Raed and Aachon did not join them. Instead, the Young Pretender clapped Tangyre in a tight embrace. She had been one of the few officers in the Unsung’s forces who had treated a young Prince like a friend rather than a royal. “Wonderful to see you again, Tang. What brings you from the Isles?”
She pulled back, and the hint of a smile on her lips faded. Suddenly Raed knew that her arrival was more than coincidence. “My Prince”—she seldom called him that, and his stomach lurched appropriately—“if only I could come on the wings of better news.” From her belt she produced a folded missive and held it out to him like it was poisoned.
Raed took the piece of vellum with his father’s seal on it from her extended fingers. That piece of wax said the Unsung was still alive—so there could be only one other person who could bring Tangyre so far.
His hands were sweating as he snapped the seal and read what was written there. Even in panic and loss, his father wrote long and florid passages. His son found himself scanning down the letter to get to the real story as quickly as possible.
The raiders came in the middle of a storm—they took Fraine. You have brought attention to our family after so many years of peace. This is all your fault.
“I am sorry, Raed.” Tangyre touched his shoulder and squeezed.
A wave of numbness passed through him as he recalled his sister’s curls and deep blue eyes. She was fifteen years younger than he—a product of their parents’ reunion after years of separation. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders when he’d been home between sea battles.
All this was naturally before the Rossin’s Curse came to fruition and their mother was killed under its claws. Fraine had been so sweet, yet with a streak of genuine stubbornness that was required of anyone bearing the name of Rossin.
His sister’s existence was the one reason Raed had not taken his own life in the terrible dark times after their mother had been slain by the geistlord inside him. Like he, his sister had been born outside of Vermillion, and therefore if he were to die, the Curse that plagued their family would fall on her next.
Now Raed feared that his father was right. He had opened the door when he’d gone into Vermillion. Their enemies had almost forgotten that the Rossin line still existed. Even the Emperor.
Tangyre’s hand tightened on his shoulder. She smelled of sea salt and leather armor.
“How hard did the old bastard try to get her back?” Raed was fully aware his voice cracked with anger and guilt.
Tangyre stiffened. “It wasn’t his fault; there was a storm and—”
“He should have sailed through it!” he snapped, yanking his shoulder back out of her grip. “He should have chased them to the Otherside if necessary!”
“Your father is far too sick to take to ship,” Tangyre replied, “but he sent all those at his disposal to get your sister back. We lost four in the storm, and the scum still outdistanced us. Once they reached Imperial waters they went up the Saal River—and that was as far as we could go without frigates.” She looked him in the eye defiantly. “Having our ships blown out of the water by the Imperial fleet would not get Fraine back.”
For an instant Raed wanted to scream that she’d been a coward, that they should have followed his sister down to the last man—but then logic washed over him. He nodded stiffly. “So how did you find me?”
The corner of Tang’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “I still have plenty of contacts on the mainland. I took a guess that reports of a Pretender to the throne along the coast of Gallion pertained to you.”
Though she was a friend, Raed did not like the idea of anyone being able to track him so easily. To mask it he replied swiftly, “So you brought Gullwing? ”
Captain Greene turned and pointed toward the ships moored at the jetty, bobbing under the light of a full moon. Dominion was as identifiable as his own hand, but also now he could make out another familiar shape tied next to it.
He had many fond memories of running the deck of this sloop as a child. She might be one of the older ships left to them, but she was also light, fast, and often carried the word of the Unsung from the Coronet Isles. In the last few decades, though, there had been precious use for that to be transmitted anywhere.
“She is my ship now,” Tangyre replied, “and one of only three others to survive the storm.”
The two captains, trailed by the still-wary Aachon, walked back toward the jetty. Tangyre ran her eye over the Dominion. “However, you look in good order.”
“Not good enough to take on the whole Empire”—Raed stroked his short beard—“so you best tell me what you know.”
“Our informants tell us only that the ship sailed up the Saal—but from there, the trail runs cold.” Tangyre tucked her thumbs into her belt. “Your father asks you to follow.”
Had the Unsung really thought he wouldn’t? Raed managed not to take his anger out on Tangyre; she was but the messenger. “You may tell him I will find her.”
“My Prince,” Aachon finally rumbled, “unlike his father, is not afraid to go against the edicts of the Assembly of Princes and the Usurper.”
Raed was shocked and surprised. He had never heard a bad word from Aachon’s mouth about the Unsung, let alone the suggestion that his choice to remain safely in exile was some kind of cowardice. It was not an uncommon view.
Captain Greene tilted her head but chose to completely ignore Aachon’s comment. “My ship shall return to the Coronet Isles, my Prince. I will remain and help you.”
Looking into those flinty gray eyes, Raed knew there would be no argument. Tangyre would cling to the outside of the Dominion even if he gave her a direct order; she had taken the kidnapping of Fraine as a personal affront.
“Very well, then,” Raed said, tucking his father’s missive into his pocket. “Luckily Aachon and I have discussed this before. We have a way to both get us back into the Empire and strike at an abomination.”
Tangyre’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds most impressive.”
“My Prince always is.” Aachon folded his arms so they bulged. He could not have looked more imposing even if he’d been made of stone.
Raed rolled his eyes. “Forgive my first mate, Tang. He hates slavers almost as much as I do.”
“Perfectly understandable”—Captain Greene pressed her lips together—“a pet peeve of mine as well. I already suspect that this is going to be a most satisfactory outing.”
FOUR
A Warning from Beyond
“Your husband is now properly dead.” Merrick found it amusing how unaware his partner was that her tone was far from reassuring. She sounded so merry that the widow had to be wondering if something dire had happened inside.
The younger Deacon could understand Sorcha’s mood, though; he too had been glad to come face-to-face with a genuine geist. The strange message it bore, however, was unnerving. The three months of quiet were well and truly over—he didn’t need to be Deacon Reeceson, with his wild talent of prescience, to know that.
The Arch Abbot had kept them occupied with as many menial tasks as he could find since the incident in the ossuary. They had guarded endless empty corridors, escorted wagon trains of porcelain, and entertained every vapid courtier in the palace. With Rictun’s eye so firmly set on them, leaving Vermillion was going to be as problematic as getting in had been when they had been hunted fugitives.
“So what’s the situation, then?” The light, firm voice at his side made Merrick wince.
Turning, he saw that Deacon Kolya Petav had once again followed them on assignment. Though still pale and thin after months of recovery from the geist attack outside the Imperial Palace, Sorcha’s husband was stubbornly sticking to his rights as a partner. Kolya, as in all the other times, had not an ounce of guilt on his face.
Merrick blinked, unable to quite believe it. He knew if he was in Kolya’s place he would not dare Sorcha’s rage; instead he probably would have been curled up somewhere sucking his thumb like an infant in swaddling clothe
s.
Two months ago Sorcha had gone to the Civic Court, spoken the ritual words three times, and signed the writ before the worthies as required. The final death knell for her and Kolya’s marriage would be accepted in another full spin of the seasons. By comparison, breaking the Bond of partnership was almost impossible—at least when one of the party would not accept it.
Deacon Petav was definitely not giving up on that particular side of his relationship with Sorcha. Instead of accepting his soon to be former wife’s petition, he had gone before the Presbyterial Council and put up a strong argument for his rights. Why he had done that was still a mystery.
This was the second time he had turned up while Merrick and Sorcha were on duty. Now he stood before them like a statue wrapped in the emerald cloak of the Sensitive. Previously his wife had ignored him, but Merrick wondered if this time, after recent revelations, she would be so restrained. Deacon Chambers feared a scene—something the Order could well do without these days. As Sorcha finished her discussion with the widow, Merrick scrambled to try to prevent that possibility.
“Deacon Petav”—he dared to put a hand under his fellow Sensitive’s elbow—“we have dealt with the geist, so there is no real call for you to be here.” He thought his voice was both deferential and low.
Kolya looked down at Merrick, the only sign of any emotion being a slight hardening around his eyes. “Are you trying to hurry me along?” He might not have said the word “boy,” but it was implied. “I have the same right to be here as you.”
Merrick could feel himself beginning to bristle and remembered Sorcha’s description of why her marriage had died. It was like struggling against a void, looking for love and affection but finding none. He had nothing but admiration for Deacon Petav as a Sensitive, yet as a man Merrick thought he was a fool.
“But Sorcha . . . ” he hissed to Kolya.
“Sorcha is confused,” his fellow Sensitive replied mildly. “She imagines life is a fairy story. When she realizes that it’s not, she’ll come round.”
This was so contrary to what Merrick knew of his partner that he stood there for a moment, completely unable to come up with an answer.
Kolya took his silence for something it was not. “She is such a child—sneaking out of the Abbey to avoid me.”
Now Merrick could feel his awkwardness turning into anger. He was searching for words that would not communicate that when Sorcha turned.
Merrick knew her natural inclination was to rage, but even Deacon Faris realized how precarious the public’s faith in the Order was at the moment. Her brow darkened like a storm front, and her mouth opened to let something fly. Then, in a display of control, her jaw snapped shut. So as the Merchant Quarter continued on its business, she stalked away past the two Sensitives—not acknowledging either of their presences.
Unfortunately for her, Kolya was taller and easily kept pace. “You should keep me informed when you go out like this, Sorcha.” His voice remained low, and it was not tinged with anything like accusation. He said it as conversationally as if he were asking her to pass the salt.
Merrick had already been caught in the middle of several of these “discussions,” and now, as then, he felt as useful as . . .
“Tits on a bull?” Sorcha shot a grim look at him over her shoulder, before turning back to her original partner. “Can’t you see you’re not wanted here, Kolya? Be a man, and let it go.”
Her old partner shrugged. “Arch Abbot Rictun has not decided what will happen in our . . . unique position. I have primacy over Deacon Chambers, after all.”
Sorcha’s back stiffened. Rictun was an old adversary of hers—though Merrick was not certain of the reason for it. If the younger Deacon had been given a choice, he would have picked a partner without these issues, but in his own way he was just as stubborn as Kolya. The Bond and the history between Merrick and Sorcha were strong, and he would struggle for them as his partner did.
“This is not the place,” Sorcha hissed, “but I can tell you that I only wish you had fought for our marriage as you are fighting for our partnership.”
With an outraged snort, Sorcha set a cracking pace through the city and soon got them out of the Quarter. Merrick trailed behind as they climbed over the gleaming Bridge of Gilt, which as its name suggested had been gilded by a rich trader seeking favor. It was the most impressive and, Merrick thought, most ridiculous of Vermillion’s many bridges. Tall gold cupids cavorted on a series of plinths along its length, and even the oak boards under their feet were decorated with insets of brass. The broad deck was also lined with many small shops that stood cheek by jowl right up to the very end where it landed on the Imperial Island. By law there was no trade in this part of the city, but the merchants played it as close as they could. The three passed through the granite gates and into the gleaming center of the Empire, walking briskly past the homes of the aristocracy, up the hill toward the Mother Abbey. Only the Imperial Palace stood higher on the man-made mount in the middle of the lagoon. Merrick’s wide-eyed view of the beauty of the place had changed—he now knew that not everything was as it seemed. He loved the Order, believed in the good work it did, but Arch Abbot Hastler’s failed attempt to bring the Murashev into the world had revealed a hidden side to it that he had never imagined.
As he contemplated that, Merrick had been left behind by Sorcha and Kolya, who were striding along at great speed. Deacon Petav’s soft voice was hard to make out over the rumble of carriages passing them—Sorcha’s was not.
“—don’t try to sell me that, Kolya! I know the Otherside ebbs and flows, but this is not part of that natural cycle. And if Hastler—” Sorcha stopped, catching herself using the dead Arch Abbot’s name rather than that of his successor. She growled in irritation and walked even faster up the hill.
Kolya shrugged at Merrick as if they were part of some club of Sensitives confused by Sorcha. The older Deacon cultivated an aura of passive acceptance, but Merrick knew he could turn that around suddenly, making it seem as though it was the other person in the wrong. It was quite a talent.
Luckily they reached the Abbey, and never had he been so grateful to see the high, white walls that surrounded it. They went in the postern gate, past the lay Brother guards, and into the courtyard. To the right: the infirmary, the gardens, and the stables. To the left: the dormitory, the refectory, and the novitiate house. Ahead were the lines of cloisters with Deacons strolling through them, talking or just quietly contemplating.
As Sorcha lowered her head and made her way there, Deacon Petav stopped and called her name. She completely ignored him, pulled her cloak around her shoulders and stalked off. Now it was Kolya who caught at Merrick’s arm. “She has to talk to me!” He appeared genuinely bemused by his nearly former wife.
The other Sensitive stopped and stared at him. “You must know she is resolute in her decision, Deacon Petav, so tell me, why do you persist?”
His tall form bent then, just a fraction. “This is all that remains.” He spoke the words quietly before walking away toward the dormitory. Merrick watched him, wondering at the man who had let Sorcha go without complaint yet now regretted it so bitterly.
However, Deacon Petev had made his own bed—his inaction had consequences that he must now deal with. Merrick turned and ran to catch up with Sorcha, who he suddenly realized was making her way through the cloisters ditly toward the receiving chambers of the Arch Abbot. Going toe-to-toe with Rictun was in no one’s best interests. Merrick called her name. It echoed in the ceiling of the cloisters, and several of their fellow Deacons glanced up. Surprisingly, she did stop.
“Not there—please, Sorcha!” He didn’t care who heard, because they were already the talk of the Abbey.
Their eyes locked, and it was she who flinched. Her hands clenched the edge of her cloak. Instead, she stalked into the Devotional. Before the arrival of the geists this had been a church—a place to worship the gods. Now it hosted gatherings, meetings and training to fight the unliving. Still
, as they entered the heart of the Abbey, the great soaring ceiling, the beautiful stained glass windows, even the statues of the Deacons of the Old Order stirred Merrick’s heart. He loved the services they had here, the words of wisdom passed on by others of the Order, stories of the past—all those things. It gave him peace, and he hoped it did the same for his partner.
It was a sign of Sorcha’s bewilderment that she let herself be hauled into one of the chapels that ran the length of the great vaulted space that was the Devotional. Merrick could read her confusion in the tight line of her jaw and the way she would not meet his eyes.
“I saw him die.” She whispered, so that the vast space would not catch her words. Sorcha looked up at him then, her blue eyes uncertain—frightened, perhaps, of her partner’s response.
“I saw it too!” Merrick touched her shoulder, and for a second she did not move.
Then, sliding away from his touch, she leaned against the gray stone wall and looked through the stained glass window at the lay Brothers. Out in the garden they were bustling to harvest late-summer crops. “But I suppose you think it means nothing?”
“Actually”—Merrick leaned on the wall opposite and tucked his hands inside his cloak—“I believe it would be foolish to ignore this message.”
She looked at him askance. “It was Nynnia who delivered it.”
Merrick shook his head, terrified and hopeful. “I don’t know if that is even possible—we still don’t understand what she was.”
“But what if it is true?” Sorcha returned. “What if Nynnia is on the Otherside, and she wants us to stop Raed’s murder?”
Outside, the bells began to ring, summoning the Initiates to their classes. Merrick had very recently been among their number, and yet now he was preparing to go against all those years of training. Again. Still, he too was bound to Raed and knew him for a good man.
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