Spectyr

partner. He was her partner, and he, unlike her, had family. That had to mean something.

When this situation is sorted out, she replied, we will talk about this.

Just help me find her. It was the voice of a son, traced through with love and fear. Some part of her yearned to have that loving connection with kin and was jealous that she did not.

Sorcha, who had never known her own mother, had however loved the Presbyter of the Young deeply. Merrick was her partner now, and his family was her family. “Where was she last seen this . . . ”

“Japhne,” Onika broke in. “Her name is Japhne, and she was in her bed. The baby was tiring her, so she went to her room early this afternoon to rest. This was before Hatipai’s madness infiltrated the palace.”

“Perhaps she is simply hiding from the rioters?” Sorcha glanced across at Merrick.

He was opening his Center, spreading it farther than she had ever felt him do before—the effort traveled through his body like a vibration and humming along the Bond.

“Nothing,” he gasped and reached for the Strop. Only the last two runes of Sight required the Strop, and she knew he meant to use the sixth one, Mennyt. Without questioning him, she drew her Gauntlets out from her belt and slipped their comforting weight over her hands.

Mennyt meant looking into the Otherside, and sometimes the Otherside could look back. She would protect her Sensitive. “Stand back, please, Your Highness.” The beaded curtain swayed before Onika, but he took several steps until he was against the wall of the audience chamber.

Merrick strapped the wide leather around his head, hiding his brown eyes behind the Runes of Sight carved into the Strop. Then he slid the round of obsidian, with his own personal sigil hammered into it, up on its brass loop to sit in a spot between his eyebrows. Sorcha was not sure if the Third Eye that it was meant to be covering was just some strange Sensitive myth, but she knew when it was brought into play, things were serious.

In the Bond everything went still as Merrick’s concentration sharpened to knifelike intensity, and his partner was once again reminded how powerful the young Deacon was. The brightest star of the novitiate. Despite a rocky start to their partnership, she was proud of him and the strength of what they had.

Still, looking into the Otherside was nothing to be taken lightly. Careful, Merrick, don’t look too deep.

The image of his mother, young, beautiful and laughing, bending down to kiss the top of his head, flashed through the Bond along with a surge of powerful emotion.

I have to know if she is there.

Merrick opened his Sight to the Otherside. The winds raged, and Sorcha swallowed panic. The view of the palace was different when seen through Mennyt; it was a wild place of dark shadows and whispering voices from unseen people.

Every building that had ever housed humans bore some echo of them after they were gone, but in places like palaces, where great and dreadful events played out, a geist could snatch away a human soul and leave the shattered remains to wander. Those who had been murdered were especially easy targets for the unliving—and this was what Merrick was looking for.

Now his Sight spread through the palace, looking for a familiar shape and yet terrified to find it. Some isolated survivors lingered in distant rooms, and some broken souls ripped from bodies still floated through the corridors.

Yet Merrick still cast about, delving deeper. Shadows grew darker, and the distance between the human world and the Otherside grew thinner, like someone rubbing at a painting with a piece of cloth. Now he was boring down until his blood called to her blood. Deep in the tunnels a few tiny drops called to him.

Merrick—that’s enough! Sorcha stretched out across the Bond to him. She knew all about going too far, having done it herself in front of the gates of the palace at Vermillion.

Eventually her partner heard her and pulled back. Looking deeply could draw the attention of things that were best left lying. With shaking hands, Merrick slid the sigil back on the Strop and undid the belt of leather from around his head.

“She’s not dead.” He turned to the Prince of Chioma. “By the Bones, she is not dead, but there is blood . . . just a little.”

“Then where can she be?” Onika sank down on the dais where his empty throne stood. None of the Deacons answered.

Blood was powerful magic when used with runes or cantrips even, and royal blood more powerful than that. And there were indeed terrible dark things that could be done to a pregnant woman and her child to summon geists. Sorcha sometimes hated the knowledge of a Deacon; it made dreaming or imagining a stained thing, and she was cursed with an active, powerful imagination.

“I wonder what they are planning.” Despite the horror of it, she found herself pondering what their unknown assailants would want with Merrick’s mother. He was doing the very same, though with considerably more pain and bleakness.

So drawn in by these dark thoughts was Sorcha, that for a minute she didn’t register the Prince’s movement—his raised hand to the swaying mask of beads.

“They are planning to make me pay.” His deep voice was edged with resignation and fury, and then he ripped the mask from his face.

Nothing else mattered. Sorcha dropped to her knees as if poleaxed, as the glory that was Onika filled her. He filled her with beauty and adoration, so much so that tears spilled from her eyes even as she raised her hands to him in supplication. Sorcha felt the true dawning of faith, and it cut more deeply than she had ever imagined.

He was everything, and life before had no meaning. It had been gray and hollow until this moment.

As if through a mist she heard Merrick cry out, his voice cracking, “Onika, please!” It sounded half a prayer, half an admonishment. Sorcha turned, her chest full of sudden anger. This was their god—how dare the young fool question him? She was going to tear his heathen eyes from his head.

Onika, with a sigh from his perfect mouth, bent, scooped up the mask and threw it around his head once more.

It was like plucking the sun from the sky. Sorcha sank back on her knees, a dreadful grief welling up to take the place of faith. It was hard to shake, but eventually, after wiping away her tears, she levered herself back to her feet. Merrick had recovered far more quickly and helped her.

Sorcha had read widely on the subject of the little gods; how they were foolish, and those that followed them were even more so. She had even as part of training studied the reckless religion of the Wyketel tribesmen in the forests of the West Highlands, and how even now they could not be persuaded to give it up. Having had a taste of faith, having seen a god on earth, she was a little more forgiving.

“A god . . . ” She shook her head.

“No.” Onika’s voice was firm but still angry. “Not a god—merely the son of a geistlord, Hatipai—one that has been pretending to be a god since before the Break.”

Her reaction was primitive and instant; Sorcha drew her sword, the ring of it sounding loud in the silent audience chamber. She should kill him now and save his people.

It was Merrick who brushed aside the point of her blade. “Onika abandoned his mother; he fought with the Ancients against her. He is not the threat here, Sorcha.”

“How do you know?” The prick of humiliation had her now, and she would not back down. She could feel the eyes of the Court on her, the held breaths, the aimed rifles.

“Because I saw. ” His fingers clenched on the tip of her blade. “Nynnia took me there, before the coming of the geists.”

Sorcha frowned. The sword wavered slightly in her hand.

“I was one of those who imprisoned my mother, along with the Rossin family and their geistlord.” Onika’s hands disappeared behind the mask, holding his head or crying, it was impossible to tell. “And this is her revenge. I was never able to have any sons of my body—until Japhne came into my life.”

He looked up at Merrick. “I remembered what you had told me, and I found love and acceptance as I never had in a thousand years. Even when I was not wearing the mask, somehow she still was able to love me as a man.”

Sorcha made up her mind, sheathed her sword in one smooth gesture and realized foolishly that she still had her Gauntlets on. “Then we have to get her back.”