Wrayth by Philippa Ballantine

were busy celebrating, yet her heart was pounding harder than any of theirs.
    Her head was full of concerns for her brother—for the Empire itself—but she was also exhilarated by the nearness of the Deacon. Still, she told herself, she had good reason to bring him to her chambers. Good reason, yes indeed.
    Her few maids had been dismissed to enjoy the evening, and as usual there were no sentries on her door. She was the head of the Imperial Guard and, as was her habit, had no one watching her apartments. If danger was coming to an Imperial sibling, she would rather it came to her than her brother. Now this worked to her advantage.
    “Quick,” she said, tugging Merrick into her privy chamber. “This is the only place where I am sure it is safe to speak.” She pressed shut the redwood doors behind them. The room was quiet and lit only by two flickeringsandalwood-scented candles in the sconces. None of her ladies had really been expecting her to return so soon. They were alone.
    The doors on the other side of the rather sparse privy chamber were ajar, providing a glimpse of the far more opulent bedroom. Pride of place was a vast and silk-shrouded bed carved to resemble a ship. It was a ridiculous indulgence, but it was one of the few Zofiya allowed herself.
    The young Deacon glanced around, his eyes slightly wider than usual, a sure sign he was using his Sight. “We do indeed appear to be alone.”
    Zofiya shivered. When the Order used their powers so flippantly she was reminded how little she understood what they did. Certainly, they were invaluable in maintaining the integrity of the Empire, and giving the ordinary folk some reassurance that their grandmother was not going to vomit acid, but they were also a dangerous power.
    As the Grand Duchess circled the room, trailing her hand over her trinkets, she watched Merrick Chambers out of the corner of her eye. The Order had done things that the Empire could only be grateful for, but she had always been cautious around them. Zofiya did not like how much power they wielded. Merrick was the only Deacon she actually had learned to trust.
    “Tell me what you know about del Rue,” she commanded. Her hand now rested on an onyx box, but she did not reach in to take out what it contained. Not yet.
    The Deacon took a breath, and his eyes darted away from hers. He was not a very good liar—even his expression gave him away.
    Zofiya’s finger traced the sharp edge of the box. “Tell me,” she repeated, but this time not in her Grand Duchess voice. Instead, she whispered it—almost like a normal woman.
    Merrick cleared his throat. “I am sure you know the history of the native Order that was here before my own.”
    She tilted her head. She had been expecting something else—something related to a minor nobleman seeking advancement, or a Prince of the Empire annoyed at some petty oversight by her brother. When the Deacon mentioned history she was surprised, intrigued and just a little worried. Although the mysteries of the Order and its kind were not unknown to her, she was not foolish enough to believe that she knew everything about them.
    When Zofiya did not speak, Merrick paused and glanced up. His eyes were dark pools in the half-light, and they were so very earnest. “We thought they were gone, wiped out and stricken from the records. Stranger still, there was no remnant in the oral tradition, and several of my own Order have suggested this was…deliberate. We knew they existed, but that is all.”
    The concept that anyone could remove memories from the entire population of Arkaym was a terrifying one. And yet she had seen far more terrible things; recollections of when a geistlord had taken residence in her body welled up. She swallowed them back. “But you don’t think they have gone at all, do you?”
    “I know they have not. I saw them beneath Chioma—they tried to take my mother from me.” He swallowed hard. “That man was leading them; the man you know as