When she could no longer take Merrick’s puzzled look, Zofiya thrust the piece of paper with the dire news on it into his hand. She didn’t wait for him to finish taking it in.
“I have to go,” Zofiya said, turning her back on him and rolling up the final few clothes. “I am who I am, and I can’t pretend I am just some camp follower any longer. I need to speak to my brother immediately. You know I am the only one he might listen to.”
She heard him let out a long sigh, presumably after reading what she had. When he spoke, his voice was laced with sadness. “You know that I have never thought of you as a camp follower. You are the Grand Duchess of Arkaym.” His hand rested on her shoulder. “You are also not responsible for what your brother does.”
Zofiya had been born a royal, taught that human connection—even to her own family—was a danger; however, at that moment she wanted to turn around and take his hand in hers. Her whole being told her to bury her head against his shoulder and stay there. She’d never had anything so good that she feared losing it so badly; lovers had come and gone for her.
She paused, took a breath, and pushed her dark hair off her face. “I didn’t mean responsible—at least not to him. My duty is to the people of Arkaym. It is for them I must try and talk sense into Kal.”
Merrick walked around her, so that she had to meet his eyes once more. Normal lovers she suspected would have begged her to stay, covered her with hollow promises of eternal love, and thrown themselves against her will. Not Merrick. He saw too much for any of that.
“I realize that,” he whispered, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I understand it too, but I hope you don’t think his destruction has anything to do with you?” The candlelight flickered over his face, now forever marked by the runes of his calling. The change in his appearance had been startling at first, but Zofiya had become used to it. It rather suited him she thought—and she would miss it.
Zofiya reached out and cupped her hand against the strong line of his cheek. Even though he saw so much, she couldn’t leave without having actually spoken what was inside her. “I have been happy here with you, Merrick. Even with all the running, the awful food and dreary conditions, I have been more content than anywhere else in my life.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, as he spoke, “And yet you are still going to use that weirstone that Aachon found here, aren’t you?”
Despite the sad moment, the Grand Duchess laughed. “I should have realized you would know immediately.” She sat down on the bed they had shared and looked up at him. “Why didn’t you say anything about it before?”
Merrick shrugged and took a spot next to her. “I thought it would make you feel better to have it with you.”
Zofiya reached into the rucksack and pulled out the swirling blue stone. It was not a large weirstone—not enough to power an airship—but it was enough to contact one. It was also how she had already reached out to several officers in the Imperial Guard whom she trusted implicitly.
Looking down into the weirstone, she commented, “For a person so committed to the old Imperial family, Aachon has been quite helpful. He’s taught me the basics of using it for communication.”
Merrick shrugged. “I think the death of Raed’s sister made him see how little his friend wants the throne. It’s been quite a change for him.”
Both of them started as the sound of footsteps raced past in the hallway outside. Merrick got that distant look in his eyes, for just an instant, before returning to their conversation; nothing beyond their room apparently required his attention. The Deacon wrapped his hands around hers. “What will you do?”
Zofiya lurched to her feet and shrugged the rucksack onto her back. “The
Summer Hawk
and her captain are loyal to me, and we are not far from their usual route. I will send the message as soon as I am clear of the citadel.”
“And where will you go then?” The troubled look on his usually calm face pleased her. He did care.
She shot a look at him over her shoulder as she took up her own traveling cloak. “I will return to Vermillion. It is the capital, the place where everything begins and ends. I will find out the true lay of the land and hopefully be able to save my brother and the Empire.”
“I guessed as much, but I’ve discovered people find it a little off-putting if I lay out the facts before they’ve given voice to them. Besides . . . it’s impolite to presume.”
Zofiya felt a sharp clench in her belly, but managed not to rush to his side. “I like that you are not trying to keep me here.”
“I wish I could.” Merrick glanced down at his hands.
“But neither of us are normal people with normal responsibilities.” Zofiya shifted from one foot to another. Now it had come to the moment, she found herself reluctant to leave. The citadel was the most unwelcoming place she’d ever lived in: full of chill drafts, echoing chambers and the remains of furniture. By all rights she should have been racing out of it. Yet, Zofiya knew that once she left, it could be a long time—if ever—before she saw Merrick again.
“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 one 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.