hold it eade human world. It scrambled, it fought, but then the terrible void took it.
Sorcha closed her fist on Tryrei, and the crack was sealed. Just as suddenly as it had come, the terrible noise and fury was gone. The two Deacons stood in the silent warehouse and stared at each other, not even panting.
“Nynnia was here.” Sorcha took a deep breath. “She used that last spectyr to send us a message.”
Her partner’s deep brown eyes studied her for a minute. The Bond between them was stronger than any normal Deacon pairing—she had no doubt Merrick had seen a portion of what she had.
Carefully Sorcha removed her Gauntlets, folded them up, and took out the remains of her cigar. The sole window in the warehouse attic looked over the mercantile quarter and toward the Imperial Palace.
Merrick stood beside her, by now used to her smoking and her silences. For a young man he was very good at being still. He was well aware of his partner’s feelings for the Young Pretender but also of the bind they were in. Even in the best of times no Deacon was a free agent. And these were not the best of times, for Arch Abbot Rictun had them under close observation. He would never let them leave Vermillion.
Sorcha inhaled the smoke, letting it sit heavy in her mouth for a moment before exhaling it toward the window. She was trying to logically assess the situation, but each time she did, she saw Raed’s dying gasp. “He’s not dead yet,” she said calmly, “or we would have felt it.” An attempt to control the Beast inside the Young Pretender had also ended up binding the two Deacons to the fugitive—a triple Bond.
“It could be a trap,” Merrick replied softly, pulling his cloak around him.
“Yes.” She blew a smoke ring. “It very well could be. Yet—”
“—apparently we have allies on the Otherside.” Her partner glanced up and then away. Nynnia had undoubtedly been more than human, but neither of them had expected to hear from her after death.
Sorcha examined the glowing tip of her cigar. “But we don’t know what her nature really is. Quite a bit to hang our future on, don’t you think?”
“Raed is our friend . . . more than that.” Merrick’s mind reached out, tugging on the Bond like a boy might pull on a fence wire to test its strength. The part between them sang, and there was a distant whisper of the one between them and the Young Pretender.
Sorcha had made the Bond in haste, but none of them had been able to cut it. Wordlessly, both Deacons reached out for the Young Pretender, searching for the connection they had spent the last three months denying. He was out there somewhere—they could tell that—but too far for them to sense very much else.
“I saw them kill him, Merrick.” Sorcha turned to her partner, her blue eyes gleaming in the half-light. “We can’t let that happen—even if it is a trap.”
He sighed, looked up at the ceiling as if searching for answers from some uncaring little god. But when he looked back, on his lips was a wry smile. “No—you’re right—we can’t. The trick of it though will be getting the Arch Abbot to agree to us leaving.”
Sorcha’s expression was amused as she knocked the end off her cigar to save for another occasion. “We’ve spent long enough playing by Rictun’s rules. There’s no fun in it anymore.”
Her partner’s reaction was a slightly nervous laugh—but he didn’t for one second try to stop her. Sorcha knew it was another reason she liked the boy.
THREE
The Bonds of Duty
The instant a drunk sailor grabbed the quartermaster’s behind and then pulled her into his lap, Raed knew there would be trouble. Laython was a kindly sort of woman, but she only liked to be manhandled by those she knew.
Her scarred hand grabbed up the nearest object, in this case a full mug of ale, and smashed it against the offending sailor’s head. The crew of the
Raed, who had long been without a decent brawl, joined them. He might be the Young Pretender to the throne, with a royal lineage going back to before the Break, but he was not the sort to put himself above his crew.
The wharf-side bar was packed with more than three ships’ complements, and since night had fallen they’d all been waiting for a moment to get some trouble started. Before he knew it, Raed was in among the swinging, swearing mass of sailors, giving just as much he got. He was splashed with a goodly amount of ale but found he was grinning.
Looking almost haughty, his very tall first mate pulled a red-faced man off Raed. It had crossed the Young Pretender’s mind more than once that Aachon should have been born the Prince—not he.
“Is this not, perhaps, an inappropriate pastime for you, my—” The first mate paused and managed to stop himself before his said “Prince.” “My captain?”
Raed took the offered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. “We’re in a rough, isolated little port town —what else is there to do?”
He caught a glimpse of Aachon’s dark eyebrows drawing together into a dire expression but then found himself whirled away by another opponent. Raed grappled with him, getting in a few good punches, before the larger man tossed him through the pub’s window.
Luckily, this particular establishment was not exclusive enough to afford glass, and Raed sailed through where it would have been, only catching his shoulder against the shutters. He landed on the ground, had the breath knocked out of him, and lay there for a second. Slightly dazed, he contemplated when he’d last felt this unfettered.
Before he had met the Deacons Sorcha Faris and Merrick Chambers, he had spent very little time on dry land. The Beast inside him was triggered by the nearness of other geists, and so he had spent his life on the open sea. Until that safety too was denied him. So, indeed, it had been a very long time.
When Aachon flew through the window and nearly landed atop him, Raed couldn’t help bursting into real laughter. It must have taken at least three men to sling the first mate in such a way. As Raed pushed him off his chest, he was reminded of his friend’s considerable weight.
He was just about to commiserate with Aachon, when he realized that a pair of fine boots were standing only a few inches from their heads. Cautiously he rolled onto his side and looked up at their owner.
And there she was. Captain Tangyre Greene looked down at him with an odd sort of smile tugging the corner of her lips. She was older than the last time they had talked, though her hair had always been gray, and the long scar on the right side er face earned in the service of the Unsung was as deep as ever.
“Tang!” Raed bounded to his feet. “You remember my first mate, Aachon?”
The brawl inside was reaching some kind of crescendo, and another body was tossed through the window. Laython landed nearby, cursing through her split lip.
“Oh, and my quartermaster.”
“Still the same old Raed.” Tangyre dusted off Raed’s shoulders. “But I am surprised with you, Aachon—how can you let your captain get into such antics?”
“Even I cannot perform miracles, Captain Greene.” The first mate rolled to his feet. Behind them the noise in the pub had died down, and all that could be heard were the cheers of the
Raed and Aachon did not join them. Instead, the Young Pretender clapped Tangyre in a tight embrace. She had been one of the few officers in the Unsung’s forces who had treated a young Prince like a friend rather than a royal. “Wonderful to see you again, Tang. What brings you from the Isles?”
She pulled back, and the hint of a smile on her lips faded. Suddenly Raed knew that her arrival was more than coincidence. “My Prince”—she seldom called him that, and his stomach lurched appropriately—“if only I could come on the wings of better news.” From her belt she produced a folded missive and held it out to him like it was poisoned.
