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!”