Arch Abbot Rictun, wrapped in his cloak that was both blue and emerald green, sat on his newly carved chair and smiled down at her. Two chairs on his left and two chairs on his right held the rest of the Presbyterial Council. The only one Sorcha did not know well was Thorine Bolzak, the new Presbyter of the Actives. She was young and had been chosen by Rictun from one of the outlying Abbeys. When Zathra Trelaine had been promoted to Presbyter Secondo, Bolzak had been brought in to take his place. She was remarkably quiet for an Active, but maybe that was merely the shock of such a sudden elevation to power. And now she was one of the five people who held Sorcha’s future in her hands.
Merrick had not been included in this hearing. Having just finished her defense of the decision to stay with the younger Deacon rather than return to Kolya, she was feeling confident. That was until she locked her gaze with Rictun. Multicolored light from the windows gleamed on his golden hair, but there was no reflection in his eyes. With an inclination of his head, he let his words fall on her like little sharp stones. “We have still to decide on this issue, Deacon Faris.”
Kolya shifted beside her. Once, his attention was the only thing she wanted, and she had dreamed of her husband fighting for her. However, he had let those times pass by, and now he couldn’t seem to understand that she no longer cared. Sorcha carefully tucked her hands under her blue cloak, behind her back, and squeezed them so tightly her knuckles cracked. She counted her breathing, one, two, before opening her mouth.
Melisande Troupe spoke before any words could escape Sorcha. The Presbyter of the Young brushed her white gold hair from her eyes and spoke in a gentle tone. “You must not think us unmoved by your plight, Deacon Faris and Deacon Petav.”
Yvril Mournling, the Presbyter of the Sensitives, fixed Sorcha with a hard gray gaze. “We are still looking for precedent for your . . . peculiar situation.” He gestured to the stack of leather-bound books piled by his chair. “The partnership between Active and Sensitive is sacred—even if you think of it a tad more lightly than we do.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Kolya broke in, his voice calm and dispassionate. “While our marriage vows may be broken with ease, the Bond we made within the Order should not be so lightly abandoned.”
“The Bond can be broken by death or madness—lack of love should b another reason.” Sorcha cleared her throat. “With respect, while you wait to test our case, neither of us can move on. Do you not think this a waste of our talents?”
Rictun snorted, but when Presbyter Secondo Zathra Trelaine spoke, he was abruptly silent. The old man’s voice was cracked like a piece of sun-dried leather, but it had the weight of authority and wisdom. “She does have a point. Deacon Faris is the most powerful Active we have—having her sit idle goes against good sense.”
Sorcha caught a breeze of a chance. She dipped her head so that the Arch Abbot would not see how much she needed this. “I would like to get out of Vermillion for a while, Presbyters. Just for a time, to let the dust settle and while you decide. Having Deacon Chambers, Petav, and me in the confines of Vermillion has become untenable.”
“I am sorry you find this situation awkward”—Kolya stepped forward into her field of vision—“but this has never happened before—and I think—”
“Having both you and Deacon Petav in the same place is rather disturbing,” Presbyter Troupe broke in. The corners of her beautiful lips lifted. “Especially to my charges.” She directed her brown eyes on their very new Arch Abbot. “At the moment we all need stability. Time to heal.”
Sorcha could swear that her breath was choking her throat. Presbyters were nominated for their skills but elected by all of the Order. The Arch Abbot was chosen by the Presbyterial Council—but people in that position had been unceremoniously removed before. Rictun was still very green and undoubtedly anxious not to be the shortest reigning Arch Abbot in the history of the Order of the Eye and the Fist.
A little muscle in his jaw began to twitch. “Very well, perhaps a small break from this tension will be good for everyone in the Mother Abbey.”
Kolya’s shoulders slumped a little, but he dared not challenge the Arch Abbot—that would have been supremely out of character. He glanced over at Sorcha, his look pleading, but any power he had to move her had been washed away through years of disappointment. She would not show an ounce of sympathy for him; she knew how he turned that always to his advantage.
“I have just the role for Deacons Faris and Chambers.” Yvril Mournling’s eyes fixed Sorcha to the spot. She recalled how he had covered up the wild talent Merrick had used to save Raed. It was still uncertain why exactly he had done that. The Presbyter flicked his cloak aside with his great sinewy hands. “The delegation from Chioma needs two Deacons as escort home.”
Presbyter Bolzak was looking nervously between her colleagues, feeling the tension but not knowing what to do about it. She shifted in her carved wooden chair uncomfortably. “You mean the delegation dealing with the Emperor’s marriage negotiations?”
It was the talk of Vermillion and had been for weeks. The Principality of Chioma was far to the south, a kingdom that had stuck firmly to its traditions. Yet it was also rich with gold, spices and gems. The delegation had come to negotiate for one of its princesses to marry the Emperor.
Rictun’s smile was thin, and Sorcha could almost hear him thinking. Chioma in summer would be hot, dusty and damn uncomfortable. The Arch Abbot nodded. “Indeed—a fine idea, Presbyter Mournling. The journey will give Deacon Faris here time to think and decide if this is what she truly wants.”
“And carry messages to the Hive City,” the Presbyter of the Sensitives agreed.
“The . . . Hive City?” Sorcha dared a question.
Mournling nodded, his eyes drifting to a point somehow past her. “The city of Orinthal is made of the mud of the land, baked hard, like the homes certain insects of that place build.”
Deacon Faris had to swallow hard while the image of a tall earthen building, made of ocher earth, rose against a flawless blue sky. It was the city the spectyr had shown her. Risking a glance at the Presbyter, she caught a flicker of something that might have been the slightest inclination of the head. Mournling was among the greatest Sensitives of his age—and she shouldn’t have been surprised he had gleaned something from her thoughts.
Presbyter Trelaine leaned back in his chair. “I concur; let us have some more time and send our best Active to guard the Ambassador. It seems a good choice to me, and it will please the Emperor.”
Rictun waved Sorcha away. “Go, make your arrangements. The Presbyter Secondo will give you details later.”
Sorcha tried not to show her joy as she left. Despite everything, she did not want to rub Kolya’s face in her little victories. She had no idea what Mournling was doing—why he was helping them—but one thing was sure: she had more allies than she ever guessed.
The Hive City of Orinthal awaited, as did Raed Rossin, the one man she wanted to see above all others in the world. It was almost enough to make her start believing in fate. Almost.
FIVE
Prayers Answered
Winds blew over Arkaym, but Hatipai flew against the prevailing currents. She had been forced to lie to that royal nothing. It would not do to have her believers see that she could be so restrained, so she had claimed to be an angel. Soon enough she would reclaim her power, and then the time for deception would be over.
The hunger inside her burned white-hot; if she had been human, she might have called it pain. This fragile form was not yet physical, and only faith would improve it.
Finding that was far more difficult than Hatipai had anticipated. Before the Break and the arrival of more of her kind, she and a select few had this world all to themselves. They had been the strongest, able to cross between worlds before there was a rift. Competition was the way of things on the Otherside—and if she was forced to compete here, then she would. Hard.
As Hatipai floated high among the clouds, her perception was spread wide
, a net seeking faith. She could not linger long in Vermillion—not with the Mother Abbey in control of the city. If she took blood, bone and skin from there, the consequences could be fatal.
Finally, Hatipai felt a tug from below. It was faint, oh so very faint, but there it was. Faith. Wrapping her golden wings around her, the angel fell. Four tiny lives were below, looking up, praying to the Bright One. They could not know what a visitation from their goddess truly meant. They would learn.
Walls, doors and locks made no difference to Hatipai—for at this moment she had no body. A family prayed in the close confines of the cabin on their tiny ship tied to a city dock: mother, father and two teenage boys on the edge of manhood. Ripe and sweet to her senses.
On their knees, they whispered the secret names of Hatipai to a small statue of her. The goddess of wisdom d strength, depicted as a full-breasted woman with spread wings and a beatific smile. She felt not a flicker of compassion; these mortals only existed to supply her with what she needed.
Hatipai began to glow, and the family looked up as the tiny cabin filled with light. Their simple meaty faces spread in delight.
“Great lady,” the mother whispered, and her eyes began to water, “all these years we have prayed—our mothers and fathers, their mothers and fathers, and nothing . . . ” Now her tears were pouring over her cheeks, stricken by the joy of having her faith finally confirmed.
It was a common reaction. The family groveled before her as was just. Hatipai remembered vast churches full to bursting with penitents, the songs, the sacrifices and the heavy smell of incense. She had been truly mighty then, the greatest of all her kin. Now she was reduced to this. Yet, if her plans succeeded, that would change.
She looked down at them through blazing eyes, weighing the value of their meat for her needs.
“Oh, Bright One”—the husband, still on his knees, put an arm around each of his sons—“bless my children with your healing light.”
That was it. They were young, strong, full of faith and fervor. They were just what Hatipai needed. She spread her frail, ethereal limbs wide, her wings swinging up to take in all of the cabin space. “I shall indeed.” Her voice rang like bells around them.
The younger boy’s smile was awestruck when she reached down to touch him. Hatipai’s ethereal body pierced him through, and immediately the boy screamed. It was a pure, musical sound that did not last. Hatipai took his bones, drawing the ingredients that made them into herself, while he collapsed to the floor, a bag of flesh robbed of structure.
The remaining three made guttural sounds of panic, like cattle that finally smell the butcher’s purpose. Yet familial bonds stopped them from rushing away from her immediately. As the mother dashed to the remains of her child, Hatipai stepped forward to wrap her now more structured arms around the other boy. He tried to run. His eyes widened, bright blue and panicked. He burst away from the protective hold of his father and leapt for the door.
She was faster. When her wings curled around him, he howled, feeling the sharpness of her power puncture every muscle and sinew. Hatipai sucked them down greedily, pulling his form into her with a sound that would have been disgusting if she had possessed any mortal sensibilities.
When their second child’s form splattered to the ground, a dry mass of skin and bone, the two parents didn’t scream. Nor did they try to run. The mother’s eyes darted to the remains of her sons as if she thought it some magic trick in very poor taste. Then she looked at Hatipai. The geist was used to worshippers admiring her beauty, so she felt the nakedness of her brand-new body especially sharply. It needed covering.
The man was closest. His skin came free with a sound like ripping velvet, while his screams erupted from a mouth now devoid of lips. The woman wailed with him. It was only bare moments, heartbeats, since she had been pleased to see the gleaming angel in her home.
Mortals were such fickle creatures. They called into the dark, demanded answers and attention from forces they could not comprehend, and yet when they had that attention and those answers, they complained about them.
The skin settled around her form, and now Hatipai could feel the warmth of the room and smll the tang of blood and fear. It was a scent she remembered well. The man staggered, blood pouring from his body like a squeezed sponge, and then shock took him. He crashed into the small altar the family had been praying at, sending food offerings and incense sticks clattering into the gore. Then he was on the floor spasming like a gutted fish.
Hatipai was no longer interested in the man. She was already appreciating his gift.
Looking down, she saw that the body had also shuffled into a familiar pattern; it was modeled on a princess of Delmaire—one that Hatipai had devoured from within in the earliest years of her arrival in this world. In her opinion, this use of bone, flesh and skin was much better than any their original owners could ever have put them to. As she was admiring what she had made, the woman came at her with a knife.
It was certainly not the first time a mortal had attempted such a thing, but it was quite possibly the most pathetic. Hatipai caught her arm before it had even completed its downward descent.
While a knife blow could not have killed her, it would be a shame to mar this fine new form. It might not be enough to contain her for long, but she still enjoyed it. Holding the woman in place, she looked down. Her eyes still blazed gold; for some reason, the human eye was something her magic could not replicate. Her first instinct was to kill the pathetic creature, but when she looked deeper, she realized that would have been a kindness.
Hatipai was not prone to kindnesses—so instead she smiled, working her lips around teeth made from the woman’s child. That was when the new widow broke down. Sobbing, she slumped to the floor.
“What . . . what are you? What are you?” Her questions were squeezed out of a chest that appeared to be having trouble breathing.
Hatipai raised an eyebrow—an expression she had always been fond of. Her voice was sweeter than honey, more vicious than grief. “I am the goddess you called for. You did call, didn’t you?”
Through her pain the woman nodded, unable to deny their prayers and offerings.
Hatipai smiled again. “So for your faith and your offerings, I thank you.” And then, naked, she walked from the room, her tiny, perfect human feet trailing patterns of blood and gore after her. The music for her progress was the wretched lamentations of the woman.
As he stood on the quarterdeck of the Dominion and looked toward the shambling hulk of the ship on the horizon, the Young Pretender’s stomach clenched in anger.
Many people, Raed among them, acknowledged that the new Empire had brought with it advantages: warfare was a thing largely of the past, commerce was flourishing and the people were no longer plagued as frequently by geist activity.
One of the terrible things that remained, however, was a rotten, stinking carcass at a fine feast: slavery.
His grandfather had often been tyrannical—holding an Empire together was not an easy task—but the issue that had haunted his reign most of all had been slavery. His crusade against it had been one of the reasons the Assembly of Princes had turned on him. At least a half dozen of them claimed their kingdoms could not manage without it.
The new Emperor, the one who the Princes had imported from over the ocean, had proven far more compliant to their wishes. He looked the other way while islands off the coast were raided for their inhabitants, who were set to work in distant parts of the Empire. Perhaps he didn’t want to test the loyalty of his benefactors so soon. Perhaps he felt he needed to wait and find his feet. Whatever his reasoning, Raed had none of those concerns.
Slave ships were his natural prey. His hunting earned his father much kudos among the ramshackle towns of the scattering of small islands between Arkaym and Delmaire. Today he would free more slaves and then use the stinking remains of the ship for his own purposes. Two birds had never been more efficiently killed with one stone.
With nod of his head,
Aachon called for the topsail to be unfurled, and the Dominion leapt through the water to her purpose. Her crew meanwhile sharpened cutlasses and prepared for battle. No slave ship, low in the water and with the blunt scow features, could ever hope to match the brigantine’s speed.
At his left shoulder, Tangyre drew her sword. “I find I am rather growing to like your plan, my Prince.”
“This is the easy bit,” Aachon observed in a low undertone.
“But also the most satisfactory,” Raed replied, as the Dominion bore down on the slave ship. This close, the grubby lettering on its hull could be made out.
Sweet Moon might be a very unlikely name for a ship of this ilk—slavers often had a curious sense of humor. On the deck, several of them could be seen, also preparing for battle.
Raed called out, and Aleck quickly raised their flag. The Rossin’s mer-shape flapped free and loose, spilling out into the breeze with a sharp snap. The Young Pretender felt his throat constrict at the sight of his tormentor. Yet it was not just he who feared the image. A cry arose from the slavers. They now knew whom they faced.
Skimming across the waves, the Dominion came on fast like retribution. Aachon steered them skillfully, until they were stealing the wind right out of the Sweet Moon’s sails.
“Heave to,” Aachon bellowed, “or we will blow your sorry arse out of the water!”
Perhaps the Rossin flag had been the wrong choice, because the slavers did the exact opposite. As the sailors of the Dominion scrambled to navigate their ship up within grappling range, the slavers on the Sweet Moon began throwing struggling forms off the stern.
“By the Blood,” Raed roared, standing on the rigging. “Filthy murderers!” He knew there was no time for grappling hooks.
“My Prince—” Aachon surged forward, but it was too late.
The Young Pretender wrapped one arm around a portion of the running rigging and kicked out hard from his ship. The ocean raced by under his feet, but years of sailing made Raed very adept at judging distance. Behind him a half dozen of his crew followed in his wake.
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