Wrayth (3 page)

Dimly off in the corridors she could hear lay Brothers about their work, the whisper of hushed voices, and the occasional sob from relatives come to visit their loved ones in the infirmary. Then the door creaked open again.

Maybe Merrick had changed his mind and was coming back to sit through the night with her as he had when she’d been first brought back to Vermillion.

“She’s in here.” Sorcha recognized the voice, and felt even better than if it had been Merrick. It was one she had sorely missed these last months. Her partner before Kolya, Garil Reeceson was now a retired Sensitive—old, battered, but still one of her best friends. As a trainer at the Abbey he was busy, so she had understood his infrequent visits.

He came into view at the foot of her bed, but his face had changed since he was last there. Sorcha knew Garil; knew his strengths, his fears and his weaknesses. She had seen him when he was in pain, in fear and in triumph. Yet, she had never witnessed this expression from him before. Great guilt lingered about his eyes, but his mouth was set in a hard determined line.

Just as she was trying to puzzle out what that might mean, she observed he was not alone. Sorcha could not have been more surprised to see Aachon appear at his shoulder than if the Prince of Chioma had. He was the first mate of the
Dominion
, Raed Rossin’s friend, and someone she had not seen since the attack in the ossuary in Vermillion. When she had met the Young Pretender in Orinthal he had described how he had left Aachon and most of his crew on the
Dominion
. He’d planned to rendezvous with them later after finding his sister. Could this mean that the Young Pretender was close by?

Sorcha’s heart surged. If there was one man that she wanted to see in the world it was Raed Syndar Rossin, the Young Pretender. Despite her current condition, she’d not stopped thinking of him. Often in the dead of night, she dreamed of their brief moments of passion, imagined his skin against hers, his breath in her ear…

Probably not best to think about that at the moment however. Sorcha flicked her eyes side to side desperately searching, but the first mate was alone. Though Aachon had shown no particular fondness for her in the past—which could have something to do with her getting his Prince constantly into trouble—now he too looked guilty. Two men with that same look could not bode well.

Garil? By the Bones, what is going on?

She sent the question as a last ditch attempt, but their Bond was long dead—as broken and shattered as his body had been by street thugs. When she caught the glint of a knife in his hands, for a second she was relieved. Maybe Merrick couldn’t find it in himself to finish her off—but Garil was made of sterner stuff. She was about to experience the Otherside for herself, and terrified as she was she didn’t want to exist in a body that had become a prison.

The knife swept down. No pain reached Sorcha, only a strange pressure. Garil pulled the knife back and it was clean of any blood. For a moment the three of them stared at the blade.

In that silence Sorcha was remembering the Prince of Chioma, part human and part geistlord. In preparation for her battle with Hatipai, he had gifted her with his invulnerability. He had said it would be only temporary. That had been weeks and weeks ago. His concept of temporary must be very strange indeed.

“Now that’s what I call an impressive demonstration,” Aachon rumbled, taking the knife and holding it up to examine in the faint light.

The laid-out Deacon couldn’t lever herself up to see if the knife had cut and then she healed, or if the blade had bounced off her skin.

“One of the lay Brothers said he noticed last week that when leached the animals would not feed from her.” Garil sheathed his knife with an abrupt gesture. “Now I see that in fact they couldn’t. The real problem is revealed.”

“An invulnerable Deacon?” the first mate of the
Dominion
replied. “I would have thought that would be a cause for celebration.”

“It’s an abomination!” Garil’s voice was filled with such anger and bitterness that it was impossible to guess that he had once called Sorcha friend. “Such a blending of geistlord and Deacon powers can only bring horror to the world. It must be removed.”

Her stomach tightened into a pit of ice, but she could not move to tell him what had happened—to explain herself. The runes that the Deacons used were essentially the same as those wielded by the geists; moving through walls, seeing through another’s eyes—but no one had ever tamed the greater powers of a geistlord. Garil might have been her friend, confidant and mentor for years upon years, but his training as a protector of the realm still held true. In his eyes and those of all members of the Order, she was revealed as something else. Something alien.

“You must take her far away from the Mother Abbey.” Garil spoke softly, rubbing his forehead as if in pain. “The path is dark, but it is the only chance for her to be free of…this.”

“But the lay Brothers must have tried.” Aachon leaned down to stare at Sorcha. “What makes you think the cure is beyond these walls?”

“The Order do not have the answer to this. Only those that gave her the gift can take it back.” Her old partner let his breath out slowly, as if centering his being as best he could. “Her healer is waiting for her out there somewhere.”

“And so I must carry her around until one of these creatures appears?” Aachon did not appear pleased with this plan.

“Since it fits nicely with your own goal…yes.” The old Deacon smiled crookedly. “I have something to help you find who you are looking for.” Garil reached into his pocket and produced a stone on a chain. It was a weirstone. He spun the unusual swirling blue and white globe over Sorcha’s chest. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the object twisting, and then abruptly turn and tug westward. It looked exactly like an eager dog sensing its master.

Aachon held out his hand, and Garil laid the weirstone in it. The first mate clenched it and raised one thick eyebrow. “Another impressive display, old man. You haven’t lost your touch with these things.”

“The weirstone uses the Bond between Sorcha and your Prince. It should lead you right to him.” The elderly Deacon dipped his head. “And please do not try to alter what I have done with the stone. I recall it was one of the reasons you were ejected from the Order. Now, your skill may be put to some real purpose.”

“I shall resist the temptation.” The first mate draped a coarse brown cloak over Sorcha. “If she can lead me to him, then all shall be well.”

The Deacon’s hand clamped down on Aachon’s, and he fixed him with a look that could have melted iron. “Watch your back, old friend. You will be sailing into danger—more than you ever have before.”

Aachon clapped his hand on Garil’s arm; a surprisingly gentle gesture. “What have you seen ahead?”

The elder man stared down at Sorcha. “Blood and shadow, Aachon. So much chaos and so many choices that I can barely make out what is coming.” He touched her head, but she wished she could feel it.

Don’t send me away, Garil. Not without Merrick. Get Merrick!

Her old partner couldn’t meet her eyes, and Sorcha suddenly realized he was about to toss her out into a sea of possibilities.

Then she panicked.

Merrick! Merrick, come back!

He couldn’t hear her of course, but she hoped that wherever he was it was close and that he could feel her distress. Everything was wrong. Garil had not only been her partner—he had been her mentor and her friend. How could he be sending her out into the world in her state? Perhaps this was part of some delusion and she was still lying helpless staring up at the ceiling?

Neither of the men took any note of her wide staring eyes, indeed Sorcha’s old partner was taking great pains not to look too closely at her. Instead, he handed Aachon a scroll. When the first mate opened it, the seal of the Presbyter of the Sensitives was revealed; a thick slab of wax with a swirl of ribbons. He stared at it for a moment. “Garil,” he said with a shake of his head, “this is a tremendous risk for you.”

Garil sighed. “You think I stole the seal for this? No, old friend, this is the genuine article. Presbyter Yvril Mournling did indeed sign and authorize this. You will have the full use of whatever airships you have need of. I recommend the
Autumn Eagle
—and I believe she is in port at the moment. Her captain Lepzig is a good man that knows the value of not asking too many questions while on Order business.”

Sorcha, still terrified by the situation, nonetheless paused for a moment. Active Deacons sometimes whispered about the Sensitives—that they held things back, and had their own agenda. She’d always thought it was mindless gossip by bored novices. Yet, the look in her old partner’s eye was somber and deep. Why would Mournling do such a thing, and for those wanted by the Emperor himself?

Aachon nodded. “He concurs then. Very well, I shall requisition the
Autumn Eagle
.”

While she screamed and struggled inside her head, Garil bent, gathered up her Gauntlets and placed them on
her chest. “It is a blessing that the fires have burned so low in her.” Touching another’s talismans while they still lived, even for a Bonded partner, was a dangerous action. The thick leather gloves, carved with terrible runes, were now no more dangerous than any other lady’s adornment that might be found in a market. While her old partner stared down at her from his scarred and battered face, Aachon gestured and two hooded figures entered the room, bundled her up in a blanket and hoisted her between them.

The logical part of her brain, which miraculously was still functioning, was wondering just how they planned on smuggling a Deacon from inside the Mother Abbey. In the end it turned out to be remarkably easy.

Her powers were indeed very far gone. Unable to even reach her Sensitive, hanging on the edge between life and death, she appeared nothing more than any other patient. As they approached the gate, she could see out of her eye the duty Sensitive talking and laughing with one of the lay Brother guards. A small stream of traffic was heading out of the Mother Abbey; merchants come to deal with the kitchen staff, workers and labors returning to their homes beyond the Imperial Island, and many family members, taking home their loved ones from the infirmary.

Aachon and his small band of men, accompanied by an old Deacon, blended right in. Nothing in the ether said that they were passing an Active Deacon out under the noses of her compatriots.

Stop them! I’m in here…get Merrick!

Her howls only echoed inside her own head. The Sensitive didn’t even look up as they filtered past him, and the gate to the Abbey was shut tight behind them.

“This isn’t how I imagined things,” Aachon murmured in her general direction. “If it makes a difference, I am sorry Sorcha.”

It didn’t matter. For the first time in her life, Sorcha was cut off from the Order, and truly alone.

THREE

Grand Duchess Zofiya did not like the company her brother was keeping. Not one little bit.

She stood with her eye pressed to the peephole and observed the dark corridor with the intensity of an owl waiting for a mouse. Except, she was positive this man was far more dangerous than a mouse. The width of his shoulders leaned toward brawler rather than dandy, while his long strides spoke of a man on a mission. Zofiya felt something else about him—something that she was very well acquainted with. Danger.

Ever since the Emperor’s sister had lost her faith, she had deliberately tried to steer away from superstition in all its forms. After her goddess was exposed as a fraud in a violent public display that nearly killed her, Zofiya had decided a new path was the best course. Huddled on the Imperial Airship the
Summer Hawk
, she had determined that from that moment on she would only believe what her eyes would bring her. Yet, this newcomer to the Imperial Court, one who had in the last few weeks been spending an increasing amount of time in her brother’s private chambers, had an
aura of menace about him she could not nail down to any one glaring attribute. The only feeling she could go by was a deep-seated sense of unease.