Wrayth (32 page)

She sagged against him, and he would not have given her the terrible news about Merrick, but she needed to know. She glanced up at him. “There’s something else too, isn’t there?”

He swallowed. “Yes, yes there is. According to that huddle of gossips, last week your partner was accused of kidnapping the Grand Duchess.”

Sorcha looked down at her feet, her jaw working from side to side, and her grip on his arm tightening. “I knew he was going to the palace just a bit too often, but I can’t believe he was stupid enough to kidnap Zofiya—and besides—why would he want to?”

It did seem ridiculous. Merrick was far too clever a young man to do anything so mad. Yet, he had been quite deeply in love with Nynnia and then had her snatched away. Had he set his sights on another unattainable woman?

“I don’t know,” Raed shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. But then”—he swept his arm to encompass the whole scene before them—“none of this does.”

“The runes destroyed,” Sorcha repeated under her breath. “That is even more unbelievable.”

Perhaps she’d been hoping it was just herself that was affected, and when her colleagues examined her Gauntlets they would have an answer. It was not to be.

That was the final straw. She had been through too much, and her energy was sapped beyond words. Sorcha slumped against him, staggering on her feet like an injured horse. Raed swiftly picked her up, cradling her against his body. She was terribly thin and light. In comparison, he
had more energy than he knew what to do with. The Rossin had eaten well. He could have carried her for hours.

Sorcha’s head lolled against his chest. “We must get inside and find Merrick,” she gasped. “I need him but I can’t feel him anymore.” Her eyes were so glassy it seemed she might cry. He wouldn’t blame her.

He is not in there. The mouse has escaped his trap. Perhaps he gnawed off his own paw.

The Rossin was almost purring, and very near the surface now.

Can’t you feel him? He is a part of you, as much as he is a part of her.

When the Rossin pointed it out—full of strength and vigor—Raed could. The Bond Sorcha had created had always been such an intangible thing to the Young Pretender. She’d spoken of it, and he knew it existed, because she had found him in Orinthal with its help, but he’d never been able to sense it. Until now.

It was a pull, the direction of all things. Perhaps this was what migrating birds on their way south for the winter felt. Raed twisted his head back and forth feeling the unusual nature of this awareness.

The Rossin was helping him. Just why he would do that was another impossible question to answer.

“I can feel him,” he whispered, and Sorcha, still held in his arms, stared up at him in undisguised disbelief and relief. “He is not in the Mother Abbey. He is in the city, not far away.” Raed kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go find him.”

TWENTY-ONE

Sorcha was enjoying being carried by Raed. It was the only enjoyable thing about this whole day. Even though the Order was in ruins, the Grand Duchess abducted from her bed, and the whole world seemingly falling down around them, she would take comfort in small joys. The Young Pretender’s arms were strong, and though he smelled of sweat and blood, underneath she could detect his warmth.

For just an instant she imagined retreating to a cabin in the forest somewhere. No Order. No Emperor. Then, reality reclaimed her. She knew her nature; that would never be enough for her.

Still, it would have been pleasant to find a place, and expend the last of her energy with him. She’d dreamed of him while she lay in the infirmary, and gradually given up hope that she would ever be able to make love with him again. Now she was mobile and so was he, but there was no time.

Everything was as per usual.

Nestled against his chest, she did manage to keep one eye open as they traveled through Vermillion. They went
back across the Bridge of Gilt, which was her least favorite of the city’s many bridges, and traveled through the prosperous merchants quarters. Raed had abandoned stealth it seemed, because he pushed through crowds of folk with never a care, even when the hood of his cloak blew off.

She could understand why; there were far more problems in Vermillion tonight than one dispossessed Emperor. Everyone was pouring out into the streets, as word spread that a standoff was occurring at the Mother Abbey. Many people were streaming toward the Imperial Island, which seemed mad to her.

The whispers that passed them said that most were expecting a show, but talked of not venturing too close, lest there be a riot, or perhaps an explosion of rune magic. Sorcha wouldn’t have been surprised if they were looking forward to something like a fireworks display.

Not many who they passed were raising words in defense of the Order. Most were whispering about “their good Emperor finally taking control,” or “about time the Deacons were taken down a peg or two.” Her ire finally began to overcome her shock.

These were the people that the Order of the Eye and the Fist had protected for years. They were the reason so many of her brethren had laid down their lives. And yet, here they were almost looking forward to its demise. Maybe the Circle of Stars was right, perhaps the people of Arkaym should be ruled over ruthlessly since they had so little thankfulness for what was done in their name.

They circled through the Boulevard of Cloth Merchants, and dodged the crowds on the Lane of Easy Virtue. Some of Raed’s crew spared a glance up to the brightly decorated balconies of the ladies and lads of easy virtue, but fortunately all of them were abandoned. It appeared that even those that made a living on their back had an interest in tonight’s events—enough to give up an evening’s earnings.

Sorcha, as much as she loved the Young Pretender, was beginning to doubt that he could feel the Bond between
himself and Merrick. After all, she couldn’t and she was a trained Deacon. Not that that meant anything anymore.

Still as she was cradled in his arms, she did begin to feel a little stronger, and by the time they reached Tinker’s Lane, she tapped him on the shoulder to be let down.

She frowned when she realized where he had led them. “Here?” Tinkers and Deacons went together about as well as oil and water.

Raed didn’t answer, merely took her hand and led her farther down the street until they were outside a place that Sorcha recognized. It had only been the previous season that she stood outside this place with Merrick and Kolya. The sign still proclaimed,
VASHILL—MASTER TINKER TO THE PALACE
, while within, a single light flickered in one of the downstairs rooms.

Aachon and she shared a look, while the crew scoured the darker parts of the street for any dangers. Raed however was oblivious. He marched up the path and banged on the door.

The noise echoed down the silent roadway and made Sorcha jump. It was a very fine thing that the Imperial Guard was busy right now. No one came to his first knocking, and Raed was just about to try again, when the door popped open.

There in all her nighttime glory stood Widow Vashill. She looked no older or wiser than when Sorcha had rid her attic of the shade of her dead husband. Her face was just as welcoming now as it had been then however—that was to say, not at all.

“Oh it’s you,” she said, pulling her shawl around her and peering at Sorcha, while completely ignoring Raed. “I thought someone said you were dead.”

“No, not quite,” Sorcha muttered. “I don’t suppose you have seen any other Deacons about have you?”

The old woman grinned, showing her vast expanse of crooked teeth, but rather than denying it, she instead stepped back and ushered them into the shop.

Sorcha kept expecting it to be some kind of trick, and a mass of Imperial Guards to rush out to carry them off to prison, but the widow gestured half of their company onto the lifting pallet.

“Not all of you,” she croaked. “Next ride, or take the stairs.” She looked delighted for some reason.

On the pallet, they sped up to the third floor, and in this large space, with the windows covered with dark sheets, Sorcha finally felt she had come home.

The room was full of Deacons. They still wore their cloaks, and there were both blue and green in evidence. A tight ball of emotion lodged itself in her throat, but it didn’t stop her from racing over to them. It was hard to tell in the half-light but she would have said there were about twenty or more of them.

Lujia, Kabel, Sibuse, Elib…She began to lose count of the familiar faces that surrounded her. Then out of the press of people, the one face she wanted to see most of all, and feared she never would again, emerged.

“Merrick,” she whispered, and not caring who was standing nearby, threw herself into his arms. He felt solid and real, and he was hugging her back just as hard. She had to slap him on the back several times before she was convinced she wasn’t imagining it.

The Bond between them though was silent, and that loss was an ache inside her that felt like a wound. She kissed him once on each cheek and squeezed him again for good measure.

His brown eyes were gleaming with delight, and his curly hair was even more unruly than ever. He blinked at her as though he thought she might disappear. “By the Bones, Sorcha! I can’t believe it! You’re all right.” Then she realized why he was blinking: he was trying to hold back tears.

“Yes,” she said, giving him a little twirl. “Not quite myself.” She patted her skinny hips and held out her rail-thin arms. “Still, nothing that a good few weeks of eating won’t help.”

“So long confined to a bed,” Merrick marveled, “and yet that is all? You’re a miracle!”

That brought Sorcha back to reality with a thump. He didn’t know. Without the Bond he wouldn’t know unless she told him. That was a bitter thought indeed.

To cover her confusion, she gestured into the crowd and Raed managed to squeeze his way through. Merrick let out a delighted yell and grabbed him into a hug, before ending it with several hearty slaps on the back. Such a display from her young partner was quite endearing.

“I hear you’ve been causing quite the stir,” Raed commented. “Kidnapping Grand Duchesses and igniting a feud with the Emperor himself!”

“He did no such thing.” Kolya emerged from the back of the crowd, his usual calm demeanor showing signs of cracks. “However, I got him out before Kaleva could torture him into confessing to something he didn’t do.”

Sorcha looked her former partner up and down, reevaluating him. “No one was there to help Merrick?”

“Not a soul,” the Deacon himself responded.

Sorcha did not voice her disappointment that it had not been Garil that aided him. “Thank you,” she said, turning to Kolya, and genuinely meant it. “You did a very good thing with every chance of punishment for it.”

He blushed and looked away; their shared past made things awkward between them. However compared to what had happened to the Order, it now seemed very trivial. Sorcha shifted from one foot to another for a second.

“Yes,” Merrick broke through the moment of tension. “The Emperor is not really himself at the moment. He’s been keeping rather bad company.”

She was certain there was more to that comment than was first apparent, but the Deacons were more important to her right now. “How did all of you get here?”

“We found each other out on the street, and we could hardly just wander around with guards out there too. This was the best place I could think of to bring them.” The
other Deacons were once more settling on boxes and the floor, talking among themselves. Merrick glanced around before lowering his voice. “Many of the Order were either outside the gates when they closed or escaped beforehand. Everyone here is appalled at what the Arch Abbot is doing…or not doing.”

“An understatement,” Kolya offered, “but the Emperor is not what he once was. The loss of his sister has quite unhinged him.”

The Deacons nearby nodded their agreement. Sorcha glanced back at Raed who looked like he might never smile again. He had lost a sister, and she hoped he could survive that. Looking around further, Sorcha saw that every one of her colleagues was nursing a set of ruined Gauntlets or Strop like a broken limb. She was not going through this grief alone, but that didn’t make it any easier.