Spectyr (16 page)
Authors: Philippa Ballantine
Raed steeled himself, wondering if their trip would stop here. Had Fraine been killed and thrown into the river? His mind raced through a whole range of terrible possibilities.
“She has been taken to the Hive City itself.”
The relief that washed over him made Raed actually take a step back. Though it was a terrible thing to hear, it was wonderful to know that she was still alive. “Tell me more.”
“Many slavers pass through Orinthal, as they cannot be sold here.” Isseriah was incapable of voicing the rest.
“Go on,” Raed urged, though his stomach was in a tight knot.
“However, sometimes those seeking advancement in the Court of the Prince have been known to buy the prettiest and pass them off as their own kin.”
“Into his harem, you mean?” Raed’s hand went to his sword hilt. He was so used to thinking of Fraine as a little girl—yet when he calculated, he realized she had to be twenty years old. Then he thought about their mother: she had been the beauty of the Empire. He had almost forgotten that, because his last image of her had been anything but lovely. If he pushed past that, however, he could recall her thick waves of gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. If Fraine had grown up to look anything like their mother, then indeed she would be a striking woman.
“So, into the palace we must go,” Raed replied firmly. When their informant exchanged a glance with Tangyre, he asked, “Is there some sort of problem with that?”
“The palace is, as you know, highly guarded.” The young Earl looked about as if he expected to be overheard. “Every caravan must have permission to enter—but since I am going there, it will be easy enough to swap your crew for my workers—it is not that . . . ” He trailed off again.
“No need to mince your words, my lord.” Tangyre let out a short laugh. “The price on the Prince’s head has been reposted by the Impostor.”
Like the reprieve from the Rossin, Raed had taken heart from the fact that the bounty on his head had not been increased nor found its way to market squares since before the fight in the ossuary. Obviously saving his sister’s life had not wiped the slate clean in the Emperor’s eyes.
“None of your usual contacts can be trusted,” Isseriah whispered. “We must make sure none hear of your arrival in Orinthal.”
His eyes locked with Raed’s, making an accusation his lips would not. “My crew are reliable—down to the last one.”
“Then how did the Emperor know you were coming to Chioma?” The Earl-apparent asked softly. “Excuse my boldness, sire—but Captain Greene said that you only got news of your sister’s kidnapping a mere week ago . . .”
Raed stroked his beard but did not mention that Possibility Matrix that he, Sorcha and Merrick had found beneath the Mother Abbey. The Abbot was dead, that pit of conspiracy cleared out. Wasn’t it? Sorcha had told him about the lengths the Order had gone to, but he could not recall if she had mentioned the eventual fate of the unholy creation. The idea that once again someone could be dogging his steps before he even made them was maddening.
He could not explain such horrors, such impossibilities to them. “There are fell things abroad in the world, things that would reveal our path before we walk it—yet walk it we must. I cannot have my sister disappearing into the harem of the Prince—or worse.”
“Agreed,” Tangyre murmured. “The Princess Royal must be recovered.”
Raed’s heart sank further because Isseriah still looked worried. “There is more, isn’t there?”
“Only . . . ” The youth stopped and cleared his throat. “Only rumor, my liege—but I am sure you would hear it from others. They say there is a murderer on the loose in the Hive City. The guards of Orinthal are trying to keep things quiet, but there have been deaths among the aristocracy, which is harder to hush than if it were any unfortunate on the street.”
So she begins.
Raed managed not to jump. It was the Rossin. The Pretender stood stock-still for a moment, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every slightly rapid breath—trying to ascertain if any of them meant that the Curse was about to surface. Finally, after a few heartbeats he realized it was not.
What the Beast might mean Raed did not know, and it did not elaborate further.
Isseriah kept talking, his words tumbling over one another as if he was somehow embarrassed to bring such bad news to his liege. “You may stay in my warehouse tonight; it is safe enough. I will tell my men that you are my cousin, and I am showing you the trade. I have enough of them to make that believable.”
Raed looked at the young man and saw what had been in his own eyes once—hope. He was scared to let it show, but there it was. So the Young Pretender clapped him on the shoulder. “Your grandfather would be ud, Isseriah. You are taking great risks for my family and me.”
“We all hope to see you restored.” The tall young man ducked his head. “So whatever I can do for you is my pleasure and duty.”
They had been a long time hugging the coast of the Empire, so Raed had in truth forgotten that the fire of rebellion did still burn among the lesser and dispossessed nobles. As much as he believed it was a wasted effort, he was not going to destroy this young man’s kindly given allegiance.
“Thank you all the same,” he murmured. Then with some embarrassment, Raed let Isseriah drop to one knee and press his forehead against the Young Pretender’s hand—where the signet ring should have been. It had been many years since he’d let anyone do that, and it felt more than just awkward—it felt dishonest. The sooner they found Fraine and he got back to the
Dominion
, the better.
Dominion
, the better.
The Grand Duchess was fighting in the Long Hall in Vermillion Palace, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thick plait of dark hair was tied back, though some strands had come loose and were stuck in the corner of her mouth. Trails of sweat were running down her face. Zofiya was aware of all these minor irritations, but they were distant things—even the fight was some way off.
For today she had received several disturbing pieces of information that suggested the life of her brother was in danger.
It was no new thing. In Arkaym she had taken it on herself to be responsible for his continuing good health, and in all those years the number of assassination attempts were numerous. She knew because she kept meticulous records.
In the last year malcontents had gradually worked out that the punishment she inflicted was dire, and so the attempts had dwindled away. Zofiya had unroofed castles, turned aristocrats of many generations into peasants and generally caused as much fear as her brother would let her get away with.
Their father had this expression: “Always hammer the nails that stick up, down the hardest.” Though the Grand Duchess disagreed with the King of Delmaire on many points, on this one they were in complete agreement.
Yet, despite all that she had done, she’d heard from a reliable source that something might well happen to her brother “in among the roses.” It was probably just more rash talk from among the gentry who had not been hammered quite enough. Still, she ignored no threat. Just as a precaution, she’d informed his personal guard that the Emperor was to go nowhere in the gardens today.
Light from the large windows flickered from gray to white as the clouds outside raced through the sky. The change distracted her opponent for an instant, and deciding that this practice had gone on long enough, Zofiya took an aggressive lunge forward. The training foil in her hand flashed, and the unfortunate Imperial Guard who was her target tried to quickly step back. He couldn’t get his own weapon up fast enough, and she rapped him hard against the mesh helmet.
The snap of the strike echoed down the marble hallway, bouncing off the rows of paintings and sculptures.
“Dearest Sister.” The voice startled her, and she spun around to see the Emperor of Arkaym standing in the shadow of the archway. Kaleva, her elder brother, watched her with dark eyes and a smile.
For an Emperor he smiled far too often, but as always, what he was thinking was hidden. Zofiya took waher own helmet, tucked her foil under her arm and strode toward him.
Years of growing up in their father’s Court had taught them one thing—knowledge was power. Yet she was afraid, afraid that as much as she did love her brother, she didn’t really know him. She might adore and protect him, but he kept his true heart hidden from her.
That lonely thought made Zofiya abandon protocol momentarily. Despite the sweat and that they were, as ever, not alone, she grabbed Kaleva in a tight embrace. For that split second they were children again—the youngest, the most insignificant, yet still required to conform to the rules of their elders. Ignored by their mother and viewed as pawns by their father—no one could ever have expected them to be here now—the Emperor and the Grand Duchess of Arkaym.
Kaleva returned her hug for a moment but then pushed her back. “Sister, I fear you need to go easier on your guard, or they may request a transfer to the kitchens.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Hosh?” Zofiya shot the question over her shoulder.
The guard took off his helmet, revealing that his salt-and-pepper hair was wet with sweat, but he nonetheless sketched a very fine bow. “Not at all, Imperial Highness. It makes the rest of my day seem like a holiday by comparison.”
Laughing, Kaleva drew his sister aside—as far away as an Emperor could, anyway. As always there were his guards, his personal secretary, his current favorites and two members of the Privy Council waiting in the wings. Zofiya missed the privacy they had shared as children.
Over at the window looking down the hill that the palace occupied, they stood for a moment, with their backs to the rest of the people in the room. It was a beautiful city, seen from a distance. The changing light alternately lit up the lagoon and the channels, making them look like mirrors for a short instant, before the clouds once again took over, hiding them in shadow.
Zofiya waited for her brother to speak, untying her hair and trying not to get curious as to what brought him to find her. Finally, Kaleva took out of his pocket three miniatures of three ladies and laid them out on the table in the flickering sunlight.
“So these are the final choices, are they?”
Kaleva nodded curtly. Youngest son of the King of Delmaire, he’d never been expected to rule anything, and now he was learning that there was more to being Emperor than merely dealing with bureaucrats and bickering Princes. An unmarried ruler was not acceptable in any shape or form, and yet picking a bride was loaded with layers of meaning and consequence that could freeze even the most intelligent, commanding man in his place.
“Yes.” Her brother sighed, tucked his hands behind his back and looked down at the images. “One from Chioma, one from Seneqoth and one from Hatar—all beautiful, talented and from families deemed not strong enough to unbalance the Assembly of Princes.”
“Poor Brother”—Zofiya chuckled—“to have to pick from such beauties. It is truly a cruel life you live.” She kept her tone light, though she itched to fling away the images of the women from Seneqoth and Hatar, however she knew that doing so would draw unwanted attention from her brother. Always she had to take care not to remind him of her faith.
The Emperor pressed his lips together. “Perhaps I have been putting this off—but I am sure these ladies are not really pining for me.” He couldn’t help it—he looked over his shoulder. They were thre, in the shadows: Otril and Eilse.
He was a minor Earl from Delmaire, and she a quiet beauty with no aristocratic blood in her veins at all. Yet it was well-known that Kaleva loved them.
The Emperor had taken care not to give them too much power in Imperial affairs, knowing from their father’s Court that the influence of lovers could end with their death or that of the monarch. Yet their very closeness to him was beginning to spread more than a whisper in Vermillion.
Some talked of Otril and Eilse actively working against the Emperor marrying—though Zofiya was sure they were not that foolish.
No, she sighed, it was her brother. Other royals were comfortable with mistresses, affairs, concubines, but not Kaleva. To marry was to deny his feelings—and it was not like the Emperor of Arkaym could act as the Prince of Chioma did—keeping a large harem of lovers. Tradition had it there was one Emperor and one Empress.
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