“Merrick.” Nynnia clutched him to her, completely negating any advantages from the momentary pain.
He wanted to turn and kiss her—certainly he had already, but he knew if he felt her soft lips beneath his, there would be no going back. He wasn’t about to satiate desires based on Sorcha’s—that felt wrong, and a disservice to Nynnia.
Merrick jerked away as Kyrix hobbled toward them. The old man was slowly recovering from the beating he’d received at the hands of the Prior, but his eyes were still weary.
He nodded to the Deacon, but clasped Nynnia’s hand in his own. His fingers on hers were white and almost shaking. “Daughter, I would speak to you.” His gaze darted almost resentfully to Merrick. “Alone.”
“Father, I—”
“Please, Nynnia.”
The woman straightened, kissed the back of his hand and allowed herself to be led forward beyond the range of everyday ears. The expression on Kyrix’s face tempted Merrick to strain his trained senses further, but he heard the snap of boots on the wood behind him.
Captain Revele was striding along the gangway toward him. With Sorcha occupied, the officer turned to Merrick for instruction—not that there had been much required. The young fleet officer’s short dark hair ruffled in the winds that drove her ship, and her lips were slightly pursed. Beautiful, full lips that—
Merrick cursed the Bond, and tried once again to concentrate on his throbbing knee. “Captain,” he managed to mutter, “is there a problem?”
“No, not at all,” Revele tucked her hands behind her back. “In fact, we are drawing up on Vermillion.”
“Two days?” Merrick glanced over the edge of the dirigible. “Very impressive.”
“
Summer Hawk
is one of the fastest in the fleet, and we have encountered fortunate wind . . .” Her voice trailed off
“Is there a problem, Captain?” Merrick pushed his hair out of his eyes with one hand.
“Well”—Revele glanced down at her boots—“I was wondering which dock you wanted us to make for—there are several in Vermillion we can choose.” She leveled a knowing look at Merrick. “Depending on how . . . obvious you want to make your arrival.”
Most captains of the fleet were not known for their tact, yet Revele had obviously recognized Raed as the Young Pretender. She was as subtle as possible, but was letting Merrick know that she knew.
The Deacon cleared his throat, wishing that Sorcha were standing at his side. She might not be diplomatic, but she had a certain commanding presence. “Our mission is . . . sensitive.” He smiled a little at this choice of words. “So the less obvious, the better. In fact, if you could possibly—”
“Make an excuse for diverting from Flight Central?” Revele asked him directly. She tapped her finger on the top button of her uniform. “
Summer Hawk
is due for a ballast refit. It wouldn’t be a lie, and it doesn’t directly affect my orders.”
“The Order would appreciate your tact.” Merrick leaned forward, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “And if you could talk to your crew as well.”
The Captain let out a long sigh and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My crew know how to keep secrets, but you won’t have very long, even if I do all these things. The outpost commanders submit their logs at the end of the month, a few days from now. Once they reach Vermillion, the General will be informed of your”—she shot a glance in the direction of the cabins—“traveling companions.”
The old commander at Ulrich had undoubtedly recognized Raed, and that could make things very tricky. The Emperor would be very interested to know that the Pretender to his throne was in Vermillion. If what Sorcha said was true, then the man that they had all put their trust in was corrupt beyond any understanding. Merrick’s fists clenched unconsciously at his sides as he contemplated what that would mean for the Empire.
Revele was watching the clouds, sensing a change in wind; perhaps like the namesake of her ship. “We’ll land at the Imperial Air Fleet repair facilities, then—not many troops or officers about. They’re not likely to want to get their hands dirty.”
“We understand, Captain. Thank you for all you have done for us.” He gave a little bow, the most a Deacon was permitted to give to any not of the Order. “Now I must go and inform my partner that we are nearly at our destination.”
A tight knot was growing in his belly, even as he watched Nynnia kiss her father on the cheek and walk back toward him, alone. When they’d set off for the dirigible depot, she had insisted on coming along with them, and no one—not even Sorcha—had been able to deny her. Taking her hand in his, Merrick pressed it. She was wearing gloves against the cold, and he would have loved to feel her skin; flesh-to-flesh contact was always best.
Flesh.
A warmth began to spread from the base of his spine, fanning out through nerve endings that weren’t his own.
“Merrick,” Nynnia asked softly, “are you quite all right?”
He was more than all right, more than any normal person could possibly understand. He nodded shortly, not willing to risk opening his mouth, just in case a groan came out instead of anything sensible.
“Well,” she began, pulling him further in the direction of the cabins, “we should go immediately and let Deacon Faris know we’re about to land. Father told me we are close.” Seeing her expression, Merrick wondered if that was the only thing her father had told her, but he refused to pry.
Nynnia was quite possibly the only one who did
not
know how his partner had been spending the last few days. Merrick stayed her hand, contemplating the reflected waves of enjoyment racing along the Bond. He cleared his throat. “In a minute. I think we should wait just a few minutes.”
Raed heard the knock on the door, lifted his head with a sigh and glanced across at Sorcha. The Deacon, out of her armor and cloak—in fact, completely naked—looked incredibly beautiful and uncharacteristically vulnerable. She was curled in the bed, bronze curls in a tangled mass against her white back, still glistening with a sheen of sweat. Her lips, even asleep, were curved in a faintly satisfied smile. An artist could not have painted a better picture of a woman relaxed and satiated. She did not look like a woman who could challenge geists and dare the Otherside, yet it gave him a curious thrill to know that was exactly what she was capable of.
His thoughts ran to the past two days—the most enjoyable of his life. Even a Pretender had a chance at a throne, and there had been plenty of nobles who had thrown their daughters at him—at least, before the onset of the Curse. As a young man, he had enjoyed his fill of them. He could find no memory, however, to match the Deacon. The situation was filled with complications, and yet he had no regrets—save that she could not be his. But that was the truth of it.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Snapping away from the tinge of melancholy that had snuck up on him, he slid out of the bed. Wrapping the sheet around his waist, he walked to the door, twisting his neck slightly to alleviate a crick.
Merrick was standing there, knuckles raised, deciding whether to give another knock. The two men stared at each other for a second, caught in an embarrassing moment that would have made a good story at any inn. However, it was the young Deacon who blushed, a deep, deep red. Surely the young pup wasn’t a prude. “What is it, Merrick?” Raed grinned.
The Deacon looked up at him but his eyes refused to meet the Pretender’s. “We’ve got lucky, caught some good winds, and the Captain says we should be descending to Vermillion in about an hour or so.”
Raed’s stomach contracted as if they had just dropped from the sky. He cleared his throat. “Thank you . . . We’ll . . . I’ll . . .” He stopped. “Meet you by the helm?”
Closing the door, he heard Sorcha stirring, and when he turned around he saw the same disappointment on her face that he could feel upon his. Her blue eyes, which had only recently been clouded with pleasure, were now as sharp as beams of light. He could begin to see the Deacon take hold in her once more.
She scrambled out of the swaying bed and smiled widely at him. Even as tired as he was, Raed still wanted her, and if Merrick and his ill news had not intruded, they would have spent another day in each other’s arms.
Sorcha did not move to cover her nakedness, as if to do so was to spell the end. She crossed to him and embraced him with a little sigh. He hugged her tight, stooping slightly to press as much of her against himself as possible. He didn’t know what to say to her. Neither of them wanted to step outside and face the real world; a world where he was a fugitive and she was a married Deacon of the Order, but there was no other choice.
It was the Deacon who spoke first. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.
They dressed in silence. Raed shared a pitcher of water and a cloth with her, taking the opportunity to memorize the planes and curves of her body while he still could. There was no tension—just sadness. Then he held the door open and let her go out first. Raed wanted to say something, but he knew she was not the type of woman to take comfort in empty promises.
Merrick was not outside, but the slender form of Nynnia was waiting on the promenade, lightly holding on to one of the guy ropes. She turned, and it was as if a different creature was looking out at them. Raed was suddenly constricted with tension. He’d seen such expressions on assassins’ faces more than once. His mind flashed with how little they knew about this woman. She’d charmed Merrick and wound Sorcha up so tightly that she was effectively blinded. Deep down, the Beast stirred slightly, recognizing something about her.
“I believe Merrick is waiting for you in the helm. I must attend to my father.” She turned on her heel and stalked off. The farther she got away from them, Raed noticed, the more her walk altered from an aggressive stride to the gentle scamper he had observed in her previously. It was as if she was adjusting a mask back into place.
Sorcha must have noticed something as well. “Do you really think we can trust her?” she asked. “These last two weeks have been so beyond my training, I wonder if my judgment is impaired.”
Raed considered the question. The Beast was not waking within him. Whatever lurked behind Nynnia’s sweet face was not a geist—powerful yes, but not one of their kind. “She did save Merrick’s life.” It was a platitude; he had plenty of experience to tell him that preserving a life was not always done out of love or concern.
Sorcha appeared not to detect his lie, perhaps too deep in her own concerns. Stroking his fingertips, she nodded. “I hope so. We have enough troubles ahead without adding to them.” He knew she was not just referring to the Murashev. They walked together to the tiny command deck. It seemed ridiculous, but Raed felt a little of his queasiness return. Sorcha might have managed to distract him from it for a good few days, but standing in the exposed cabin brought back his nervousness. Most especially because the vast spread of the City of Vermillion was laid out before them like an intricate map. The buffeting didn’t help either.
Two chairs outfitted the tiny cabin, and Merrick was standing behind the Captain’s, bracing himself against an abrupt onslaught of wind that shifted and shook the airship. The young man was actually grinning. “We’ve hit a bit of—what did you call it, Captain?”
“Turbulence and crosswinds,” Revele replied distractedly as she worked the levers set in a gleaming wooden console before her. With the other hand, she held the small wheel as easily as if it were a child’s toy and not the only means of direction for a vast, fragile vessel.
“Turbulence.” Merrick laughed. “Isn’t that just like your swells in the ocean, Raed?”
“No,” he grumbled. “It is absolutely nothing like it.” His insides were still churning from the unnatural motion of this vessel—but he was not about to tell anyone that. He’d already suffered enough ribbing about that particular issue.
Revele let out a muffled snort, spinning the wheel about and turning the nose of the ship into the wind. It was an enviable maneuver; the weirstone propulsion system allowed the dirigible to navigate against the vagaries of the weather. For a moment Raed forgot his own tumbling stomach, his sea captain’s mind wondering if the same methods could be provided for proper ships. As soon as he had the thought, he realized that the Emperor must have considered the possibility. Who knew what projects the nimble mind of his pursuer was having constructed in his naval bases. The idea of a fleet of Imperial ships powered with the speed and maneuverability of a dirigible made him shudder.
“You all right?” Sorcha touched the back of his hand, murmuring her concern under her breath.
He looked down at the center of Vermillion. The city was laid out in a star formation, with all the spokes of the main street draining into the Civic Center and eventually the palace, while a crosshatch of side streets filled out the spaces between. “This is the city where my father was born; now the city of my enemy. How should I be feeling?”
“Concerned?” she ventured.
He squeezed her fingertips and laughed. “Exhilarated. I plan on seeing the sights.” Both of the Deacons looked at him in horror, and he laughed. “Oh, well, if you think it is a bad plan . . .”
“There’s the repair facility.” Revele pointed out the window to the right. Unlike the majority of the Imperial forces, the air fleet was not housed in the neat lines of streets that made up the center. Instead, the fleet and the combustible gases needed for the dirigibles were housed on the outskirts of the great city.
Raed might never have been to Vermillion, but that did not mean he was unfamiliar with it. When his father had decided he would never seek to reclaim his throne, all the attention of his advisors had fallen on the Young Pretender. Raed knew every curve of the city by heart; the town houses of the nobility, the public fountains, the marketplaces, every statue on every corner and the history to go with them all. He was, however, not so familiar with the Edge.