Grand Duchess felt a soft smile curl her lips. Perhaps, if this could happen, then all was not lost.
It was not her usual way, but she rushed over and hugged Japhne tight. The baby wailed while waving his tiny fists at her, and she observed how his eyes were now the same brown as his half-brother’s. Zofiya kissed one of the hands wriggled in her direction and laughed. It felt like the first laugh in a very long time.
When Japhne had first come to the palace, she had been a stranger, but after so many nights sitting up with her, Zofiya dared to count her a friend. She wondered how to broach the subject of her love affair with her grown son . . .
“Joyful reunions will have to wait,” the Deacon rumbled as he shut the door behind the Grand Duchess. “There is much to do and not much time left.” She noted that he had a saber readily at hand by the bookcase, and despite his age, looked as though he could handle it. He too sketched a bow, but his was considerably less practiced and less deferential.
Zofiya tucked her arm around Japhne’s waist, and narrowed her eyes on the man. “I have only just arrived here, and—”
“It does not matter how tired you may be, daughter of Delmaire, people of your Empire are dying as we speak.”
That he dared interrupt her, Zofiya did not mind—she had her fair share of that from Sorcha in these last few months—but that he did not even introduce himself was quite unacceptable.
Japhne slipped free of her and stepped over to the old man. “Please don’t mind Garil Reeceson, Imperial Highness. We have been many months here waiting for your return. In that time, confinement and a baby’s fussing have robbed him of his manners.”
The old man stared at the woman for a moment, but it was impossible to become angry with Japhne del Torne. His shoulders slumped as if all the energy suddenly drained out of him, and he allowed himself to be led to a nearby chair. Japhne put her young son on his lap, and a smile sprang to the old man’s mouth. Yes indeed, his roommate did know how to handle him.
“Forgive me, Imperial Majesty,” Reeceson said, slumping back in the chair as the baby pawed at his face. “Prescience is a difficult burden to bear, especially in these times.”
Zofiya swallowed back his continued impertinent and far too presumptuous use of the wrong title; instead she tucked her hands behind her back and waited. Prescience was something many claimed to have—both geistlords and various Deacons. You could also apparently find it in wizened women at fairground attractions— Zofiya gave all of them the same amount of credence.
Behind her, a chill wind from the garden whipped in through the open window and ruffled her hair playfully. She was in no mood.
Reeceson glanced up, smiled and shook his head. “Yes, that is the look most folk give me, but the wild talents are not appreciated as they once were—before the Break.”
“Tell me what you see, and I will be the judge of how much I appreciate it,” she snapped back.
“The cataclysm is coming,” the Deacon replied bluntly, dandling the baby on his knee as if he were merely speaking of the weather. “The Circle of Stars have found a way to weaken the barrier between our realm and the Otherside. Soon enough they mean to destroy it entirely.”
Merrick had told her as much before she left, but she was surprised to hear it from this old Deacon. He had no markings, nor his Strop—so how could he possibly know such things?
She swallowed hard. “And what do you think I can do about that, old man? I am the sister to the Emperor, not your Sorcha Faris. I look after the Empire, Deacons look to the Otherside.”
He flinched slightly. “I have a message to send to her, that is for certain, but it will be your task to become what you were always meant to be . . . the Empress.”
“That will do!” Zofiya snarled. “I am no Empress. I am merely regent until my brother returns and takes his place again!”
Reeceson tilted his head, his eyes closing for an instant. “I can see you are not ready for my words yet, so perhaps I will offer something more certain.” He handed the child back to Japhne and levered himself out of the chair.
He was older than he looked, the Grand Duchess guessed, just by the way he moved. When he gestured to the carpet in the middle of the stone floor, Zofiya helped him roll it back. A door in the floor was revealed with an elaborate series of carvings in it. They were not runes but cantrips.
Reeceson smiled to himself. “Do you know that cantrips are actually far older than the runes? They are examples of the earliest form of reaching for power in this realm. It was only with the arrival of the geists that they came into their own. Now we consider them lesser . . .”
“For a man determined to hurry up you really are taking your time about it.” Zofiya could feel her patience waning with every breath. The palace at Vermillion had many secrets, and a protected entrance into the depths of the oldest tower in it was certainly a juicy one.
Reeceson laughed and leaned down. He touched his finger to where a lock form was etched on the red stone. He whispered a word to it, and a sharp crack echoed in the chamber.
“Impressive,” Zofiya muttered despite her best intentions to remain unfazed.
The once-Deacon shrugged. “We have been in this tower for quite a while. I have had a great deal of time to work on it.” A set of hinges had emerged from the stone, slicing upward along with a circle of metal that had to be a handle. Together he and the Grand Duchess pulled.
When finally the hatch gave up and swung open, it was without noise.
Reeceson gripped her arm. “What you are about to see you can never reveal to your brother. He would use it to cause even more destruction to the people of this Empire.”
Zofiya had no idea what he was talking about, until she spun on her heel and peered down into the pit they had opened. She needed no light to make out what was in there, because the weirstones were stacked high and gave off their own eerie glow.
“With these,” Reeceson whispered at her shoulder, “you can start to save lives, and stop your brother taking any more.”
Her mind raced over the possibilities. She thought of Deacon Petav and those he must be gathering. She would have to tread very carefully or fall into the dangerous trap her brother had. Too much power could be a heady thing, and she felt she was teetering on the very edge.
Still it was a start. Her luck was still holding. She turned and smiled uncertainly at Garil Reeceson. “I will do my very best.”
THIRTEEN
Girding the Order
Sorcha felt as though she’d been drifting along a gentle forest creek that had suddenly and abruptly turned into a tumultuous white-water ride. In the beginning she’d been so busy fleeing the Circle of Stars that she hadn’t thought of turning to fight. Now it felt as if she was being shoved that way. It was useless to dig in her toes now —better to dive in and go with it.
Merrick’s visions, the thinning of the barrier, and now the revelation of the traitor told them all that they could no longer afford to hide. Before the deaths in the citadel, all of the Brothers had been merely scattered survivors hanging on to their scars and memories. The revelation of an infiltrator among them had given the Order something to rally around. Now they had a mission and that seemed to make all the difference.
Without Zofiya, Sorcha worried that her partner would never sleep again. While Sorcha felt stronger than ever, she could see the toll it was taking on Merrick. It was not just the lack of sleep—it was what he was doing.
Two days after the exposure of the reason the cantrips had failed, he had locked himself away with his Conclave and the rune Mesa. That was all the time Sorcha had felt comfortable giving him. When his partner caught a rare sight of him, she observed his pale look and deep shadows lingering around his face. However, she did not chivvy him about it, knowing full well that all of them were under strain, and all close to breaking.
Sorcha and Raed busied themselves by stepping up the search for lost brethren. While Merrick and his
