thinks.”
Then the Ehtia surrounded him, hugging him, whispering thanks in his ear—while Nynnia and Merrick stepped back.
The weight of sorrow pressed on the Deacon—especially as he knew how many lonely years Onika would have to endure. As the crew of the ship began to clamber back into the hatches, Merrick squeezed Nynnia’s hand and went to speak to the Prince. “Thank you for what you are doing, Your Highness. The people of Chioma might not know what you sacrificed to keep them safe, but others do.”
“I have to be a hero,” Onika muttered, “or become like her.”
“Then I hope you remember this—” Merrick paused, caught by the circular nature of this weird logic, before plunging on. “In the time of an Emperor called Kaleva, seek out a woman known as the flower of Da Nanth.”
“Da Nanth?”
Naturally he wouldn’t know of the principality—because it had not yet been created. It almost hurt his head to think about it, so he merely smiled. “Trust me, it is a place—though not yet.”
The Prince frowned, but a spark of something that felt like hope lurked in his expression. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Do not thank me”—Merrick clapped him on the shoulder—“thank Nynnia.”
The Prince smiled uncertainly and embraced the woman. “Go safe into that place, old friend—part of me wishes I could come with you.” He kissed the top of her head.
She laid her hands over his for an instant. “You have your people to take care of, Onika—and where we go, you cannot.”
The Prince turned and sketched a little bow in Merrick’s direction, the beaded mask swaying. Onika’s voice was smooth, strong and just as it would be when next they encountered each other in throne room in the Hive City. “I find myself looking forward to meeting you again, Merrick Chambers.”
As the Prince of Chioma left, the Deacon recalled his first meeting with the Prince. Looking back on it, he presumed Onika had recognized him. That damn mask always concealed so much—it was hardly a surprise that the ruler had developed a reputation as a mystery.
“Why can he not go with you?” Merrick found himself whispering to Nynnia.
She sighed and tapped him lightly on the arm, as if a teacher correcting a pupil who should have known better. “Think of it: a half human/half geist in that place. He would be torn apart by the geistlords shackled as he is with a mortal frame. They feed on the energy of their own kind there.”
The Deacon shivered as he recalled the landscape of that dread place.
“Still, Onika made quite the impression on you, didn’t he?” Nynnia’s eyebrow crooked, and a slight smile lurked and her delectable lips.
“He certainly is . . . different.” Merrick wrapped his arm around her waist. “Though my Emperor is a fine person, still some part of me is always surprised that anyone in power can be good—let alone the son of a ‘goddess.’ ”
She nodded thoughtfully and then led him back into the tunneling machine. “I confess, we did not believe Onika when he first offered us his help. Many doubted that he would turn against his mother—but he proved himself.” She took his hand and pulled him along a long corridor.
“Where are we going?” His stomach clenched as the machine began once again to descend—this time with no terrifying rolling.
“As Onika said”—Nynnia squeezed his fingers—“Mount Sytha. All of our people are gathering there to perform the ceremony.”
The Nynnia on the Otherside had said there was a reason for her to send him here, and then she would bring him back to his own time. Merrick didn’t want to go back—even if this world was falling apart. This was where Nynnia was still alive.
He knew that Sorcha was back in his own time, his mother too—and both Merrick knew were in deadly peril. The Deacon found himself torn between duty and happiness.
“And then what?” he asked, terribly afraid of the answer.
Nynnia stood poised with one hand on a door handle, her brow furrowed. “We have to atone for our crimes: swear off the use of weirstones and runes. Give up our bodies.”
“You’re leaving this world,” Merrick whispered. “Traveling to the Otherside.”
A muscle in her jaw twitched as she gave a sharp nod. “If we stay, Hatipai and the other geists will tear this world apart hunting us. We will go to the one place she dares not follow. Having anchored herself into this world with a focus, she can no longer go back to the Otherside—nor would she want to—the human meat here is so much sweeter. So, with our knowledge, we can build a place there—and maybe one day come home when it is safe.”
Merrick pressed his lips together and closed his eyes—remembering the tales of that Dark Time. The suffering the people of this time were about to endure would be terrible. Yet from that maelstrom would arise the Order, the Rossin dynasty, and eventually the Empire. It would take hundreds of years, but they would conqueror the geistlords, even Hatipai, and learn to contain the lesser geists.
Nothing he could do would change that. Nor should it.
Nynnia pushed open the door, and he saw that it led into a small bedchamber with a reasonably sized bed bolted to the wall. A luxurious cerulean quilted blanket brightened what would otherwise have been rather bleak accommodations. He drew in his breath and shot the woman at his side a confused look. “Nynnia, I—”
She stopped his words most effectively by pulling his mouth down to hers. The kiss was long, desperate and sweet. When she finally let him go, her brown eyes were wide and her smile crooked. “When we leave this world, Merrick Chambers, we Ehtia will abandon our bodies—become part of the Otherside. I intend to give mine a proper send-off.”
The Deacon’s blood raced. Merrick wanted to grab what time there was that remained, but his gentlemanly sensibilities wouldn’t let him take total advantage. “You hardly know me.”
The pad of her thumb brushed his mouth. “But I know you love me, and sime in the future, however that may happen, I will love you. When we next meet, I would have one of us remember these moments.”
The Deacon’s mind did another flip. It was all too complicated and painful.
“We will love each other,” Merrick replied and let himself be led into her bedroom. He said nothing of them losing each other again. That pain could wait.
Once the door was shut, nothing outside mattered. The Deacon did not care to think that this would be the one and only time for them—he pushed that realization as far back as he could. He would have her find nothing bitter in his mind.
Instead, Merrick took his time undressing Nynnia, even as she raced to strip him of his cloak, shirt and breeches.
“So young,” she breathed, looking up at him. The comment was soft and almost sadly said.
Nynnia would in fact have taken a step back, but Merrick paused unbuttoning her blouse and captured her hand, pressing it firmly against his bare chest. “You will be young again someday—the very one we meet.”
She frowned, shook her head, laughed and then leaned forward to kiss him. Perhaps there wasn’t as much meaning for her as there was for him, yet it was still precious. Merrick delighted in her unashamed trust, when he released the last of her rather intricately tied trousers and she stepped back to allow him to look at her.
“You are beautiful, Nynnia,” he said through a voice grown abruptly rough with desire. It was no lie; she was. However in the future she regained her youth, for right now, she had a lithe, muscular body, only slightly touched by age. He thought it ripe like a fruit brought to sugar and fullness.
Merrick ran his hand down her right arm and felt the ridges of five wide scars that streaked from shoulder to elbow. As he slid his palm around her, he was able to make out that they in fact took in half her back.
Nynnia looked at him so very earnestly. “Very few escape the geistlords without some sort of mark. I hope they don’t put you off—”
When he bent and ran the sweep of his tongue against the ridges, she stopped mid-sentence and let out a low groan. Then Merrick pulled her with him as he flopped back on the bed. The sensation of the full length of their bodies pressed against each other with no unnatural hindrance was bliss.
