The Bond Reborn
“Still no sign?”
Sorcha hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
The rest of the
petitioners in the room took no notice—or at least pretended not
to. The heat in the domed red room was stifling, and the Deacon
could feel sweat coating her neck. Her robes had never felt a more
foolish fashion choice. She would have been content to wait for
Raed in the city, but the Prince apparently had different ideas. He
had requested the Deacons from Vermillion be formally introduced to
him.
Merrick, who sat
opposite her in the room, wiped his own beaded forehead. “Raed is
in the city, Sorcha, but I am no more able than you to say exactly
where”—he gestured vaguely—“only that he is close.”
By the Bones, she
needed a cigarillo, and it had to be now—etiquette be damned.
Several of the other people in the room were already smoking; two
beautifully carved pipes in the elegant fingertips of two
merchants.
Obviously they were
used to all this waiting, because they had the studied expressions
of Sensitives at meditation. Actives were taught the very same
lessons but were far less adept at it—Sorcha least of
all.
Still, she had
developed her own ways of coping. She lit her cigarillo, slumped
back in her chair and contemplated seeing Raed again. He would not
be able to sense they were in Orinthal, so she’d get a chance to
observe his reactions. Maybe from them she could decide on what her
own would be.
Leaning her forearms
on her thighs, Sorcha glared down at the space between her feet,
studying the mosaic floor. The question of her feelings for Raed
was something she had avoided until now. Sorcha couldn’t decide
which was worse: if she had been wrong about the giddy rush of
desire, mistaking it for something deeper, or if she had been
right.
In children’s stories
when the Princess found her Prince, things were simple; they got
married and lived that way forever. Life had taught her such things
were oversimplifications—wishes that seldom came true in the
complicated realities of existence. Most people never got to ride
into the sunset with their one true love.
And yet Sorcha could
not deny that in their brief time together, as tumultuous as it had
been, she had felt more alive than in all her years with
Kolya.
The smoke curled out
of her mouth slowly, spiraling past her eyes. Through it, she could
see Merrick watching her as covertly as the young man was capable
of. The Bond was so fickle that she could barely tell what was y
weng across to him.
Further thoughts were
disrupted when the waiting room door burst open, and Ambassador
Bandele strode through with two courtiers following his wake.
Though his mission to Vermillion was over, he was not done with the
two Deacons.
As his sharp eyes
descended on the other occupants of the room, they scurried to
vacate it. Merrick rose to his feet, but Sorcha merely watched
Bandele. He’d been of mild importance when they’d been protecting
the deputation, but now in her opinion he was just another painful
hanger-on.
The Ambassador looked
Sorcha and Merrick up and down. His brown eyes flickered over their
rather plain Deacon robes as if he somehow found them offensive. He
gestured, and one of his followers darted forward with a scarlet
robe draped over an arm.
“This will do the
trick for you, Deacon Faris.” He made to hold it in her general
direction.
Sorcha knocked the
top off her cigarillo and considered how on earth to reply without
shouting.
“I am sorry”—Merrick
stopped him, though he did look suspiciously as if he were about to
burst into laughter—“but the Order specifically forbids us to wear
anything but our robes. We are supposed to reject the perils of the
material world, you see.”
“But this is hardly a
peril”—Bandele waved the outrageously colored length—“just enough
to make you acceptable in the Prince’s Court.”
Sorcha swallowed her
anger. “Are you saying we are not ‘acceptable’ here?”
Bandele opened his
mouth, but Merrick was quicker. “It is just not possible,
Ambassador. Thank you for your kind offer, though.”
He glanced between
the Deacons and then admitted defeat. Bandele waved away his
helpers. “I can hardly believe”—he sighed—“that I am introducing
such dull birds to the greatest Court of finery and beauty in the
world.”
That was quite a
sweeping statement. “It is impossible,” Sorcha replied sharply,
“that the Court of your Prince can match that of the Emperor in
Vermillion.”
The Ambassador tilted
his head and grinned. “Oh, the Emperor’s Court is indeed most”—he
pursed his lips—“civilized. But the beauty of it cannot compare to
the silks and organzas of Chioma.” He glanced over them one last
time. “Are you sure you will at not least put on the more
acceptable robes that our Order wear?”
“Your Order?” Sorcha’s jaw clenched. “As far as I
know, the Order belongs to itself and not—”
Merrick gave a hasty
bow. “The ways of the Chiomese Deacons are for its citizens
alone—and not for us, I am afraid.”
The Ambassador
sniffed, but seeing no flicker of compromise in either of them, he
turned back to the door. “The Prince will see you now, then—as you
are.”
The inside of the
palace was even more beautiful than the outside. Long galleries
that somewhat resembled ones back at the Mother Abbey opened out
onto many little gardens with intricate plantings and burbling
fountains. Each one was a gulp of blessed cool in the heavy blanket
of heat that existed outside of the thick walls of the palace. They
passed under the red mud ceilings and, craning her neck as
surreptitiously as she could, Sorcha saw how intricately they were
carved. She was used to the Imperial Palace, but she still managed
to be impressed with the Prince of Chioma’s residence. Naturally
she would not let a bit of it s to Bandele.
Merrick leaned over
and murmured in her ear, “I think he already knows.”
Sorcha shivered,
thrusting up the mental shields that all Initiates learned to hold
against geists—she hoped it would provide some protection from the
leaking of thoughts across the Bond. Merrick was lifting more and
more of them from her mind, and she was concerned that her partner
was less and less aware that he was doing it.
As they passed
through the palace corridors and drew closer to the throne room,
she began to smell the thick odor of frankincense—it was beautiful
and exotic.
They reached the
waiting room directly outside the throne room where there were
crowds of people. These were not aristocrats; these were the common
folk: traders, penitents, the desperate and those looking for
advancement. Women with eyes of ebony chatted in corners and
watched them cautiously. Sorcha suddenly did feel underdressed—and
realized Bandele had been right—she and Merrick were dull indeed.
The riot of blazing purples, rich reds and eye-popping oranges were
almost blinding. Sorcha had never before had cause to feel jealousy
for another woman’s dress, but she found that she did feel
self-conscious.
As they trailed at
the rear of the procession, surreptitiously eyeing the waiting
crowds, a strange sensation began to build inside the Deacon. It
was so warm and deep down that for a second she was almost
embarrassed at its primitive nature. Sorcha dared not show her
reaction, but she was confused by her body’s odd
reaction.
She glanced up at
Merrick to ask him if he too felt it, perhaps offer some Sensitive
insight. Instead, over his shoulder Sorcha glimpsed the face she
had been looking for—but had not expected to find
here.
Bandele, totally
unaware, strode on toward the doors, while both Deacons stopped
dead in their tracks.
Sorcha forgot to
breathe. The world narrowed until there was only the three of them:
her, Merrick and Raed, the Young Pretender, the third in their
Bond. Her eyes couldn’t get wide enough to soak all of him in.
Suddenly the worries and cares she’d held on to so tightly meant
nothing.
He was wearing the
traditional Chiomese head scarf and bright, loose clothing—so his
face was partially concealed—but she would have recognized him
anywhere. Raed, however, was talking to a tall young man and didn’t
notice them. He was so unreal in a real situation that she stood
stock-still, examining him, feeling a ridiculous smile spread on
her lips. She took half a step toward him, her mouth opening to say
his name.
Wait, Sorcha! The words in her head were like a
slap in the face, and then Merrick’s hand clamped down on her arm,
as if she was a little child who would run and throw herself on
Raed.
He might not have
been able to feel their Bond, but the Young Pretender heard her
indrawn breath. He turned and saw them both. The Bond flared,
releasing a rush of sensation that almost toppled her. Every
memory, every sensation of their time together came racing forward.
Sorcha had been trying not to think of them, tried to deny their
power—under this new assault she had no defenses.
Raed’s hazel eyes
held hers. She noted the flex of his hands into fists and the
tremble in his posture as if he too was holding back
movement.
So many people stood
around them, chattering, arguing, lost in their own world. Sorcha
realized she was not free to simply walk over and throw herself
into Raed’s arms. They were in a foreign Prince’s Court, with eyes
everywhere watching them, observing, noting. She knew full well how
the report of a Deacon flinging herself on a man in Orinthal would
go. It could be even worse, if she drew attention to the fact that
the Young Pretender was that man.
Deacon Sorcha Faris
was frozen with indecision. She had so much to say to him—but dared
not voice it.
“Honored Deacons?”
Bandele had breezed right past the mass of people and was now
standing before the massive cedar doors, his brow furrowed. The
Chiomese guard, with their rifles on their shoulders and elaborate
feather headdresses, were waiting to announce them. Gradually the
heads of everyone in the hallway were turning toward the motionless
Deacons.
“Walk on,” Merrick
whispered, his voice taut. When she did not, he hissed again, “Keep
walking, Sorcha!”
By the Bones, she
needed to smile, and with difficulty she managed it. “Coming,
Ambassador,” she called cheerily.
Walking past Raed
felt deeply wrong, but as they did so, Sorcha flicked her head to
the left and caught his eye; she hoped he could see or sense how
much it hurt to turn her back on him.
“Wait here,” she
mouthed to him while her heart raced. Please
don’t die before I can warn you.
He stayed where he
was, and then she saw him no more. Sorcha barely heard the
seneschal announce them or saw the Court itself. It was only
feeling Merrick at her shoulder that kept her moving.
“It’ll be all right,”
he murmured to her. “He’s here, but he’s alive. We have
time.”
Sorcha took a breath,
and it felt like the first. Her partner was correct. They were in
foreign territory, and she had better take notice of the Court
around them.
A subtle glance to
her right told her that Merrick was already entranced. It was, she
supposed, a feast for the eye. The people of Chioma, with their
high cheekbones and gleaming dark skin, were even more impressive
when dressed in Court attire. Servants stood in the corners,
beating the air with fans of peacock feathers, while another played
a curved flute, filling the room with a strangely melancholy tune.
Upon the dais were a rank of beautiful woman—the most striking
collection of slightly dressed women that Sorcha had ever
seen.
The women of the
Imperial Court were lovely too, but their charms were considerably
more hidden. The Deacon suddenly made the connection; these
exquisite women who peered down with somnolent assurance of their
place in the world were members of the Prince’s harem.
It took a moment for
her to notice the man buried in among them. Seated at the top of
the dais was a throne carved from dark wood, and on it was the most
extraordinary man she had ever seen—or not seen.
He was totally
cloaked in the deepest blue, swathed so completely that she could
not have said if he was tall or short, thin or fat. The real
strangeness was that she could not make out a single feature of his
face. The Prince of Chioma wore an odd headdress with a bar of
silver across his forehead from which hung rows upon rows of tiny
white glass beads. They gleamed and danced and were very pretty—but
they also denied anyone any chance of seeing his face.
Sorcha shot a glance
across at Merrick—and he gave the slightest of shrugs. Apparently
this scholar of all things Chioma was just as baffled. The Prince
was an enigmatic figure, he’d told her that, but obviously he
hadn’t been expecting him to be this
enigmatic.
Bandele was bending
low in a bow that bordered on that which might be given to the
Emperor. “Majesty, these are the Deacons from Vermillion who
escorted us safely here. I present Deacons Faris and
Chambers.”
“Welcome to
Orinthal.” The voice that emerged from behind the beaded headdress
was deep, smooth and remarkably young. “It has been a long time
since any Deacon from the Mother Abbey has ventured this far
south.”
Sorcha and Merrick
sketched a bow, but it was the Sensitive who replied. “Your
Majesty, it has long been my dream to visit Chioma.”
The Prince nodded,
the only gesture that Sorcha could be sure of behind that strange
mask. “I have long wished to see the Imperial City myself. But
perhaps I can send my daughter in my stead.” It was the most polite
and gentle probe, delivered in a perfectly level tone of voice.
“What do you think, Deacon Faris—shall my daughter see Vermillion?”
The Prince shifted, and the crystals swayed as his head turned in
her direction.
Sorcha, used to her
partner’s handling these subtle interactions, found herself caught
unawares. “I . . . I truly cannot say, Your Majesty. I know he has
received the suits of many ladies from all over the
Empire.”
The gasp that ran
through the crowd implied that might not have been the best choice
of words. Sorcha felt increasingly frustrated and irritated. She
had stood before Princes before, even the Emperor, and yet this one
was so hard to judge with the royal face obscured.
Merrick could not
step in; to do so would imply weakness in his partner. Sorcha did,
however, feel him stiffen at her side.
When Onika, Prince of
Chioma, laughed, the pressure valve was let off a little. “Very
true—I can only be grateful not to have to choose from so many.”
His voice was laced with amusement and irony—as it should be,
considering the women of his harem stood not five feet from
him.
While the Court
tittered at their Prince’s little joke, a small brass door opened
behind the throne. A group of five young women with one older and
heavily pregnant entered. These newcomers were far more demurely
dressed, and Sorcha knew immediately that the youthful ones were
his daughters. They whispered among themselves and moved to the
other side of the throne, well away from the women of the harem.
Among them was a tall, striking girl with such a look of confidence
that the eye was immediately drawn to her. It was not a great
stretch to guess that this had to be the Princess Ezefia who was
suing for the Emperor’s favor. Her eyes darted to the Ambassador,
but seeing nothing, she quickly replaced the mask of boredom. So,
she was an expert in the games of Court—she would have to be if she
were to become the next Empress.
The older woman,
swaying slightly with her swollen belly, still moved with the
economy and grace that would put a dancer to shame. Her dark braid
swung down her back, and she smiled beatifically at the Court—the
smile of the truly happy. The Prince turned and held out his hand
to her; however, it was impossible to tell if he smiled or not.
Sorcha guessed that he did. He did not introduce the newcomer, but
she slipped into a place just at the foot of his
throne.
And then across the
Bond Sorcha felt Merrick fall into a well of panic. It was so deep
that she jerked around to look at her partner, wondering what in
the Bones could be the cause. Nothing on his face could possibly
have told her that he was close to bolting—his expression remained
clear and calm.
Unaware of any change
in the Deacons, the Prince fixed his gazut them once more. “I will
have many questions for you, Deacons.” He paused. The Order stood
apart from the usual machinations of the Princes: their rules,
their squabbles. The only people whom Merrick and Sorcha had above
them were the Priors and Abbots of the Order of the Eye and the
Fist—and ultimately the Emperor.
Perhaps the Prince
realized that he had pushed the line between Order and aristocracy
a little too far, because his voice softened. “It would assist me,
honored Deacons, if you could talk with me later about your
Emperor. I would know his mind on some matters.”
Sorcha’s stomach
clenched for two reasons: the way he said “your Emperor” as if he
had no connection with the man and the idea that they were to be
quizzed about politics. The Deacons could refuse, use the vaunted
independence of the Order, but they were a long way from a Priory
or Abbey—and even farther from the Mother Abbey
itself.
However, it was the
perfect chance to stay on in Chioma—the perfect chance to save
Raed.
Sorcha reached out
along the Bond, seeking Merrick’s opinion. However, there was
nothing. Somewhere during the confusion, he had slammed down his
shields. Sensitives were always better than Actives at such things,
but she would never have expected it from Merrick—especially right
now.
She used another bow,
perhaps one too many, to hide her confusion. “It would be our
pleasure to offer assistance, Your Majesty,” she said as graciously
as possible.
They were swiftly
dismissed by the Prince, but she made damn sure that they did not
back out of his presence—there were some local customs she was
determined not to adopt.
Outside, she scanned
the petitioners, looking for Raed, but he was gone. When she turned
for advice to Merrick, he held up his hand. “I really need to rest,
Sorcha.” His tone was clipped, rough and distant. “We can talk
about this later.”
He sounded like a
different person—not her partner, not her friend. As Sorcha watched
in shock, he turned on his heel and left her standing there with
absolutely no explanation. Her frown was deep but robbed of a
target.
Merrick and his
mystery would have to wait; for now she had to hunt down Raed—and
quickly—before the spectyr’s vision came true.