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.