Spectyr

SIXTEEN Taking the Reins

Sorcha swallowed hard on the lump in her throat as the words of Rictun came back to her. You really know how to go through those partners of yours. At the time she’d thought it merely another attack by a man who had always despised her. Now, however, she was wondering if there wasn’t a grain of truth to it.

Slowly, Sorcha got to her feet. Raed was waiting in the shadows of the corridor, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to tell him just how bad things were. And she knew the huge question weighing on his mind.

“Ask it.” Her voice was flat and distant, but she needed someone else to do it.

He rubbed his red gold beard, tilted his head and spoke under his breath. “Is Merrick dead?”

Unholy Bones, it hurt to hear it, though. Sorcha’s hands tightened into fists, but she had to revert to her training and not let emotions overrule her. Considering, she leaned back against the cool wall of the tunnel and stared down into the blackness where they’d last seen Merrick.

This was not the first instance where Sorcha had lost a partner, and that alone was the only reason she was able to stave off panic. Her recollection of those times had been nothing but pain, the disconcerting loss of Center and finally the weighty sensation of severance. It had, in short, felt as though a part of herself had been amputated.

Sorcha was almost afraid to try, but she closed her eyes and felt out along the Bond, like someone who had been burned in the past and feared being scorched again.

It took her a moment to reach the place where Merrick should have been. It was empty, but not in the aching void way that was caused by death. Her partner was not there, but the Bond remained as it had been.

“I don’t think he is dead,” Sorcha murmured, hesitant to appear as if she had only wishful thinking in mind, “but he is not in this world.”

“The Otherside? Surely he cannot survive there?” Raed reached out and took her hand.

The Young Pretender was definitely more aware of the nature of the Otherside than any other normal person in the Empire, but every child in the Empire knew that only spirits and geists could survive there. Flesh was not meant to exist in a place made of void and soul. Sorcha let out a long breath, fully tasting the bitter bile of helplessness.

She had to hold on to her belief in her partner. “You know Merrick as well as I do, Raed. He is a remarkable young man—and if anyone can survive—it is he.” In the back of her mind there were two little nuggets that she did not share with her lover. The first was, as insane as it sounded, they had some allies on the Otherside. The second was the existence of some kind of wild talent in Merrick.

“And we do still have a murderer out there and your sister to find—let’s concentrate on that. We can’t do anything to help Merrick right now.”

“You could open a doorway yourself . . . ” Raed ventured.

She shook her head slowly. “It is not something to be done lightly—and even if I went through, without Merrick I would be blind.”

Raed pressed his hand over his own eyes and rubbed them wearily.

“As you can imagine,” Sorcha whispered, “a blinded Deacon in a world of angry, vengeful geists would not be very sensible. We should focus on what we can do.” It sounded so very sensible—very orderly—and almost like she was at peace with the idea. It was very far from the truth.

“And what exactly can we do, Deacon Faris?” Raed looked at her so sternly that she was reminded of Merrick.

Sorcha tucked her Gauntlets back into her belt. “I am getting the feeling that the Prince of Chioma wanted Merrick and me to stay for some other reason than finding out about the Emperor. I suggest we ask him what that is.”

Raed’s eyebrow shot up. “Interrogate the highest royal in this kingdom? It’s that easy, is it?”

“For Deacons . . . yes, it is.” When Raed looked shocked, Sorcha smiled. “We are tasked with hunting out the unliving everywhere in the Empire—no exceptions.”

The Young Pretender kissed her; it was gentle, soft and not about passion. It was just what she needed.

Sorcha led the way back to the garden. None of the guards noticed there were only two people now—too busy trying to calm frightened women and keep them back from seeing the dreadful mess. She jerked her head at them. “We lost him in the tunnels.”

The innate authority of the Order worked in her favor again—no questions were asked, even in this distant principality. Drawing Raed over into the shadows, she pressed her hand lightly and briefly against his chest. The weak part of her wanted to fall into his arms, be kissed and looked after—but Sorcha had never been one of those sorts of women. “I don’t think we dare risk taking you back into women’s quarters. Meet me tomorrow morning in the audience chamber atrium.”

Back in her room, the dark was not friendly, lying warm and heavy over her like an unwelcome blanket. She could not stop thinking about Merrick when she knew she should have been thinking about Raed and keeping him alive. The vision from the spectyr still burned in her memory, but overlaid with it were imagined images of what might be happening to her partner.

She was struck with the terrible and sudden thought that by bringing her partner to Orinthal she might just have traded his life for that of the Young Pretender.

Carefully Sorcha closed her eyes and tried to find that calm Center that the Order had taught her so well. She had to trust in Merrick. The young man was strong, disciplined and intelligent enough to take care of himself. He is not dead, she repeated to herself. I would feel it. I would.

Her sleep was full of tumbled and broken dreams, where all her past failings found her. Their gnawing gave her very little rest.

The next morning she felt so drained that it was an effort to get up. The Bond ached deeply like a sore tooth, reminding her that partners shared more than just a mental connection. Some of Merrick’s youthful energy usually leaked across to her and palliated the subtle twinges of her age. Without him there, they had come back full force. It was not that she was that ancient. The Order would have no plans to pull her from the field for many years, but the life of a Deacon was not an easy one. Old wounds ached, and broken bones remembered past outrages.

She sat up with a loud groan and found at the foot of her bed someone had laid out a beautifully embroidered turquoise silk robe—the design was birds of paradise and the symbol of Hatipai. Picking it up, Sorcha fingered the slippery fabric and considered what needed to be done. Without Merrick’s help it would be hard for her to get behind the Prince’s damned mask. She needed every weapon in her arsenal—and it was obvious that the Prince was partial to a pretty face.

Quickly Sorcha stripped and slipped into the robe. For a second she worried that she would have to leave her Gauntlets behind—something that she had never done since first earning them. Luckily, the robe contained pockets, so she was able to fold the thick leather over once and stuff them in there.

Feeling a little better knowing the seat of her power would remain close, she padded to the greatest luxury in all of Orinthal: cool, springwater showers. In a desert kingdom, water was more precious than gold or gems, so it was only fitting that the Prince provided his women with facilities that were the envy of all in Chioma.

The smell of running water, after so long in the arid heat, was enough to make Sorcha a little giddy and bring a smile to her unwilling lips. In Vermillion, a city that lived its life half on the turning tides of a lagoon, a place of bridges and canals, water was transportation—here it was life. The sound of it was by consequence magic.

The shower room was not huge—at most it could accommodate perhaps fifteen women—but it was spectacular. Thousands of lapis lazuli tiles coated the walls, while the water tumbled down from the ceiling and was guided into jets by gold spigots set just above head height. In the center was a dry raised area, where robes could be laid or women could sprawl—or both.

The mechanics alone of such a feat made Sorcha pause for breath. She was used to the austerity of the Order, where washing was considered a necessity—not something to be enjoyed. Dropping her robe in the center area, where she could keep an eagle eye on it, she stepped under the fall of water with something that distracted her mind for a few moments—anticipation.

She was not alone. Two groups of women were also taking advantage of the luxury of an early morning shower. The room’s undulating walls meant that they all had the illusion of privacy.

A pair of young women, one dark as night and the other with the olive skin of the north, watched her as covertly as possible with the eyes of deer observing a wolf. The darker beauty was being washed by the other, her skin covered in soap that smelled of lilies. It looked like she had been enjoying her friend’s ministrations right up until the moment she had seen the naked Deacon.

Sorcha wasn’t about to take that too personally. Even without her cloak or her Gauntlets, she was obviously recognized. Still, she gave them a little nod and moved on to the farthest stream of water. She kept her back to the wall and her own eyes on her robe as she shuffled out of the line of sight of the two washing women and into earshot of an intriguing conversation.

“ . . . Japhne—it is always Japhne.” The unseen female’s voice was laced with such bitterness that Sorcha pressed herself closer to the fountain head so that she was less likely to be seen around the curve of the wall.

“Well, she is pregnant with his child,” another, soter voice went on.

“A miracle,” the other snapped. “An old baggage like her, full with his child? Surely the world is laughing at us—you know she usually walks the garden at night.”

Sorcha glanced around, but none of the other women were close enough to overhear as she was—and they appeared not to be taking any notice of her anymore. In a closed world of women, where they were all vying for the attention of one man, intrigue, jealousy and backbiting were to be expected. Yet, with the murders in Orinthal, such events took on a new, sinister meaning.

“Hush,” the quieter woman hissed. “Don’t speak such things!”

“But it’s true.” Her companion gave a little harsh laugh. “Japhne walks in the courtyard just before bed every night—if she had last night, who is to say that it would not be her being buried in the ground—”

“Myel—if our Prince heard you say such things, you would be joining them!”

“It was not I, Emelie,” the other replied. “But it would have been convenient for us if she had just . . .”

Such ill-wishing was far too much for the other woman, and Sorcha had to duck back as a thin blonde scuttled from the shower room. Carefully, the Deacon finished washing herself and thought.

Speaking in such a fashion, right out in the open, meant that the woman just beyond the curve of the wall was an idiot. And whoever was committing these murders was not. Nor had all the murders been conducted in the confines of the harem. It was highly unlikely that such a woman could have snuck out of the shelter of the woman’s quarters, beyond trained guards whose lives depended on staying alert, and slain so many without notice.

Yet this Myel had revealed one thing to Sorcha—the Prince’s consort, the one pregnant with a rare child, had been the real target. Whatever had caused her to break her usual habit had been a lucky chance.

Now there was Raed’s problem to consider. Sorcha slid as nonchalantly around the wall of the room as she could. Three young women remained, all completely ignoring her. The Deacon pressed her lips together for a moment and wished Merrick was with her. She was certain her partner would have very much wanted to be there.

It had come to Sorcha’s attention since getting her new Sensitive that she was perhaps lacking in the social graces. Without him, now was the perfect time to try to find some.

“Lovely weather,” she barked at the nearest blonde beauty.

The girl spun around like she’d been shot and stared at the naked Deacon in open hostility. Stripped of her Order’s insignia and cloak, Sorcha realized she was also denied its inherent command. She could actually feel her cheeks begin to grow redder.

“Who are you? ” A second woman, this one tall and dark-skinned, glared at her. Obviously women of the Prince’s harem were not used to being addressed in such a tone.

“Too old to be a new arrival,” the first said very matter-of-factly.

“Deacon Sorcha Faris, of the Order.”

They blinked at her.

It was truly fortunate for them she did not have her Gauntlets. “Have you had any new arrivals in the last week to the harem?”

Her tone, if not her attire, must have convinced them, because the second womas aowly shook her head. “Not for the last two months.” Then both of them made a hasty exit. If they believed she was a Deacon, then they had just insulted her, and if they thought she was lying, then she was clearly mad.

The Deacon’s good mood went with them. Not only had she lost her partner, but she had nothing to report to Raed either.

Sorcha washed off, dried herself on the thick towels and, wrapping her robe about herself, hurried back to her room. She got dressed quickly, her mind buzzing.

Raed was there waiting in the antechamber, his face tight and drawn.

On his right was an older woman with a trim form and dark hair licked with gray. Despite everything, Sorcha felt a little flare of jealousy. On Raed’s left stood the tall, handsome young man she had seen yesterday.

Raed gestured to the woman. “This is Captain Tangyre Greene, one of my old friends and protectors, and this is Isseriah, who managed to get us inside the palace.”

The women nodded, but the man sketched a bow.

“Where is Aachon?” Sorcha asked. “Did something—”

“Oh no.” Raed flinched. “I instructed him to remain with the Dominion. The crew could not all come with me. Nor would I want them to.”

“Raed said you might be able to help us find some trace of Fraine.” Tangyre tucked her hands behind her back. “Our trail has run cold in the palace.”

Sorcha heard the stiffness in her own voice. “I will do my best, but I hardly think it is coincidence you were led here, and now there seems to be some kind of geist activity.”

“They seek the royal blood again?” Raed’s jaw tightened. “They could not get me—so they took her!”

“We don’t know that.” Sorcha didn’t want him to do anything foolish, and she certainly didn’t want the Rossin turning up to complicate things.

Their hushed conversation was interrupted by Bandele striding down the corridor toward them. His former jovial nature must have been lost somewhere in the night, for he bowed very slightly when he reached Sorcha. “Deacon, my Prince is calling for you.”

He did not wait for a reply, instead spinning around and walking brusquely away. “Come on.” Sorcha wrapped her fingers around Raed’s forearm. “I want you with me.”

Tangyre and Isseriah glanced at each other.

“He is under the protection of the Order,” Sorcha snapped. “Raed will come to no harm with me.” Then, before they could argue, she and the Young Pretender trotted to catch up with Bandele.

“If we can convince the Prince that he needs our assistance, we will have the run of Orinthal,” she murmured, “and then we will have a much better chance of finding your sister.”

Raed’s fingers brushed hers, a little squeeze. “They are going to notice I am not Merrick, you know.”

“Trust in the Order.”

She was prepared for the seneschal’s query, but everyone must have been in a dreadful mess after last night’s panic, because he just ushered them in.

The sheer blind daring of bringing the Young Pretender into the presence of the Prince of Chioma satisfied some deep part of Sorcha. The only thing that would have been more so was bringing him into the presence of the Emperor himself.

For all the wealth and luxury of Chioma, its Prince kept a remarkably stark private room. The bright yellow light of the morning was filtering through the open window and illuminating the red earth walls. The Prince was sitting at the opposite end of the small room, robed in a similar shade, but still with the gleaming mask in place. Behind it there were only glimpses of dark skin, but it was impossible to tell anything else about the face beyond.

Sorcha sketched a bow of the appropriate depth. “Your Majesty.”

“Deacon Faris.” Without the echoing effect of the throne room, his voice was much softer but still melodious and deep. The Prince’s head turned toward Raed. “But this is not your Sensitive!”

Sorcha straightened taller. “Indeed he is not. My partner Deacon Merrick Chambers is missing after the events of last night. This man is one of our trusted lay Brothers from the Mother Abbey. He will be assisting me to locate my Sensitive.”

“This is dire news indeed.” The Prince sat back farther into his chair.

Sorcha took a long, slow breath. “It is indeed, but that is why I am here, Your Majesty, to ask a few questions of the other murders and in the process get my partner back.”

“I thought your intention was to protect the people, not to interrogate Princes—is that not why your Order exists? Or am I perhaps mistaken?” The outrageousness of this statement, even from royalty, was enough to stop Sorcha’s breath in her throat.

Perhaps people did question the Deacons still, but they had proven their worth against the geists again and again since arriving with the Emperor. And it was Princes like this one who had asked—no, begged—both to come. If they had not, she and the rest of her fellow Deacons would not even be in Arkaym. It set her teeth on edge to hear such a questioning tone from one placed so high.

It was half in Sorcha’s mind to bite back with a harsh question of her own. And is it not the place first for a Prince to protect his people—especially in his own capital?

“Many things have changed, Your Highness.” Raed’s voice held no deference but a chill command that he might regret later. “But someone is definitely stalking your Court.”

“Then things are far worse than I feared.” The Prince paused, but his tone was carefully controlled and revealed nothing. “Sit and ask your questions; I will answer as best I can.”

It was perhaps not a ringing endorsement, but it would have to do for now. All three of them sat on the low stools that he indicated. As she folded herself into one, Sorcha surreptitiously opened her Center. It was not as powerful or as farreaching as that of a Sensitive, but it would have to do.

It was not an illegal thing to do—for the power of the Order went beyond even the power of a mere Prince of the realm—but it was more than a little impolite. Sorcha kept her voice light as she leaned forward. “What can you tell me, Your Majesty, about the first murder that took place?”

The Prince shifted, the strange crystals hanging from his mask swaying slightly. It was so irritating that Sorcha had to restrain herself from leaping up and knocking the damn thing off his head. The political implications of doing that might be a little too tricky. Instead, her hands clenched on each other, and she dared spreading her Center as far as an Active could.

She could sense the guards outside, stern and resolute, and Raed next to her. While he might be outwardly calm, the swirl of his emotions was like looking into a thunderstorm. He was terrified of not finding his sister and yet resolutely trying to ignore that possibility. And there was more—a bright mote that gleamed through all that. A tiny seed of feeling for her that could easily grow into something bigger.

Sorcha jerked back in shock, utterly unsure what to do with that knowledge and utterly disarmed by it. Instead, she swung her Center toward the Prince and was almost as shocked. The scintillating display of the mask was the same in the ether as in the physical world. It spun, turned, and behind it she had trouble seeing anything about the Prince of Chioma—instantly she understood that the tiny stones that made up the strings were not just diamonds—they were tiny weirstones.

“I think you can find out the details of the other murders in the city from my Chief of the Guards.” The Prince leaned back in his chair.

Focusing her Center on him was like bending light with a lens, but far less useful. Sorcha tried her best not to let her frustration show in her voice. “You must have an opinion on how or why these are happening, Your Majesty.”

“The Prince of Chioma has always had a reputation for insight.” Raed folded his arms. “I am sure you must know everything that goes on in your kingdom—let alone your own palace.”

It was a charming challenge, and Sorcha did not bother to conceal her smile. The Prince tilted his head, sending the confusing strings of his mask swinging. A tantalizing glimpse of a pair of full lips was all she got. The silence in the chamber was tense, however, and she wondered if this interrogation would end with them all thrown out into the corridor or maybe the dungeon.

“The first murder,” the Prince finally spoke, “was not the first murder.”

Sorcha reached into her pocket and fished out the piece of paper that she had scribbled on the previous night. “Someone was killed before Baroness Alian in the city?”

“No.”

A trickle of fear down her spine made Sorcha sit straighter. “So, Your Majesty—who was the first victim?”

The fine, dark hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “My Chancellor, Devane.”

Raed glanced at her. “I heard the rumor when we arrived; he had died of old age in his room.”

The Prince’s laugh was dry. “Only if old age slits your throat.”

Sorcha leaned back and shot a look at Raed, whose shocked expression she imagined was the mirror of her own. The Chancellor of a kingdom was second only to the Prince—and if he had been murdered, then that cast a very different light on the whole situation.

Pressing her hands together, Sorcha cleared her throat. “I think you need to tell us the whole story, and please, this time no deceptions.”

He was a Prince—so she had no way of forcing him to give her that, but hopefully death on his doorstep would insure it.