In answer, she threw a clod of dirt at him.
Raed was sitting a little distance off, on a piece of finely carved stone, and looking out over the devastation. Zofiya was at his side, and they were talking quietly. Nearby, the Fensena nosed through the rubble.
Sorcha wondered what the humans were saying. In the last few days, the new Empress and the former Pretender to the throne had been deep in discussions.
“He is a clever man,” Merrick offered, standing at her side and staring at them with a kind of wistfulness. “Zofiya will have need of clever people in the coming days.”
“Well, she can’t have this one,” Sorcha replied firmly, “and besides, despite renouncing the throne, Raed is still an awkward person for her to have at Court.”
“Not if she married him. It’s not like she can marry me,” Merrick said, his voice wrapping around that little pain.
She wanted to act surprised, but the idea had come to her too. If the Young Pretender married the new Empress, it would certainly tie up some loose threads. “Do you think she will . . .”
Merrick laughed and shoved her shoulder. “How long have you been sleeping in this man’s bed, Sorcha? Raed has never wanted power . . . he has only ever wanted his freedom, the sea . . . and now you.”
She knew that very well, but somehow it meant more coming from Merrick. He saw so many things true—even at the end. “Then he shall have them,” she whispered.
Many of the Deacons had tried to get her to stay. She’d been inundated with tearful farewells, some even on their knees. Merrick did not do that. Even with their Bond broken and thrown into dust he knew her well enough. It would hurt her dreadfully, but so would staying.
“I shall miss you.” His hand slipped into hers. “I shall miss you like part of my own soul.”
That was when she threw herself into his arms, and cried . . . a little more than she had anticipated. His arms were tight about her, as tight as when he had pulled her back from the edge of madness.
“The Harbinger’s job is done,” she said simply into his ear. “I miss the runes and the Bond, but also I am just very, very tired.”
“You are just going sailing, that is all.” Merrick pulled back from her, clasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake as if to reassure himself. “You are going sailing, and you can always come back.”
Not quite able to find her own words, she watched as he bent and pushed stones away from a larger piece of masonry. It was the face of an Ancient Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars—who knew, it could have even been of Derodak himself.
Merrick looked up at her. “You will come back, at least to see what I make of this place, but I can promise you this . . . we will not try and wipe away the memory of the Circle of Stars, or the Order of the Eye and the Fist. When they took away history before, we learned nothing from it.” His eyes gleamed with excitement and hope. She could tell he was very much looking forward to the challenge of rebuilding. Her Sensitive had always been a man of ideas and wisdom.
“And the Arch Abbot has no need of a partner.” Sorcha smiled and flicked away the remains of her tears. “I know you will make something great, Merrick, and I will come back to see it—I promise.” He was the man for the job after all; in his blood ran human, Ehtia and a touch of geist. The Order of the Enlightened, she was sure, would be a great thing with Merrick to lead it. Probably, she had to admit, better than if she had kept her powers and position. Still, she would not stay around here and be a lay Brother. That was not for her.
Merrick swallowed, his eyes bright. “I promise when you come back ‘Rise together or fall alone’ will be carved on one of these stones.”
Sorcha dared not open her mouth to reply to that.
Luckily, Raed and Zofiya were making their way back toward them, and they were laughing. It might have seemed a little odd, the Imperial Guard waiting at the perimeter, but Sorcha knew it was a sound beginning.
The Empress nestled up against Merrick for a moment. Raed took Sorcha’s hand. “Looks like quite a job for you, Merrick, but it should at least keep you out of trouble,” he said with genuine warmth in his voice.
Merrick kissed the top of Zofiya’s head while he could, in the relative solitude of the ruins. “I would be worried if I was you, Captain. It was usually Sorcha that got me into trouble. Are you sure you really want her on your boat?”
It was a fair enough question, the former Deacon thought. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head at Raed. He brushed aside one copper curl from her face. “Oh, I think I will risk it.”
His hands rubbed along the raised flesh where once the runes had run, and she shivered. They were still sensitive, but she hoped that would fade with time. “Then let’s be going,” she whispered, “and find out if I am worth it.”
The four of them, trailed by the Fensena, proceeded down to the docks, the Imperial Guard falling into line around them. The citizens of Vermillion did not treat it as a parade—too busy mending their damaged city and her bridges—but many did call out to the new Empress, blessing her. Very few knew the others who walked with her. Sorcha realized that soon enough Merrick would be just as well-known as Zofiya, and wondered how he would cope with that.
It distressed her a little that she wouldn’t be there to see it, but she had her own wounds to lick. The places where the runes and the Wrayth had been still hurt. She could not stay and watch Deacons build Bonds, fight the remaining geists and feel the Brotherhood that had been so much a part of her life before. That would hurt even more than her physical injuries.
Finally, they reached the docks, and there was the Dominion sitting among the other ships of the fleet. It had been a long time since Sorcha had seen it, and it made her breath catch in her throat.
“You know, I never imagined seeing her in this port,” Raed said, waving to his crew on the decks, “but by the Blood she looks wonderful here.”
The colors she was flying were no longer the rampant Rossin. Zofiya had gifted Raed the Imperial colors, so that everywhere the Dominion sailed, she would be given the honors of an Imperial Ship.
“Indeed she does, my captain!” Aachon walked down the gangplank to meet them. He too was bandaged, but he strode as confidently as he ever had. “The Dominion is all shipshape and ready for you.” He looked down at his feet for a moment.
The first mate was no longer the first mate. Like the Fensena, he had chosen to stay in Vermillion with Merrick to help him rebuild the Order. He had, however, organized the return of the Dominion and helped find crew to replace many who had died through the course of the land adventures.
Raed smiled and pulled his friend into a tight hug, where they both spent some time thumping each other on the back. When they broke away, both of them were smiling, but their eyes shone suspiciously.
“No more piracy for Raed Syndar Faris,” Sorcha said, a little too loudly. She felt a proud swelling in her chest that he had chosen to take her name, to replace the one he had gladly lost. Caught on the wings of that, she spun around and embraced Zofiya and Merrick together. It was a tight, desperate hug that was highly inappropriate to give to the Empress of Arkaym and the Arch Abbot of the Order, but Sorcha was about to run away, so she didn’t give a damn.
“Be good to each other,” Sorcha told them, and then loosening the startled couple, grabbed Raed’s hand and dragged him up the gangway. She knew that they would all be waving; Merrick, Zofiya and Aachon, but she couldn’t bear to look back. If she did, she feared she would never have the strength to leave. One thing she did not want to be was some old relic hovering over what those three would make in Vermillion.
For an hour or more she sat near the prow and kept her back to the city that had been home and danger for her. Raed busied himself with his crew and was smart enough to leave her alone. Then, just as the sun was setting he came to find her, wrapped his arms around her, and held her.
“I know this is going to be hard—” he began, but Sorcha cut him off.
“Not hard,”
she replied, squeezing his hands, “different. I was so long in the Order that I don’t quite know how life goes on outside the cloak.” She pulled him down and kissed him hard, then gasping slightly, released him. “But I will learn.”
The captain stroked her face. “We’ll learn it together—I can’t recall a time without the Rossin either. Perhaps you’d like to come to my cabin and we can see if everything is where we last had it.” His wicked grin sparked a twist of her stomach that said some things had definitely not changed.
She needed him . . . but she wanted to see the sun finally set. It was important to mark the moments of change, to celebrate and reflect. Sorcha fished out one of her Imperium cigarillos—a gift from the Empress’ own store. She held it up. “Just a few more moments, my love. I’d like to mark the end of an era.”
Raed kissed her again, looked into her eyes and smiled. “Don’t be too long, this captain is aging as we speak.” Then he turned and left her to her moment.
The sea was silvered blue black, and it smelled clean and fresh—the smell of hope perhaps. Sorcha rolled the cigarillo under her nose, anticipating the moment. Then she realized she had not asked Raed for his flint to light it.
A tingle ran along her arm, the slightest burning sensation. Holding up her arm, Sorcha stared at it for a second. The feeling was familiar. When a tiny blue flame danced on the tip of her right hand, she gasped in surprise and delight.
Hand wavering, she lit her cigarillo with it, and then passed it back and forth in front of her eyes. The sensation retreated, and the tiny flame died with it. It had to be a remnant of the power, like the jerking of a dead man, and yet . . . perhaps it was more.
Sorcha Faris sat on the prow of the ship and smiled to herself. Perhaps there was life and hope left—but for the moment she would keep it just for herself.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in New Zealand, Philippa Ballantine has always had her head in a book. A corporate librarian for thirteen years, she has a bachelor of arts in English and a bachelor of applied science in library and information science. She is New Zealand’s first podcast novelist, and she has produced four podiobooks. Many of these have been short-listed for the Parsec Award, and she has won a Sir Julius Vogel Award. She is also the coauthor of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences novels with Tee Morris. Philippa is currently in the United States, where her two Siberian cats, Sebastian and Viola, make sure she stays out of trouble. Visit her website at www.pjballantine.com.
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