“The Temple is not far, Imperial Highness, but we have to assemble the proper carriage and honor guard. It will take us an hour or two.” He actually winced.
The image of her goddess’ Temple burned in Zofiya’s mind. “We shall walk then and enjoy the views of your fine city.”
The man’s eyes widened, but he dared not deny her. “If I may be so bold”—a trail of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down the side of the man’s face—“may I ask what has brought this great honor of your visit to Chioma? The Prince will be most . . . surprised and delighted.”
The movements of the Emperor’s sister were always of the greatest interest to everyone—not least the hornet’s nest of quarreling Princes. Yet Chioma was the seat of the worship of her goddess and the Prince of the kingdom was known for his reclusive nature and iron will. Zofiya anticipated no problems with him.
She had an excuse ready for just such an inquiry. “I have come to meet the charming Princess suing to become my Imperial brother’s Empress.”
It was at least a half-truth. When she had stood before Kaleva, he had not believed it. They knew each other too well, and he was able to read the look in her eyes enough to know her trip was connected to Hatipai.
It was one of the few things the siblings argued over. He had never felt the righteous burn of the faith she had found so early in her life. Zofiya loved her brother more than anything in this world, but there remained someone she placed higher: Hatipai.
Unlike her father, who had been horrified and embarrassed at a showing of faith in his daughter, Kaleva was only saddened by it.
“Little Wolf”—a twin set of frown lines appeared on his handsome face—“I fear this addiction of yours will bring you nothing but ill.”
Standing in the blanketlike heat of Orinthal, she recalled with a smile his pet name for her and his easily given love. The Emperor was remarkably softhearted for one commanding such power.
“I think it i you who may be hurt,” she had replied. “With no faith to protect from the world, Brother.”
It was an argument that had spun on and on and round and round for years. So he had not questioned her plans while in Chioma, and Zofiya had not offered to tell him. Hatipai’s summons was something even an Imperial Grand Duchess could not ignore.
“Which direction is the Temple?” she asked calmly so as not to betray herself.
His face brightened as if lit by a weirstone. “We had reports, Your Imperial Highness, of you following our Bright Lady. Truly it gladdens the hearts of all in Chioma to know—”
“I am sure it does.” Zofiya held up her hand, cutting him off in mid-flow. “But it is many years since I have had the joy of worshipping in a Temple—I would like to partake of her presence immediately.”
Now it appeared as if the lit weirstone was under his feet, because he spun about and gestured her to follow him. Her Imperial Guard of six closed about her.
“Imperial Highness,” Ylo, her guardian since she had been only ten years old, whispered sharply in her ear, “is this wise? Into the streets with so few to protect you?”
He didn’t understand either. Nothing could touch her here in the land of her goddess. So she held up her hand, and he at least knew that gesture. Immediately he snapped to attention and followed her without further comment.
This was the city and the country where her goddess was still worshipped. The only one where faith still had a place. Certainly there were still other gods worshipped in the Empire, but mostly in quiet rural areas by simple folk who kept their altars by the hearth and gave small offerings when they could.
As the procession walked through the exotically scented streets of the city, Zofiya’s pace quickened until she was almost knocking on the heels of the official. He turned his head, surprised. “The Bright Lady is calling, is she, Imperial Highness?”
He couldn’t possibly know it was actually true, but he meant well. So she smiled and nodded. “It is a very, very long time since I have stood in one of her temples—back in my father’s dominion, in fact.”
“Forgive me, Imperial Highness”—a flicker of genuine interest overwhelmed his almost comical deference—“but is the Bright Lady widely worshipped there?”
A passing caravan of camels was apparently no respecter of high rank, and for a few minutes Zofiya’s guard had to push back at the stinking beasts. They traded insults and threats with the owner, until he realized who he was dealing with and urged his animals as best he could out of the Grand Duchess’ way.
Finally, when they were past them, she replied, “Her temples are very few indeed.” Those words stung.
She would not share with anybody the events of the day that had first driven her to the Bright One’s Temple. The memory of her father’s towering rage, when he had caught her practicing hand-to-hand combat with the guard for the third time was deeply ingrained on her psyche. He had wanted another princess to marry off and secure his kingdom—not one so committed to choosing her own path.
In the Temple of Hatipai, the young Zofiya had found the strength to follow her own heart. As it turned out, even the King of Delmaire had eventually given up on her, finally declaring he had a surplus of daughters—and that she should make herself useful and protect her broth on his ill-fated ascendancy to rule Arkaym.
All that good fortune she owed to Hatipai, and now that Kaleva was sitting more firmly on the throne, it was time to pay back that strength she had found at the feet of the goddess.
“There she is.” The official swept his arm up, indicating the slight rise in the road toward the Temple, as if he himself had conjured the magnificent red building from thin air.
The facade of the Temple had been masterfully carved. Vast friezes of the daily life of Chioma paraded around the outside of the Temple. All the trade and riches of the kingdom were depicted there; the smallest merchant to the greatest aristocrat were part of the magnificence. Every one of them, however, was climbing penitently up the walls toward the crowning glory of the building. The goddess sprawled atop her Temple, taking up all of the peaked roof, lying on her side, one hand propping up her grand head. The span of her wings beneath her served as a roof for the building.
Zofiya had never seen anything so complex or detailed—even in Delmaire—and it quite literally made her stop and choke back a breath of surprise.
“Would you—” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am sorry, what was your name?”
“Deren.” His eyes, which back at the waterfront had appeared so lifeless, were now full and gleaming.
“Deren”—Zofiya let out a breath—“is there any way that I may be able to pray alone?”
He gave a little bow. “I’ll run ahead and arrange it with the priestess. I am sure she will be able to accommodate your request, Imperial Highness.” And he scuttled off to do that.
The Grand Duchess stood in the shade, fanned herself, and tried to hold on to her frustration. Eventually Deren returned to them, his teeth flashing in his dark face with genuine pleasure. “The afternoon prayers have not yet begun, so the priestess has managed to clear the Temple for you, Imperial Highness.”
They climbed the steps to the doors, and Zofiya had a moment of disorientation—it was just as the goddess had shown her. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on the rest of her body, and her heart began to race in beneath her ribs. “Stay here, Ylo,” she whispered over her shoulder.
“But, Highness.” His voice was uncertain, but he still tried to do his duty—she wouldn’t fault him for that.
“Not this time.” Zofiya craned her neck, looking up at the Temple where the image of Hatipai stared down at her followers as if they were ants—which of course they were. “This,” the Grand Duchess said, “is private.” Then, knowing that for the first time in many, many years she would be alone in the Temple of her goddess, she walked reverently up the last few steps.
Inside, the heat was left behind, even though the light came in through the glassless win
dows and burned white on the red floor. Zofiya slipped off her shoes and felt the rough prickle of the fabulous carpets on her bare soles. To have such a place all to herself was one of the true joys of being royalty—maybe the only one, as far as she could see.
You are a child of Kings, but you do not enjoy the privileges that it brings, Hatipai’s voice whispered, and Zofiya could not be sure if she was hearing it in her head or if the dimly seen lofty ceiling might contain a hidden angel.
You need to learn to take the reins of power. Be what your heritage commands youto be.
Despite her faith and her love of the goddess, that stung. Her nature rebelled against that. “I am the sister of the Emperor, Lady. I take care with his life. I counsel him as best I can.”
And you never think that the royal blood he has also runs through your veins. Foolish girl—you are as born to rule as he. Only the ridiculous tradition of males on the throne of Arkaym prevents you from your real potential.
A lump formed in Zofiya’s throat. Arkaym and Delmaire had that in common. While many of the principalities that made up the Empire had female rulers, no Empress had ever sat on the grand throne in Vermillion. Empresses were made by marriage—not by birth.
“My brother was asked to come—to become Emperor,” she finally ventured, walking deeper into the Temple but with hesitation now in her stride. “I was never even considered. I could not possibly—”
And that is why you always remain in the shadows. The goddess’ voice was now sharp and actually hurt Zofiya, as if she were being pummeled. As she winced and pulled back, the goddess’ tone changed, becoming softer and gentler. You have much to learn yet, child—now is not the time. Go to the font.
The Grand Duchess’ confidence had been shaken. Suddenly the Temple was not cool and mysterious—it was positively freezing and deep in shadows. The holy water font, which in the goddess’ vision had seemed full of joy, was in fact rather menacing.
Do you not love your goddess? Hatipai’s whisper echoed around the vaulted chamber. You are a good child, covered in faith—do as I ask.
Zofiya swallowed, closed her eyes and thought back to her first visit to the Temple in Delmaire. When she concentrated hard, she could recall that moment of utter acceptance, complete love and being part of something—when in her parents’ eyes she was merely a spare. Clutching onto that memory, she was able to go forward into the shadows.
The Temple was very sparse, the focus being an unadorned bowl of silver buried in the floor. It was ten feet wide, and worshippers had floated fragrant flowers on its still surface. The scent was exhilarating and somehow steadied her.
She reached the stairs and climbed up to the altar—but in the proper way—on her knees. Finally she began to smile as the warmth of her faith began to wrap itself around her. With hesitation dissolving, Zofiya stretched out her hand and dipped it into the water. It was icy cold. She pressed her wet fingertips to her own mouth and let the water enter her.
Now go down into the dark—bring me back what I need.
Climbing to her feet, Zofiya did what all worshippers of Hatipai would have considered blasphemy—she stepped into the font itself. Now her body was given over to the goddess. Now she could do what was required of her.
For the longest moment it felt like nothing was going to happen, and then a loud groan filled the room, mechanical and deep, from somewhere below her. Water began to drain out of the font as a crack appeared around the rim. It was pouring into a hidden space, while the altar itself began to come apart. Dust and stale air billowed up from below, making Zofiya cough and splutter—very unflattering in the house of her goddess.
When it finally cleared, she could see a spiral staircase that was thick with dirt and could have been a thousand years old. For all she knew, it was. Dripping with holy water, Zofiya steppd out of the font and onto the stairs. They creaked under her weight, but the light, supple metal, apart from being dirty, felt strong. As she walked down deeper, she saw that the stairs were in fact hanging from silvery chains, yet she could see no sign of a mechanism.
None of this looked like the work of a goddess, and the faint carvings on the interior of the staircase walls were unfamiliar. Zofiya didn’t quite understand what her goddess was asking of her, why she could not send someone else down here.
Finally the Grand Duchess reached the bottom. Lights flickered and then sprang to life, illuminating the room with a blue gleam that unnerved her a little. She had danced beneath the red glow of chandeliers in the palace of Vermillion and lived her life by the amber flicker of candles and lanterns—what she had never done was see any sort of blue light in her life.
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.
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