Wrayth

to boil again. He sorely felt Sorcha’s absence at his back. However, thinking of his partner helped him keep a hold on his anger. Yet only just.

“What are you doing here?” Merrick managed to keep his tone soft, but not necessarily civil.

“I should ask you the same question.” The man, whose real name was most likely nothing like del Rue, smiled and took a long draft of his wine. “After all, I am not the one with a darkling shard in my soul.” That piercing gaze narrowed—in an instant going from charming to razor sharp.

Merrick jerked back, feeling his skin grow suddenly cold. In Ulrich he had been forced to take a sliver of the soul of a slain Deacon into himself to unravel a conspiracy within a Priory. It had been his only choice, and he thought to outrun any consequences from it. Yet here was this man pointing it out like it was a red letter painted on his cheek.

“It does make you rather stand out my young friend.” Del Rue picked up one of the tiny cups filled with candied fruit and began to nibble at it. “As does that wild talent of yours. Quite the conflicted little bundle aren’t you?” He tapped his spoon against the bowl. “Still I am not surprised anyone in your Order missed it. They are as near blind as to make no difference.”

It was unnerving that the man was able to place verbal jabs into the most vulnerable places. However Merrick was not going to show how well they were hitting home. “Maybe I am conflicted, but if I turn around and tell everyone here how we met it is you that will be reduced to a little bundle.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he put down his little half-eaten cup of fruit. He smiled. Then he laughed. It was loud enough to draw the attention of the glittering folk nearby. Undoubtedly they were wondering whatever a dour Deacon could possibly say to get such a reaction.

The older man’s expression was now ice-cold. “Tread carefully, Merrick. I am a close confidant of the Emperor. He trusts and values my opinion, whereas you are merely a Deacon—a Deacon with a terrible reputation.” He leaned forward. “Who will believe you—the Emperor? Or perhaps your Arch Abbot who hates you?”

Merrick felt his throat close up, words deserting him. Yet he opened his Center and examined the older man through it. Nothing. Despite what he had seen in the tunnels in Chioma, and the sly smile on the Native Deacon’s face, not a trace or hint of power could be seen. It was impossible. Merrick knew himself to be one of the strongest Sensitives in the Order, and yet this man was a blank slate—no more talented than the servers whisking away their used dishes.

All he could tell—and that was by looking—was that del Rue was amused. He flicked his fingers at the Deacon. “Now go on, scuttle away. I have more important matters to attend than yours.”

He turned away from Merrick.

As the young Sensitive made his way back to the Grand Duchess’ side, his mind swirled chaotically. His first thought was of his mother. She was kept largely away from Court life, and had Lyon to look after, so she must not have ever run into del Rue; something that her older son could only be grateful for. Yet, if he tried to use her as a witness, then perhaps she would be a target again. He wasn’t even sure how clearly she had seen her abductors in Chioma. Too much had happened in one night, and it would take a few moments to come to any kind of decision.

Zofiya smiled at him as he approached and a horrible possibility leapt into his mind. Del Rue knew that he had the ear of the Grand Duchess. She could be in danger as well.

However, he realized he was in the more dangerous position. Whatever the Native Deacon was up to, he was surely not yet ready to risk murdering the Emperor’s sister—who besides everything was much harder to kill than might be supposed. Even though right now she looked like merely another Court beauty.

So Merrick let her take his arm and lead him out of the flow of the party.

“Merrick,” Zofiya whispered, her fingers tightening around his wrist, “you have gone frighteningly pale, which I am not taking as a good sign.”

The Deacon could feel her; not the woman at his side, but the woman he shared a Bond with. His Active was getting farther and farther away from him. She was his responsibility, they were Bound tightly together—closer than siblings or lovers—and yet she was not his highest calling. The vows he’d taken, along with every other Deacon, echoed in his head like uncompromising drums.

I promise to protect and shelter Imperial citizens from all attacks of the unliving—even to the end of my mind, body and soul. I shall never lie down before the geists and give up a mortal while they have soul or breath.

The Order had never lectured on this particular choice, but they did school them that every Deacon was disposable. As a student, Merrick had nodded and agreed—but it was quite different when faced with the reality. With a start, he glanced up and saw that the Grand Duchess had guided him toward the edge of the partygoers that lingered in the hallway outside the ballroom. The guests were chattering on—completely unaware of the dangerous currents that flowed around them.

Zofiya, despite her beautiful form, was not so blind. Her eyes, clear gray against the darkness of her skin, fixed on him. “What is it, Merrick? Do you know this man? Is he a danger?”

The Deacon opened his Center. Once again he could feel nothing in the air. It was more terrifying than anything. A blind Sensitive was worth nothing.

“Not here,” he whispered to her. Now he was the one to take her hands and pull her away. Together, they moved as quickly as they could back deeper into the palace where hopefully even Sensitive ears could not overhear them.

EIGHT Blood Ties

The Rossin was whispering in Raed’s ear. Cruel, unpleasant things. Things about his sister, and how she would not turn from her path. They would have to kill her. Ahead he could hear the echo of familiar laughter. His mother had laughed like that once. Long ago.

You cannot trust her, you know that. You’ll just give her another chance to kill you. The Beast growled into the back of his skull. She’ll succeed this time and then the Empire will be ripped apart.

Raed did not answer—mainly because he had no answers to give. All he had was the now, and this eerie puzzle box of a fortress. The Young Pretender did not like the fact that this palace had no windows and no guards on these deeper levels.

He would have given anything to have Aachon, or Merrick, or most especially Sorcha at his back.

“Instead all I have is you,” he impotently whispered to the Rossin, “and a rather piss-poor companion you are.”

The minute he spoke, Raed realized that it had been a bad choice to do so. His voice slithered and echoed in these corridors for far too long. He came to a halt, his heart racing in his chest until the reverberations stopped. Only then did he move, treading as fast and silently as he could.

Reaching a dead-end corridor Raed paused—but now in confusion. He could still hear the laughter, but there was no door or window it could be coming through. Dropping to his knees he discerned that there was a grate in the floor, where the faint breeze and the laughter emanated from. The Rossin sensed something else though. It was not any sound that caused the beast in his head to rage; it was a smell.

Kill them. Break them. Take what is theirs.

The words sounded so loud in his skull that Raed had to stop and draw in several long deep breaths with the kind of concentration that probably only should have belonged to a Deacon. Then, slotting his fingers into the grate, he pulled it loose and stared down into the vent. It was going to be a tight fit.

He was not frightened of narrow spaces—years of living on a ship saw to that—but he was a little nervous about being down there if the Rossin should break loose. Still, it was not like he had a choice. Luckily, months of harsh travel had whittled his frame down considerably, and he was able, with a significant amount of wriggling, to get himself into the shaft.

This was the most curious of palaces for a Pretender to the throne to find himself. The air was warm and uncomfortable as he tried his best to keep his breathing low and quiet. Raed passed three junctions, and at each of