ONE
A
Thing of Beauty
In the Imperial
Palace Grand Duchess Zofiya slept on sheets of polished white satin
in a grand bed painted and carved like a sailing ship. Around her
gleamed the treasures of her brother’s and father’s
dominions.
These, however, did
not guarantee her a night of peaceful slumber. Her long black hair
lay in a sweaty tangle, while her tawny limbs were twisted in the
covers. Nightmares crashed through her head, breaking her famous
calm in ways that would have surprised any of her Imperial Guard
had they been privileged enough to witness it.
Finally Zofiya jerked
awake, lurching upright in her bed with a half-swallowed scream.
Her hand instinctively went to the medallion around her neck as she
tried to control her rapid breathing.
The bedroom was
nearly silent; there were only the fine curtains blowing in the
wind, and far off in the corridor the sounds of the many clocks
ticking away to themselves. That noise was familiar and calming;
her brother had inherited a love of machinery from their father.
Still, what she was not used to were nightmares. In this one a
person had been killing Kal, and she had been unable to reach him
in time.
Her brother the
Emperor was a great man, but his sense of personal safety was
limited. He firmly believed that he had tamed this continent and
the worst was behind them. Zofiya knew better.
Slipping from her
elaborate bed, the Grand Duchess padded to the window and looked
out over the sleeping city—not realizing that she had failed to let
go of the medallion. Thousands of lights twinkled all over the
lagoon. The bridges were reduced to a string of bright pearls. Even
the slum areas of the Edge were smoothed to attractiveness by
darkness and the occasional gleam of a streetlight. Directly below
she could make out not only her own Imperial Guard at their posts
but also the swathed forms of the soldiers from
Chioma.
The delegation had
been in the capital for a month, testing the waters for a marriage
between the Emperor and Ezefia, daughter of the Prince of that
distant principality. No promises had been made, but she knew Kal
was entertaining the idea. The throne had to be secured quickly,
and Onika, the Prince of Chioma, was fabulously
wealthy.
Her brother, she
knew, would have preferred the group marriage practiced in their
homeland, Delmaire, but he was wise enough not to try to push that
custom on the citizens of Arkaym. Change came slowly here, but it
did occur. Take the city, for example. It was not as majestic as
Toth, her father’s capital, but it was pulling itself out of
generations of misery and torment. All of which was her brother’s
doing. Yet there were plenty who wanted to stop him.
Zofiya clenched her
fist on the curved edge of the medallion until it hurt. She had
lost the one she brought from Delmaire a week before in the
training ground. No amount of sifting the sand—which she had gotten
the servants to do—had located it.
However, when she had
come in that evening, this new one was lying on her pillow. It was
not the same; there were five diamonds set in the snaking curve of
stone that represented Hatipai’s constantly moving nature, and it
was larger than the one she had lost. Some aristocrat had probably
had it made to curry favor.
In Court her faith
was an open secret. The little gods were not persecuted, but they
were figures of amusement and derision. Nearly a thousand years was
a long time to hold on to faith in the face of derisive public
opinion, but the sect of Hatipai that the Grand Duchess subscribed
to had managed it. Though she kept her medallion tucked inside her
clothes during daylight hours, she would not deny her goddess. If
the people around Zofiya wanted to gossip, then she had no way of
stopping them.
Kal knew of his
sister’s beliefs—though he dismissed them as superstitious
nonsense. When the geists had come and the Otherside had poured in,
most of the population had lost faith—including the royal family of
Delmaire. Zofiya was made of sterner stuff.
Yet, now as she
looked out over the city, her mind turned to the dark realities of
the world—and most especially the events that had occurred under
the ossuary.
“The Murashev.”
Zofiya shivered under her spider-silk nightdress, as if even
mentioning the geistlord’s name would bring its arrival. Only a
month before, the creature had almost been brought forth into the
heart of Vermillion—an event the city would not have survived. She
had been at the secret briefing from the new Arch Abbot and had
shared her brother’s shock. “Hatipai, give us strength,” she
murmured.
That was when she
heard it: a clatter of pure notes, like those from the bells of the
Temple in Delmaire. She recalled them clearly, because even as a
child she had spent much time there. The bells had been strung in
long skeins across the doors so that each penitent who went in made
them ring, high and sweet.
She heard the cluster
of notes again. It was not the sound of one of the clocks in the
hall. The Grand Duchess slipped on her coat, took her belt and
scabbard from the chair close to her bed, strapped it on and went
out to investigate. She had already dismissed her personal guards
for the night. If trouble was going to come to one of the Imperial
siblings, she wanted it to be her and not her brother.
Growing up in
Delmaire, she had been used to the fact that she would always be
the surplus child. Kal had wanted her to come to Arkaym, and their
father had not protested. He had daughters enough to fill a royal
barge—all of them far more compliant than her.
She stepped into a
hallway lined with lush carpets woven in red and yellow, the
Imperial colors. The sound came again, and this time it could be
clearly heard over the numerous clocks ticking gently to themselves
on this floor. With one hand on her sword hilt, Zofiya went down
the back stairs and out into the courtyard. The ringing had come
from the garden. The warmth radiating from the goddess symbol
spurred her on, through the mist-shrouded topiaries and flower
beds. Finally she reached the walls of the palace. The bells rang a
third time, so she found herself sneaking out of the postern gate
and into the city itself.
The Grand Duchess was
not frightened, even if she was only wearing her greatcoat and her
nightclothes. She had her goddess with her. The warmth of the
medallion and the sound of distant bells led her on. In bare feet
she crossed over the Bridge of Gilt and into the Tinkers’ Quarter.
Under her brother’s patronage, the Guild had grown in power, and
many of the houses here were nearly as grand as those on the
Imperial Island. Yet, Zofiya took no notice of fine architecture or
welltended gardens. Instead, she followed as bidden, until she
reached a house at the end of Piston Street. The sound of bells now
led her around the rear of the property to an open door. She paused
for a moment, for the first time noticing the deep shadows that
surrounded her. She almost had the impression that there were eyes
moving within them. For an instant she considered how vulnerable
she was, but then the tide of her faith washed back. She entered,
walked confidently down the stairs and into the basement. Let the
contents of the shadows look to themselves.
It smelled very
strange here, musty and dank, but she stepped over the piles of
soil, barely noticing her grubby feet, and toward a magnificent
brass door. That such a thing would exist in the home of a Tinker
Zofiya didn’t question.
Inside she did pause,
though. The corridor she was in was unlike any tradesman’s house
she’d ever seen. It was covered in frescos that rivaled decorations
in her brother’s palace. Neither did the theme of the artwork slip
past her notice; it was something not often depicted. The Break—the
arrival of the geists and the revelation of the Otherside. The
Grand Duchess tilted her head and let one of her fingers trace the
outline of the design.
Here was the
population screaming and cowering as shapes stepped through the
gap. Padding on a little farther, Zofiya found the rising of the
dead and the arrival of the spirits to haunt their loved ones.
Circles of rei led the innocent to their deaths. Spectyrs brought
retribution on those who had wronged them.
A little gasp escaped
her when she reached the final frame in the frieze. Here was
displayed the Season of Supplication—the final nail in the coffin
of faith. Believers of all religions were shown gathered around a
central point, blood pouring from knees they had been on for weeks,
while they raised their hands to the gods.
No salvation had
come. And those that had been revered and trusted were ever after
referred to as little gods. Zofiya felt tears well up, and she
couldn’t remember when that had last happened. Her goddess’ Temple
had at least survived. Many others had fallen into ruin when their
followers abandoned them altogether.
Yet she had faith,
she had belief, and she would never give up. The thought was warm
and comforting. As she leaned against the frieze, she smiled
softly. Something moved behind her hand, like the shift of a snake,
smooth and sinuous under her palm.
Taking a step back,
Zofiya watched as the ancient artwork flexed and twisted. The
supplicants’ self-inflicted wounds oozed blood, while fresh tears
streamed from their eyes, rolled down the wall, and pattered on the
floor. Above, the symbols of the gods boiled, gray and thick like
thunderclouds, yet among them she recognized one. Hatipai. Her
goddess’ symbol gleamed gold and bright among the
others.
The Grand Duchess’
smile broadened as she reached out and touched it. Instantly she
was filled with glory. Her head snapped back, and she let out a
groan of pleasure that went right to her core. All physical
delights paled in comparison to this one. No aristocrat or Prince
could make her feel like this. The goddess was with her, and she
was pleased that her daughter had held her faith when so many
others faltered.
The symbol moved
again, and Zofiya followed it, barely aware of the steps passing
under her feet. Her deity whispered into her soul.
Together they went
down deeper into the earth, two more flights of stairs, and then
the frieze stopped at a blank wall of stone. Zofiya leaned forward
and touched it. W medallion grew hotter on her skin, the Grand
Duchess was not surprised.
The walls were smooth
white stone, fitted so tightly together she could not have slipped
even her narrowest blade between them. Though she had no torch,
Zofiya did not fear stumbling, for tiny weirstones embedded in the
walls let off a cool blue light. She should have been afraid at
this flagrant use of those dangerous power receptacles, but she
knew the goddess would not let her acolyte fall. Beneath her
fingers the gold symbol traveled on, and the Grand Duchess followed
in her wake—feeling more content and calm than she ever had in her
life.
The frieze had
changed though. Now it showed only abstract forms, shapes of birds
and animals—but nothing human. She would have stopped to examine
them if she had been alone, but the goddess still held her
dazzled.
She went on until she
came to a small side room. Here the stone was polished to such a
high sheen that Zofiya had to avert her eyes, while under her
fingertips the symbol of Hatipai faded. The removal of the goddess
was painful, but she did not cry.
Hatipai must have
brought her here for a good reason. Shielding her eyes from the
glare, Zofiya looked around. The chamber was bare of any furniture;
the blank piece of stone that gleamed so brightly was the sole
focus of the space. Something inside the Grand Duchess told her
that to go forward armed and proud was not the thing to do. This
was the goddess’ place.
Taking off her sword
belt and laying it by the door, Zofiya dropped to her knees and
shuffled forward, mimicking the gestures of those long-ago
penitents. Reaching the gleaming stone, she laid her fingers
against it and bowed her head.
The light bloomed
around her, so bright that even through closed eyelids it burned.
When it faded, Zofiya risked opening them again.
The stone was
transformed into the finest sheet of rock crystal. Beyond was
something that made her sit back on her heels and gape like a child
who had just seen her first dirigible.
An angel waited on
the other side. Its form was wreathed in light, so that it was hard
to discern much beyond the humanoid shape—but behind trailed wings,
fine as silk, fluttering in ethereal winds.
It was a sight so
beautiful that Zofiya felt fresh, hot tears coursing down her
cheeks, and yet she sensed something else. For as the light dimmed
a fraction more, she was able to see a dark sword in the creature’s
white hand. Now when she glanced up, its eyes were staring back
into hers. They were beautiful but pitiless. In them Zofiya could
feel herself being judged, weighed, measured and held to
account.
Suddenly she
questioned every action in her life, every misstep, every harsh
word, for this angel was no creature of kindness.
Kindness leads to weakness, child.
The voice in her head
was a whisper, a murmur in the night.
You, of all people in this city, are a creature of faith.
We have searched long for one of your kind.
“I’m not worthy of
your attentions.” Zofiya bowed her head and meant every word of it.
Daughter of Kings, with a lineage stretching back to the beginning
of civilization, she might be, yet in the presence of this angel
she felt as common as a pig farmer.
Be that as it may—but you have been
chosen.
The angel pressed
against the crystal sheet, though its form was still
indistinct.Only
you can bring me through. Only one child of faith and blood is
required.
In Zofiya’s heart
belief burned, but Hatipai’s texts warned of creatures of ill
intent that could lead even the most devout followers
astray.
“Give me your name?”
she whispered, though she trembled at her daring.
Those dark eyes, full
of condemnation and strength, bored into hers, but Zofiya did not
flinch.
I cannot—I am Hatipai’s angel and have none of my
own, it whispered, laying its empty hand flat against the
surface, a mirror of hers on the other side.
“What is your
purpose?”
To kill the Young Pretender.
Zofiya’s jaw
tightened before she could voice a protest. Raed Syndar Rossin,
only son of the deposed Emperor. He had saved her life at the
fountain. Someone had shot at her, planning to end her existence in
front of a crowd of people. He’d tackled her to the ground, taking
the bullet for himself when her own bodyguard had failed to see the
danger.
He’d been willing to
sacrifice himself for the sister of his enemy. A mob had tried to
kill Raed, and Kal had him imprisoned for his own safety. The
Emperor had hoped to buy some time to decide what to do with the
Pretender to his throne. Yet Raed had escaped. Zofiya knew she
still owed him.
His death is necessary.
The angel’s face was
now so close that Zofiya could begin to make out details. The skin
was faintly blue and marked with lines that were Hatipai’s secret
sigils, known only to her most ardent followers.
He will bring geists, and they will dance on the cinders
of your world. The smooth, dark eyes never flinched from
hers.
Yet the Grand Duchess
was not so far lost in awe that she did not consider the
possibility that this was an agent of evil. So she leaned forward.
“Forgive me, bright angel. But speak the words on the inner Temple
of Hatipai—the secrets only the acolytes of her divinity
know.”
For a moment, the
angel glared at her with so much wrath boiling behind its eyes that
even the fearless sister of the Emperor trembled. Then it tilted
its head, a sliver of a smile on its full lips.
Truly, you are a wise creature, Zofiya of the
Empire.
Zofiya’s heart
remembered to beat again. And then the angel whispered to her the
words that had been passed down in great secrecy to the Grand
Duchess by the most holy sisters of Hatipai. These incantations
were the heart of the goddess.
As the angel’s words
reached her ear, Zofiya began to smile. When the angel had
finished, it looked down at her with an almost maternal pleasure.
Now, child, let me out to begin the goddess’
work.
The Grand Duchess
leaned forward again, placing her lips against the cool slab of
mysterious stone. Her warmth traveled into the stone, and a sound
like a distant bell rolled from the earth.
The wall shook once
and then crumbled like a theatrical curtain being dropped. Zofiya
looked up to see the angel step delicately over the rubble. The
wings of light trailed behind, and the shifting face beneath
reminded her of her long-dead mother—though it was hard to sure
under the veils of light and mist.
“You have done your
world proud, Zofiya, child of Kings.” The sound of her voice, here
in the real world, was sharper—like bright knives in the Grand
Duchess’ ears. A cold hand touched her shoulder—it burned. “I will
hunt the scourge of your world. The Rossin will die.”
Then the angel
wrapped her wings about herself, dissolved into light, and blew
from the room. Zofiya was left kneeling on the floor, sobbing
frantically with joy.