Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

Zofiya did her best to hide her emotions while rearranging her skirts. Perhaps there was a use for women’s fripperies after all. “No,” she said smoothing the lace with one hand. “It is something else entirely.”

“Whatever service I can offer is yours, Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, and drew in a careful breath before continuing, “Providing it does not go against my vows as a Deacon.”

“Naturally.” She got up, placed her hand daringly under his elbow, and drew him over to the window. A small enameled tea set was already laid out as per her instructions. The insulated teapot had kept the brew at just the right temperature, and as the Grand Duchess sat down, she could smell the apples of Delmaire. It was a perfume that brought back beautiful and painful memories of her birthplace. “Please join me, Deacon Chambers. I have this tea shipped in from my father’s capital city, and it is a pleasure to share it with someone who I know is not out to seek advantage.”

After a moment’s pause, Merrick flicked his cloak back and took a seat opposite her. The slight twist in his mouth made him look about as happy as a cat dunked in water. He was making a polite attempt to conceal it—but was not very good at it—at least to the Grand Duchess’ eyes. Unfortunately for him, Zofiya was very good at spotting such things. Growing up surrounded by intrigue and aristocrats out to ingratiate themselves had taught her a thing or two. Since he seemed incapable of knowing where to begin, she did it for him.

“I know you Sensitives see things that others cannot,” she said pouring the tea, and sliding the delicate cup over to him, “and I have need of such a person. A very great need.”

“The Order is always ready to fulfill the requirements of the Emperor and his family. The Sensitive Deacon assigned to your brother, Deacon Lolish, is very good, but if you aren’t happy with him, I am sure you could request someone from the Mother Abbey to—”

He remained as dedicated to his work as she remembered, but Zofiya had to stop him before he got completely the wrong idea. “That’s true. But a thing like that would be noticed in the Court—and I wish it not to be.” She fixed him with a hard look. “Have you heard of Lord Vancy del Rue?”

After a quick sip of his tea, Merrick shook his head. “You’ll have to forgive me—I am not very well versed in the comings and goings in your brother’s palace. Deacons generally do not involve themselves with politics.”

“A wise decision to be sure.” Zofiya stirred her drink with a tiny brass spoon and considered how much to tell this Deacon. It was a very long time since she had trusted anyone with her thoughts. Even Kaleva, her brother and Emperor, did not know every concern and dark musing that passed through her mind, and though she’d taken lovers within the Imperial Court, nothing of greater substance that a groan or a sigh had passed between them.

Yet as she looked across the table at the young Deacon, she was reminded how well he had kept the secret shame of what had happened in Chioma to himself. The riots in the distant principality were generally considered to be just another bout of civil unrest. She had heard no whisper that any suspected that the goddess Hatipai had in fact been a geistlord. Those followers of hers who had gone to the desert temple had heard the call, even seen some things, but they had not been close enough to observe the true nature of their goddess. In all respects Zofiya realized they were luckier than she.

Only the Young Pretender Raed—whose whereabouts were unknown—the comatose Deacon Faris, and her partner, now sitting opposite the Grand Duchess, knew the real truth. As she contemplated that, Merrick pushed back his cup and fixed his steady brown eyes on her face with the sort of intent she’d only seen in the most accomplished warriors. “You have been kind and generous in your care of my mother and brother, Imperial Highness. You have done your best to see to it that their claim to the Chiomese principality is not forgotten—and most of all, you have been careful not to recall these kindnesses as any kind of debt. So even if I were not a Deacon, I would certainly want to help you in whatever way I can.”

Something about the honest way he delivered that little speech brought an unusual rush of blood to her cheeks. Luckily, she was no pale maid on which such a thing might be called a blush. “I was born into a scheming Court, Deacon Chambers. I’ve known knaves and backstabbers since before I could walk, and yet this Lord del Rue unnerves me in a way none of those ever did.” She fiddled with the now-empty cup, rubbing the bottom back and forth on the saucer. “He is admitted often to my brother’s presence—but in private. I have been introduced to him, as he dines and dances with the rest of the Court, and he is the very image of a polite, respectful courtier, and yet something here,” she went on, placing one hand over her stomach, “rebels against his nearness. Every single time I feel ill, and several times I imagine there is a smell about him—like something rotten. I admit I have actually been ill several times on his account.”

It was an embarrassing admission, but Merrick sat up straighter in his chair, and she noted his hand went to the length of leather tied to his belt—the Strop that was the focus of a Sensitive Deacon’s power. His frown was deep, making him appear so much older, and he pressed his lips together. Finally when he looked up, his eyes scanned her enough to make her think that she was some insect under scrutiny. “It could be,” he finally offered, “that your closeness to the geistlord Hatipai has woken an awareness in you that has lain latent.”

Zofiya could not stop the words escaping her. “You think I am some kind of Sensitive?”

Merrick grew suddenly bold, taking her hand and tracing a design in it. She let him, because his hand was warm, and she wanted his touch rather badly. “No,” he leaned back, placing the Grand Duchess’ palm once more on the table. “There is a glimmer there, but nothing that could be trained up to the level of Deacon. It seems you just have had your inner eye opened to certain things.” He smiled reassuringly. “In your position, Imperial Highness, it could prove quite useful.”

“Well, having to excuse myself and rush off to be sick while at a state dinner is quite inconvenient. Rumors get started that way.”

Now it was the Deacon’s turn to blush. “I will try and find a way to bump into your Lord del Rue and see if there is something deeper to these feelings. It may be that he was merely the target of an unliving attack sometime in his life. Such things do leave scars.” He stood up. “If you could arrange for me to mix with the Court tomorrow, I am sure I can put your mind at rest.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “I will tell the seneschal that you will attend as extra security when the Prince Gyor arrives from the west. The Emperor has arranged a state ball for him, and that should give you a chance to run your eye over del Rue.”

The Deacon bowed. “Until tomorrow then.”

Just as he turned to go, Zofiya found another way to prolong his visit. “How is your partner faring?”

Merrick’s eyes dipped away from hers. “No better and no worse, Imperial Highness. No one has been able to penetrate the coma—not even myself. All I can feel is her frustration and anger. The Presbyters are almost on the verge of assigning me a new partner, and I can only put them off so long.”

Zofiya felt a twist of jealousy at his concern. She knew the Bond between Active and Sensitive was a powerful one, but Deacon Faris was a woman. Still, she managed to conceal the stab of resentment. “I’m sorry to hear it. I imagine you are heading back to sit vigil?”