He didn’t point, but then he didn’t need to. The Temple of Hatipai was the only structure in a blinding ocean of sand. It stood out, red like a blister among the gold of the dunes.
“You don’t have to go.” She tottered over to stand at his shoulder. “I have sworn an Order Oath; I have to go down there, but you—”
“I too swore an oath.” The Prince raised his hand and tore off the shining mask. He flung it into the sand as if it were something vile, but he didn’t turn around. “The people of Chioma are mine to protect—they always have been.”
Sorcha averted her eyes. “How can you protect them if you are dead? What about your son waiting to be born?”
His voice was calm. “I cannot think of that now. Even as much as I love Japhne and him to come, I cannot put them above my people. I trust Merrick will take care of his mother.”
The Deacon heard his cloak slide through the sand as he moved forward, but she still dared not look. She could almost feel the heat of his charisma beating on her head like the sun. “A child should always have its parent.”
“Not everything that can birth a child can be called a parent.” Onika touched her hair. “Some parents do better to leave this world before they can teach a child to fear. How could I have a son who cannot even look at my face?”
Sorcha had never known her own parents, so could not argue with him. His open hand appeared in her peripheral vision.
“Please, Deacon Chambers, I need someone to look at me.”
His voice cracked with melancholy and fear. Sorcha looked up and opened her Center. While her humanity was stunned by the immortal god, her Deacon training helped her see behind it to the man he was.
“Why?” she stammered through numb lips and burning eyes. “Why are you going down there straight into her hands?”
The Prince smiled and jerked aside his cloak. Underneath, hanging from his belt was a long, curved dagger with a weirstone gleaming on its hilt. “Not long ago I found a secret book of prophecy. It can only be done by me, with this blade, in her Temple, as she becomes mortal. Just before she does, there will be a moment of weaknesses.” His hand touched Sorcha’s head lightly. “I am the only one who can strike.”
As a Deacon, Sorcha was sure she didn’t believe in prophecies or fate, but in the gleaming light of his charisma, she trusted him.
“But I have something for yof this should fail.” From one of the pouches at his belt Onika pulled a strange sphere. It was about the size of his fist with a miniature crank in its clear side. When he turned it, a high-pitched whir sounded, while around the Prince the air shifted. His face flickered with momentary pain as a silvery gray liquid filled the sphere, but from where it came, Sorcha could not tell.
“Hold out your hand, Deacon Faris.” Sorcha offered her palm, and he placed the strange device into it. “This is one of my mother’s gifts, a protection for the body. For a human with no trace of geist it should not last long, but it will help you if things go wrong in the Temple.” Onika spun the crank in the opposite direction. The gleaming liquid now began to drop away in the sphere, until there was no liquid apparent. Instead, Sorcha felt warmth spread over her.
For a second her skin gleamed like it was covered in a thin film of oil, but then that too vanished. “You’ve made me immortal?”
Onika laughed again. “Temporarily your body is protected—that is all, Deacon Faris. Do not get arrogant, for it will wear off in a few days. You are not born of a geistlord as I am.”
“And you?”
“If I survive this, I want to grow old with Japhne.” He glanced back toward Orinthal. “I want my son to rule in Chioma, so it is no loss to me.”
Giving up this was a sign of faith Sorcha could not understand, but she wouldn’t argue with it. The look in his eyes said this was no sudden decision.
“Then let us unshackle your people,” she said, slipping on her Gauntlets and facing the Temple.
“Thank you.” His fingers tightened on hers, apparently immune to the sting of the runes, and then together they walked down toward the Temple. With every step, as long as she didn’t glance at him, Sorcha felt her equilibrium recover.
As they got closer to the Temple, she couldn’t help it, she began to chuckle. “Oh, your mother is quite modest.”
Onika’s laugh was loud and unexpected as he got her point. The Temple was shaped like a beautiful woman lying on her side, one hand propping up her head, the steps leading to the interior literally burrowed into her belly button. It was the bright red of the city of Orinthal but not nearly as charming.
“That has to be the crassest thing I have ever seen.” Sorcha giggled. “And I grew up in Delmaire!”
“I think you should mention that when you meet her!” The Prince’s laugh was long and genuine.
A mass of people were clustered around the Temple door. This was indeed where Orinthal had migrated to. Onika untangled his hand with hers so now he stood alone. “Follow me.”
The people turned and then, like a wave breaking on the shore, dropped to their knees, abasing themselves before the Prince. It was not because he was their ruler. It was because he was unmasked. Hatipai had them in her control right up until the moment her son appeared. It was one thing to have belief in a goddess, but when a god walked among them in the flesh, it overrode all that.
A hot wind was coming off the desert and straight into Sorcha’s face, flinging bits of sand into her eyes and mouth, but while she held her hand up and swore, Onika only kept moving forward.
“She’s not far now.” His voice was soft as he stepped carefully over and past the prostrate bodies. Sorcha followed in his wake ashey climbed the stairs and into the Temple of Hatipai.
“I will go in first,” Onika said, and with his godhood, false or otherwise, about him, Sorcha could not deny him.
Inside, the heat was the first thing the Deacon noted. Most Chiomese buildings were deliciously cool—but obviously the geistlord cared little for human comforts. As Sorcha looked around, she realized that in fact humanity cared little for those comforts, either. They were packed in here tighter than pickled herrings. It made it hard for them, but still the people of Orinthal managed to squeeze back a little, allowing their Prince farther into the Temple.
Above the crowd, there was a dais. Sorcha was pushed to and fro and had to stop and crane her head to see what was up there. Desperate to see, she was angry with the crowd, the foolish damn people. Finally, she saw.
It was a shadow of gold, hanging together like a faint mist that was trying to hold on to human form. A suggestion of wings flared out, twining and sparkling, and when she opened her Center, the shadow burned in her Sight—much as the Rossin did. A geistlord indeed, then.
Among the crowd she caught sight of the mustard yellow robes of the Chiomese Deacons, and yet they were just as smitten. Every face around her wore the same idiotic look; all logic, all reasoning washed away in fanaticism.
And the humans were not the only observers in the Temple. Through her Center the Deacon saw the shadows that filled every corner of the Temple: the shades of Hatipai’s followers. Even after death, the so-called goddess kept her hold on them.
Sorcha struggled to keep her feet as the crowd surged forward, and she realized with horror that she was no longer in Onika’s wake. The people had closed around her, and he had moved on. She pushed, shoved and swore, but it was as effective as a piece of flotsam fighting against the sea.
She was being pushed toward the far wall even as Onika walked up the stairs toward the remains of his mother. Then with a cry, she saw Raed. Her throat clenched, because if there was a better picture of sacrifice waiting to happen, she’d never seen it. He was bound upright on an X-shaped device that looked like an unholy melding of the torturer and the Tinker’s art. Two long articulated armatures sprouted from the frame and hovered ready over Raed’s naked body.