Wrayth (12 page)

The young Deacon glanced around, his eyes slightly wider than usual, a sure sign he was using his Sight. “We do indeed appear to be alone.”

Zofiya shivered. When the Order used their powers so flippantly she was reminded how little she understood what they did. Certainly, they were invaluable in maintaining the integrity of the Empire, and giving the ordinary folk some reassurance that their grandmother was not going to vomit acid, but they were also a dangerous power.

As the Grand Duchess circled the room, trailing her hand over her trinkets, she watched Merrick Chambers out of the corner of her eye. The Order had done things that the Empire could only be grateful for, but she had always been cautious around them. Zofiya did not like how much power they wielded. Merrick was the only Deacon she actually had learned to trust.

“Tell me what you know about del Rue,” she commanded. Her hand now rested on an onyx box, but she did not reach in to take out what it contained. Not yet.

The Deacon took a breath, and his eyes darted away from hers. He was not a very good liar—even his expression gave him away.

Zofiya’s finger traced the sharp edge of the box. “Tell me,” she repeated, but this time not in her Grand Duchess voice. Instead, she whispered it—almost like a normal woman.

Merrick cleared his throat. “I am sure you know the history of the native Order that was here before my own.”

She tilted her head. She had been expecting something else—something related to a minor nobleman seeking advancement, or a Prince of the Empire annoyed at some petty oversight by her brother. When the Deacon mentioned history she was surprised, intrigued and just a little worried. Although the mysteries of the Order and its kind were not unknown to her, she was not foolish enough to believe that she knew everything about them.

When Zofiya did not speak, Merrick paused and glanced up. His eyes were dark pools in the half-light, and they were so very earnest. “We thought they were gone, wiped out and stricken from the records. Stranger still, there was no remnant in the oral tradition, and several of my own Order have suggested this was…deliberate. We knew they existed, but that is all.”

The concept that anyone could remove memories from the entire population of Arkaym was a terrifying one. And yet she had seen far more terrible things; recollections of when a geistlord had taken residence in her body welled up. She swallowed them back. “But you don’t think they have gone at all, do you?”

“I know they have not. I saw them beneath Chioma—they tried to take my mother from me.” He swallowed hard. “That man was leading them; the man you know as del Rue.”

While he talked in a calm, flat tone she flicked open the box and looked in. The shiny pendant inside gleamed back at her, almost mocking. It was the sigil of Hatipai—her greatest mistake. It was a reminder not to fail like that again. Her brother and the Empire were at stake.

“That is a concern,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Merrick replied, and despite everything Zofiya smiled.

“How is that your fault, pray tell? The Empire is under constant attack every day. There is always someone trying to destroy my brother, unbalance the Princes, and cause mayhem.”

“Arkaym was not perhaps what you expected when you came over with your brother.” The Deacon took a step toward her, a rather telling step.

“No, and neither was finding a Deacon as an ally.” Zofiya flicked the onyx box shut with a snap. “I do confess facing another Order like your own is something I didn’t expect. I am not quite sure how to fight back against them.”

Merrick tucked his hands into the sleeves of his rather plain cloak. “I think we should take this to the Mother Abbey in the morning. They may have more knowledge of the Native Order than I am aware of. Unless you think we should try and talk to your brother about this?”

Zofiya pressed her lips together. “I have already tried asking about del Rue, and he tells me nothing. It is as if my voice no longer matters.” It hurt to admit that. She and Kal had been as close as twins when growing up. They’d weathered the storms of their father’s Court in Delmaire together, and she could never have imagined a time when he would take no notice of her counsel. Yet, that time was upon her.

She could not have pinpointed the exact moment when that had changed. It had been gradual, and so subtle that it had snuck up on her. And so had loneliness. She had few friends in Vermillion and none close enough that she could share these fears with. The Court was a cesspit of intrigue and backstabbing. Those that she chatted with daily, even her Imperial Guardsmen, or her body servants, could be working for any number of factions and being paid to bring them information.

When Merrick’s hand touched her shoulder, the Grand Duchess did not flinch away. He rubbed gently, and whispered, “I am sure we can get him back. These rogues cannot have that deep a hold on him that he would forget his sister. Everything will be all right in the end.”

It was such a ridiculous statement that Zofiya should have laughed, and most definitely should have pushed him away for his temerity in daring to touch the Grand Duchess.
Those are the things she should have done. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch. The moments where she allowed herself to feel weakness were few and far between, but something about this earnest young man had already breached her defenses and perhaps, if she was truthful with herself, she had just been waiting for a chance to let him in.

Everyone in Court would have been truly amazed at the next words that came out of her mouth. “Don’t leave.” Her voice was soft, yearning, and utterly alien even to herself.

With the little light in her room Merrick’s eyes were hard to read, but as a Sensitive he had to know what she wanted. They were not a celibate group she knew, and though inviting a Deacon into one’s bed was not forbidden by anyone, it was a little rash. If the gossips in the Court got wind of the Emperor’s sister bedding Merrick Chambers, it would be the talk of the season. Yet, at the particular moment, she didn’t care. She was sick of weighing every move, every person, and considering how it would affect her brother’s Empire. He had taken a little-known aristocrat into his trust after all. It was time she had something for herself too.

Merrick stood silent, a still, dark shape against the faint starlight coming in through the window. “Zofiya, I don’t think it is wise for me to stay. People will get the wrong impression—”

He wasn’t going to make this easy for her—either that or he was quite without a clue. That was the problem with being the Grand Duchess; everyone was always so damned afraid to approach her. “Perhaps they would get the right impression,” she growled, and cupped his face in both of her hands. He was taller than her, so it was a strangely penitent gesture.

He did not pull away. “I would not want you to think I was taking advantage—”

That was the last thing he got to say, as she got on the tips of her toes and shut his mouth effectively with her lips. Merrick kissed her back with a surprising passion. When they parted she looked into his eyes. “Tomorrow we will root out this poison from the Empire. Tomorrow I will take back my brother. However, that is many hours away, and I would have something sane in my life before the insanity begins.”

“That would be most wonderful,” he agreed, and deftly pulled the pins out of her hair. It tumbled over her shoulders and abruptly she was not the Grand Duchess, just a woman with a man she had admired and desired for months. It didn’t matter that he was a Deacon, and technically her subject. She wanted him. He wanted her.

They kissed again in the half-light, and with their mouths still locked she guided him over to the bed, shaped like a sailing ship. It was certain no Deacon of the Order slept in anything so magnificent. Not that she was planning on allowing him anything like sleep.

Still there was the business of her rather ornate ball gown. Members of the Order had surprisingly little experience trying to unlace a lady from such a garment. Zofiya giggled as Merrick swore and fumbled with the lacings. Finally, she yanked open her bedside drawer, and passed him a stiletto. “The lacings aren’t worth a thing to me.” When she presented her back to him, Merrick did not hesitate.

“Who am I to argue with the Grand Duchess,” he chuckled, slipping the blade between the leather laces and slicing them away.

The sound of them parting was delicious and arousing. Zofiya spun back to him, letting the confection of lace and satin drop to her feet. With only faint starlight and dipping candlelight to illuminate her, the Grand Duchess stood quite naked before Deacon Merrick Chambers.

His indrawn breath was quite satisfactory. His fingers
brushed her skin, making her shiver with anticipation, but she stood still and let him examine her. Merrick’s hands traced the line of scars and bruises her training left on her. Some were old and some relatively new.

The long scar that curved from her back around her hip was the one that made her flinch when touched.

She didn’t really think about it anymore, having successfully shoved the darkest of her times in Delmaire firmly to the back of her mind. However, sitting on the bed, holding and touching her, Merrick looked up at Zofiya.

“Your father did this?” She’d been a fool to forget his powers. It was so much easier to do with a Sensitive than with an Active, but she did not move his hand away.

“I was not exactly what he expected in his children—especially his girl children,” she said as lightly as she could manage. “Finally, he had enough. So you can understand why I decided to come with my brother.” She shivered when Merrick laid his lips to the silvered line, licking it gently with his tongue.

“Our scars are part of us,” he said, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her backward onto the bed, “but you are more than the sum of them.”

He really was the most strange, extraordinary young man, and Zofiya felt her mood slide from the need for anger and sexual release, toward wanting to explore him more deeply.

She stripped off his clothes as he lay on her bed, kissing her, and traced the lines of his body. He too was not without his scars, though they were smaller than hers. “Most of mine,” he confessed, “were in the practice yard at the Abbey.”

Straddling him, Zofiya pressed her naked length against his, and tucked her hair behind one of her ears. “Is it a strange thing,” she whispered, “for a Grand Duchess of the Empire and a Sensitive Deacon of the Order to be together like this?”

While his hands ran over her body, Merrick smiled back. “For a few hours, let’s not ask such questions. Let’s just be two ordinary citizens, about the business of pleasure and togetherness.”

Then they needed no words after that.

Maybe Zofiya had been expecting meekness from the man, but that was not what she found. Merrick was gentle when she needed him to be, and passionate when that was required. He matched her movement and desire, something that she realized must come from his training at the Abbey. If any of the women of Arkaym knew of the benefits of bedding a Sensitive Deacon then they had kept it from her.

He had control and passion—something she’d never experienced in such perfect balance in a man before. Merrick Chambers knew where to lay his hands merely by listening to the Grand Duchess’ sighs and soft groans. It was as if he were a master musician and she a willing violin.

Later, when she lay resting in his arms, looking up at the moving silk hangings around the bed, she felt exhausted but stronger. Merrick had drifted off to sleep, his face nestled against her neck, one leg hooked in hers.

The daylight had not yet crept in through her open windows, and it was easy to imagine the fight before them was a long way off. She would allow herself that illusion for a few more minutes.

She glanced to her right and at the sleeping Deacon. He was about her age, but there was still a strange innocence about him that she had never been able to afford in the palace at Delmaire. Sometimes it felt as though she’d been born world-weary and conspiracy alert.

Zofiya sighed, turned her head and pressed her face against Merrick’s curled head. It felt good to have an ally—even one with divided loyalties outside the palace. Despite her doubts, the Deacons had always fought bravely for her brother and now she hoped one of their number would fight
just as bravely for her and the Empire. It could get very ugly very quickly for both of them.

Just as she felt sleep tugging at the corners of her own eyes, a tiny sound made her slide cautiously out from under Merrick. It was so soft and gentle that it might have been mistaken for a mouse running by the wall, but Zofiya knew every noise in her private domain. This one was not familiar.

Her eyes darted to the door that led into the privy chamber, and then to the only other entrance to her bedroom, the one that led to her balcony. It was that place at least three assassins had tried their hand at reaching. Two had fallen to their deaths without a handhold on the sheer wall, while another more agile one had met his fate at the end of her sword. If this del Rue was going to try a similar thing then she would be only too happy to oblige him. Once she had a dead assailant to show her brother he might well view her concerns more seriously.

Taking up her weapon, she slid naked from the bed and padded toward the balcony, but when the sound came again it was not from that direction. It appeared to be coming from the large grandfather clock that stood in the opposite corner. It was one of Kal’s rejected pieces, so it didn’t work, but she had always admired the detailed carving on it. Now it made a decidedly odd creak—almost as if one of the gears had come loose.

She knew every inch of the palace, and was certain there were no secret doors or passages behind this section of wall. However as she leaned forward, brow furrowed, to examine the clock, a hand, covered in a fine leather glove that shone with the light of a rune shot out of the solid oak paneling and grabbed hold of her. Then another, with an encircling wreath of green flame closed over her shoulder.

The Grand Duchess abruptly had no strength to lift her sword. It was suddenly heavier than an anvil. As it dropped from her strangely numb fingers, a hooded face appeared
out of the woodwork, phasing through it as only a Deacon could manage. It did not surprise her that it was del Rue, or that he was smiling.