Spectyr

THIRTEEN Returning Home

Merrick was glad that, in the manner of the Chiomese, the male and female accommodation was separate. He didn’t want to see Sorcha, didn’t want to keep the shields up on her and most certainly did not want her questions. His thoughts needed to be his own.

She had recognized him. He had seen that in the flicker of a frown on her brow; a tiny gesture that no one else could have spotted. However, he had grown up watching her beautiful face.

Merrick sat on the bed, his hands clenched on the edge. So it was that simple, that easy, to throw him straight back into the tumult of his childhood. His training as a Deacon might never have even happened.

He was just a boy again.

The door creaked open, because he had not locked it. He didn’t turn, but he heard her slip into the room.

The Deacon took a long breath and then faced her. He realized age had not dimmed the beauty of his mother; it had placed a fewe lines around her brown eyes but had left her thick, dark hair alone. His eyes drifted down to her swollen belly, and her hands strayed there as if protecting it.

“Ales.” She whispered the name he had given up.

“No, Mother”—he tugged his cloak tighter around him, so that the badge of the Eye and the Fist gleamed in the candlelight—“I gave up that name when I entered the Order.”

With a wince Japhne del Torne, once Baroness, still his mother, looked away. “We scoured the woods for you, then the city, but we just couldn’t find you . . . ”

“Merrick.” He spoke his chosen name. The hardness in his voice was completely beyond his control.

“Merrick.” Then she did the one thing that every mother held as a trump card—she cried.

He was ten again, standing in her chamber holding the broken remains of a delicate bowl her own dead mother had given her. He’d felt like a terrible human being when she’d burst into tears. Then as now, there was nothing to do but run to her and let the apologies flow.

It was different: her belly made any hug awkward, and now he towered above her. She still smelled the same, however: roses and warmth. The scent hit him in a primitive way, and Merrick cried too. The memories of leaving, the burning vengeance in his heart that had driven him from home, were as fresh as the day that they had happened.

“Mother”—he held her back at arm’s length—“what are you doing here? What of del Torne? Tell me what has happened!”

“Your half brother rules there,” she said flatly. “Berne came of age, and suddenly his stepmother was surplus to requirement.”

When her shoulders slumped, he guided her over to sit on the bed. Merrick dropped down to his knees and looked up at her. His elder half brother had been sent to be educated in the nearby Abbey when Ales had been just a toddler. He recalled that Berne looked very like their father, and he’d always assumed that the heir to the estate had a similar personality. Guilt washed over Merrick; blinded by his own pain and misery, he’d never spared a thought for his mother.

“Tell me what happened.” He squeezed her fingers.

Japhne brushed her tears. “I asked to move to the gatehouse—I would have been happy to end my days there—but he would have none of it. I was forced to go back to my brother’s home.”

Merrick knew his uncle Edrien was a prickly bag of bones and the main reason Japhne had married so very young. Returning to his care must have been galling for her. Da Nanth was in many respects a throwback to an earlier age—very like its neighbor Chioma. Women there did not hold property or title and were totally dependent on their male kin.

“That was where I received Onika’s suit,” she whispered. Her cheeks flushed red, and her hand rested on her ripe belly. “How he heard of me, I don’t know.”

The flower of Da Nanth—that was what they called her. Snatched up and married when she was but sixteen, even in the last days of her thirties she still deserved that title.

Although there was some part of Merrick that disliked that she had remarried, the logical part of him realized that she had few other choices. Japhne had been thrust into an untenable situation under her brother’s constantly watching eye—no position, and no way to support herself. So Merrick choked back his first reaction in his throat before it had a chance to escape.

His second thought was to wonder if the Prince took his crystal mask off beyond the throne room—but then the images of where he might do that were far too disturbing for any son to contemplate. Her swollen belly loomed large in his vision.

Instead, Merrick choked out, “What . . . what is he like? Does he treat you well?”

Her smile was soft. “He is very kind. I do not understand why he bothered with me, though—and I am certainly on the verge of not being able to bear any more children. So this was a surprise.” A gentle rub on her stomach communicated contentment and joy more succinctly than any words could. “I was just a wee slip of a girl when I married your father and had you. This feels very different—not bad—but different.” She settled back on the bed. “Now I want to hear about your life. I would never have guessed you would choose the Order.”

“I am sorry.” Merrick clenched his hand on hers. Opening the deep well of grief and guilt was something he had avoided doing for years, yet under the gaze of her gentle brown eyes he had no chance.

Japhne’s fingers ran lightly over his hair, her gaze distant. Merrick knew he looked very like his father.

“No need for sorrow—just tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what happened to my boy.”

Merrick shrugged, feeling the weight of the cloak and the badge. “I wanted vengeance for Father. I wanted to help others. I wanted to be a better Deacon than those who came to save him.” He smiled a little. “But Fate does have a funny way of turning things around. My partner is now Deacon Sorcha Faris.”

“I thought I recognized her.” His mother let out a long breath. “Hers is a face hard to forget.”

“She has a certain”—Merrick paused and then looked up with a slight smile—“way of doing things.”

“Just don’t fall in love with her!” Japhne flicked the tip of his nose.

“Never!”

One of her hands cupped his face. “What I really want to know, my dearest son, are you happy?”

No one had asked him that—not in all his time in the Order—and it was easy for the unconsidered reply to slip out from his mouth. “Absolutely—this is what I always wanted.”

“But you gave up your name—”

“If they knew who I was, Mother, who my father was and that he was possessed, they would never have taken me.” Guilt, the kind of guilt he had first felt when he spoke his new name to the Presbyter of the Young, surged through him.

She bit her lip and nodded. “It seems we are both caught in a similar trap, then. The Court of Chioma is even more riddled with conspiracy than Da Nanth. If any of the other wives found out you were my son, they would use it to their advantage.”

Her voice trailed off. For a moment mother and son sat there, aware how completely they were snared in their past. Finally, Japhne levered herself off the bed. “I must get back to the women’s quarters—I cannot afford to be missed.” Her hand described a circle on her belly. “The cantrips said this little one is a boy.” Her smile was uncertain. “And heir.”

Her son the Deacon squeezed her fingers. They both were perfectly aware of the consequences—both good and bad—of giving any Prince an heir.Finally she bent and pressed her lips to Merrick’s forehead. “I do appreciate your new name though, my son. I know your grandmother would be very happy that you are carrying it forward.”

He pressed his eyelids closed, feeling the sharp prick of tears against them. “Will I see you again?” He sounded just like that boy in a run-down castle, with his parents the twin pillars of his world.

“Of course.” She stood at the door, shadow hiding her round belly. “Onika has many questions for you and your partner—I will try and get him to keep you here as long as I can.” Then she blew him a kiss, glanced once out the door and slipped into the corridor.

Merrick stayed where he was, seated on the floor, uncertain what to make of this revelation. He would soon have a half sibling in line for the throne of Chioma—but that was nothing compared to the emotional stomach punch of his own guilt. Tonight he feared would be a restless one.

Sorcha sat on the wide, luxurious bed and felt her nervousness sink its teeth into her. Keeping her arms wrapped around her knees, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been rejected by both men: the Bond was silent, and Raed was nowhere to be seen.

She jerked her Gauntlets out from her belt and stared down at them. Once she had thought all the answers lay in those Runes—that the Order was the great protector. No longer. It had been years since Deacon Sorcha Faris had cried with despair, but now she was perilously close. She had never felt so out of her depth, plunged into a principality that was unlike any of the ones she knew. Floundering was not a sensation she enjoyed in any capacity. And yet she was doing it twice over. Raed—am I being a fool over Raed?

While Sorcha had not thrown herself into his arms, a portion of her was rather upset that he had not done the same to her. Ridiculous, but she would have known what he was thinking.

From her pocket she pulled out the ring he had given her. It remained unknown if it were a promise or just a keepsake that he had boxes of and cast to women who lay down with him throughout all of Arkaym.

Not for the first time did Sorcha think that she was too old for so much turmoil.

With an aggravated groan, she stripped off her cloak and flung it over a chair. At least she could get some sleep tonight. This separate and guarded wing of rooms only for the women was a strange idea, but she would be grateful for an undisturbed rest. These thick mud walls ate up sound even more completely than they swallowed the heat.

Sorcha was just unbuckling her belt when she heard a scraping at the window. Snatching up her knife, the Deacon padded to the shutters. They were three stories up, but assassins were always a possibility in any Court.

The shutter moved a little, and as Sorcha slipped into the shadows, she saw the tip of a knife work its way between them to lift the latch. Then they were flung open, and only the flare of the Bond stopped her from plunging the knife into the back of Raed Syndar Rossin.

“Hello there.” He swung his legs over the lip of the window and smiled as if he’d happened upon her in the street and not climbed three stories into a sealed harem.

A thousand possible answers to his jaunty greeting flashed across Sorcha’s mind, but none of them mattered as much as the fact that he was there—in the room. Instead, she dropped the knife to the floor, stepped forward and grabbed him by the tunic. Heips were on his immediately, and they were sweeter and better than she remembered. He tasted of leather, cigars and sex. All other concerns and fears evaporated.

Raed kissed her back and pulled her in tightly against him so she could feel his sudden rush of excitement. For a long, heady moment the Deacon indulged her pent-up frustrations and desires.

Then Sorcha shoved him back—though taking her lips from his felt incredibly wrong. Trapped in contrary emotions, she fell back on what she knew—outrage. “What are you doing here?”

Raed cocked his head with a grin on his bruised lips. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“I am escorting the Chiomese Ambassador back from Vermillion. I am not a wanted criminal with a bounty on my head in the middle of the Empire!” She was so vexed she wanted to throw something, but she also wanted to rip off both of their clothes and use the large bed for a better purpose than mere sleep.

He sighed. “I have no choice—I got word that my sister has been taken—and the trail led us here.”

“To Orinthal?”

“To Orinthal.” Raed picked up her hand and kissed her palm. The feel of his lips and the brush of his beard on her skin sent shudders running into Sorcha’s core.

“I am sorry to hear it.” The anger was melting out of her. “Can I help?”

“I am sure you can.” Now Raed pressed her hand against his chest, so she could feel that his heart was racing. “But not tonight.”

Sorcha could tell him about the spectyr, the visions and everything—but it would make no difference—not to this moment.

The Deacon ran her thumb over the line of his lips, feeling them curve upward under the delicate touch. Something about him was so beautiful to her.

“You make such a fool of me.” It was the truth, but she was half laughing.

His smile, the secret smile she only saw when he was alone with her, struck her through. His hazel eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

“As you do me, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” Then he kissed her again, slower this time, but full of the same hunger.

Raed was alive and so was she—there was nothing wrong with remembering that. Under her fingers his skin felt so exquisite that she wanted more. She wanted it all. They stumbled, fumbled with clothes; it had been so long, so many weeks, so many months. Sorcha was hungry, and she could feel that hunger in him too. Need would have to be satisfied before anything else.

“No swinging bed this time.” Raed’s laugh was low and throaty and set all the deep places inside her on fire.

“We’ll make do,” she replied before fastening her mouth on the warm, soft spot on his neck.

He groaned when she nipped him there. “I am glad these walls are thick,” she went on, her hands tugging on his belt buckle. The jingle of it hitting the ground was deeply erotic.

Raed’s hands buried in her hair, tugging her tightly against his mouth—the sting of it was sweet. In return, she raked her fingers down his back. The most basic part of her wanted to mark him, claim him, make him say that he was hers, just as he had taken all of her without so much as a by-your-leave.

The circular effect of want and desperation made their embrace into almost a tussle, until falling onto the bed, Raed began licking his way down her body. She wanted more, wanted him, but his strong arms held hers down, until his tongue drove all struggle from her. It was the ultimate indulgence, and Sorcha knew life seldom afforded her such moments. She was happy to voice her delight, so he knew what he drove her to.

When finally she spiraled into pleasure, only then did Raed slide up her body and enter her. Yet, when he began to stoke slow and deep inside her, Sorcha twisted under him, spilling him onto his back.

“Now,” she laughed wickedly, “who is the prisoner?”

The Young Pretender chuckled in response, his hands falling back on the sheets. “I am yours once again, fierce Deacon—to do with me as you will.”

“I will,” Sorcha returned, rocking her hips upon him. “But there will be long hours of interrogation for you, I fear.”

Raed tilted his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes as her hands clenched on his chest. For an instant—just a split second—Sorcha saw something else there too, the hint of something darker. The Rossin flickered across the face of the man she was so addicted to. It was a reminder of the Beast within.

Yet, Sorcha was too far gone to deny either of them pleasure. When Raed’s eyes opened again, the hazel of them had gone dark green in the half-light of the candles, and his breath hissed over the perfect line of his teeth.

She had never thought to see him again, and so she would make the most of this moment—and make it last as long as possible. Sleep was, after all, highly overrated.