her that he was close to bolting—his expression remained clear and calm.
Unaware of any change in the Deacons, the Prince fixed his gazut them once more. “I will have many questions for you, Deacons.” He paused. The Order stood apart from the usual machinations of the Princes: their rules, their squabbles. The only people whom Merrick and Sorcha had above them were the Priors and Abbots of the Order of the Eye and the Fist—and ultimately the Emperor.
Perhaps the Prince realized that he had pushed the line between Order and aristocracy a little too far, because his voice softened. “It would assist me, honored Deacons, if you could talk with me later about your Emperor. I would know his mind on some matters.”
Sorcha’s stomach clenched for two reasons: the way he said “your Emperor” as if he had no connection with the man and the idea that they were to be quizzed about politics. The Deacons could refuse, use the vaunted independence of the Order, but they were a long way from a Priory or Abbey—and even farther from the Mother Abbey itself.
However, it was the perfect chance to stay on in Chioma—the perfect chance to save Raed.
Sorcha reached out along the Bond, seeking Merrick’s opinion. However, there was nothing. Somewhere during the confusion, he had slammed down his shields. Sensitives were always better than Actives at such things, but she would never have expected it from Merrick—especially right now.
She used another bow, perhaps one too many, to hide her confusion. “It would be our pleasure to offer assistance, Your Majesty,” she said as graciously as possible.
They were swiftly dismissed by the Prince, but she made damn sure that they did not back out of his presence—there were some local customs she was determined not to adopt.
Outside, she scanned the petitioners, looking for Raed, but he was gone. When she turned for advice to Merrick, he held up his hand. “I really need to rest, Sorcha.” His tone was clipped, rough and distant. “We can talk about this later.”
He sounded like a different person—not her partner, not her friend. As Sorcha watched in shock, he turned on his heel and left her standing there with absolutely no explanation. Her frown was deep but robbed of a target.
Merrick and his mystery would have to wait; for now she had to hunt down Raed—and quickly—before the spectyr’s vision came true.
THIRTEEN
Returning Home
Merrick was glad that, in the manner of the Chiomese, the male and female accommodation was separate. He didn’t want to see Sorcha, didn’t want to keep the shields up on her and most certainly did not want her questions. His thoughts needed to be his own.
She had recognized him. He had seen that in the flicker of a frown on her brow; a tiny gesture that no one else could have spotted. However, he had grown up watching her beautiful face.
Merrick sat on the bed, his hands clenched on the edge. So it was that simple, that easy, to throw him straight back into the tumult of his childhood. His training as a Deacon might never have even happened.
He was just a boy again.
The door creaked open, because he had not locked it. He didn’t turn, but he heard her slip into the room.
The Deacon took a long breath and then faced her. He realized age had not dimmed the beauty of his mother; it had placed a fewe lines around her brown eyes but had left her thick, dark hair alone. His eyes drifted down to her swollen belly, and her hands strayed there as if protecting it.
“Ales.” She whispered the name he had given up.
“No, Mother”—he tugged his cloak tighter around him, so that the badge of the Eye and the Fist gleamed in the candlelight—“I gave up that name when I entered the Order.”
With a wince Japhne del Torne, once Baroness, still his mother, looked away. “We scoured the woods for you, then the city, but we just couldn’t find you . . . ”
“Merrick.” He spoke his chosen name. The hardness in his voice was completely beyond his control.
“Merrick.” Then she did the one thing that every mother held as a trump card—she cried.
He was ten again, standing in her chamber holding the broken remains of a delicate bowl her own dead mother had given her. He’d felt like a terrible human being when she’d burst into tears. Then as now, there was nothing to do but run to her and let the apologies flow.
It was different: her belly made any hug awkward, and now he towered above her. She still smelled the same, however: roses and warmth. The scent hit him in a primitive way, and Merrick cried too. The memories of leaving, the burning vengeance in his heart that had driven him from home, were as fresh as the day that they had happened.
“Mother”—he held her back at arm’s length—“what are you doing here? What of del Torne? Tell me what has happened!”
“Your half brother rules there,” she said flatly. “Berne came of age, and suddenly his stepmother was surplus to requirement.”
When her shoulders slumped, he guided her over to sit on the bed. Merrick dropped down to his knees and looked up at her. His elder half brother had been sent to be educated in the nearby Abbey when Ales had been just a toddler. He recalled that Berne looked very like their father, and he’d always assumed that the heir to the estate had a similar personality. Guilt washed over Merrick; blinded by his own pain and misery, he’d never spared a thought for his mother.
“Tell me what happened.” He squeezed her fingers.
Japhne brushed her tears. “I asked to move to the gatehouse—I would have been happy to end my days there—but he would have none of it. I was forced to go back to my brother’s home.”
Merrick knew his uncle Edrien was a prickly bag of bones and the main reason Japhne had married so very young. Returning to his care must have been galling for her. Da Nanth was in many respects a throwback to an earlier age—very like its neighbor Chioma. Women there did not hold property or title and were totally dependent on their male kin.
“That was where I received Onika’s suit,” she whispered. Her cheeks flushed red, and her hand rested on her ripe belly. “How he heard of me, I don’t know.”
The flower of Da Nanth—that was what they called her. Snatched up and married when she was but sixteen, even in the last days of her thirties she still deserved that title.
Although there was some part of Merrick that disliked that she had remarried, the logical part of him realized that she had few other choices. Japhne had been thrust into an untenable situation under her brother’s constantly watching eye—no position, and no way to support herself. So Merrick choked back his first reaction in his throat before it had a chance to escape.
His second thought was to wonder if the Prince took his crystal mask off beyond the throne room—but then the images of where he might do that were far too disturbing for any son to contemplate. Her swollen belly loomed large in his vision.
Instead, Merrick choked out, “What . . . what is he like? Does he treat you well?”
Her smile was soft. “He is very kind. I do not understand why he bothered with me, though—and I am certainly on the verge of not being able to bear any more children. So this was a surprise.” A gentle rub on her stomach communicated contentment and joy more succinctly than any words could. “I was just a wee slip of a girl when I married your father and had you. This feels very different—not bad—but different.” She settled back on the bed. “Now I want to hear about your life. I would never have guessed you would choose the Order.”
“I am sorry.” Merrick clenched his hand on hers. Opening the deep well of grief and guilt was something he had avoided doing for years, yet under the gaze of her gentle brown eyes he had no chance.
Japhne’s fingers ran lightly over his hair, her gaze distant. Merrick knew he looked very like his father.
“No need for sorrow—just tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what happened to my boy.”
Merrick shrugged, feeling the weight of the cloak and the badge. “I wanted vengeance for Father. I wanted to help others. I wanted to be a better Deacon than those who came to save him.” He smiled a little. “But Fate does
