Without thinking, Sorcha slid her hand into Raed’s, tightening her fingers around his. The Bond between them strengthened her resolve. She had one of the men she needed in her life, the other she would get soon enough.
Luckily the riser reached the top level with a shuddering lurch before she could think any more distracting thoughts. The crew unsheathed their weapons and primed their pistols. Aachon held the weirstone in one clenched hand, and jerked open the ironwork doorway with the other.
The crew spread out through the corridor in silence—which there was already plenty of. Sorcha swallowed. Raed had accurately described the place: silent as the grave. With a short nod to Aachon, she took her place at the head of the group, and then, closing her eyes, let her Center fly ahead of them. The fortress still vibrated with geist energy, and it was no surprise. The Wrayth must have used their powers to create such a strange and ominous building, because it was stretching every natural law to its utmost. The interior was not something human builders could have imagined or even attempted.
Now that she was within those walls, she could begin to make out the individual parts that made up the Wrayth. Those below her, the peons, only interested in fornication and pleasure, were like a low hum, something that insects might make as they went about their work. Here, higher up, she could make out other, more definitive presences. These were more focused, and even more lacking in humanity than those below. Yet they did not appear solely as geists to her vision. It was a confusing mixture, especially since deciphering the unliving was properly a Sensitive’s role.
She shook her head, and let out a muffled sigh. “This is far more difficult than I thought,” she confided in a whisper to Raed, “and Merrick makes it look far too easy.”
“What about Fraine and Tangyre?” he said. “You could feel them more easily, perhaps?”
Sorcha considered. She had never met Fraine in person, but she had a brief contact with Tangyre Greene. From recollection she was a tall woman, who had seemed friendly enough, though concerned about Raed’s welfare. She was obviously an impressive actress. Bringing the image of the captain into the front of her Center, she levered it wide and concentrated on just finding one normal human in the nest.
Cautiously, Sorcha opened her eyes and pointed to the first junction up ahead. “To the right,” she intoned, and then, to demonstrate the courage of her own convictions, she took the lead.
The Wrayth, for all their cunning in kidnapping Deacons, and controlling their own little corner of the west, were not at all sensitive as those in the Order were. She could taste no panic or concern in those nearby.
So, in a somewhat circuitous route, she took them around the higher-functioning Wrayth, toward where the hot glow of the humanity of Tangyre Greene burned. Finally, they reached a chamber she felt was safe to usher them into. Her energy was guttering low, and she stumbled into the half-light of the room. Raed was there to smoothly slide his arm under hers and hold her up before anyone noticed. It certainly would not do to have the crew begin to doubt their Deacon.
“They are behind here”—she tapped the wall, but not pulling away, enjoying a little of his strength and a great deal of his nearness.
“The Rossin tells me you are right,” he whispered into her ear, and she almost jerked away in horror.
Instead her blue eyes held his hazel eyes, communicating without any words her dismay. His tiny smile was regretful. Behind his gaze, she could read the great cost he’d been laboring under since she’d last seen him. If the Rossin had risen to a higher place within the Young Pretender’s being, which he would have to do to speak directly to Raed, then her lover was in great peril.
And he knew it.
She wanted to ask him a thousand questions about the geistlord in his head, but here and now was not a proper place to let them fly free. Instead she clenched her hand around his arm. She hoped it conveyed what she was thinking and how determined she was. I’m not giving up on you.
As she stepped away, Sorcha cleared her throat. “There are three Wrayth presences in the room with Tangyre, as well as another human—that is most likely Fraine.”
“Then let’s just go in there, kill them all and retrieve the Princess.” Jocryn was quite a bloodthirsty man—especially for a cook—still the cleaver he used as his main weapon looked well up to the task.
Raed appeared ready to take the advice of the man who’d cooked him breakfast for years aboard the Dominion, when Aachon raised a hand. “May I suggest we wait a moment? Much as I would like to get the Princess back, we might be better served to find out why she came here.”
“To begin a war,” Raed growled. Sorcha began to wonder if the Rossin was not nearer the surface than was safe.
“Surely not just that, my prince. Tangyre is too cunning a woman to bring her charge here—within reach of the Wrayth—for only that reason.” He turned to Sorcha. “Could you not use Voishem again to listen to what they are saying?”
She glared at him. Trained as he was by the Order he knew full well the runes and what they could be used for. She did not appreciate being backed into a corner in front of the crew and Raed like that. “The real world is muffled and strained while under phase conditions with Voishem, but yes—I suppose I could try that.”
“I need to hear this too.” Raed’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching spasmodically. “Can you let me listen in as well?”
This was going to strain her strength even more. Voishem was a tough rune to master even when in perfect health, and Sorcha had just got out of a sickbed she’d been in for months. However the look on his face told it all; he needed this.
This was his sister. His kin.
His traitor.
Sorcha swayed slightly on her feet. It was imperceptible to outsiders perhaps, but a great display of weakness for a Deacon. The Rossin. The Rossin had spoken across the Bond.
She was sure of it. The voice was certainly not Merrick’s or Raed’s, and it thrummed with power and hunger. Her mind flashed back to the few moments she remembered in the ossuary under the city of Vermillion. They had made something, the four of them. Only a few recollections remained, but the overriding one was power. The Rossin was unfettered power, and untamed hunger.
Once that had been part of her, and now it was very close again.
Raed was looking at her expectantly, but he obviously had no idea that his Beast had spoken to her. He was waiting for a reply.
“Yes,” she said haltingly, “I can manage that.”
Quickly, before she could change her mind, or the Rossin could speak again, she took his hand in her Gauntleted one and, with the other, activated Voishem. Then she tugged him into the stone with her.
His terror raced along the Bond. It was certainly not an everyday occurrence to be part of a wall. Well, it was not exactly being part of the wall, more like slipping into a half state where the wall and body did not exist. Without training from the Order he wouldn’t know that however.
Sorcha could not even see Raed, but she could still feel him holding her hand. Her fingers were locked around his, and she had no intention of letting go. A Young Pretender buried in a wall would be of no use to anyone.
The space around her was pale and insubstantial, outlines of strata in the rock, and undulations in its formation. Sorcha had never really stood still while using Voishem like this; most folk did their best to get beyond solid objects as quickly as possible. She pulled Raed along with her toward the other side.
She’d never used the rune for eavesdropping, but she discovered by virtue of placing her body near the surface of the rock and turning herself sideways, she was, if she concentrated hard enough, able to hear the words.
“The blood is good,” a sharp, bright voice spoke. “It is a tie between us and your fine royal self. You can be sure if you play us false you will feel the repercussions.” Though she could not see her, Sorcha just knew there was a smile attached to that pronouncement. “However there is also the treaty to sign—while blood is goo
d enough for us, for others of your kind words mean more.”
Raed jerked in her grasp, but Sorcha held him firm where he stood.
“And we get the trick of the weirstone tunnels?” Tangyre’s voice sounded nearby. “Our forces will be able to travel through them to wherever we want?”
“It is to all of our benefit that the Emperor is toppled. He and that Order of his have kept our hive confined to the outermost west. With the agreement”—the faint sound of nib on parchment echoed through the stone—“you leave us everything west of the Tanderline ranges to do with as we will.”
“Indeed,” came a younger, lighter voice. “The west was ever a thorn in my grandfather’s side; wild, few people and fewer resources.”
“Then whatever we do with it will not bother your new Empire. We can send you on your way to begin your great work.”
Sorcha had heard enough. She wrenched Raed and herself back with her into the room with the crew in it and doused Voishem from her Gauntlet. For a moment she stood gasping, bent over, hands on her knees, trying to control the shudders that ran through her body. She could only dimly make out Raed telling Aachon and the rest in a low angry voice what they had overheard.
“With these transportation tunnels,” he was saying, “all the outposts of the Empire could be easily overrun. No fortress or city will be safe from them.”
Sorcha, finally mastering her own dizziness, stood up. “Only the Order has kept the Wrayth confined to Phia. I cannot see how they expect this to work.” She reached out, and propped herself against the stone wall, conserving what strength she could. “As soon as they start appearing, the Mother Abbey will gather its Deacons and storm this whole accursed fortress.”
“Yes, they could,” Aachon grudgingly conceded, “but we don’t have the time for them to arrive. We have to get the Princess out of here now.”
“They must be planning to reach their next destination using these tunnels.” Raed glanced around at his crewmates. They were toughened fighters, but he only had these few. Sorcha glanced to Aachon and jerked her head to the corner.
He took her subtle hint and followed her over to a place just out of earshot.
“I am near the end of my strength.” Sorcha knew there was no point concealing it from the first mate; he would be able to feel that through the weirstone. “However, if you can find a way to give me a little more, I will be able to help get Fraine back.”
Aachon looked down at the weirstone, as if weighing it—perhaps he actually was. “I could,” he murmured, “but the stone only has so much to give before it must replenish itself. In fact, it could be destroyed if I misjudge it.”
“So could I.” Sorcha met his eyes calmly. She would rather die than return to that dreadful prison of her own body. It was a feeling that she now knew her mother had shared—in a very literal sense. “The question is, how badly do you want to stop a war in the Empire? I know you care little for Kaleva—”
The first mate raised his hand. “I have no love for your usurper, Deacon Faris, but neither do I wish innocent people to suffer needless war over who wears the crown.”
“Then we have an accord?” she asked, head tilted, eyes narrowed on him.
“Yes.” The corners of his mouth twitched, as he rumbled, “I would never have guessed that I would be fighting to protect the usurper.”
“Life is full of strange twists and turns we never see coming.” She glanced back at Raed who was conferring with his crew. The Young Pretender was a turn in her path that she found both terrifying and delightful. “He believes that civil war is not the way—and I know you believe in him.”
“He doesn’t even want the crown,” Aachon said, a deep frown folding his forehead. “It belongs to his family by rights, but he has never wanted it.”
Sorcha stared at Raed a moment, trying to imagine him on the Vermillion throne, dispensing justice and commanding the Order of the Eye and the Fist to protect his citizens. It was not a difficult image to conjure up.
“Perhaps the best man for the throne is the one who wants the power of it the least.” She whispered so low that Aachon did not catch her words.
The first mate was instead examining the swirling weirstone, searching for flaws in it perhaps. He sighed. “I will try my best with this.” He wrapped the stone in one sleeve end with a smooth, practiced gesture. “Now tell me your plan to achieve this rescue.”
Sorcha smiled at him. “Merrick is the one with plans. What I have, Aachon, is power. Do you think I am quite spent?”
Aachon’s eye ran her length, examining her as he had the weirstone. “We shall see I suppose.”
Despite the moment, Sorcha laughed. If her Sensitive were here she just knew he would have been unimpressed.
Kolya led Merrick into the Edge of Vermillion. “Just to be sure we’re not followed,” he hissed.
Both of them, as Deacons, were particularly familiar with this, the least attractive and prosperous part of the capital city. The scent of the Edge greeted them long before they saw it. It was the odor of a swamp: rotting things, marsh gases and desperation. To make matters even more enjoyable, the clouds above finally provided the rain that had been threatening all day. The two men pulled their inconspicuous cloaks of muddy brown tighter about themselves and splashed onward through deepening puddles.
They slipped over one of the fifty bridges that led from the islands that made up the better parts of Vermillion to the shore of the lagoon. Only a few of these bridges were reliable; the main ones were maintained by the Imperial City. The others were creaking things that had been put up by denizens of the Edge: smugglers, cutpurses and servants who worked deeper in Vermillion and wanted a way to get there more easily. The bridge Kolya chose was made of slippery, rotting wood that seemed in imminent danger of falling into the water and taking them with it.
Luckily it held long enough for two Deacons to cross. Deacons? Merrick clenched his fists as he followed Kolya into the blue gray mists of the Edge. Could they really still call themselves that, now that the runes were overthrown and every Strop and Gauntlet rendered useless? It was enough to make many turn back to the little gods in despair. He wondered if the news had filtered out to the citizens of Vermillion yet, and how long it would take the geists to make a return.
As if he was thinking the same thing, Kolya slipped Merrick his own Strop, hidden by the large sleeves of their cloaks. It felt good to have it back, but it felt like a lifetime ago that it had been taken from him in the Grand Duchess’ bedroom.
The younger Deacon ran his thumb over the runes, broken and stretched as they were. No power remained in there. Through a tight throat, Merrick managed, “Thank you for bringing it Deacon Petav. It is a very kind gesture.”
Kolya nodded grimly. “A bit of a pointless one though.” They walked on through the rain a little farther, the older Deacon looking back over his shoulder every now and then. Then he grasped Merrick’s elbow. “Do you think if we recarved the runes, perhaps on the other side of the…” His voice trailed off as they shared a look. “No, I didn’t think so either.”
They were silent for a while after that, like rudderless ships adrift on the ocean. Merrick had never felt like this before, and it was something that he could not allow to stand. He finally tugged Kolya into the lee of a pair of huts. It was the kind of place a cutpurse would have waited for his prey, but luckily the rain had driven even thieves indoors.
“What was the book you took from the library? Will it help us?” he demanded.
In this light, the elder Deacon’s face was terribly gray. He shrugged. “It doesn’t really make sense.”
“Let me see,” Merrick demanded. The other Deacon held the book awkwardly between them so he could see the cover.
The title read, Saints of the Order: Tales from the Darkness. Merrick tilted his head. It looked rather like one of the books that all first-year initiates were given to read. Most such tales were of a dubious nature, since in the dark times after the Break there had been lit
tle time for record keeping. Still one was nearly universally accepted; the first Deacon was the progenitor of the line of Rossin Emperors, and a mythical boy who had risen from nothing and disappeared back into nothing.
Interpretations of other founding tales had led to the schism where different Orders split off. The Order of the Eye and the Fist had grown and flourished since that time, but many others had fallen by the wayside. The real mistake had been believing the Order of the Circle of Stars had been among them.
“And the dark-haired woman in your dreams said to get this from the library?” he asked doubtfully.
Kolya nodded while water ran down the hood of his cloak but missed hitting the book. “She was most insistent.”
For a moment the rest of the world ceased to mean anything to Merrick. All he could think about was the woman. Nynnia.
“And this was hidden?”
“Indeed.” Kolya touched the book lightly on the cover. “In a secret compartment at the very bottom of the history section. I don’t know how long it has been there.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt it. It was cold in this little spot just off the street, but something freezing touched his shoulders, as if an icy hand was pressing on his flesh. Both Sensitives looked at each other with horror. By Kolya’s wide eyes, Merrick knew he was experiencing the same.
“A shade,” the younger Deacon said, his breath coalescing before his eyes. Every inch of his skin was prickling and running, and his heart racing in his chest. “Yes, a shade for sure.”
“I can’t even see the damned thing”—Kolya flailed his arms around, as if that would help. “I hate being this blind!”
Merrick raised his hand. “Be quiet! Listen!”
For a moment, the sound he only faintly discerned was drowned out by the rattle of the rain on the nearby roofs, then he heard it; two words repeated. He thought of the spectyr that had brought Sorcha her vision of Raed’s peril and set them on the path to Chioma.
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