waiting for her to tell him just how bad things were. And she knew the huge question weighing on his mind.
“Ask it.” Her voice was flat and distant, but she needed someone else to do it.
He rubbed his red gold beard, tilted his head and spoke under his breath. “Is Merrick dead?”
Unholy Bones, it hurt to hear it, though. Sorcha’s hands tightened into fists, but she had to revert to her training and not let emotions overrule her. Considering, she leaned back against the cool wall of the tunnel and stared down into the blackness where they’d last seen Merrick.
This was not the first instance where Sorcha had lost a partner, and that alone was the only reason she was able to stave off panic. Her recollection of those times had been nothing but pain, the disconcerting loss of Center and finally the weighty sensation of severance. It had, in short, felt as though a part of herself had been amputated.
Sorcha was almost afraid to try, but she closed her eyes and felt out along the Bond, like someone who had been burned in the past and feared being scorched again.
It took her a moment to reach the place where Merrick should have been. It was empty, but not in the aching void way that was caused by death. Her partner was not there, but the Bond remained as it had been.
“I don’t think he is dead,” Sorcha murmured, hesitant to appear as if she had only wishful thinking in mind, “but he is not in this world.”
“The Otherside? Surely he cannot survive there?” Raed reached out and took her hand.
The Young Pretender was definitely more aware of the nature of the Otherside than any other normal person in the Empire, but every child in the Empire knew that only spirits and geists could survive there. Flesh was not meant to exist in a place made of void and soul. Sorcha let out a long breath, fully tasting the bitter bile of helplessness.
She had to hold on to her belief in her partner. “You know Merrick as well as I do, Raed. He is a remarkable young man—and if anyone can survive—it is he.” In the back of her mind there were two little nuggets that she did not share with her lover. The first was, as insane as it sounded, they had some allies on the Otherside. The second was the existence of some kind of wild talent in Merrick.
“And we do still have a murderer out there and your sister to find—let’s concentrate on that. We can’t do anything to help Merrick right now.”
“You could open a doorway yourself . . . ” Raed ventured.
She shook her head slowly. “It is not something to be done lightly—and even if I went through, without Merrick I would be blind.”
Raed pressed his hand over his own eyes and rubbed them wearily.
“As you can imagine,” Sorcha whispered, “a blinded Deacon in a world of angry, vengeful geists would not be very sensible. We should focus on what we can do.” It sounded so very sensible—very orderly—and almost like she was at peace with the idea. It was very far from the truth.
“And what exactly can we do, Deacon Faris?” Raed looked at her so sternly that she was reminded of Merrick.
Sorcha tucked her Gauntlets back into her belt. “I am getting the feeling that the Prince of Chioma wanted Merrick and me to stay for some other reason than finding out about the Emperor. I suggest we ask him what that is.”
Raed’s eyebrow shot up. “Interrogate the highest royal in this kingdom? It’s that easy, is it?”
“For Deacons . . . yes, it is.” When Raed looked shocked, Sorcha smiled. “We are tasked with hunting out the unliving everywhere in the Empire—no exceptions.”
The Young Pretender kissed her; it was gentle, soft and not about passion. It was just what she needed.
Sorcha led the way back to the garden. None of the guards noticed there were only two people now—too busy trying to calm frightened women and keep them back from seeing the dreadful mess. She jerked her head at them. “We lost him in the tunnels.”
The innate authority of the Order worked in her favor again—no questions were asked, even in this distant principality. Drawing Raed over into the shadows, she pressed her hand lightly and briefly against his chest. The weak part of her wanted to fall into his arms, be kissed and looked after—but Sorcha had never been one of those sorts of women. “I don’t think we dare risk taking you back into women’s quarters. Meet me tomorrow morning in the audience chamber atrium.”
Back in her room, the dark was not friendly, lying warm and heavy over her like an unwelcome blanket. She could not stop thinking about Merrick when she knew she should have been thinking about Raed and keeping him alive. The vision from the spectyr still burned in her memory, but overlaid with it were imagined images of what might be happening to her partner.
She was struck with the terrible and sudden thought that by bringing her partner to Orinthal she might just have traded his life for that of the Young Pretender.
Carefully Sorcha closed her eyes and tried to find that calm Center that the Order had taught her so well. She had to trust in Merrick. The young man was strong, disciplined and intelligent enough to take care of himself.
Her sleep was full of tumbled and broken dreams, where all her past failings found her. Their gnawing gave her very little rest.
The next morning she felt so drained that it was an effort to get up. The Bond ached deeply like a sore tooth, reminding her that partners shared more than just a mental connection. Some of Merrick’s youthful energy usually leaked across to her and palliated the subtle twinges of her age. Without him there, they had come back full force. It was not that she was that ancient. The Order would have no plans to pull her from the field for many years, but the life of a Deacon was not an easy one. Old wounds ached, and broken bones remembered past outrages.
She sat up with a loud groan and found at the foot of her bed someone had laid out a beautifully embroidered turquoise silk robe—the design was birds of paradise and the symbol of Hatipai. Picking it up, Sorcha fingered the slippery fabric and considered what needed to be done. Without Merrick’s help it would be hard for her to get behind the Prince’s damned mask. She needed every weapon in her arsenal—and it was obvious that the Prince was partial to a pretty face.
Quickly Sorcha stripped and slipped into the robe. For a second she worried that she would have to leave her Gauntlets behind—something that she had never done since first earning them. Luckily, the robe contained pockets, so she was able to fold the thick leather over once and stuff them in there.
Feeling a little better knowing the seat of her power would remain close, she padded to the greatest luxury in all of Orinthal: cool, springwater showers. In a desert kingdom, water was more precious than gold or gems, so it was only fitting that the Prince provided his women with facilities that were the envy of all in Chioma.
The smell of running water, after so long in the arid heat, was enough to make Sorcha a little giddy and bring a smile to her unwilling lips. In Vermillion, a city that lived its life half on the turning tides of a lagoon, a place of bridges and canals, water was transportation—here it was life. The sound of it was by consequence magic.
The shower room was not huge—at most it could accommodate perhaps fifteen women—but it was spectacular. Thousands of lapis lazuli tiles coated the walls, while the water tumbled down from the ceiling and was guided into jets by gold spigots set just above head height. In the center was a dry raised area, where robes could be laid or women could sprawl—or both.
The mechanics alone of such a feat made Sorcha pause for breath. She was used to the austerity of the Order, where washing was considered a necessity—not something to be enjoyed. Dropping her robe in the center area, where she could keep an eagle eye on it, she stepped under the fall of water with something that distracted her mind for a few moments—anticipation.
She was not alone. Two groups of women were also taking advantage of the luxury of an early morning shower. The room’s undulating walls meant that they all had the illusion of privacy.
A pair of young women, one dark as night and the other with the olive skin of the north, watched her as covertly as possible with the eyes of deer observing a wolf. The darker beauty was being washed by the other, her skin covered in soap that smelled of lilies. It looked like she had been enjoying her friend’s ministrations right up until the moment she had seen the naked Deacon.
Sorcha wasn’t about to take that too personally. Even without her cloak or her Gauntlets, she was obviously recognized. Still, she gave them a little nod and moved on to the farthest stream of water. She kept her back to the
