He had done this before, brought low the crowds outside the Imperial prison in Vermillion so that they could escape with Raed. They had been people who were bent on ripping a good man to pieces, and he’d easily turned their despair at the death of the Arch Abbot against them. The wild talent had left them crying in the streets. That was one thing, but this was another altogether.
These were Deacons of the Order, his friends and colleagues, and he had turned them to terrified children.
“What have I become,” he said, running his hand through his hair, and looking around in despair. “There’s no going back from this.”
Yet this outrage would be for nothing if he did not recover Zofiya from the Circle of Stars and stop whatever plan they had set to running within the Empire. He took Kolya under the arm, and helped him to his feet. The application of his touch was enough to shake him free of the talent’s grip.
He looked up at Merrick with undisguised horror. “How…how did you—”
“No time,” the young Deacon barked in return, “we have to get out of here while we can.” Now it was he that was tugging his rescuer along. Together they levered the gates open and stepped over the curled forms of the lay Brothers that guarded it.
Out on the street, everyday folk went about their business, chatting, bartering and completely unaware of the great and momentous events occurring behind the Mother Abbey’s walls. The sudden and dark thought flashed through Merrick that they would know soon enough. When no Order stood between them and the predations of the geists, the citizens of the Empire would feel the bite of the undead once again. They had lived under the protection of the Deacons for years, and had almost forgotten what their lives had been like before their coming.
Soon, they would be reminded.
Merrick’s hand tightened on Kolya’s shoulder. “I hope you had a plan that involved more than us just standing on the doorstep of the Mother Abbey.”
The tall blond man blinked, still shaking off the effects of the talent on him. “I had a few ideas.” He pulled two brown cloaks out from under a nearby cart, and hastily handed one to Merrick, before taking the second for himself. “Follow me, we’re going to the Edge.”
They stripped off their cloaks of the Order, but could not bear to part with them. Instead, when they donned the rough common ones, they tucked the bundled green cloaks under their arms. Pulling up this new and unwelcome hood, the younger man turned to follow Kolya.
It didn’t matter where they went, today’s events would haunt them both forever. No amount of running was going to change that. Merrick could only hope they would be able to find Zofiya and fix everything before it was irreversible.
EIGHTEEN
Strife in the Family
The riser rattled and jerked its way up the shaft interminably slowly. Sorcha stood as tall as she could manage—though her mind was in tumult. She was trying to be calm, as an example to the crew. In truth, she’d never had much to do with tinker’s devices. They were almost as secretive and insular as the Deacons.
Merrick had told her plenty about the Order of the Circle of Stars, and how they had melded weirstone and runes to their own purposes. She could only hope that they wouldn’t add in tinkering to that mix. As if to emphasize her thoughts, Aachon’s weirstone flared, creating an eerie glow that set everyone’s faces into odd masks.
The Deacon shook her head. She was becoming quite fanciful. The disturbing thought followed; had her mother been fanciful? No, no, no! She would not consider that right now. She would not think about going through the Order’s records looking for a Sensitive Deacon called Caoirse, or finding some long-lost relatives she knew nothing of. At least now she was aware of where she came from, and had a hint about her past. What that could mean would be truly something to consider once they got out of here. Merrick would be able to help with that.
Without thinking, Sorcha slid her hand into Raed’s, tightening her fingers around his. The Bond between them strengthened her resolve. She had one of the men she needed in her life, the other she would get soon enough.
Luckily the riser reached the top level with a shuddering lurch before she could think any more distracting thoughts. The crew unsheathed their weapons and primed their pistols. Aachon held the weirstone in one clenched hand, and jerked open the ironwork doorway with the other.
The crew spread out through the corridor in silence—which there was already plenty of. Sorcha swallowed. Raed had accurately described the place: silent as the grave. With a short nod to Aachon, she took her place at the head of the group, and then, closing her eyes, let her Center fly ahead of them. The fortress still vibrated with geist energy, and it was no surprise. The Wrayth must have used their powers to create such a strange and ominous building, because it was stretching every natural law to its utmost. The interior was not something human builders could have imagined or even attempted.
Now that she was within those walls, she could begin to make out the individual parts that made up the Wrayth. Those below her, the peons, only interested in fornication and pleasure, were like a low hum, something that insects might make as they went about their work. Here, higher up, she could make out other, more definitive presences. These were more focused, and even more lacking in humanity than those below. Yet they did not appear solely as geists to her vision. It was a confusing mixture, especially since deciphering the unliving was properly a Sensitive’s role.
She shook her head, and let out a muffled sigh. “This is far more difficult than I thought,” she confided in a whisper to Raed, “and Merrick makes it look far too easy.”
“What about Fraine and Tangyre?” he said. “You could feel them more easily, perhaps?”
Sorcha considered. She had never met Fraine in person, but she had a brief contact with Tangyre Greene. From recollection she was a tall woman, who had seemed friendly enough, though concerned about Raed’s welfare. She was obviously an impressive actress. Bringing the image of the captain into the front of her Center, she levered it wide and concentrated on just finding one normal human in the nest.
Cautiously, Sorcha opened her eyes and pointed to the first junction up ahead. “To the right,” she intoned, and then, to demonstrate the courage of her own convictions, she took the lead.
The Wrayth, for all their cunning in kidnapping Deacons, and controlling their own little corner of the west, were not at all sensitive as those in the Order were. She could taste no panic or concern in those nearby.
So, in a somewhat circuitous route, she took them around the higher-functioning Wrayth, toward where the hot glow of the humanity of Tangyre Greene burned. Finally, they reached a chamber she felt was safe to usher them into. Her energy was guttering low, and she stumbled into the half-light of the room. Raed was there to smoothly slide his arm under hers and hold her up before anyone noticed. It certainly would not do to have the crew begin to doubt their Deacon.
“They are behind here”—she tapped the wall, but not pulling away, enjoying a little of his strength and a great deal of his nearness.
“The Rossin tells me you are right,” he whispered into her ear, and she almost jerked away in horror.
Instead her blue eyes held his hazel eyes, communicating without any words her dismay. His tiny smile was regretful. Behind his gaze, she could read the great cost he’d been laboring under since she’d last seen him. If the Rossin had risen to a higher place within the Young Pretender’s being, which he would have to do to speak directly to Raed, then her lover was in great peril.
And he knew it.
She wanted to ask him a thousand questions about the geistlord in his head, but here and now was not a proper place to let them fly free. Instead she clenched her hand around his arm. She hoped it conveyed what she was thinking and how determined she was.
As she stepped away, Sorcha cleared her throat. “There are three Wrayth presences in the room with Tangyre, as well as another human—that is most likely Fraine.”
“Then let’s just go in there, kill them all and retrieve the Princess.” Jocryn was quite a bloodthirsty man— especially for a cook—still the cleaver he used as his main weapon looked well up to the task.
Raed appeared ready to take the advice of the man who’d cooked him breakfast for years aboard the
