Spectyr

the runes.

Though Raed was out there, if she made any move toward him, she was bound to get caught by the guards. Sorcha clenched her jaw tight, feeling a very odd sensation—a mixture of panic and desperation. Yet driving it was something even stranger—loneliness.

“What do I do?” she said to absolutely no one.

Ever since she could remember she had been surrounded by Deacons: teachers, fellow Initiates and her partners. Even before she had mastered the runes she had felt part of something greater and had known that whatever she did, they would be there to catch her.

No, Sorcha thought, I am not going to cry. To do so would have been weak and pointless.

Taking a deep breath, Sorcha pulled out a cigar from her pocket and lit it as a way of trying to find her focus. Pulling the thick smoke into her mouth, she held it there, letting it tingle on her tongue as she thought as logically as she could.

She could go to the Abbey in the city to throw herself on the mercy of her fellow Deacons, yet there was Hatipai hanging over that option like a dark cloud. The Prince himself had said he could not trust his Deacons—so there had to be some corruption there that the Mother Abbey was not aware of. It would not be the first time, she thought with a wry twist of her mouth. The Order she had once thought of as a towering megalith of protection for the common folk had lately been proven full of cracks.

Since the goings on in Ulrich, she was disabused of her former certainty in the sanctity of the Order. The Deacons, which Sorcha loved and believed in, had been compromised in both Ulrich and the capital of Vermillion. The Chiomese outposts were very different from any she’d ever seen—but the attachment to Hatipai made every one of her instincts prickle. Lately she had been forced to rely on her instincts more and more, but comfort she had once had in the Order she really did miss. Especially at moments like this.

However, throwing herself on the mercy of the Prince was just as dangerous. Looking down, Sorcha realized both her shirt and her arms were caked in blood, some of it dry and some of it still damp and sticky. If she was to do anything other than cower in this place, she had to fix that.

Burying her fingers in the sand, Sorcha used a handful to scrub as best she could. It got rid of most of the blood but dirtied her in equal measure. Her cloak was easy enough to turn around. The strange thought that popped into her head that the last time she had done this was at the funeral procession for Arch Abbot Hastler. Shortly after that, she and Merrick had broken the Young Pretender out of prison.

Raed . . . She swallowed. This was another mess for them—another one that meant more running and less time to be together. Even so, it wasn’t as if they could ever be an actual couple—a Pretender to the throne she had sworn to protect. Yet apparently her emotions knew none of that. She’d run through all the possibilities—and only he remained.

Propping her cigar on her boot, Sorcha closed her eyes and pushed out. The Bond, which she had made with so little thought, connected them and made it impossible for him to be lost as long as he was in the same world.

Something was wrong. Sorcha’s head began to hurt as she concentrated. Pain flared suddenly along every nerve ending she had, and the cause was the Bond. The Deacon pressed harder even as the agony continued. The Rossin was there, wrapped around Raed, but somehow shrinking and sliding away. The smell of sweat and panic filled her nostrils right up until the moment she could take no more.

With a shuddering breath she had to let go of the Bond. With the second round of the shakes setting in, Sorcha picked up her cigar and sucked a mouthful of smoke. It helped distract her from the echoes of pain still running through her body—since it felt like every muscle was spasming to its own rhythm. So she sat very still until it passed, focusing on the fact that, whatever else may be happening, Raed was still alive. What she did hold on to very tightly was that he was still alive.

Once Sorcha had finished, she stubbed out the cigar, brushed off her clothing as best she could, then with a little twinge of guilt, turned her cloak inside out and tucked the badge of the Eye and the Fist into her pocket. If the Order wasn’t going to look after her, then she would have to look after herself.

Merrick, she thought as she set off toward the Temple: Come back soon, because, by the Bones—I need your help.

TWENTY-FOUR Return to Reality

Merrick could not recall having fallen into sleep—yet he must have. His last memory was the smoothness of Nynnia’s skin, the warmth of lovemaking and the feeling of completeness. Unfortunately these were not sensations that could last.

I had to have this. He heard her in his dreams, her voice ringing like a crystal bell far off in the distance. I had to have this moment with you. I had to not just because it happened but for us. When I saw you that first time I had not forgotten your touch, your love. It was because of you I chose to be born back into the world.

The light of the Ehtia building on the Otherside burned against his eyelids, but he would not look. He didn’t want to see the Nynnia who lived there; he didn’t want the cold, bodiless image of her to overtake the one he had been holding just minutes before. She lived beyond his reach, and there was no comfort in that fact.

Instead, Merrick waited until the light receded and he could not hear her voice in his head anymore. He was empty. Only then did Deacon Chambers open his eyes.

He was lying in a pile of straw while a set of beautiful brown eyes were watching him. They were, however, not the ones he had fallen to sleep beneath. A very curious camel was breathing heavily on him—and hereatth was not sweet. In fact, it might have been the worst thing he had ever smelled had he not been dealing with geists for a long time.

Levering himself upright, Merrick found himself dressed when he most assuredly had been naked when last he lay down. More of Nynnia’s magic.

The young Deacon got to his feet and picked hay out of his cloak, while the offended camel jigged sideways, snorting and shaking its head on its long, shaggy neck. Thankfully she did not spit.

Looking around, the red mud buildings told him that he was once more in the Hive City, but when in time that might be exactly was another question. It came back to him with a rush. The Bond. The connection. Merrick’s vision blurred, and he was immediately relieved; Sorcha was nearby.

And if she was here, then Nynnia had managed to drop him back in the right place and time. The Ehtia were indeed powerful. Some part of him wished that he’d taken more notes, asked more questions—perhaps have brought back some of that power for the Deacons. Another part altogether wasn’t sorry for an instant of the time that he had managed to snatch with Nynnia.

Merrick walked in a somewhat tentative fashion from the yard and peered out onto the street, trying to orient himself. Turning his head to the left, he felt that was where Sorcha was. Her mood was easy to read: dark and despairing. Even in the madness under Vermillion, she had not felt like this.

Reaching along the Bond, he alerted her to his presence. Her reaction was an almost overwhelming surge of relief and delight. They had come a long way from that first awkward pairing that the Arch Abbot Hastler had thrust them into.

We are a good team. Her voice in his head was clear as a matins bell. Many partners in the Order would have been jealous of Merrick and Sorcha’s powerful Bond—if they had dared reveal it.

Raed! Sorcha directed Merrick’s attention to the other part of the Bond: the Young Pretender. Immediately he flinched back as pain burst through the connection.

Merrick groaned and doubled up, his hand going against the smooth mud wall to stop himself from falling. What exactly had happened while he’d been gone?

Find me. Sorcha’s call was her usually abrupt tone but mitigated by her genuine fear. Things are happening.

Like a needle seeking magnetic north, Merrick turned and strode toward her. After a moment he broke into a