TWENTY-FOUR
Coming Home
Sorcha was glad to be the first to go under the Patternmaker’s hand—one that she noticed shook just a fraction. She wanted to make sure that this would work, or at least not kill her before any of the other Deacons tried it. The perils of coming up with the idea herself—or at least stealing it from her own mother. The image of her carving the runes into her flesh was now about to become very real.
The Patternmaker had no ink, no time to get any, and so he had used what was to hand. It seemed appropriate that the scrolls and turns of the runes were painted on her in dirt and her own blood. As Ratimana worked on her, Sorcha thought of her mother. Had it been childbirth in that dire place that had killed her, or had it been the runes themselves? Perhaps her daughter was about to find out firsthand.
Raed, Aachon and the remains of the
By the Bones, if they survived this, there would be a conversation between them that would not be gentle. If they survived.
As the Patternmaker finished her right arm, and moved on to her left, she looked across at Merrick.
The Sensitives would also have to bear their runes on their arms, but in addition Ratimana would have to sketch the third eye and their sigil between their eyebrows. It would be a disturbing effect.
Ratimana’s breathing came harder as he worked the final marks on her forearm: the design of Deiyant the half moon, bisected by two horizontal lines. It took something from the old man, and his strength, to do this, she now realized. Yet all concern for him was washed away as he drew the final Rune of Dominion on her arm, Teisyat. Abruptly she was suddenly aware of the Bond again.
Sorcha gasped, squeezing her eyes shut before tears could escape her and she was embarrassed. Merrick was there, in her head, a warm, calm influence that felt like a lodestone in a world of turmoil. Even if he couldn’t feel it yet.
Then she perceived Raed. He had never been able to feel their Bond as the Deacons experienced it, but his head came up now with dawning comprehension.
He had indeed been hiding something. Fire burned in him. Before, when she had looked at Raed through her Center the Young Pretender had blazed sliver bright in the ether. Now however, he was red-hot, like a bubbling cyst of lava that should not be in this world. His ease with the Rossin had been bought at a great price.
Sorcha swallowed back her outrage and her despair. This man had somehow claimed a slice of her soul, and yet he had done something that endangered his own. All the other Deacons’ eyes were on her. Soon enough they would see what she saw, though they wouldn’t be able to understand it as she did—or quite so intimately.
The fact was they needed the Rossin and couldn’t afford to question his, or his host’s, motives. Sorcha sighed. The fact was, they might all be dead soon anyway.
“Quickly,” she gestured to the Patternmaker. “We all need this.”
The Deacons lined up, excitement and trepidation etched on their faces. Sorcha stood by and watched grim- faced as he worked. Despite the shaking of his hand, he knew what he was doing and was efficient at it.
When he was done with the Actives, he moved swiftly on to their partners. The runes carved on their faces gave the Sensitives an appearance of rage that she’d never seen on their usually calm countenances. On Merrick it made him appear wrathful and older than his years.
Now, finally he was able to feel what she had. The Bond flared fully alive between them. They didn’t touch, but they grasped each other’s minds across the distance.
“These will fade.” The Patternmaker slumped back on his heels and glared up at them. “Proper ink will make proper patterns. Dirt is not enough.”
“If we ever have time,” Sorcha assured him, “we will get you proper tools. For now this will have to do.” She stared at him a moment, realizing what he had given back to them all. “Thank you,” she added finally.
She’d made up her mind about one thing however: the Order would not die in this stinking cellar. Walking over to the weirstone portal, she laid her hand on what she’d come to think of as the keystone at the top of the circle. It flared to life, and there they were looking at del Rue’s bed in the palace.
“Aachon,” she said, folding her newly dyed hands before her so as not to smear the designs, “I want you to take the Patternmaker to safety. Get out of the palace and go to Widow Vashill’s house. If we do not return, the future of the Order—if there is any—is in your hands.” To the old man she said, “Carve their skin too, properly. Make of them the semblance of an Order again.”
Aachon’s brow furrowed as he shot a glance at the still crouching, still foul-smelling old man. “Where my prince goes I go. I cannot—”
“Dear friend,” Raed broke in, his mouth twisting into a bittersweet smile, “there is nothing more you can do for me, but you can do so much for the Order. They protect the people of Arkaym so much better than I do, and all my family has ever been in recent times is trouble.”
The first mate shifted from foot to foot, trapped by old loyalties and realities. “If you died, my prince, I would have failed.”
Raed’s laugh was short and pained. “If I die in service of the Empire and its people, then that is my fate. I would rather that than live this life of running and losing. You know how ill it has suited me of late.”
Aachon’s hand clenched a few times, as if he would be glad of a weirstone and a reason to wield one at the side of his Prince—but eventually he nodded.
“And take the crew with you,” Raed added. He turned and looked at each one in turn. “Your deaths with us would be needless. I have already had too many friends die for me. This is my last order: go live, be as safe and well as you can be.”
He shook each of their hands in turn, and then embraced them whispering a few words into each ear. Frith at first would not look at him, but eventually gave up with a sharp sob. Aleck looked as somber as a funeral mourner.
Aachon bowed slightly. “I know you will bring honor to the name of your family, my prince.”
Merrick sketched an elegant bow to the first mate, a strange gesture in such an ugly place. “My mother and young brother’s rooms are on the floor below del Rue’s rooms in the palace. I fear the Emperor might think to use them against me, or they might fall prey to a geist. I would owe you a great debt if you can get them to Widow Vashill’s where there is at least some chance of safety.”
Aachon studied the young man seriously, before giving an equally broad bow. “I give you my word on it.”
Raed then clapped his arms around Aachon, and the two men embraced while the Deacons watched impassively. Sorcha couldn’t say anything because there was a strange lump in her throat. Merrick was looking down at his shoes.
Then the crew members took their leave, and leapt through the portal, bouncing somewhat ridiculously on the bed. Aachon waited for Ratimana to go before him.
First the old man placed the board in Sorcha’s hands. The new Pattern. It was a flimsy thing, ripped from a crate discarded in someone’s cellar, yet it was now the most important thing to the Order. She held it in her hands and gazed upon it in wonder, mixed with a little fear.
“Remember which you are; the Eye or the Fist,” the old man cackled, before turning and leaping through the portal.
Aachon favored the remaining group with a piercing look, as if fixing them in his memory, before giving a curt bow to all of them in turn. He followed the Patternmaker through the tunnel.
Then it was just Raed and the Deacons in the chamber. The Young Pretender sighed and straightened as if a burden was settling on him. “Now what? There is no portal into the Mother Abbey I take it?”
“No.” Sorcha smiled, but did not touch him. Instead she ran her finger over the keystone. “Not yet.”
