Wrayth to-3

by Philippa Ballantine

  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.

&nb
sp; 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

  Rare Feelings

  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.

  Lord Vancy del Rue did not live up to his slightly comical name. He was tall, with a gray beard and hair, but a face that looked much younger. He wore the thinnest of calfskin gloves, and never removed them—even in the heat of the palace. He was the newly appointed ambassador from Ensomn, though he did not look to be of that western principality. Zofiya had never personally spoken to the man, but he had certainly caught her attention.

  A soft knock on the door meant an end to her covert and definitely frustrating observations. Moving down from the step at the peephole, she quickly exited the wardrobe, replaced the false back, and retook her seat in her privy chamber. It was a private and intimate space that she only let people she trusted come to, so consequently it had very few visitors.

  At her command Deacon Merrick Chambers entered and made a very proper and well-executed bow. As he did so, Zofiya couldn’t help smiling. The Deacon just had that effect on her. However, she would never tell anyone—especially him—about it. By the time his dark head rose, she had succeeded in secreting the expression away.

  “Your Imperial Highness.” Merrick might have got over his initial nervousness around her, but she could not shake him of the habit of addressing her so formally in private. She had decided to look on it as an endearing trait. “You summoned me?”

  She had found quite a few reasons to call Deacon Chambers to her in the months since their flight from Chioma. At first they had been real ones, concerning his mother, who had birthed the heir to that principality within the Imperial Palace. But after it became apparent the Emperor would not support an immediate return, to claim Chioma for the new infant Prince, she had found other excuses to bring the young Deacon out from the Mother Abbey. She was worried that the Court gossip would become unbearable, that maybe her brother would ask her questions—or worst of all Merrick himself might notice. Yet, despite all that she persisted.

  “I need your help, Merrick.”

  The Deacon’s brown eyes widened and an expression of vague confusion darted across his face. Zofiya wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to use his first name, as if they were friends or even more intimately acquainted. “Is it about my brother?” he blurted out.

  He was always most concerned about Lyon’s future, but perhaps he was starting to guess her brother’s intentions. She did not want to disappoint Merrick by telling him that the Emperor had no intention of raising another Prince in Chioma. Recently married, he hoped to have his own son and immediately make him ruler of that realm. For all intents and purposes the quasi-independence of the south was done.

  Zofiya did her best to hide her emotions while rearranging her skirts. Perhaps there was a use for women’s fripperies after all. “No,” she said smoothing the lace with one hand. “It is something else entirely.”

  “Whatever service I can offer is yours, Your Imperial Highness.” He paused, and drew in a careful breath before continuing, “Providing it does not go against my vows as a Deacon.”

  “Naturally.” She got up, placed her hand daringly under his elbow, and drew him over to the window. A small enameled tea set was already laid out as per her instructions. The insulated teapot had kept the brew at just the right temperature, and as the Grand Duchess sat down, she could smell the apples of Delmaire. It was a perfume that brought back beautiful and painful memories of her birthplace. “Please join me, Deacon Chambers. I have this tea shipped in from my father’s capital city, and it is a pleasure to share it with someone who I know is not out to seek advantage.”

  After a moment’s pause, Merrick flicked his cloak back and took a seat opposite her. The slight twist in his mouth made him look about as happy as a cat dunked in water. He was making a polite attempt to conceal it—but was not very good at it—at least to the Grand Duchess’ eyes. Unfortunately for him, Zofiya was very good at spotting such things. Growing up surrounded by intrigue and aristocrats out to ingratiate themselves had taught her a thing or two. Since he seemed incapable of knowing where to begin, she did it for him.

  “I know you Sensitives see things that others cannot,” she said pouring the tea, and sliding the delicate cup over to him, “and I have need of such a person. A very great need.”

  “The Order is always ready to fulfill the requirements of the Emperor and his family. The Sensitive Deacon assigned to your brother, Deacon Lolish, is very good, but if you aren’t happy with him, I am sure you could request someone from the Mother Abbey to—”

  He remained as dedicated to his work as she remembered, but Zofiya had to stop him before he got completely the wrong idea. “That’s true. But a thing like that would be noticed in the Court—and I wish it not to be.” She fixed him with a hard look. “Have you heard of Lord Vancy del Rue?”

  After a quick sip of his tea, Merrick shook his head. “You’ll have to forgive me—I am not very well versed in the comings and goings in your brother’s palace. Deacons generally do not involve themselves with politics.”

  “A wise decision to be sure.” Zofiya stirred her drink with a tiny brass spoon and considered how much to tell this Deacon. It was a very long time since she had trusted anyone with her thoughts. Even Kaleva, her brother and Emperor, did not know every concern and dark musing that passed through her mind, and though she’d taken lovers within the Imperial Court, nothing of greater substance that a groan or a sigh had passed between them.

  Yet as she looked across the table at the young Deacon, she was reminded how well he had kept the secret shame of what had happened in Chioma to himself. The riots in the distant principality were generally considered to be just another bout of civil unrest. She had heard no whisper that any suspected that the go
ddess Hatipai had in fact been a geistlord. Those followers of hers who had gone to the desert temple had heard the call, even seen some things, but they had not been close enough to observe the true nature of their goddess. In all respects Zofiya realized they were luckier than she.

  Only the Young Pretender Raed—whose whereabouts were unknown—the comatose Deacon Faris, and her partner, now sitting opposite the Grand Duchess, knew the real truth. As she contemplated that, Merrick pushed back his cup and fixed his steady brown eyes on her face with the sort of intent she’d only seen in the most accomplished warriors. “You have been kind and generous in your care of my mother and brother, Imperial Highness. You have done your best to see to it that their claim to the Chiomese principality is not forgotten—and most of all, you have been careful not to recall these kindnesses as any kind of debt. So even if I were not a Deacon, I would certainly want to help you in whatever way I can.”

  Something about the honest way he delivered that little speech brought an unusual rush of blood to her cheeks. Luckily, she was no pale maid on which such a thing might be called a blush. “I was born into a scheming Court, Deacon Chambers. I’ve known knaves and backstabbers since before I could walk, and yet this Lord del Rue unnerves me in a way none of those ever did.” She fiddled with the now-empty cup, rubbing the bottom back and forth on the saucer. “He is admitted often to my brother’s presence—but in private. I have been introduced to him, as he dines and dances with the rest of the Court, and he is the very image of a polite, respectful courtier, and yet something here,” she went on, placing one hand over her stomach, “rebels against his nearness. Every single time I feel ill, and several times I imagine there is a smell about him—like something rotten. I admit I have actually been ill several times on his account.”