Wrayth

time with her. Sorcha suspected something within him was warning of the unnatural nature of her recovery. He was not, however, a fully trained member of the Order and so his concerns remained unconfirmed.

Sorcha would work to keep it that way.

So instead she started off dragging her arm over the shoulder of the surprisingly strong captain, and took her exercise like a good little recovering invalid. In another day, she had moved to just holding on to the crook of his arm. While they walked, the two of them talked, and despite their age difference and their different professions, it was a pleasant way to spend the time. Captain Lepzig, it turned out, was quite the wit, and several times had Sorcha in hysterics with his dry humor. One would never have suspected it from a member of the Imperial Fleet.

Three days after her recovery, Sorcha was making another tour of the Autumn Eagle, first thing in the morning. It was almost becoming a habit.

Sorcha no longer needed Lepzig to hold her up. He merely hovered nearby just in case she should fall. The Deacon would not normally have liked such mothering, but the captain was a kind man, and it would have been humiliating to fall on her face.

However as she felt strength returning to her legs, she was also feeling her concerns mount. Having successfully managed to shove aside the fact she owed a favor to a geistlord, she began to think of finding Raed and bringing him home. Wherever that might be.

She missed him. Standing upright, she could face that. She had missed Raed Syndar Rossin in all those months, and now she wanted nothing more than to see him again. Her memory kept reminding her how good his skin on hers had felt, how his smile made her feel. When she found him, she would not let him out of her sight again—no matter what the Rossin or the Order did.

Sorcha leaned on the gunwales and smiled. The land below was hidden by a mass of thick white clouds, and for some reason this made her unreasonably optimistic. In this stillness, she heard voices talking beyond the stack of barrels on the deck. It irritated her for a moment, until she recognized the voice of Captain Lepzig and his first mate.

Haltingly, she walked toward the voice, ready to reveal herself and share how much she was enjoying the day sailing above the skies, until she heard the tone in his voice and the word he whispered. “War.”

The Deacon stopped, the moment of joy draining away. Instead of revealing herself, she hitched herself into the shadows, folding her cloak about her.

“Surely not, Captain…” Sorcha could see the first mate of the Autumn Eagle’s head flicking around, but she was good at hiding when she had to be.

From her position she observed Lepzig’s magnificent mustache ruffled by the breeze. “Think about it, Melso. You can almost feel it in the air.”

The first mate was silent a moment and then muttered, “I did find it mighty strange when we hailed the Sunrise Dove last week, and she didn’t reply to our signal. We were at the same altitude even.”

Sorcha glanced forward to where great lanterns with shutters were hung. Next to them, two large scarlet flags would take care of communication during the day. An Imperial Airship not communicating with another— strange but not a reason to think of war. She wondered if all this lonely toing and froing around the continent was getting to Captain Lepzig and his crew.

Lepzig however nodded. “And think of what we’ve been ordered to do of late. Shoring up the garrisons, bringing in troops—and all the time not to speak of it to anyone.”

Now he really had Sorcha’s attention. Troop movements could only mean that the Emperor was feeling vulnerable. The Princes in the most isolated kingdoms were always prone to delusions of grandeur. They grew complacent far from Vermillion, and forgot the benefits of the Empire in their desire to keep all the wealth of their area. Also, it helped that the Deacons had brought more stability to Arkaym. They were also quick to forget how it had been before the Order came with the Emperor. They might even labor under the assumption that the geists would never come back.

The Empire could not afford a civil war. It was something that the geists would take full advantage of—not to mention, the spilling of blood could bring on a new wave of undead activity.

While she pondered that, Lepzig tugged his first mate closer. “The soldiers weren’t nearly as tight lipped though…were they?”

Melso shook his head slowly. “No, they were all far too young to keep secrets; all too eager to tell anyone that would listen how important they were. Still, I confess, I thought it was all just talk.”

Sorcha thought of the eager young men in the Imperial Guard she’d been in charge of briefly in Vermillion. Where were they now? She’d seen no war herself, but she’d studied the past ones enough. The outcomes had been terrible—not just in terms of lives lost, but also in numbers of geists created.

She pressed a hand over her forehead. As if they needed more troubles. If what Merrick had talked about all those long nights in the infirmary were right, then the Order of the Circle of Stars could have something to do with it. They certainly would want revenge, and bringing down the Empire would give them ample opportunity.

“Then think of this Deacon business,” Lepzig continued. “What are they doing heading west in the dead of night?”

“Sorcha?” Aachon’s voice boomed somewhere farther aft, and she just about leapt out of her hiding place. He wasn’t actually visible, just shouting for her, but immediately the captain and first mate ended their discussion and went back into the belly of the ship.

With a sigh, Sorcha moved out of the shadows, and caught hold of some nearby rigging. Her legs felt like string, and her head was pounding with effort.

At last Aachon appeared. When his gaze fell on her, she knew immediately that he wanted something from her. The usual something.

Raising her hands in surrender, she gestured him over. “Your compass awaits,” she said sweetly.

The large man’s eyebrow shot up, but he withdrew the small weirstone from his pocket. As he swung it on the chain over her, she dared a further comment. “You know you can just ask me now which direction to go.”

He glared at her.

“Do you think I would steer you wrong then?”

Having ascertained the westward pull of the stone, Aachon tucked it away and fixed her with a dark look. “I lost a crew member in mysterious circumstances around you, Deacon Faris, so I am double-checking everything.”

“You have my word I had nothing to do with that.” It wasn’t a lie, though she would have lied if needed. She tilted her head and regarded him. “You don’t much like me do you, Aachon?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say,” came his gruff reply. “I only know that things seem to happen when you are about. Sea monsters rise, deadly geistlords appear and my prince is constantly in danger.”

Sorcha appreciated his loyalty to Raed, but she was feeling more than a little on edge. Shoving back her cloak, so that he could see her Gauntlets tucked into her belt, she leaned forward. “It is a dangerous world—you know that as well as I. I’ve been trapped in my own body for months, and your Prince has been lost for that long. That isn’t my doing either.”

“Danger follows you—”

Sorcha didn’t let him get any further. She surged forward and grabbed Aachon by his collar. Where the strength to thrust him back against the gunwales came from was an utter mystery, but she did it. Holding him, back arched over the void, she put her face only an inch from his. “Danger follows Raed too. None of us are saints in this, but I want you to know something…” She released him enough so that he would be able to tell she wasn’t about to shove him to his death. “I love him.”

For a moment they stood toe-to-toe. Aachon’s dark eyes searched her face, no doubt trying to find a lie etched there. Finally, he shook his head like a wounded bear, and slid away from her, raising his hands.

Now Sorcha recalled Garil’s words to him. Perhaps nearly dangling the first mate of the Dominion over the edge of the ship had not been a good choice to convince him of her intentions.

Still, she was surprised when Aachon began to laugh. It was a low deep sound that he appeared reluctant to let loose. “I do believe I have never heard of a Deacon in love,” he gasped.

It was a ridiculous comment for anyone to make, but Sorcha shook her head. “You nearly went into the