Raed was not a Deacon, but he also felt the shock of what they were witnessing. The Mother Abbey stood as it always did, with the Devotional towering behind the walls, and the cluster of lower buildings around it only glimpsed over the top of them. However the gates were shut, and no lay Brother guarded the outside this time. Ranks of Deacons in the blue and green lined the walls. They were armed. It was immediately obvious why; lined up outside the gate were ranks upon ranks of Imperial Guard. They looked like red toy soldiers lined up at their master’s bidding.
Indeed, the Emperor must have emptied their garrison, because it looked like all five hundred were outside, at attention.
They were not attacking the Mother Abbey that Raed could see, but they were most effectively blockading it. Sorcha took a step forward as if to try and simply walk through the lines, but Raed grabbed her shoulder.
“Don’t,” he hissed to her.
When she spun around on him, he could see the glint of panic and rage in her eye. This had been a dire day for her; learning how she was conceived, losing her Gauntlets and now seeing her Order put under virtual siege. A weaker person would have crumbled under such an assault. “I have to get in. By the Bones, I have no love for the Arch Abbot, but he is still my superior—”
“Look at these!” Raed snatched her Gauntlets from her belt and brandished them in front of her face. “Have you ever heard of the runes being destroyed like this? I had the best education my father could provide, and I can tell you I never have!”
Aachon was also gape-mouthed and staring at the quite unimaginable scene. Raed knew his first mate concealed his disdain for the Order, but by the expression on his face, he too was at an utter loss.
Luckily, all of them standing around staring in slack-jawed horror was not going to attract any attention, because there were plenty of other folk doing the very same thing. The citizens of Vermillion clustered in the shadows of nearby buildings, whispering among themselves as if afraid the Guard would turn on them.
Since no others of his crew were quite capable of movement or thought, Raed took it upon himself to find out what he could. A huddle of three older women seemed the best pick to approach. Two were wearing the long aprons of fishmongers, and smelled appropriately, while the third had the look of some old streetwalker well past her prime. They were obviously not residents of the Imperial Island, but must have trekked from other parts to observe proceedings.
He sketched a little bow, though in these circumstances it was perhaps a little over the top. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve just come in from the countryside, and had a message to deliver to the Arch Abbot. Do you know what is going on here? Is it some kind of ritual?”
“Ritual!” one growled. “Not like one I’ve ever seen, and I’m born and bred in Vermillion.”
“The captain of the Guard demanded the Deacons open the gates half an hour ago,” a second, with a kindly face, spoke with the hushed tones of one in the know and more than willing to share. “They said something about being traitors.”
“Never liked them Deacons,” the third offered, “but they did protect us. Now there is a rumor going around all their power is gone.”
“They deserve it though—taking the Emperor’s sister right out of her own bed and all!”
Raed couldn’t quite believe what they were saying. He was no friend to Kaleva, or his sister, but he had saved the latter’s life once. That tended to stick with a person.
He put on his most winning smile. “Forgive me, lovely ladies. But I have been long from Vermillion, and had not heard this news.”
“Really?” The fishmonger with a face like it had been struck with a fry pan, glared at him. “Living under some kind of rock were you?”
The streetwalker however flashed him a grin, almost devoid of teeth. “The Order took her last week. Snatched from her own room, and she hasn’t been heard from since. The Arch Abbot there won’t give up the Deacon that did it neither.”
“You don’t happen to know the name of that particular Deacon do you?” A deep part of the Young Pretender twisted—like he’d eaten something rotten.
“I do,” the second fishmonger said, waving the stump of her index finger. “Made me laugh and all…something like chamber pot I think.”
By the Blood, it could only be one Deacon. “Could it have been Chambers, perhaps?” Raed ventured.
“Oh yah, that’s it!” two of the ladies piped up, while the third deliberately turned her back.
The Young Pretender smiled. “Thank you for your kindness gentle ladies.”
The streetwalker actually reached around and pinched his backside as he made to go. “I’d love to do you a quick one right here,” she shouted after him, “but this looks like it’s getting interesting real soon.”
Raed half backed, half leapt away, before striding back to his companions. He put his hand on Sorcha’s shoulder, and leaned in close to her ear. “I am sorry to tell you this—but I think what has happened to you has happened to all of the Deacons.”
She sagged against him, and he would not have given her the terrible news about Merrick, but she needed to know. She glanced up at him. “There’s something else too, isn’t there?”
He swallowed. “Yes, yes there is. According to that huddle of gossips, last week your partner was accused of kidnapping the Grand Duchess.”
Sorcha looked down at her feet, her jaw working from side to side, and her grip on his arm tightening. “I knew he was going to the palace just a bit too often, but I can’t believe he was stupid enough to kidnap Zofiya—and besides—why would he want to?”
It did seem ridiculous. Merrick was far too clever a young man to do anything so mad. Yet, he had been quite deeply in love with Nynnia and then had her snatched away. Had he set his sights on another unattainable woman?
“I don’t know,” Raed shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. But then”—he swept his arm to encompass the whole scene before them—“none of this does.”
“The runes destroyed,” Sorcha repeated under her breath. “That is even more unbelievable.”
Perhaps she’d been hoping it was just herself that was affected, and when her colleagues examined her Gauntlets they would have an answer. It was not to be.
That was the final straw. She had been through too much, and her energy was sapped beyond words. Sorcha slumped against him, staggering on her feet like an injured horse. Raed swiftly picked her up, cradling her against his body. She was terribly thin and light. In comparison, he had more energy than he knew what to do with. The Rossin had eaten well. He could have carried her for hours.
Sorcha’s head lolled against his chest. “We must get inside and find Merrick,” she gasped. “I need him but I can’t feel him anymore.” Her eyes were so glassy it seemed she might cry. He wouldn’t blame her.
The Rossin was almost purring, and very near the surface now.
When the Rossin pointed it out—full of strength and vigor—Raed could. The Bond Sorcha had created had always been such an intangible thing to the Young Pretender. She’d spoken of it, and he knew it existed, because she had found him in Orinthal with its help, but he’d never been able to sense it. Until now.
It was a pull, the direction of all things. Perhaps this was what migrating birds on their way south for the winter felt. Raed twisted his head back and forth feeling the unusual nature of this awareness.
The Rossin was helping him. Just why he would do that was another impossible question to answer.
“I can feel him,” he whispered, and Sorcha, still held in his arms, stared up at him in undisguised disbelief and relief. “He is not in the Mother Abbey. He is in the city, not far away.” Raed kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go find him.”
TWENTY-ONE
Old Friends and Industry
