In the frieze the artist had depicted the headdress in great detail and embellished it with the different colored clear glass so it fairly blazed in contrast to the other parts of the image.
The second detail that caused a deep frown in the forehead of the Grand Duchess was the depiction of her goddess. This was nothing like the images in the Temple above. This Hatipai was a nightmare, her hair flying wide like a nest of angry vipers, and long, predatory teeth visible in a mouth that was spread wide—yet she knew it was her goddess because of the symbol hanging about her.
Words were written beneath, obviously words, but not any that Zofiya—even with a royal education—could understand. A lost language; it had to be. It was terribly frustrating, and she made a de. Thehat when she got aboveground, there would be scholars questioned rather vigorously.
As in Vermillion, she followed the frieze around to the end of the chamber. Here the image was stranger still. The Prince of Chioma was shown wrestling with the nightmare vision of Hatipai, and it looked as if he was pulling something off her. Zofiya leaned forward, until her breath was fogging the cold metal.
It looked as if the Prince was struggling to rip a cowl or perhaps the skin from her goddess. The people of Chioma were shown screaming, clapping their hands to their ears, their mouths in a terrible rictus of pain.
“What is that?” she muttered to herself as her fingertips hovered inches from the metal.
A loud clank echoed through the chamber, and Zofiya leapt back. It was a display of fear that she was glad none of her Imperial Guard had to witness.
The light in the chamber grew brighter, the eyes of the people beaming out at her, and things were shifting. Just beyond the light, the sound of metallic rattling made her wonder if some metal giant was stirring.
The whispering began: soft, insistent and growing louder by the moment. Zofiya took another step and looked around her but was unable to see where the sound was coming from. It could not be that there were people in the chamber with her, but perhaps it was the whispering of shades trapped in this awful place.
She was no Deacon, had no weaponry that would possibly harm a geist—but she had the faith of her goddess burning inside her, and her goddess had told her to come here. So Zofiya stood still in the middle of the chamber and waited for whatever was to come, to come.
Gradually the sound of the whispers began to resolve into languages that Zofiya knew. As well as Imperial she could make out at least ten familiar native tongues. Her heart was chilled by what they were saying.
Who are you?
Die in the dark if you have not the blood.
Who are you?
Identify!
Her spine straightened as the cold of the room began to change to an ominous warmth, and her hand clenched around her sword hilt. However, there was nothing to strike, no threat that she could identify—just a feeling of doom sweeping toward her out of the untapped darkness.
Throwing back her shoulders, she spoke as loudly and as firmly as she remembered her father speaking from his throne in distant Delmaire. “I am Grand Duchess Zofiya Nobylchuin. My father is King of Delmaire, my brother the crowned Emperor of Arkaym, and I am second in line to the throne of the Empire.”
It was true. All of it. Yet she had never really considered that last part, until she had yelled it into the black. Zofiya stood there panting, for that moment forgetting her fear of this chamber and instead remembering her brother’s strange looks, the murmured conversations in the Court when she passed by, and finally particular attention several of the Dukes had been paying her.
She and her brother were all that there was of a very shaky new dynasty on the throne. Both of them had to marry and produce heirs—immediately. For that same moment Hatipai, the strange room, and her mission evaporated. Her brother had been concealing something behind that ever-present smile. Had she been so busy protecting him that she had noticed nothing else? It was a terrible wounding thought that froze her in place.
Zofiya snapped back to her current concerns, because the room was moving again. The eyes of blue glass now beamed narrow lights that flickered over her. The voices, the harsh whispers died away and were replaced by something just as ominous.
The sound of metal screeching against metal reverberated around the room with such vehemence that she had to slam her hands over her ears.
Finally it stopped and, breathing heavily, the Grand Duchess cautiously uncovered her ears.
The Emperor or his heir may enter.
The final frieze slid apart. Zofiya wondered how many of these Ancient places there were around the Empire, waiting to be discovered. The Rossins must have known about them, but unfortunately during their rather hasty exit from Vermillion had decided not to leave instructions for their successors.
The Rossin line was the enemy of Hatipai and all other deities, for they had allowed the population to turn away from the gods when the Otherside opened. Letting them diminish, become “the little gods.”
Zofiya’s heart was filled with certainty. Her brother might have plans for her—but she had plans for him too. The gods would be brought to power again, and her goddess would be placed above them all. She would bring faith back to Arkaym.
She stepped forward confidently into the darkness toward a gleaming pillar of light. That was when the device above the door attacked her. The long, articulated arm struck her shoulder with a needle the thickness of a lacemaker’s instrument. The Grand Duchess barely had time to react before it was withdrawn. She stared at the device as it clicked and whirred. Nothing happened, so after a few moments she continued into the room and, strangely, into the sunlight. One glance up told her that somehow those Ancient craftsmen had worked a lens that funneled light from a distant point to here.
“Goddess be praised,” Zofiya murmured under her breath. Her feet echoed on the floor, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Up on the pedestal was another device she could not name, but she was positive this was what Hatipai wanted her to retrieve.
It looked to be a sphere of gray metal. She might have faith, but the Grand Duchess was not stupid—she did not grab the object straightaway. Instead she studied it, head tilted, eyes narrowed. It was the same size and shape as the round balls children everywhere in the Empire played with. Two circles of flat gray metal encompassed the ends of the sphere, and between them the rest of the ball looked to be made of some kind of glass.
Zofiya’s fingers hovered only an inch from the sphere. The glass was as fine and clear as any made for the Vermillion Palace, and through it she could make out that the sphere held some kind of liquid. In the light from above it appeared to gleam silver. Walking around the pedestal a little more, she observed that the discs at each end were not just flat—they too were etched and contained little wheels and cogs. They were tiny examples of the Tinker’s art—the kind of work seen only in the clocks made for aristocrats or the Imperial Court.
Such things were recent inventions, and yet this place was unquestionably old. Faith did not stop Zofiya from being curious, either. The Ancient folk and their arts had been lost after the Break—this had to be an example of their craft. Yet, why her goddess would need something from them, she couldn’t comprehend.
Maybe it was not her place to understand. Hatipai had only asked her to bring her this tng. She wiped her palms on her breeches before taking the sphere.