“She won’t answer me,” Raed whispered. The other clue that something had gone terribly awry was the fact that he was wearing Sorcha’s cloak and was completely naked under it.
As Merrick pushed his partner’s hair out of her face and directed his Center upon her, he muttered, “How many died in there?”
The Young Pretender swallowed. “Under the Rossin’s claws, just Hatipai—but . . . ” His gaze drifted out to the sand. “More may follow.”
That comment passed over and through Merrick as his fears were realized, and the full impact of his lie to his partner was now revealed. “I’m sorry, Sorcha.” And he was—more deeply than he could ever say. In all his years in training, he could never have imagined having to choose between his mother and his Active. Merrick felt guilt begin to settle on him. The younger Deacon pressed his teeth together so tightly his jaw ached.
“What is wrong with Deacon Faris?” Zofiya asked, seeming to gather up some of her control while brushing tears from her cheeks.
“She went too far,” Merrick replied, his tone as heavy as the reality he conveyed. He’d seen Deacons who had lost partners, read the reports, as well as spent a year as an Initiate caring for those in the infirmary. “Without me she could not tell when to stop, where to strike, which rune to use.” He paused, swallowed and, not daring to look up at the Grand Duchess or the Young Pretender, instead he muttered, “I must get her back to the Mother Abbey as quickly as possible. They have the best chance to bring her back.”
“Why weren’t you there to help her?” Raed roared, his rage sudden, violent and uncharacteristic.
The Deacon was so full of guilt that it easily turned to anger. Defenses were up, and Merrick for once was not backing down. He was done being the diplomat—the quiet one who always took the abuse. He might have failed Sorcha—but they were only in Chioma in the first place because of Raed. They could be safely back in Vermillion right now; bored, perhaps, but safe. Sorcha had risked everything both of them had to save this man.
“Give her to me,” the Deacon shouted back, his face only inches from the Young Pretender’s. “Give her to me if you have any feelings for her at all. Only the Order can save her now. You’ve done enough!”
Raed’s fingers tightened around Sorcha, his lips pressed together in a white line. For a second Merrick thought that he might try to run into the desert with her or drop her entirely and lash out.
“By the Blood, you better save her!” Raed spat and then handed her into her partner’s arms.
A dozen Imperial marines had disembarked from the Summer Hawk and now pounded up the steps. They paused on seeing their commander in chief in such flimsy attire but snapped to attention.
“Take the Honored Deacon to the dirigible,” she ordered as sharply as if she were in uniform. “We’re returning to Vermillion immediately.”
They gently took Sorcha from Merrick and followed after the Grand Duchess as she made her halting way toward the vessel. Her gait was painful but still proud.
Seeing the pain in Raed’s eyes as he watched Sorcha going away from him, Merrick felt a stab of sympathy. This was a terrible situation for all of them. If he paused to make a list of all the terrible things that had happened, Merrick felt he might not make it back to the airship.
“Come with us.” He touched the Prince’s shoulder. “I know Vermillion is dangerous, but we have the Grand Duchess to vouch for you, and . . . ”
“I cannot.” The Young Pretender’s face closed, his eyes hard as green agate. It was not an expression that Merrick was used to seeing on the face of the usually jovial Raed. He felt along the Bond, but all he found was a deep pit of pain past which nothing else could be discerned. The Rossin, who had fed deeper than he ever had on the power of Hatipai, was hidden and hibernating. This pain then belonged entirely to his host.
Merrick was suddenly embarrassed that he had raged at Raed. Something had happened to him in the desert, something he would not share. The young Deacon tried to make amends. “Sorcha cares about you—you must know that, Raed. She came all this way for you. Would you not see her well again? I know your presence would help her.”
Raed swallowed hard, and his voice came out tight and low. “We only seem to ever meet in danger, Merrick; brief moments we snatch out of the mouth of peril. It isn’t real, and my life is far too tangled for it to ever be. I would have her be well, but I cannot come with you. I have . . . business to attend to.”
“Business?” Something tasted wrong in that statement. The Deacon could feel this old and painful thing turning within the other man, eating him up with grief, guilt and loss.
Yet he would not share it. His hand now fell on Merrick’s shoulder. “I cannot tell you some things. Our three lives are too different for that. But if she—” Raed caught himself, and went on more strongly. “When she gets better, tell her what I have said. Tell her to forget me.”
By the Bones, Raed Rossin, the Young Pretender, really was falling in love with Sorcha. The Bond told the young Deacon as much know Ver not why he would deny it.
Merrick, despite everything, smiled slightly. It was so wildly improbable. But then he thought of Nynnia, and how even in the dark there was always hope. If he could find her across time and death, then perhaps there was a chance for Sorcha and Raed.
“I will tell her you sent her to safety.” He embraced the Young Pretender. The other man stiffened in the brief hug. “If you want to say hurtful things to her, then you’ll just have to say them to her face.” He pushed back and gave Raed a wry look. “And if you can do that, then you are a braver man than I. Look after yourself, Raed. I hope your ‘business’ is finished to your satisfaction.”
A flicker of pain passed over Raed’s face, and he ducked his head. “So do I.”
As Merrick walked back to the Summer Hawk, he wondered what that meant. Yet, as bound as they were to one another, he and Sorcha were Deacons, and Raed would always be a threat to the throne they served.
He climbed back onto the dirigible and saw Sorcha’s limp form being carried into one of the cabins. Merrick would have followed, but he remembered his other duty.
It seemed he was too late. Zofiya was talking to his mother in the shadow of the cabin. This was not how he would have had her told about Onika’s death. The grieving woman’s lips were pressed together in a tight, white line, her eyes crowded with tears, and her hands around her full belly. Her son could only imagine what fears and pains were going through her at this moment. The Grand Duchess, though, did have an arm around the other woman’s shoulders. It was a touch of compassion Merrick would never have expected from her.
When they faced him, he realized how alike they were: beautiful women of power, used to being in control, able to stand firm against the winds of fate. He was proud to call one of them Mother. She had survived the gruesome death of his father—she would survive this.
“Your mother is returning with us to Vermillion.” Zofiya had regained her Imperial tone.
“I wanted to have the baby in Chioma,” Japhne said in a low voice that threatened to break, “but the Grand Duchess has pointed out that she and these troops cannot guarantee the little one’s safety.” She raised her head and looked at Merrick steadily. “I will have the boy in Vermillion, but then we will return immediately to secure his place as ruler of Chioma.”
What could he say? He was a Deacon, and these women were stronger and more powerful in matters of state than he could ever dream of being. So he took Japhne’s hands. “I just want you to be safe, Mother.”
She brushed tears out of her eyes and stared at him bleakly. “Where are we ever safe in this world? Safety is just an illusion.”
Mother and son stood still for a long moment. Beneath their feet the Summer Hawk shifted, lifting into the skies, the sailors around them running to their stations. It was Zofiya who broke the silence. “What is not an illusion, Lady Japhne, is the power of my brother. We will ensure your unborn son’s future with a strong Imperial hand. Neve
r fear.”
“And what of the people of Chioma?” Merrick straightened, no longer afraid in the presence of the Grand Duchess. “Until your strong Imperial hand descends to bring order, what will they do?”
Zofiya’s face betrayed nothing, but her voice was flat and grim. “They will have to make do as best they can. They did, after a bring much of this chaos down on themselves.”
He did not need to be a Sensitive to know there was no point arguing with her. Zofiya looked as set as a statue, and despite everything Merrick had seen, he felt sorry for her. “And what of you, Grand Duchess?”
Her eyes dropped away, but her voice was strong and clear. “It has all changed for me, Deacon. And I see, finally, the truth of many things—including myself.”
Her eyes met his, and they were not sad. A Sensitive’s peculiar talents told Merrick she had spent a long time looking after her brother, and yet only now did she understand her own value. What the Grand Duchess Zofiya would do with that knowledge was another question altogether.
Before the Deacon could see further into her, she turned on her heel and strode aft toward her troops.
Merrick watched her go but wrapped his arms around his mother. She hugged him tightly, her breathing unsteady but the tears still held back. He kissed the top of her head. “It’ll be all right, Mother—I’ll make it all right.”
People always thought his partner was the most determined one—however, he would show them all. Merrick would take his mother to Vermillion and see his new brother born. Then he would get Sorcha well, so that she could once again bless him with her certain prickly charm. He needed that in his life.
Merrick decided that as long as he made those things happen, then everything else could take care of itself. The Empire and the world owed Deacons Faris and Chambers that much. It was time to rest for a while and regain strength in the arms of the Order—then once more they could both begin setting the world to rights. Merrick was sure Sorcha wouldn’t have it any other way.
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.
Ace Books by Philippa Ballantine
GEIST
SPECTYR
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE - A Thing of Beauty
TWO - Whispered Messages
THREE - The Bonds of Duty
FOUR - A Warning from Beyond
FIVE - Prayers Answered
SIX - Watched Clocks
SEVEN - Fallen Dreams
EIGHT - The Wakened Dark
NINE - Into the Hive
TEN - Within a Welcome Embrace
ELEVEN - Buried in Roses
TWELVE - The Bond Reborn
THIRTEEN - Returning Home
FOURTEEN - Alone with Consequence
FIFTEEN - Lost Loves
SIXTEEN - Taking the Reins
SEVENTEEN - Out of Time
EIGHTEEN - Familiar Faces
NINETEEN - Looking Deep
TWENTY - A Grand Arrival
TWENTY-ONE - Interview in a Library
TWENTY-TWO - The Last Time
TWENTY-THREE - Freedom and Fight
TWENTY-FOUR - Return to Reality
TWENTY-FIVE - The Eye and the Fist
TWENTY-SIX - The Unseen Prince
TWENTY-SEVEN - A Son’s Love
TWENTY-EIGHT - Despair and Delight
TWENTY-NINE - Prodigal Son
THIRTY - Birthing Sorrow
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Spectyr Page 34