Spectyr

NINE Into the Hive

“Are you aware that no one actually knows how ancient the city of Orinthal is?” Sorcha had already noticed with some amusement that there were certain subjects that revealed Merrick’s youth.

He certainly made her feel old, leaning over the edge of the airship with unmistakable glee—ready for whatever came his way. His curly dark hair was fluttering in the breeze, so that when he glanced back, he did indeed appear like a young boy. “Bandele says that I may find in the Prince’s library many things that not even the Imperial Palace has.”

Whatever he saw when he looked down at the jumbled array of red buildings, she did not. Sorcha wanted to be there now, not observing it from above.

She was well aware impatience was one of her faults. Her tutors in the Abbey as a young Initiate had repeatedly pointed that out to her—sometimes with willow lashes on her open palm. However, they never cured her, and neither had a little age.

Even though they had completed a journey that would have taken months riding, right across the Empire in a mere week—it still felt ridiculously slow. At least on horseback there were things to do; trapped in the dirigible she had spent the last week looking at miles of clouds.

So she tried to appreciate the city below. It was already far warmer than Vermillion. Spring was just giving way to summer in the north, but in Chioma it already had a warm, sticky grip on the country. Sorcha wiped a thin line of sweat from her forehead. They had not yet landed, but she could tell this kingdom was going to make her suffer.

Captain Revele was bringing them in slow to the port city, probably showing off for Merrick’s benefit—or to keep him on the dirigible for just that little bit longer. Revele’s feeling for Sorcha’s partner apparently sailed right past her target, though. He could have spent a week having fun with the captain, at least at night—yet he had not availed himself of the opportunity. Sorcha found it curious.

Merrick had, like most Deacons, been in the Order from childhood, but he had somehow missed a vital part of growing up that was certainly available even in the confines of the Abbey. He was utterly unaware of his effect on women, and Vyra Revele could not say anything, because a Deacon was, strictly speaking, higher in the chain of command than she.

As if summoned by the wandering of Sorcha’s thoughts, Captain Revele appeared out of the wheelhouse, adjusted her jacket in a sharp, telling little gesture and strode toward them.

“We’ll be landing in a few moments.” Her voice was almost as disciplined as a Deacon’s. “The Navy only has a small tether port here, but we have been instructed to wait for your return.”

Merrick didn’t say a thing, still too entranced by what was below. Sorcha tapped his leg, and he jerked upright. “Thank you, Captain.”

She gave him a tight smile and then returned to her post. The crew brought the Summer Hawk down with absolute precision—so much so that even Raed would have barely noticed when they finally landed. The recollection of the Young Pretender’s nervousness around the airship was both amusing and painful. Sorcha was used to being her own person, and yet here she was chasing after a man. How Kolya would have laughed.

Te ground crew scurried to secure the dirigible, while the sailors on board threw out ropes to them. Eventually the Summer Hawk was as tightly wound to the ground as a fly in a spider’s web. Ramps were thrown out, and the passengers disembarked.

The Deacons got off first and waited for the deputation to organize itself. The relentless Bandele began shouting at his men as they moved grumpy donkeys and angry oxen out of the hold. Sorcha knew if she watched the whole painful process of reassembling the caravan she would probably chew her fingernails off. So instead she wandered away for a little, while Merrick stood talking to Captain Revele. His thoughts, however, were tightly locked away, so Sorcha concentrated on her surroundings.

At first Orinthal did not look that different from any other city in the Empire Sorcha had seen on her travels. The tether station was the only one in the principality and tacked onto the edge of the wharf area. Sail and rowing boats skidded around on the dark water of the Saal River like so many water insects.

Then as she turned west she saw what the city was known for: the towering cone-shaped mud structures that made up the place. They were constructed of the red earth from the hills, carved in outrageous detail, and the reason for the city’s other name, the Hive. As the sun was setting, it appeared to glow like embers. It rarely rained in Orinthal, but on the occasion it did, Merrick had informed her, the artisans came out, remodeled the decorations, and repaired the roofs. Despite herself, the Deacon was impressed and curious to see what the interiors were like.

Sorcha turned around and wondered how much longer she would have to wait for the deputation to be ready. After a while she realized that she was not the only one watching. Two figures in mustard gold cloaks stood in the shadow of the outlying buildings—but were observing her rather than the charming river scene.

Sorcha put her hands on her hips and stared back at them. Most people would have quickly made themselves scarce when glared at by a Deacon, but she was mightily confused when the figures strode over toward her. Sorcha waited, fingering her Gauntlets.

It was only when the people, two tall, dark-skinned women, were within a few yards that she noticed with great surprise that they were wearing the Eye and the Fist badge of the Order pinned to their shoulders. A glance behind told her Merrick was nowhere in sight, having disappeared back into the Summer Hawk. She would just have to police herself.

“Greetings, Sisters.” Yes, that felt like a safe beginning.

The older Deacon bowed slightly. She had a long streak of a scar pulling up her lip. “Welcome to Chioma, Sister. I am Delie and this is my Sensitive, Jey. We heard from Vermillion that you were onboard and have come to offer you the comforts of our Abbey.”

Sorcha wondered what Rictun had told the Prior of Chioma about her via weirstone. He now had a very long reach.

“It is not as grand as the Mother Abbey,” Jey said, her voice low and sweet, “but we have cool baths and comfortable beds. We hope you and your partner will enjoy it.”

“As well as the royal caravan,” Delie went on, pulling her strangely colored cloak around her. “Recently the gates to the palace are being closed to all after nightfall—no exceptions. You will all be safe in our Abbey.”

Sorcha frowned at that odd statement. A caravan, especially one under the banner of both a Prince and an Emperor, should have been safe anywhere in a cite cocked her head. “Safe from what exactly, Sister?”

The pair exchanged a glance before answering. “The upsurge in geist activity in the last two days,” Jey murmured.

Sorcha’s heart sank. “We have been in transit for a week—what has been happening?”

Delie’s eyebrows drew together. “More attacks have been reported in the last two days than in the whole of the previous month—and the most deadly have been in the palace.”

“The palace?” Sorcha cocked her head.

“Chioma has always been blessed.” Jey’s eyes darted in the direction of the palace. “We suffered far less geist predations than any other kingdom; however, it seems whatever may have protected us, no longer is.”

“Yet we will not bend under this trial.” Delie’s voice contained a note of reproach for her younger partner.

“Indeed, the fortitude of the Chiomese is legendary.” Merrick had walked up on their conversation. He bowed to their colleagues. “Deacon Merrick Chambers, at your and your Abbot’s service.”

Delie introduced herself and then Jey. Her smile was charming, even with the scar. “So you know something of Chioma, Brother?”

Sorcha laughed. “Oh, he is quite the scholar on the delights of your land.”

“Then you will enjoy the city,” Jey murmured. “Our Abbot will apprise you of the situation.”

Merrick inclined his head and replied far more sweetly than she could have, “That would be wonderful.”

The whole caravan lined up behind them, and they set off, the Chiomese Deacons leading the way.

Above the complaints of the oxen, Sorcha leaned over and asked her partner, “So what is with their cloaks? I’ve traveled most everywhere in the Empire and never seen Deacons wearing anything but the green or blue.” She flicked her cloak, which was the blue of the Active, but lined with the traditional black.

“Chioma is different. Weren’t you listening to me all the way here?

She laughed. “I didn’t realize there was going to be a test at the end! I admit I stopped listening just after we got onboard the Summer Hawk. ”

“ Well—” He looked dangerously as though he were about to give her another lecture on the principality.

“Please”—she held up her hand—“the short version.”

The corner of Merrick’s mouth twitched. “I suppose I have rather fallen into the schoolteacher mode.”

“Honestly, I thought I was back in the novitiate.”

“The brief answer, then.” He gestured toward the tall forms of the Deacons ahead of them. “Chioma kept many of its beliefs in the little gods—”

“Aha!” Sorcha flicked him on the shoulder. “I do recall you said not to call them that here!”

“Nice to know you were listening sometimes,” he retorted, “but indeed we should not. Yellow is the color of their goddess Hatipai, and the only way the Order could enter Chioma was to align themselves with her—hence the unique cloaks.”

Sorcha rolled her eyes slightly. In Delmaire too there were pockets of religion.

“Chioma is the oldest kingdom in Arkaym.” Jey turned and smiled, dropping back to walk between Merrick and Sorcha. “We are very proud of its history.”

The narrow streets suddenly flared into a wide town square, and the caravan was now moving through a choked marketplace. The guards ran forward to clear a way, ringing bells and shouting, “Make way for the royal Ambassador. Make way!”

Sorcha looked about with interest, getting her first real glimpses of regular Chiomese. The markets of Vermillion were familiar, bringing produce from every kingdom to the capital city—and so she had smelled the spices of Chioma before—but not in such abundance, and not so fresh. Her nose was full of sharp smells, sweet smells and ones that made her almost choke. Sacks, bowls and containers of all sizes were piled high in the tiled marketplace.

The heat in the square packed with people was overwhelming. Sorcha felt a new line of sweat break out on her back, and suddenly the idea of a cool bath in the Abbey sounded absolutely essential. She noticed the citizens around her moved languidly, which made them seem both much more elegant and much more sensible. Vigorous action of any sort here would be punished for certain. Without warning, her mind leapt back to Raed and their time locked in the cabin on the Summer Hawk.

Suddenly the heat on her wasn’t all the fault of Orinthal. Merrick glanced over his shoulder at her—the curse of their unusual Bond once again striking. Sorcha knew she blushed and hated it. In a vain attempt at recovery, she tried to examine the market more thoroughly.

The peoples around her were not as varied as those in Vermillion—faces were mostly dark, though there were shades of olive tones, much like Merrick’s. It was easy to pick out the traders and travelers from farther north—most doing business with the spice merchants—and not just because of their paler skins. Their clothing was drab by comparison. Every one of the citizens of Orinthal was dressed in vibrant colors; intense purples clashed with greens the color of a butterfly’s wing, while deep red sashes were worn about the waist of every woman she saw.

“In addition to poisons and spices,” Merrick hissed in her ear, “Chioma has the most wonderful selection of ingredients for dyes. The Imperial Coronation robes were made here.”

Her young partner was always such a wealth of information. Sorcha pursed her lips, holding back a comment as they left the market and headed up the hill toward the Abbey.

Buildings of the Order usually occupied high ground—much like temples or palaces. It made for not only the best scenery but also the best view of geist activity.

They were on the incline of the hill. The houses were beginning to dwindle and become more like shacks, when the familiar wailing of mourners reached them. They had come across a cemetery. That also was traditional. Burying the dead within sight of a Priory or an Abbey had become almost a necessity in the Dark Time and continued to be recommended. A burial was in progress.

Jey whispered in her partner’s ear—rather bad manners Sorcha felt.

“We must stop here for a moment.” Delie turned and addressed the Vermillion Deacons somewhat stiffly. “There were more deaths last night.”

No further explanation was necessary. Sorcha waited by the gate, while Merrick went back to tell Bandele to go on ahead to the Abbey. They had Deacon business to take care of.

It felt good to be of some use to their hostsed in herwo sets of partners examined the scene with practiced eyes. The Sensitives sent their Centers out, while the Actives remained poised in case they found something.

The knot of mourners was streaming into the graveyard. The gate and fence were both made of bone-white wood and rattled in the light wind. The sound was mournful, disturbing and had to be deliberate. When it mixed with the cries of the bereaved, the effect was enough to raise goose pimples on Sorcha’s arms, despite the heat.

Unlike in Vermillion, there was no coffin, just the body wrapped in brightly colored cotton carried on the shoulders of menfolk. Small medallions glittered and flashed in the sunlight where they hung from the body. Sorcha had studied enough to know they were symbols of little gods—indicating that this man was a believer. It mattered little to the geists.

“I see nothing suspicious,” Merrick whispered. His eyes were closed, but as he was sharing his Sight with Sorcha, she could see what he meant. The grief of the funeral cortege was all that stained the ether.

“The spectyrs have been very cunning of late.” Jey’s eyelids flickered. “We should make absolutely sure.”

Both Sensitives reached for their Strops by instinct. When Merrick secured the leather rune-carved strap over his eyes, Sorcha again shared his vision. The world was a beautiful place when her partner looked at it. They could see the movement of the wind, the sorrowful plumes of grief wafting from the mourners and the flicker of tiny insects over the flowers in the cemetery. Nothing escaped their gaze.

No shades followed in the wake of the dead. No spectyr wore the face of the lost one. Sorcha let out a held-in sigh of relief as her hand dropped away from her belt.

“Can you see this, Deacon Jey?” Merrick’s voice was full of dread, but he was not looking at the cemetery any longer.

Sorcha shared his vision, and what he was looking at was far in the distance. Against the horizon, on the other side of the river Saal, were a line of low hills. She had already noted them as they climbed out of the port city. The day was cloudless and relentless in its heat. However, with the aid of the Strop the scene was quite different. On those hills a gray mass, which could have been mistaken for thunderclouds, was gathering. It was as if a stone had dropped into the pit of Sorcha’s stomach.

“I can,” the Chiomese Sensitive choked out, “but I have never witnessed the like before.”

“Neither have I.” Her partner’s voice came out rough and shaken.

Naturally they would not. Both were too young to remember. Sorcha, however, had come across with the Emperor from Delmaire years before and seen many deadly things.

She had stood on a ship with Arch Abbot Hastler, the one who would later betray his Order, on one side, and Kolya on the other. Sharing his Sight and looking out toward the continent that would be her new home, she had seen the mass of clouds where there were actually none. She’d asked her Abbot what they signified, and his response had chilled her then as it did now.

“The geists are gathering, preparing for us, waiting for battle.”

“By the Bones.” Merrick took his Strop off with shaking hands. “We had better report this to the Prior.”

Their simple trek to the Hive City was coinciding with something else—something far more momentous. Sorcha felt foolish that she had ever thoght this journey would be simple—that it would ever be just about Raed. The maelstrom was focused once again around the Triple Bond.