His bravado dropped away, and his fingers tightened around hers. “If I could, I would stay—you know that.”
It was a pretty dream, but both were old enough to know this was not the time for dreams. The Emperor’s largesse would not extend to allowing Raed to linger, and Sorcha had an Order to rebuild. He had to go. She had to stay. They both knew these things, and yet she was using every ounce of her control not to let her disappointment show on her face.
“I know, Raed. If wishes were horses—”
“I would never have to walk again.” He laughed, but his smile was bittersweet; he heard her thoughts as well as she could hear his. The Bond was making this so painful that both wanted it to be over, and yet they yearned for it to go on forever. “Indeed, Mistress Deacon, I should be going.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, a sweet memory sweeping over them both for a moment.
When he let go of her, Sorcha realized he had pressed something into her hand in return. It was a captain’s ring, marked with the sigil of his house: the rampant Rossin.
Wrapping her fingers around it, Sorcha smiled up at him. “No promises?”
He brushed her hair away from her cheek, the gloved back of his hand stroking her skin. The Deacon ached to lean into his touch, but managed to hold herself stiff. “Promises, no,” he said, his hazel eyes gleaming with light reflecting off the water. “But plenty of hopes.”
Then he turned and walked away from her. Sorcha watched as the vessel was made ready, and cast off to the ocean. She didn’t move, even when Merrick walked back up the pier to her. She felt her partner’s concern wash over her, but he wisely said nothing as she stood there, watching the tiny vessel sail away, the unreality of the moment giving way to gaping realization. Raed was gone, though she could feel where he was like a tiny lodestone nestled in her head. The Bond surely would weaken with time—which should be a good thing . . . It should be.
“I’ll meet you back at the Abbey.” Merrick’s touch on her arm was strong, a good, hearty squeeze that was unlike the feather touch of his mind on hers.
Her partner, who was more than she had ever expected in one so young, pulled the hood of his emerald cloak up against the wind and left her alone with her thoughts. He was thinking of Nynnia as he went, the pain white-hot in him, though nothing showed on the outside. Whatever the creature had been, he had loved her.
Sorcha’s fingers traced the sigils on her Gauntlets idly. They all had scars and injuries—it came with being an adult, messy and awkward as that could sometimes be. And right now it came from being a Deacon. The chaos that Hastler had made of the Order, the ruin to both its reputation and its ranks, could not be underestimated. Whatever he had done, she knew deep down that he had not done it alone.
Sorcha pulled out the badge she had taken from the traitorous Arch Abbot; two twined snakes in a circle, eating each other’s tails. She had scoured the library, asked Garil and found nothing about it. She flipped it over and looked at the one thing she did recognize—five stars imprinted on the back, the sign of the old Order. It filled her with a dread she could not shake. She tucked the badge into a pocket with Raed’s ring.
Her fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the remaining Ilyrick reserve that Raed had given her. This was as good a time as any to smoke it. It would be a poignant moment to do so, while watching the Pretender sail away from her—yet she stopped. Optimism won out over her natural skepticism. For some reason she dared not examine, she would save the Ilyrick for some other day.
Reaching deeper into another pocket, she found the Fabvre she’d retrieved from her cell at the Mother Abbey. This was a good cigar, not as good as the Ilyrick, but it would do.
She dropped down and seated herself on the edge of the wharf, legs dangling over the water. Slipping on one Gauntlet, she summoned Pyet between her fingertips and gently lit the cigar. The sun was emerging over the horizon, bathing Vermillion in blues and pinks that softened even the city’s darker lanes and alleys. Her mind was unable to stop thinking of Hastler’s last words. The twisted smile on his lips. You do not know it, but you are already caught.
Logic said his threat was meaningless—they had repelled the Murashev—but instinct would not be satisfied. Some part of her wondered if they had really found the depth and width of such well-laid plans.
Yet Raed was gone. One less complication in her life—she should have been grateful for that. Sorcha drew a sensuous cloud into her mouth, letting the taste fill her like memories. Ahead lay her own personal questions of Kolya and Merrick; her marriage—her partnership. But as terrible as things would become there, she was also sure that the Otherside was not done with the Order yet.
For now it was merely a moment to draw breath and appreciate the little things in life. “Keep sailing, Young Pretender,” Sorcha whispered, raising the cigar to her lips. “You know where to find me, have you a need.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Philippa Ballantine is a writer, podcaster and librarian. Her podcast of Chasing the Bard won the Sir Julius Vogel Award in 2009, and two of her novels have been short-listed for it. She is currently living in her hometown of Wellington, New Zealand, where her two Siberian cats keep her in line.
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