“To begin a war,” Raed growled. Sorcha began to wonder if the Rossin was not nearer the surface than was safe.
“Surely not just that, my prince. Tangyre is too cunning a woman to bring her charge here—within reach of the Wrayth—for only that reason.” He turned to Sorcha. “Could you not use Voishem again to listen to what they are saying?”
She glared at him. Trained as he was by the Order he knew full well the runes and what they could be used for. She did not appreciate being backed into a corner in front of the crew and Raed like that. “The real world is muffled and strained while under phase conditions with Voishem, but yes—I suppose I could try that.”
“I need to hear this too.” Raed’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching spasmodically. “Can you let me listen in as well?”
This was going to strain her strength even more. Voishem was a tough rune to master even when in perfect health, and Sorcha had just got out of a sickbed she’d been in for months. However the look on his face told it all; he needed this.
This was his sister. His kin.
Sorcha swayed slightly on her feet. It was imperceptible to outsiders perhaps, but a great display of weakness for a Deacon. The Rossin. The Rossin had spoken across the Bond.
She was sure of it. The voice was certainly not Merrick’s or Raed’s, and it thrummed with power and hunger. Her mind flashed back to the few moments she remembered in the ossuary under the city of Vermillion. They had made something, the four of them. Only a few recollections remained, but the overriding one was power. The Rossin was unfettered power, and untamed hunger.
Once that had been part of her, and now it was very close again.
Raed was looking at her expectantly, but he obviously had no idea that his Beast had spoken to her. He was waiting for a reply.
“Yes,” she said haltingly, “I can manage that.”
Quickly, before she could change her mind, or the Rossin could speak again, she took his hand in her Gauntleted one and, with the other, activated Voishem. Then she tugged him into the stone with her.
His terror raced along the Bond. It was certainly not an everyday occurrence to be part of a wall. Well, it was not exactly being part of the wall, more like slipping into a half state where the wall and body did not exist. Without training from the Order he wouldn’t know that however.
Sorcha could not even see Raed, but she could still feel him holding her hand. Her fingers were locked around his, and she had no intention of letting go. A Young Pretender buried in a wall would be of no use to anyone.
The space around her was pale and insubstantial, outlines of strata in the rock, and undulations in its formation. Sorcha had never really stood still while using Voishem like this; most folk did their best to get beyond solid objects as quickly as possible. She pulled Raed along with her toward the other side.
She’d never used the rune for eavesdropping, but she discovered by virtue of placing her body near the surface of the rock and turning herself sideways, she was, if she concentrated hard enough, able to hear the words.
“The blood is good,” a sharp, bright voice spoke. “It is a tie between us and your fine royal self. You can be sure if you play us false you will feel the repercussions.” Though she could not see her, Sorcha just knew there was a smile attached to that pronouncement. “However there is also the treaty to sign—while blood is good enough for us, for others of your kind words mean more.”
Raed jerked in her grasp, but Sorcha held him firm where he stood.
“And we get the trick of the weirstone tunnels?” Tangyre’s voice sounded nearby. “Our forces will be able to travel through them to wherever we want?”
“It is to all of our benefit that the Emperor is toppled. He and that Order of his have kept our hive confined to the outermost west. With the agreement”—the faint sound of nib on parchment echoed through the stone—“you leave us everything west of the Tanderline ranges to do with as we will.”
“Indeed,” came a younger, lighter voice. “The west was ever a thorn in my grandfather’s side; wild, few people and fewer resources.”
“Then whatever we do with it will not bother your new Empire. We can send you on your way to begin your great work.”
Sorcha had heard enough. She wrenched Raed and herself back with her into the room with the crew in it and doused Voishem from her Gauntlet. For a moment she stood gasping, bent over, hands on her knees, trying to control the shudders that ran through her body. She could only dimly make out Raed telling Aachon and the rest in a low angry voice what they had overheard.
“With these transportation tunnels,” he was saying, “all the outposts of the Empire could be easily overrun. No fortress or city will be safe from them.”
Sorcha, finally mastering her own dizziness, stood up. “Only the Order has kept the Wrayth confined to Phia. I cannot see how they expect this to work.” She reached out, and propped herself against the stone wall, conserving what strength she could. “As soon as they start appearing, the Mother Abbey will gather its Deacons and storm this whole accursed fortress.”
“Yes, they could,” Aachon grudgingly conceded, “but we don’t have the time for them to arrive. We have to get the Princess out of here now.”
“They must be planning to reach their next destination using these tunnels.” Raed glanced around at his crewmates. They were toughened fighters, but he only had these few. Sorcha glanced to Aachon and jerked her head to the corner.
He took her subtle hint and followed her over to a place just out of earshot.
“I am near the end of my strength.” Sorcha knew there was no point concealing it from the first mate; he would be able to feel that through the weirstone. “However, if you can find a way to give me a little more, I will be able to help get Fraine back.”
Aachon looked down at the weirstone, as if weighing it—perhaps he actually was. “I could,” he murmured, “but the stone only has so much to give before it must replenish itself. In fact, it could be destroyed if I misjudge it.”
“So could I.” Sorcha met his eyes calmly. She would rather die than return to that dreadful prison of her own body. It was a feeling that she now knew her mother had shared—in a very literal sense. “The question is, how badly do you want to stop a war in the Empire? I know you care little for Kaleva—”
The first mate raised his hand. “I have no love for your usurper, Deacon Faris, but neither do I wish innocent people to suffer needless war over who wears the crown.”
“Then we have an accord?” she asked, head tilted, eyes narrowed on him.
“Yes.” The corners of his mouth twitched, as he rumbled, “I would never have guessed that I would be fighting to protect the usurper.”
“Life is full of strange twists and turns we never see coming.” She glanced back at Raed who was conferring with his crew. The Young Pretender was a turn in her path that she found both terrifying and delightful. “He believes that civil war is not the way—and I know you believe in him.”
“He doesn’t even want the crown,” Aachon said, a deep frown folding his forehead. “It belongs to his family by rights, but he has never wanted it.”
Sorcha stared at Raed a moment, trying to imagine him on the Vermillion throne, dispensing justice and commanding the Order of the Eye and the Fist to protect his citizens. It was not a difficult image to conjure up.
“Perhaps the best man for the throne is the one who wants the power of it the least.” She whispered so low that Aachon did not catch her words.
The first mate was instead examining the swirling weirstone, searching for flaws in it perhaps. He sighed. “I will try my best with this.” He wrapped the stone in one sleeve end with a smooth, practiced gesture. “Now tell me your plan to achieve this rescue.”
Sorcha smiled at him. “Merrick is the one with plans. What I have, Aachon, is power. Do you think I am quite spent?”
