there was an infinite kindness to the voice that promised cuddles and love.
“Sorcha!” Another voice, this one much closer and louder, caught the girl’s attention. She looked up into a beautiful face with a smile on it; a familiar face. The Presbyter of the Young, Pareth, with deep gray eyes, and a fine spider’s web of lines around her eyes and lips. She always smiled and always hugged Sorcha when not so many of her fellow Deacons did.
Sorcha didn’t see it as a child, but Merrick discerned concern in those eyes. Even secondhand, he noticed how her gaze lifted quickly left and right, trying to see if anyone was observing them. “Let’s go back to the garden, sweetling.”
Her hand on the girl’s shoulder guided her around, away from the door that had so raptly held her attention. The voices faded somewhat when in the presence of the Presbyter, and Sorcha lost interest in them, instead staring up at Pareth in adoration. She had a love in her that she needed to expend on a mother.
“Mother,” Pareth said, squeezing Sorcha’s little hand just a fraction. “Yes, your mother.” She paused and looked down at the girl at her side. “She was a good friend to me, your mother. We grew up in Jhou together, though I don’t suppose you can understand that yet.” Her frown made Sorcha fear that all was not well.
Pareth bent and kissed her face. “I risked much to get you into the Order, but you are worth it, sweetling.” Merrick understood then, how Sorcha had passed the deep search the Order had done into her past—the one that should have rooted out any taint of geist. As Presbyter of the Young, Pareth must have conducted such an investigation and distracted others from looking deeply.
Sorcha’s mouth puckered up, and she would have cried if Pareth had not swept her up hastily into her arms. The Presbyter bounced Sorcha high into the air, making her cry transform into a giggle of delight. The blue sky above seemed full of infinite possibilities—and all of them happy ones.
Pareth held the girl aloft there for a moment in her outstretched arms. Sorcha felt like she was flying, and she stared down at the Presbyter, full of love and joy.
“You are so like her,” Pareth whispered to her friend’s daughter. “Please hold on to that for as long as you can. By all the small gods, may none of your father ever touch you . . .”
With a jerk and a gasp, Merrick pulled free of the Bond. Sorcha’s blue eyes still bored into his.
“You see,” she murmured to her partner, “I could not remember anything from my childhood when you met me, but since I went into the Wrayth hive, everything has been coming back. They shook something free inside of me, and worse, I think they want me to know what I am. They want me to fear it.”
If he had not been her partner, Merrick would have attempted a lie—it would have been the kindest thing. He swallowed hard. “Yet, Sorcha, you would never be able to do what you just did without your Wrayth heritage.”
He observed her flinch and understood. The concept that a Deacon would have anything to do with being geist was an anathema—they had both been taught that. In the Order of the Eye and the Fist, such a Deacon would have been at best locked away in the infirmary, but it was far more likely they would have been given a swift death.
Merrick locked his hand around her elbow, holding her face-to-face with him when she might have turned away. “You are still yourself, and you can use what they have given you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand, dear Merrick.” Sorcha had never called him such a thing before, and it terrified him to hear her use it in this bleak moment. “I’ve been listening to their voices, and I understand now. The Wrayth were looking for a weapon—one that would link all geists together and then pull them into the mind of the hive. They realized that the powers that the Deacons control could be the bridge—that is why they started their damn breeding program.”
Now along the Bond Merrick saw the many despairing faces of the female Deacons who the Wrayth had taken and forced to be brood mares for their experiment. He was glad not to have seen that firsthand, but tasting Sorcha’s horror now gave the memory a particular sting.
“Never fear,” Sorcha whispered, placing her hand on his shoulder, “I have you as my anchor. We have done great things before, and I trust you.”
The words struck him so deeply that for a moment he couldn’t reply. Looking deeply into Sorcha’s eyes, he realized that she meant what she said; she had wrapped her sense of self tightly around him. His partner was relying on him to keep her from slipping completely into whatever geist heritage the Wrayth had given her.
Merrick looked back at her and replied as calmly as he could. “What if I am not enough, Sorcha? I’m not as strong as you think I am . . . not like the Wrayth is. It is Ancient, whereas I am . . .”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, her gaze going glassy and distant, but when it returned to him, she shook her head. “You are the Sensitive who traveled to the Otherside, who stood before the leader of the Circle of Stars and retrieved your mother from his grip. You have never really acknowledged your own strength, Merrick.”
He swallowed on that. All that she said was true enough—he was proud of those accomplishments in his own way—but he was not sure any of that had any bearing on this situation. Still, he knew this conversation was best abandoned—at least for now. They had a city to reclaim and not long to do it.
“Very well,” Merrick said, turning toward the door and breaking the gaze with his partner, “I will send word to Raed it is safe to enter the city.” They had not thought it a good idea to bring the Young Pretender into a city occupied with geists. Even if the Rossin had been very quiet in the last few days, they could not risk him running riot among the traumatized survivors.
Sorcha sunk into a chair, as if the strength had suddenly gone out of all her limbs. “Once you have done that, come back here. I have an idea for our next move.”
Merrick did not dare ask her further questions. His partner had been working without sleep for two days, and considering her recent performance, he just wanted her to get an hour’s rest.
The mold was cast, and they were well on the path now. Still, despite her exhaustion, Merrick had one final thing to ask. He had not forgotten the visceral fear of the lad whose head he had ridden in.
“Eriloyn,” he said firmly, “the boy who brought us to this place; he had the gift of a Sensitive in him. I will send Melisande to find him. Many of the survivors have the latent gifts, which make them excellent candidates for us to swell the ranks of our Deacons.”
She nodded. “I was thinking the very same thing.”
“Then I will get those who can test moving among them.” Merrick’s hand was on the door handle, when he turned back. “The Enlightened, Sorcha? The Harbinger? Where did they come from?” She had mentioned nothing of her decisions to rename the Order to him—or to take up a new title.
She stood a little straighter, and against the rising light of dawn coming in through the window her hair seemed as red as fire. “We must be more than the Order, Merrick. Better. We have to share what we know, because ignorance has not helped one citizen of the Empire. Things will be different if we survive all this.”
She did not explain her choice of Harbinger however, and she didn’t need to; the intent was written on her face. As Merrick set off about his tasks, the understanding settled in his belly like a heavy stone. Sorcha was indeed what she had named herself: the herald of things to come.
The Orders throughout history had many schisms and changes, and he just had to hope that Sorcha knew what she was about. History was also littered with the broken remains of Deacons whose reach had far exceeded their grasp.
SIXTEEN
The Lost Prince
From the outskirts of the city, Raed saw the lights in the sky, and deep in his belly he felt the pull of the geists. Aachon, who stood at his side, rested one hand on his shoulder and let out a long sigh.
Raed shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. His first mate—even though they had abandoned the
