The Prince drew him on, and they passed through another door on the far side that opened in the same way as the other. Once beyond it, and with it secured at their backs, the sound of the massive machine was thankfully diminished.
Merrick had thought the weirstone in the machine was impressive, but now he realized they were in a room filled with weirstones—many the same size as the one they had just seen.
It was a magazine, much like the storage facilities on the Imperial Navy ships, and he knew he was holding his breath just as he would in those situations. Weirstones in the most trained hands were unpredictable, but the Prince of Chioma looked unconcerned and even leaned up against one very casually. Merrick winced. Only a Deacon should have been able to touch a weirstone without consequence.
“You needn’t worry,” Onika said in a conversational tone. “The Ehtia are, among other things, masters of the weirstone. These are unkeyed. In point of fact, the Ehtia are the ones who made this for me.” He gestured to the shimmering strings of crystal that hid his face.
“How could I not sense that?” Merrick blurted, aware of a faintly angry tone in his voice. “And I thought all weirstones are blue.”
“Most are—but even those rules can be bent by the Ehtia.” The Prince sighed. “And you could not sense them because they are too smick blurte register in anything but True Sight.”
Merrick frowned. The Prince must be speaking of some form of the Sight taught to Deacons—or rather that which would be taught to Deacons. He had indeed not opened his Center during the one interview with the Prince in his own time. He crossed his arms and stuck his hands under his cloak; the room was slightly chillier than the other Ehtia rooms. “And the machine? What does that do?”
“So very curious.” The Prince’s hand traced the surface of the weirstone he was almost reclining on. “You should take a care that you do not dig too deep. Even a time traveler can be caught out.”
Merrick found being in this awkward position made him bold. “The machine,” he repeated obstinately. “What is its purpose?”
Onika answered in an almost condescending fashion. “The machine is powering this transport, digging us through the ground in an attempt to escape her wrath.”
The Deacon had been in some very strange situations and had used some advanced methods of travel in his short time with the Order—but a machine that burrowed underground like a mole was quite the concept. However, something else had caught his notice. “Her?” he asked, wondering why his throat was feeling dry and his heart was racing.
The Prince of Chioma’s hand tightened, the sound of fingernails on the weirstone as pleasant as it would have been on a blackboard. “Yes, my mother.”
The Deacon did not need to open his Center or call on any of his runes to know that he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question—but he drove on regardless. “And who, by the Bones, is your mother?”
A long pause followed, where in the eerie silence of the weirstone magazine, he could hear the Prince muttering something under his breath. It sounded almost like a prayer. When he spoke to the Deacon, his voice was resigned, heavy with regret.
“She gave me these eyes but denied me everything I have ever wanted.” He swept back the curtain of bright weirstones, so that once again Merrick dropped to his knees. Even so, he heard what the great and magnificent Onika said next. “My mother is the goddess Hatipai.”
Suddenly everything made sense. Merrick fell to the floor and wept with the joy of a believer who has found revelation in the unlikeliest of places.
NINETEEN
Looking Deep
Sorcha opened her Center. Merrick had said something curious about the Young Pretender the first time they had met: “He blazes.”
And he did. The whispers across the Bond, the ones he could not hear, gave her strength—helped her reorient in a world that felt like it was spiraling out of control.
Find his sister. Find Merrick. Find a killer.
As the door to the audience chamber swung shut behind them, the bang nearly made her jump. Raed was already moving, however. His companions Tangyre and Isseriah came to meet them.
“Take this.” Raed thrust the Prince’s seal to the older woman. “I want you to go into the Prince’s harem and find if my sister is there. I suspect not, but I must be certain.”
“We need that!” Sorcha blurted.
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Holding her Center for so long was draining her, and she found she didn’t have the strength to argue.
“I suppose so.”
“Now, Isseriah.” Raed took the young man by the elbow. “We discovered some tunnels last night. I want you to follow them and see where they lead. Take my crew with you, but be careful.”
Sorcha listened while the Young Pretender gave instructions on how to find the tunnels where they had lost Merrick. She knew they would find no sign of her partner, but Raed was right; the attacker had used them last night, and they needed to know where they led.
When he was done, his two companions barely stopped themselves from saluting. For a brief second the Deacon wondered what sort of Emperor Raed would have made—then she yanked her thoughts away. Such musings were not only foolish but also treasonous.
“Let’s find this Chancellor’s chambers.” Raed turned them in the direction of the western wing of the palace.
They hurried toward the part of the palace where all the bureaucrats labored. Raed’s nearness was distracting her, making her Center even harder to hold. Sorcha knew she was avoiding labeling her feelings for the man deliberately, but she couldn’t so easily ignore the strength of them. And it was quite typical of her life. Nothing was ever simple.
When they reached the stairs leading up to the rooms of the most important councilors and bureaucrats in Chioma, Raed leaned into her side. “Brace yourself; we are about to enter a world where there is very little air—except of the hot kind.”
Managing to keep a straight face, Sorcha flashed the gold of her Order badge at the guards at the bottom of the stairs. The Young Pretender was right—it was enough—they were let through with a wave.
It was an effort of will not to race up the smooth, curving stairs to the Chancellor’s room on the top floor. It had his name on it and a guard posted outside. This time Sorcha didn’t even have to show her badge; the man outside unlocked the door and let them through with a bow.
“Don’t say a thing!” she whispered to Raed in a mock growl.
Behind the cedar door Sorcha’s enhanced senses picked up the tang that could only be the scent of not-so-old blood. She heard Raed’s indrawn breath rasp over his teeth, and she reached back to place a hand in his.
The Rossin. She had not thought of the geistlord once since seeing the Young Pretender who was his earthly focus. Yet, as a Deacon, she could never forget that he was still there.
“Let’s look around,” Sorcha said more confidently than she felt and began examining the desk, piled with papers, pens and ledgers. “I may need your help identifying which of these is important.”
Raed’s lips twisted. “This is one aspect of rule that I am glad to have avoided.” He took a place next to her and then looked down. “And I daresay this is where the poor old man was killed.”
The carpet was soaked with dried blood, but it had also splattered the bookcase behind the desk, the wall and a globe of the world that stood next to the window.
“Quite the mess.” Sorcha stared down at the evidence of sughter.