger still. The Prince of Chioma was shown wrestling with the nightmare vision of Hatipai, and it looked as if he was pulling something off her. Zofiya leaned forward, until her breath was fogging the cold metal.
It looked as if the Prince was struggling to rip a cowl or perhaps the skin from her goddess. The people of Chioma were shown screaming, clapping their hands to their ears, their mouths in a terrible rictus of pain.
“What is that?” she muttered to herself as her fingertips hovered inches from the metal.
A loud clank echoed through the chamber, and Zofiya leapt back. It was a display of fear that she was glad none of her Imperial Guard had to witness.
The light in the chamber grew brighter, the eyes of the people beaming out at her, and things were shifting. Just beyond the light, the sound of metallic rattling made her wonder if some metal giant was stirring.
The whispering began: soft, insistent and growing louder by the moment. Zofiya took another step and looked around her but was unable to see where the sound was coming from. It could not be that there were people in the chamber with her, but perhaps it was the whispering of shades trapped in this awful place.
She was no Deacon, had no weaponry that would possibly harm a geist—but she had the faith of her goddess burning inside her, and her goddess had told her to come here. So Zofiya stood still in the middle of the chamber and waited for whatever was to come, to come.
Gradually the sound of the whispers began to resolve into languages that Zofiya knew. As well as Imperial she could make out at least ten familiar native tongues. Her heart was chilled by what they were saying.
Who are you?
Die in the dark if you have not the blood.
Who are you?
Identify!
Her spine straightened as the cold of the room began to change to an ominous warmth, and her hand clenched around her sword hilt. However, there was nothing to strike, no threat that she could identify—just a feeling of doom sweeping toward her out of the untapped darkness.
Throwing back her shoulders, she spoke as loudly and as firmly as she remembered her father speaking from his throne in distant Delmaire. “I am Grand Duchess Zofiya Nobylchuin. My father is King of Delmaire, my brother the crowned Emperor of Arkaym, and I am second in line to the throne of the Empire.”
It was true. All of it. Yet she had never really considered that last part, until she had yelled it into the black. Zofiya stood there panting, for that moment forgetting her fear of this chamber and instead remembering her brother’s strange looks, the murmured conversations in the Court when she passed by, and finally particular attention several of the Dukes had been paying her.
She and her brother were all that there was of a very shaky new dynasty on the throne. Both of them had to marry and produce heirs—immediately. For that same moment Hatipai, the strange room, and her mission evaporated. Her brother had been concealing something behind that ever-present smile. Had she been so busy protecting him that she had noticed nothing else? It was a terrible wounding thought that froze her in place.
Zofiya snapped back to her current concerns, because the room was moving again. The eyes of blue glass now beamed narrow lights that flickered over her. The voices, the harsh whispers died away and were replaced by something just as ominous.
The sound of metal screeching against metal reverberated around the room with such vehemence that she had to slam her hands over her ears.
Finally it stopped and, breathing heavily, the Grand Duchess cautiously uncovered her ears.
The Emperor or his heir may enter.
The final frieze slid apart. Zofiya wondered how many of these Ancient places there were around the Empire, waiting to be discovered. The Rossins must have known about them, but unfortunately during their rather hasty exit from Vermillion had decided not to leave instructions for their successors.
The Rossin line was the enemy of Hatipai and all other deities, for they had allowed the population to turn away from the gods when the Otherside opened. Letting them diminish, become “the little gods.”
Zofiya’s heart was filled with certainty. Her brother might have plans for her—but she had plans for him too. The gods would be brought to power again, and her goddess would be placed above them all. She would bring faith back to Arkaym.
She stepped forward confidently into the darkness toward a gleaming pillar of light. That was when the device above the door attacked her. The long, articulated arm struck her shoulder with a needle the thickness of a lacemaker’s instrument. The Grand Duchess barely had time to react before it was withdrawn. She stared at the device as it clicked and whirred. Nothing happened, so after a few moments she continued into the room and, strangely, into the sunlight. One glance up told her that somehow those Ancient craftsmen had worked a lens that funneled light from a distant point to here.
“Goddess be praised,” Zofiya murmured under her breath. Her feet echoed on the floor, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Up on the pedestal was another device she could not name, but she was positive this was what Hatipai wanted her to retrieve.
It looked to be a sphere of gray metal. She might have faith, but the Grand Duchess was not stupid—she did not grab the object straightaway
. Instead she studied it, head tilted, eyes narrowed. It was the same size and shape as the round balls children everywhere in the Empire played with. Two circles of flat gray metal encompassed the ends of the sphere, and between them the rest of the ball looked to be made of some kind of glass.
Zofiya’s fingers hovered only an inch from the sphere. The glass was as fine and clear as any made for the Vermillion Palace, and through it she could make out that the sphere held some kind of liquid. In the light from above it appeared to gleam silver. Walking around the pedestal a little more, she observed that the discs at each end were not just flat—they too were etched and contained little wheels and cogs. They were tiny examples of the Tinker’s art—the kind of work seen only in the clocks made for aristocrats or the Imperial Court.
Such things were recent inventions, and yet this place was unquestionably old. Faith did not stop Zofiya from being curious, either. The Ancient folk and their arts had been lost after the Break—this had to be an example of their craft. Yet, why her goddess would need something from them, she couldn’t comprehend.
Maybe it was not her place to understand. Hatipai had only asked her to bring her this tng. She wiped her palms on her breeches before taking the sphere.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but something felt like it shifted within the orb. She paused, frozen in place, waiting for the terror to begin. It could explode in her hands like a mistimed weirstone, break into a myriad of shards, or maybe burn.
Yet after a few terrifying heartbeats, nothing happened. All was still in the chamber. Standing up, Zofiya wrapped the sphere in the red silk of her kerchief and tucked it into the lining of her cloak.
Cautiously, making sure her feet landed in the dusty footprints she had made coming in, she backed out of the room. Once she was beyond the huge metal frieze, it slid shut in front of her, scant inches from her nose.
The whispers began again, swelling around her, sounding angrier than before.
Now they spoke something else, something that chilled her heart.
Destroy it.
Break it, daughter of the blood.
Destroy it as we could not.
Zofiya’s jaw tightened. She did not reply to their foolish demands. Her goddess had given her a command, and the Grand Duchess would not fail to obey it.
Turning, she began to climb back up the stairs, back to reality. Whoever or whatever this strange place was, she had what she’d come for. The whispers would just have to look after themselves.
TWENTY-ONE
Interview in a Library
Raed knew a palace in uproar when he experienced it. As they passed through the corridors and atriums, he was reminded of the Unsung’s house in exile. His father always had a flair for the dramatic. He could send servants scuttling and his put-upon valet running about as if the Otherside was opening again.
They were lighting little cones of incense in sconces on the wall, and the scent was floral, thick, and though Raed knew it was supposed to be welcoming, he found it too cloying. It remained to be seen what the Grand Duchess Zofiya would think of it.
She was the second in line to the throne of Arkaym, and no one as close to the ultimate power in the Empire had been to Orinthal since his grandfather. It was a big event for Chioma.
“I wish they’d just get out of our damn way,” Sorcha grumbled. He wanted to hold her hand again—but this time he restrained himself.
Fraine was out there, and Sorcha had managed to find a lead when everything Isseriah found had come to nothing. Yet they had to hurry. The shade of that girl had stirred every fear in his body. It could have been his sister.
Sorcha stopped and turned. Her blue eyes focused on him with that intensity he found both amazing and a little scary. “We’ll get her back, Raed.” Then she leaned forward and whispered for his ears alone, “If we have to pull down every brick of the Hive City to do it.”
In another’s mouth that might have been a joke—but the Deacon was deadly serious. “Then let’s start with the brick we know about,” he replied.
She shot him a little smile, tight and slightly wicked, and then strode on toward the women’s quarters. Outside the door stood one guard, a eunuch who must have been at ast six and a half feet tall, with arms crossed. He appeared not nearly as impressed with the Deacon standing before him as he should.
“No entire man can enter,” he rumbled.
“I stand surety for his behavior,” Sorcha replied, crossing her own arms. “I and my Order.”
The eunuch shifted slightly.
The Deacon took a step forward. “Or I could return to your Prince and tell him you have stood in the way of the investigation he charged us with . . . ”
The mountain of a man glanced around as if he expected someone to relieve him, but finally even he gave way to Deacon Sorcha Faris. He unlocked the door and stood aside.
She was not done with him. “I want a full assembly of every blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman in the harem. How many will that be?”
The eunuch glanced her up and down, and after a moment gave her a little bow of his head. “The Prince chooses his women almost exclusively from Chioma—there are only three women who fit this description, my lady.” It was not the proper honorific for one of her standing, but the guard undoubtedly didn’t have much contact with the Deacons of the Order.
Raed observed Sorcha’s tiny flinch, but she nodded. “Then we will need a room to interview them.” The guard directed them a small antechamber just off the cloistered area, where a small library was housed so the harem would have something to do other than gossip and sew.
While he lumbered off to get the women, Raed looked askance at Sorcha. “So how are we to tell which of them are responsible for that girl’s death?”
The Deacon pressed her lips together. “If Merrick were here, it would be easy. But since he is not . . . ” She paused, eyeing him in a calculating fashion that Raed did not appreciate. When she did that, the woman who entranced him was washed away, and he caught a glimpse of the Deacon the Order had made.
She shook her head. “I guess that method wasn’t the best for the shade—we will just have to rely on my limited Sight and manipulating them into revealing themselves.”
The eunuch had obviously taken her orders to heart, because he appeared with the three women and even knocked courteously on the door. The ladies smiled at Raed—but he didn’t feel particularly flattered—after all, they saw very few men who still had their balls.
They were all indeed blonde, blue-eyed lovelies, and he couldn’t help smiling back at them. However, a second afterward he felt Sorcha stiffen at his side. No matter how intelligent or disciplined the female of the species was, competition was a part of their makeup that they could never shake.
These women were a little different—they were used to sharing a man, and it was obvious that Onika of Chioma enjoyed the trappings of his rank to the utmost. Each of them was delightfully curvy, with varying shades of honey hair and blue eyes, and being in the harem, they dressed to emphasize these attributes.
“Ladies.” He gave them a little bow, slightly more awkward than it might have been. “Thank you for your attendance.” Part of him couldn’t help wondering what Sorcha would look like dressed as these women were. The twitch in his pants at the thought was slightly distracting.
Two of them beamed at him, while the third and most beautiful looked far less impressed.
Sorcha tilted her head, looked at him askance, and raised one eyebrow as if to say, “I am interested to see where you are taking this.” Yet she remained silent, her fingers resting on the Gauntlets at her waist.
“You pulled me away from a game of trange,” the least amused one snapped. “I was about to win a pretty fortune from Lady Moyie.”
Raed tried not to take offense. “I am sorry, Lady . . . ”
The woman let the sentence dangle in the air for a second before folding her arms over her chest and replying, “Lady Gezian.”
“Well”—Ra
ed pulled out a seat, and offered it to her—“Lady Gezian, my Deacon friend and I are terribly sorry to have taken you away from your game—but the Prince himself has sent us here on a mission.”
“Really.” One of the other two women beamed. “Lady Lisah and I would love to help.”
“Speak for yourself, Jaskia.” The other pouted. “I have never cared for Deacons.”
“I know,” Sorcha spoke up, her voice light while she directed her response with ruthless efficiency, “we are such a bother, what with protecting everyone from geist attack. Terribly dull of us, we know.”
Lisah opened her pretty mouth, struggled to find something to say in response, but coming up with nothing, snapped it shut instead. She sat meekly on the chair next to Lady Gezian. Meanwhile, Lady Jaskia continued to beam at Raed.
He wasn’t quite sure if she expected him to throw her on the table and have his way with her right away, but it was actually a little unnerving after a moment or two.
Luckily, Sorcha stepped in with her usual bluntness. “We are investigating the deaths that have been happening in the palace—and more specifically the Chancellor’s.”
“You know very little, then,” Gezian interrupted. “The Chancellor died of old age . . . or boredom.”
“Oh really.” Sorcha pointedly pulled her Gauntlets from her belt and slapped them down on the table directly in front of the three other women. Jaskia gave out a little squeak and jumped. “That’s not what your Prince thinks.”
Suddenly all traces of amusement, lust and irritation were washed from the ladies. It had to be the conditioning of the harem to instantly take very seriously anything that fell from Onika of Chioma’s lips.
“What did Father have to say?” Jaskia asked, and Raed, taken by surprise, turned on his heel to look at her. She certainly did not have the Prince’s coloring, but it was naturally impossible to tell if they had the same features compared to him—thanks to that damned mask.
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