He gave a little bow. “I’ll run ahead and arrange it with the priestess. I am sure she will be able to accommodate your request, Imperial Highness.” And he scuttled off to do that.
The Grand Duchess stood in the shade, fanned herself, and tried to hold on to her frustration. Eventually Deren returned to them, his teeth flashing in his dark face with genuine pleasure. “The afternoon prayers have not yet begun, so the priestess has managed to clear the Temple for you, Imperial Highness.”
They climbed the steps to the doors, and Zofiya had a moment of disorientation—it was just as the goddess had shown her. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on the rest of her body, and her heart began to race in beneath her ribs. “Stay here, Ylo,” she whispered over her shoulder.
“But, Highness.” His voice was uncertain, but he still tried to do his duty—she wouldn’t fault him for that.
“Not this time.” Zofiya craned her neck, looking up at the Temple where the image of Hatipai stared down at her followers as if they were ants—which of course they were. “This,” the Grand Duchess said, “is private.” Then, knowing that for the first time in many, many years she would be alone in the Temple of her goddess, she walked reverently up the last few steps.
Inside, the heat was left behind, even though the light came in through the glassless windows and burned white on the red floor. Zofiya slipped off her shoes and felt the rough prickle of the fabulous carpets on her bare soles. To have such a place all to herself was one of the true joys of being royalty—maybe the only one, as far as she could see.
You are a child of Kings, but you do not enjoy the privileges that it brings, Hatipai’s voice whispered, and Zofiya could not be sure if she was hearing it in her head or if the dimly seen lofty ceiling might contain a hidden angel.
You need to learn to take the reins of power. Be what your heritage commands youto be.
Despite her faith and her love of the goddess, that stung. Her nature rebelled against that. “I am the sister of the Emperor, Lady. I take care with his life. I counsel him as best I can.”
And you never think that the royal blood he has also runs through your veins. Foolish girl—you are as born to rule as he. Only the ridiculous tradition of males on the throne of Arkaym prevents you from your real potential.
A lump formed in Zofiya’s throat. Arkaym and Delmaire had that in common. While many of the principalities that made up the Empire had female rulers, no Empress had ever sat on the grand throne in Vermillion. Empresses were made by marriage—not by birth.
“My brother was asked to come—to become Emperor,” she finally ventured, walking deeper into the Temple but with hesitation now in her stride. “I was never even considered. I could not possibly—”
And that is why you always remain in the shadows. The goddess’ voice was now sharp and actually hurt Zofiya, as if she were being pummeled. As she winced and pulled back, the goddess’ tone changed, becoming softer and gentler. You have much to learn yet, child—now is not the time. Go to the font.
The Grand Duchess’ confidence had been shaken. Suddenly the Temple was not cool and mysterious—it was positively freezing and deep in shadows. The holy water font, which in the goddess’ vision had seemed full of joy, was in fact rather menacing.
Do you not love your goddess? Hatipai’s whisper echoed around the vaulted chamber. You are a good child, covered in faith—do as I ask.
Zofiya swallowed, closed her eyes and thought back to her first visit to the Temple in Delmaire. When she concentrated hard, she could recall that moment of utter acceptance, complete love and being part of something—when in her parents’ eyes she was merely a spare. Clutching onto that memory, she was able to go forward into the shadows.
The Temple was very sparse, the focus being an unadorned bowl of silver buried in the floor. It was ten feet wide, and worshippers had floated fragrant flowers on its still surface. The scent was exhilarating and somehow steadied her.
She reached the stairs and climbed up to the altar—but in the proper way—on her knees. Finally she began to smile as the warmth of her faith began to wrap itself around her. With hesitation dissolving, Zofiya stretched out her hand and dipped it into the water. It was icy cold. She pressed her wet fingertips to her own mouth and let the water enter her.
Now go down into the dark—bring me back what I need.
Climbing to her feet, Zofiya did what all worshippers of Hatipai would have considered blasphemy—she stepped into the font itself. Now her body was given over to the goddess. Now she could do what was required of her.
For the longest moment it felt like nothing was going to happen, and then a loud groan filled the room, mechanical and deep, from somewhere below her. Water began to drain out of the font as a crack appeared around the rim. It was pouring into a hidden space, while the altar itself began to come apart. Dust and stale air billowed up from below, making Zofiya cough and splutter—very unflattering in the house of her goddess.
When it finally cleared, she could see a spiral staircase that was thick with dirt and could have been a thousand years old. For all she knew, it was. Dripping with holy water, Zofiya steppd out of the font and onto the stairs. They creaked under her weight, but the light, supple metal, apart from being dirty, felt strong. As she walked down deeper, she saw that the stairs were in fact hanging from silvery chains, yet she could see no sign of a mechanism.
None of this looked like the work of a goddess, and the faint carvings on the interior of the staircase walls were unfamiliar. Zofiya didn’t quite understand what her goddess was asking of her, why she could not send someone else down here.
Finally the Grand Duchess reached the bottom. Lights flickered and then sprang to life, illuminating the room with a blue gleam that unnerved her a little. She had danced beneath the red glow of chandeliers in the palace of Vermillion and lived her life by the amber flicker of candles and lanterns—what she had never done was see any sort of blue light in her life.
The room smelled of linseed oil, and the air was sharp in her nostrils. The only experience she could compare it to was the time she had spent in Tinkers’ Lane, watching the construction of the engines for her brother’s newest airship. The heavily guarded mysteries of the Guild of Tinkers had fascinated her. Yet, merely by looking around, Zofiya knew that this place was far older than anything she had seen in Vermillion—except for the prison from which she’d helped the angel escape.
Then, warmth and her goddess’ voice had carried her on, insulating her from the strangeness of that place. However, now she was alone, shivering in a room that was bone-achingly cold and strange. The wall was carved with numerals and figures and, under her fingertips, felt metallic. The light was coming from the eyes of the people depicted, each of them a piece of blue glass. Yet the pictures were similar to the ones in the palace. People crying out in terror as the Revelation of the Otherside began, the Season of Supplication—but this time there were no other gods represented—just Hatipai.
The people crying out this time were obviously citizens of Chioma, with their high headdresses and sumptuously draped clothes. The artisan who had made this was incredibly skilled at capturing the anguish in the people’s faces and postures. Except for one.
Zofiya stood frowning for a moment. A central figure stood in the middle of the almost prostrate crowd—but where they were bent and knotted in fear, he was erect, proud, looking directly up at the representation of Hatipai.
Unconsciously, one of the Grand Duchess’ hands stole to her throat, because two things disturbed her greatly. That man, carved with such drama and precision, was unfamiliar, but he wore something she had read of. The mysterious headdress of the Prince of Chioma had been widely reported. She had learned of this ruler who rarely traveled beyond his own borders and whose face was never seen.