“Perhaps the Grand Duchess would like to change into Chiomese silks?” The minor official who Orinthal had managed to rustle up on short notice was bent in an appropriately low bow.
Zofiya took a long breath and let the warm air fill her lungs. The nights it had taken to get here had been sleepless, and she was fully aware that her mood was less than perfect.
Still, she had been born to royalty and managed to control the outward display of her emotions—occasionally. Luckily for the trembling official, this was one of those times. “That will not be necessary—I will, however, require transportation to the Temple of Hatipai.”
The man’s eyes flickered behind her, and Zofiya concealed a smile as he took in her pitifully small entourage: only half a dozen Imperial Guards. Even when she was traveling without her brother, Zofiya should have by rights been accompanied by ten times that number.
However, when your goddess calls, you do not linger to gather what is proper. She could sense that the official was dying to ask more, full of questions he could not quite work out how to get answers to. Let him squirm, she thought; there would be plenty more Chiomese who she was bound to unnerve.
“The Temple is not far, Imperial Highness, but we have to assemble the proper carriage and honor guard. It will take us an hour or two.” He actually winced.
The image of her goddess’ Temple burned in Zofiya’s mind. “We shall walk then and enjoy the views of your fine city.”
The man’s eyes widened, but he dared not deny her. “If I may be so bold”—a trail of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down the side of the man’s face—“may I ask what has brought this great honor of your visit to Chioma? The Prince will be most . . . surprised and delighted.”
The movements of the Emperor’s sister were always of the greatest interest to everyone—not least the hornet’s nest of quarreling Princes. Yet Chioma was the seat of the worship of her goddess and the Prince of the kingdom was known for his reclusive nature and iron will. Zofiya anticipated no problems with him.
She had an excuse ready for just such an inquiry. “I have come to meet the charming Princess suing to become my Imperial brother’s Empress.”
It was at least a half-truth. When she had stood before Kaleva, he had not believed it. They knew each other too well, and he was able to read the look in her eyes enough to know her trip was connected to Hatipai.
It was one of the few things the siblings argued over. He had never felt the righteous burn of the faith she had found so early in her life. Zofiya loved her brother more than anything in this world, but there remained someone she placed higher: Hatipai.
Unlike her father, who had been horrified and embarrassed at a showing of faith in his daughter, Kaleva was only saddened by it.
“Little Wolf”—a twin set of frown lines appeared on his handsome face—“I fear this addiction of yours will bring you nothing but ill.”
Standing in the blanketlike heat of Orinthal, she recalled with a smile his pet name for her and his easily given love. The Emperor was remarkably softhearted for one commanding such power.
“I think it i you who may be hurt,” she had replied. “With no faith to protect from the world, Brother.”
It was an argument that had spun on and on and round and round for years. So he had not questioned her plans while in Chioma, and Zofiya had not offered to tell him. Hatipai’s summons was something even an Imperial Grand Duchess could not ignore.
“Which direction is the Temple?” she asked calmly so as not to betray herself.
His face brightened as if lit by a weirstone. “We had reports, Your Imperial Highness, of you following our Bright Lady. Truly it gladdens the hearts of all in Chioma to know—”
“I am sure it does.” Zofiya held up her hand, cutting him off in mid-flow. “But it is many years since I have had the joy of worshipping in a Temple—I would like to partake of her presence immediately.”
Now it appeared as if the lit weirstone was under his feet, because he spun about and gestured her to follow him. Her Imperial Guard of six closed about her.
“Imperial Highness,” Ylo, her guardian since she had been only ten years old, whispered sharply in her ear, “is this wise? Into the streets with so few to protect you?”
He didn’t understand either. Nothing could touch her here in the land of her goddess. So she held up her hand, and he at least knew that gesture. Immediately he snapped to attention and followed her without further comment.
This was the city and the country where her goddess was still worshipped. The only one where faith still had a place. Certainly there were still other gods worshipped in the Empire, but mostly in quiet rural areas by simple folk who kept their altars by the hearth and gave small offerings when they could.
As the procession walked through the exotically scented streets of the city, Zofiya’s pace quickened until she was almost knocking on the heels of the official. He turned his head, surprised. “The Bright Lady is calling, is she, Imperial Highness?”
He couldn’t possibly know it was actually true, but he meant well. So she smiled and nodded. “It is a very, very long time since I have stood in one of her temples—back in my father’s dominion, in fact.”
“Forgive me, Imperial Highness”—a flicker of genuine interest overwhelmed his almost comical deference—“but is the Bright Lady widely worshipped there?”
A passing caravan of camels was apparently no respecter of high rank, and for a few minutes Zofiya’s guard had to push back at the stinking beasts. They traded insults and threats with the owner, until he realized who he was dealing with and urged his animals as best he could out of the Grand Duchess’ way.
Finally, when they were past them, she replied, “Her temples are very few indeed.” Those words stung.
She would not share with anybody the events of the day that had first driven her to the Bright One’s Temple. The memory of her father’s towering rage, when he had caught her practicing hand-to-hand combat with the guard for the third time was deeply ingrained on her psyche. He had wanted another princess to marry off and secure his kingdom—not one so committed to choosing her own path.
In the Temple of Hatipai, the young Zofiya had found the strength to follow her own heart. As it turned out, even the King of Delmaire had eventually given up on her, finally declaring he had a surplus of daughters—and that she should make herself useful and protect her broth on his ill-fated ascendancy to rule Arkaym.
All that good fortune she owed to Hatipai, and now that Kaleva was sitting more firmly on the throne, it was time to pay back that strength she had found at the feet of the goddess.
“There she is.” The official swept his arm up, indicating the slight rise in the road toward the Temple, as if he himself had conjured the magnificent red building from thin air.
The facade of the Temple had been masterfully carved. Vast friezes of the daily life of Chioma paraded around the outside of the Temple. All the trade and riches of the kingdom were depicted there; the smallest merchant to the greatest aristocrat were part of the magnificence. Every one of them, however, was climbing penitently up the walls toward the crowning glory of the building. The goddess sprawled atop her Temple, taking up all of the peaked roof, lying on her side, one hand propping up her grand head. The span of her wings beneath her served as a roof for the building.
Zofiya had never seen anything so complex or detailed—even in Delmaire—and it quite literally made her stop and choke back a breath of surprise.
“Would you—” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am sorry, what was your name?”
“Deren.” His eyes, which back at the waterfront had appeared so lifeless, were now full and gleaming.
“Deren”—Zofiya let out a breath—“is there any way that I may be able to pray alone?”