Raed nodded but his voice was rough. “By the Blood, this feels very, very wrong.”
“This whole thing has been wrong.” She kissed the palm of his hand. “Except for you.”
Merrick coughed. “We better get this done, before I lose my nerve altogether.”
“Of course.” Sorcha nodded and scrambled up into the back of the cart among the straw. Merrick took his place next to her, looking young, vulnerable and frightened—yet he was more than that.
Sorcha looked him full in the face, not letting a single ounce of fear or doubt reflect in hers. “I’m not just trusting Raed, you know.”
“But I have only read about this,” he said quietly, looking at the Strop resting in his hands. “I can’t be sure—”
“Yes, you can be.”
The Bond sang, determination ringing along it from each of them, amplifying and building like an infinity knot. This was the pinnacle of partnership, the type of strength that she had never felt with Kolya. Merrick trusted in her more completely in two weeks than her husband had done in all their years. With a little smile, Sorcha lay back in the straw.
Merrick put on the Strop, tying it around his eyes quickly and summoning up the Rune of Sight. Through the Bond, the world grew more beautiful than she could have ever imagined; the circling wheel of stars directly over Sorcha’s head flared like a thousand multicolored fireworks. The silent street filled with a siren sound of distant bells that at this hour certainly couldn’t be real. The scent, honeysuckle and jasmine, flooded every portion of her brain. It was also the last thing she was aware of.
Merrick claimed his power, and pulled them into the Otherside.
Raed felt the racing of his own heart as the Deacons’ stopped. Merrick had dropped inelegantly, but Sorcha—as she did with everything—had taken control; choosing how she lay, hands resting lightly against her thighs with her head tilted slightly upward toward the sky. Her face was soft and had a gentle smile on it as if she’d fallen asleep in his arms. The Strop over her partner’s eyes had gone dark. Raed took it off gingerly and tucked it into his own pouch, pushing the young man’s eyelids shut. Merrick looked even younger than he had a right to be—almost a child. Raed draped Sorcha’s cloak over the two of them. It was easier to pretend there was something else in the cart that way.
He let a ragged breath escape him. “How very odd—now I get to collect someone else’s bounty.”
As he led the donkey toward the gates of the Mother Abbey, he felt like he was in some weird nightmare; striding toward the institution that not only supported his enemy but housed the husband of his lover. These were two things that should have had him racing in the opposite direction. However, considering he was the living one right now, it would have been worse than rude to walk away.
The guardsman shook himself awake at the sound of hooves approaching. “Who goes there?” The man might be a lay Brother, but he was large enough to have been a bare-fisted boxer and he carried a polearm long enough to skewer twenty Pretenders. The Mother Abbey, despite all her otherworldly protection, still maintained a front of physical dominance as well. A quick glance upward showed that there were plenty more where this one came from. He glimpsed another group of guards patrolling the walls. With the number of Sensitives living within the walls of the complex, it seemed like overkill. Except—the Pretender felt his throat constrict—the guard striding toward him was wearing a green cloak. He was a Sensitive.
The Rossin was buried very deep now; so deep that even Raed could not feel him. As long as the Young Pretender did nothing foolish to arouse the guard’s suspicion and inspire him to look a little closer with a Rune of Sight—this might actually work.
Raed took a breath, summoned up his very best Southern accent and held aloft another of those dreaded posters. “You the one with the reward?”
The guardsman’s brow furrowed. “Not personally, but yes, the Mother Abbey is looking for the two rogue—”
“Then look no damn further.” Raed flung back the dark blue cloak to reveal the still shapes beneath.
When the guardsman swore, the Pretender was reminded of Sorcha’s comments about the Order’s lack of real decorum. It was a good thing that the situation was so serious or he might have laughed; watching the hefty soldier look down at the two cooling forms, he felt anything but jovial.
“Both of them!” The guard’s mouth twisted in an impressed knot. “How’d you manage that?”
“The old favorite.” He shrugged. “Poison. I have an inn on the road south and when I saw the reward”—he sniffed loudly—“I saw a chance to get in before anyone else.”
The guardsman laughed. “Good idea—the reward was posted only this morning, and there’s already been plenty rushing to offer ‘information.’ Still, this could be the quickest bounty in the Order’s history.” He moved to take hold of the donkey’s bridle. “I’ll just get this to the Presbyter of—”
Raed’s chest tightened and he lurched forward. “Now, hold on, there! I ain’t letting those two out of my sight . . . at least not until I have my palm crossed with some honest gold.”
The guardsman glared at him. “Are you saying you can’t trust me, friend?” His voice was laced with nothing like friendliness.
There were times to be affable and there were times to hold firm; this was one of those latter times. Raed had a decent grasp of the character he was meant to be playing—and this man would not let another take his bounty from him . . . not for that amount of coin particularly. “Trust is one thing, ‘friend,’ but when gold is involved I wouldn’t even trust my own brother.”
He held the sharp gaze of the guardsman, as if they were two dogs sizing up just how full of teeth the other was. Finally, it was the guardsman who gave way. With a snort he threw the cloak back on the dead bodies. “Very well.” He waved into the Abbey. “Follow the path until you see the three-story white building with a red roof, on the right. That’s the Presbyter of the Actives’ building; there’ll be a guard outside who’ll get the right person to hand out the reward.”
Raed led the donkey away, feeling his heart thundering in his head like a rapid drumbeat, and walked deeper into enemy territory. He followed the path as directed until he was out of sight of the guard tower. He had only a little time; there was every chance some insomniac Deacon would blunder into him, and then—well, then he guessed he would end up on the cart right next to the other two.
Carefully, praying that the donkey wouldn’t remember its natural heritage and bray or kick up a fuss, Raed turned left to a smaller building than the one he’d been instructed to. In the half-light it was impossible to tell if it was the
right
building on the left, but Sorcha had given him instructions and there had to be a way in. He just hoped that she’d been right about the Sensitives at the gate being the lower-ranked ones, directing their lesser powers only at those entering the complex.
He also hoped she was right about this small building being occupied by only one other. Leaving the cart, he opened the door cautiously; but he needn’t have. The old man sitting by the fireplace was looking right at him, with not the faintest hint of surprise. He unfolded his tall form awkwardly from the chair and smiled. “Ah, the Young Pretender. You’re late—now, where did you leave Little Red?”
Raed blinked. Deacons always put him at a disadvantage, but this one had literally rocked him back on his heels. “You”—he cleared his throat—“you were expecting me?”
The man, who Sorcha had told him was called Garil, had gray eyes and the sort of face that radiated charm like a favorite uncle or grandfather. The Pretender had known neither of these, but despite all that, he found himself smiling back. “Lucky for you, she is dead, or you’d be in real trouble.”
“Dead, you say?” Garil cocked his head. “Not dead . . . just gone over. Still, a perilous thing to do.” He waved Raed back to the door. “Well, bring them in quickly. The longer they are there, the less likely they are to come back.”
Raed ducked outside and carried first Sorcha, and then Merrick, laying them side by side in front of the fire. The soft light reflected on their still faces. Garil gently touched her cheek. “Good, there is still warmth in them. Give me his Strop.”
The Pretender fished it from his pocket and handed it carefully over to the Deacon. Even dark, the thing made his skin crawl, so he was only too happy to relinquish it.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Raed said as Garil sat once more in the chair, with some difficulty, “how long have you known Sorcha?”
The old man’s head whipped up and he fixed the Pretender with a steely gaze. “Sorcha, now, is it?” His thick eyebrows shot up. “I have known
Sorcha
ever since she was a child—when her family first brought her to the Order.”
These were the details Raed craved to have. She might have lain in his arms, but she had spoken so little of herself. It might have been their combined breathlessness or it could have been that she didn’t want to say. “How—”
“Quiet now,” Garil snapped. “Sorry to be abrupt, young man, but if I don’t have silence, then there won’t be a Sorcha to be curious about.”
Raed could feel a chill descending into the room and realized that whatever the elderly Deacon was doing, it had already begun. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Hold her down.” Garil was now withdrawing his own Strop. “The return is never easy, but particularly hard for the Actives. She is physically stronger than she looks.”
Raed crouched down over Sorcha, trapping her legs under his, while leaning over to pinion her arms. They were cold, and he found this strangely sexual position very uncomfortable given the situation. The old Deacon seemed to be taking no notice, however. He was busy laying his Strop on top of Merrick’s with some care, matching the edges so that there was no overlap.
“Never thought I would be doing this again,” he muttered under his breath as if to himself. “Here’s hoping there’s enough strength in these old senses to do the job.”
With a sigh he placed both Strops over his eyes and secured them behind his head. The hairs on the back of Raed’s head began to tremble, while the rolling sensation in the pit of his stomach made him regret eating. Otherside power made the air wintry, and the flames in the fireplace spluttered and died low as if there was not enough fuel around them. Raed’s short, sharp gasps of breath were actually coming out white, even though he was only feet from the wavering fire.
Garil’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair convulsively, and his head, burdened with two Strops, flicked backward to connect sharply with the chair’s back. The runes in the topmost leather sparked with blue fire, tracing the shape of the rune—though which one it was, the Pretender could not have said.
The cold was now a scent as well, harsh in his nostrils, as on the morning of a new snowfall, and every breath stung. Then, beneath his hands, Raed felt Sorcha’s body move. It felt nothing at all like the feeling of her body under him early today. It felt . . . inhuman. Her body rippled as if something was stirring. It elicited no desire in Raed—in fact, he wanted to leap up and flee the room. But when he looked across at Garil, he realized that he had the least of their problems.
Sweat was running down from under the Strops, and the old man’s mouth was set in a mask of agony, the like of which even the battle-experienced Pretender had not seen before. Whatever power the Deacon was drawing was taking a lot from him. Merrick moved, but lethargically, as if waking from a relaxing nap. He turned his head and let out a long, soft breath.
Beneath Raed, Sorcha was not so lucky. Abruptly she began jerking violently, almost catching the Pretender unaware. Her back arched and she twisted in his grip like a wild creature. He had to bend all of his strength to her, and give no heed to bruises he might inflict.
“Hold her, tight,” the old Deacon by the fire nearly screamed, his fingers turning red where they were buried into the arm of the chair. “By the Bones, hold her tight.”
It was like trying to restrain a thrashing snake of the Western Wilds. Sorcha’s skin was slick with sweat despite the fact that she was as cold as ice. Raed howled, determined to keep her from harm, leaning down as hard as he could, every muscle in his body straining against hers.
Sorcha’s eyes flicked open, and they were no longer blue—they no longer had a color at all. Beyond those pits he could see the Otherside: a sucking maelstrom in which forms could be seen moving; the ultimate end for the spirit, and the most dangerous of realms. This was what Merrick and Sorcha had cast themselves into to avoid detection. That made them either heroes or fools. This close to the realm of its birth, the Rossin within him shifted, uncoiling to sniff the air.
That would have been the ultimate nightmare. “Come back,” Raed screamed. “By the Blood—come back, Sorcha.”
He didn’t know if his voice made any difference, but for a moment all was still. He was looking straight through into the Otherside and it was looking right back at him. Over there were spirits, geists and the geistlords—the ultimate answer to everything he had ever wondered. Raed had never been so frightened in his life, and yet he could not look away.
And then . . . and then the cold blew away and Sorcha’s eyes reverted to blue, like a shade being pulled down on an awful scene. He scanned her face, desperate to see if any trace of the geist world remained, but when she smiled he knew it was her—undoubtedly, unequivocally, Deacon Sorcha Faris.
“I’d love to have the time to enjoy this”—she laughed weakly—“but . . .” At her raised eyebrow, he let out a relieved laugh of his own, and got off her. At her side, Merrick was stretching. The look he shot Raed was confused, angry almost—but the Pretender couldn’t fathom why he would be deserving of that. He had done his job pretty damn well, as far as he could tell.
“How was it?” Raed asked as he helped Sorcha to her feet.
She looked at him askance. “How did it look?” Her voice was rough, as if she’d been screaming, even though he had heard no noise at all from her.