The Black Deluge
At noon the rain began to pour in torrents.
The soldiers who had been busily packing their gear scrambled to throw pitch-coated canvas over the wagons and shove the horses back into the stables.
Watching the scene from inside the carriage, Ayla lifted her gaze to the sky that had turned black. Thick raindrops spilled from the dark storm clouds; now and then a flash of light flickered between them, followed by a low, growling roll of thunder. Even a glance told her the rain would not stop soon.
“It seems we shall have to remain at the monastery another day.”
Apparently the decision to postpone departure had been made. The royal guard knight who had kept himself shut away in the knights’ quarters for some time now approached the carriage and pushed a waterproofed robe through the gap in the door.
Ayla accepted it with a small sigh. She disliked the way the schedule kept slipping, little by little. This journey already carried more than enough uncertainty.
She drew the rain cloak about her shoulders and kept glancing out the window.
“Where is His Highness the Crown Prince?”
“His Highness has gone to the abbot’s residence.”
Ayla, pulling the hood over her head, frowned and turned to look at him.
“Does he mean to stay there again tonight?”
“It would appear so.”
The knight let the words trail off and lowered his eyes.
Ayla cast a disapproving glance toward the monks gathered in a knot. When the abbot, standing beneath the cloister roof, issued some order, they scattered in perfect order. She watched them carefully.
Unlike the manner he showed Gareth, the abbot now looked cold and severe. That, she thought, was probably the priest’s true face.
Ayla narrowed her eyes. An imperial pilgrimage had always been a ceremony meant to win the support of local citizens and men of influence. Given the purpose of this journey, it was no bad thing for Gareth to cultivate friendships with regional leaders. What troubled her was the man’s origins.
If he could rise to the abbacy despite the handicap of being a demi-human, he must possess either formidable political skill… or a powerful backer.
They had spoken only briefly, yet Ayla had sensed at once that the abbot was no ordinary man. Outwardly he had been courteous, but cold calculation had flickered in the priest’s eyes as he studied Gareth. It occurred to her that he might be an agent planted by the Empress.
Had the Taren family not cooperated closely with demi-humans for generations, ever since the age of the warring states? That a quarter-elf should hold a high clerical post overseeing a great monastery like Mordawin could hardly be chance.
Perhaps they had already begun to build a faction inside the Church that favored the Second Prince…
“Your Highness?”
Startled from her thoughts, Ayla raised her head. Her guard knight stood in the pouring rain, watching her with worried eyes.
She managed an awkward smile and rose.
“I’ve kept you standing in the rain far too long. Come—let us go to the lodgings.”
The knight took her hand and helped her down from the carriage. Ayla stepped carefully onto the muddy path. Heavy drops stung her crown and shoulders; the rain seemed to have grown fiercer still. Pulling her hood tight, she hurried across the wide courtyard where a white curtain of rain had fallen, and entered the cloister that ringed the garden. Then, as if by chance, she approached the priests.
“Your Highness the Princess.”
The demi-human priest who had been speaking with the vice-abbot caught sight of her and quickly bent at the waist.
Ayla let her habitual, carefully fixed smile settle on her lips and spoke gently.
“It seems we must impose upon you for one more day.”
“It is nothing but an honor to receive such distinguished guests.”
The priest answered with perfect deference, making no move to straighten his bowed back.
“If there is anything Your Highness requires, you need only speak. Whatever the monastery can provide, we shall prepare at once.”
“I am grateful for your care.”
Ayla paused a moment, then continued with careful deliberation.
“Then may I make one request?”
“Anything at all.”
“Tomorrow I should like a separate ceremony for Thalia. Before we depart, would you bestow a blessing upon the child as well?”
The abbot’s eyes widened slightly, as though the request had caught him off guard. Ayla watched his reaction closely. For the briefest instant a flicker of wariness rose and vanished in those pale violet irises.
The priest asked in a cautious tone,
“You wish to hold the blessing rite for Her Highness the Second Princess?”
“Who else would it be?”
A thin smile touched Ayla’s lips as she added softly,
“We are staying another day in any case. Would it not be well to let the child receive the rite while we are here?”
“I had not realized Your Highness regarded Her Highness the Second Princess so highly.”
At the unexpected voice Ayla turned. Barcas had crossed the rainy garden without a sound; he pushed back his dripping hood and regarded her with a dry, flat gaze.
The welcoming smile that had begun to form on Ayla’s face faded. His rain-wet features looked colder than usual. The sight of that rigidly closed expression set her nerves on edge.
She knew perfectly well that his sharp reaction to anything concerning Thalia sprang from years of accumulated bitterness. Even a man as unfeeling as he could not help but be thoroughly sick of her half-sister’s outrages. Seven full years of enduring those tantrums at close quarters—no wonder he shuddered at the mere thought.
Her mind understood all of it. Yet the way this utterly indifferent man reserved his only sharp edges for that child’s affairs sometimes grated beyond endurance.
Forgetting her intention to sound out the abbot, Ayla answered with feeling.
“I am not worried about the child—I am worried about you. His Majesty himself entrusted her to your care. If he learns you held the ceremony while leaving Thalia out, you may well face needless reproach.”
“Even so, one can hardly drag a person who refuses to the altar.”
The faintly mocking tone made Ayla’s face harden. She was accustomed to his occasional coldness, cold enough to chill the heart. What she could not bear was for him to treat her with discourtesy because of Thalia Roem Guerta.
Ayla lifted her chin.
“First we should confirm Thalia’s own wishes. She is a capricious child; by tomorrow she may well have changed her mind.”
“Tomorrow we leave at first light. I have no intention of altering the schedule to suit Her Highness the Second Princess’s whims.”
Barcas cut her off without hesitation.
Never having had her opinion dismissed so bluntly, Ayla flushed with anger. She longed to rebuke his rudeness on the spot, yet she had no wish to undermine his authority before so many eyes. She forced the displeasure from her expression.
“If that is your will, Sir, then there is nothing to be done.”
When she yielded, Barcas turned his gaze upon the abbot. The priest, who had been watching the exchange with interest, quickly lowered his eyes. Barcas looked down at him with a chilly stare and delivered a quiet warning.
“I should prefer tonight to pass as quietly as possible. If we are to depart at dawn, His Highness the Crown Prince will need proper rest, will he not?”
The meaning was plain: no banquets or formal dinners this evening. The abbot nodded, his face stiff.
As though there were nothing further to say, Barcas turned and held out a hand to Ayla.
“Shall we go? I will escort you to your lodgings.”
Ayla swallowed a sigh and took his hand.