TWENTY
A Grand Arrival
Zofiya stepped off
the dirigible to be immediately bathed in sweat. They had burned
four weirstones to get here in th days, and two engineers had been
injured replacing the last one. The curious mathematics of this did
not matter. She was here as her goddess had commanded.
“Perhaps the Grand
Duchess would like to change into Chiomese silks?” The minor
official who Orinthal had managed to rustle up on short notice was
bent in an appropriately low bow.
Zofiya took a long
breath and let the warm air fill her lungs. The nights it had taken
to get here had been sleepless, and she was fully aware that her
mood was less than perfect.
Still, she had been
born to royalty and managed to control the outward display of her
emotions—occasionally. Luckily for the trembling official, this was
one of those times. “That will not be necessary—I will, however,
require transportation to the Temple of Hatipai.”
The man’s eyes
flickered behind her, and Zofiya concealed a smile as he took in
her pitifully small entourage: only half a dozen Imperial Guards.
Even when she was traveling without her brother, Zofiya should have
by rights been accompanied by ten times that number.
However, when your
goddess calls, you do not linger to gather what is proper. She
could sense that the official was dying to ask more, full of
questions he could not quite work out how to get answers to. Let
him squirm, she thought; there would be plenty more Chiomese who
she was bound to unnerve.
“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
windows 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.
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.