Wrayth

THIRTEEN Dropping from the Clouds

Sorcha wished she could have recorded in some way the expression on Aachon’s face when he entered the cabin to find her sitting up—albeit shakily—on her bed. He could not have looked more surprised if he had walked in to find Raed there.

Calling his name had quite taken all Sorcha’s strength, and she had to make several urgent gestures for water, before the first mate came back to himself enough to understand. He had plenty of questions, but she decided that despite his loyalty to her lover, he had also participated in kidnapping her from the Mother Abbey, and that meant he needn’t be privy to everything that had happened. So she kept quiet about the geistlord who had removed the cloak. Instead she made up a tale about how getting away from the Mother Abbey had revived her. Aachon was no great lover of the Order and swallowed the lie easily. It was a performance worthy of a Sensitive, and one she did not think the Fensena would interfere with.

In fact, the next morning after her revival, it was found that Serigala had disappeared. Even though the Autumn Eagle was searched thoroughly, he could not be located. The other crew whispered that he must have come down with a fever from the dog bite, and fallen overboard. However it was Lepzig who pointed out that one of the landing ropes was unwound, though how anyone could survive a fall into tall jungle was impossible to imagine. Sorcha remained silent on Serigala, but then why would they suspect a Deacon who had just climbed out of a coma would know anything?

The next few days were spent trying to get used to walking again. In a normal patient, such as she had seen many times in the infirmary, this process would have meant months of gradually easing herself back to normality. However, her limbs had not atrophied at all, though she had lost some weight and had to double her belt around her waist to keep her pants up.

Captain Quent Lepzig took time from his duties where he could, and helped Sorcha circumnavigate the airship holding on to his arm. Aachon, despite using the Deacon’s abilities to direct their course, seemed unwilling to spend time with her. Sorcha suspected something within him was warning of the unnatural nature of her recovery. He was not, however, a fully trained member of the Order and so his concerns remained unconfirmed.

Sorcha would work to keep it that way.

So instead she started off dragging her arm over the shoulder of the surprisingly strong captain, and took her exercise like a good little recovering invalid. In another day, she had moved to just holding on to the crook of his arm. While they walked, the two of them talked, and despite their age difference and their different professions, it was a pleasant way to spend the time. Captain Lepzig, it turned out, was quite the wit, and several times had Sorcha in hysterics with his dry humor. One would never have suspected it from a member of the Imperial Fleet.

Three days after her recovery, Sorcha was making another tour of the Autumn Eagle, first thing in the morning. It was almost becoming a habit.

Sorcha no longer needed Lepzig to hold her up. He merely hovered nearby just in case she should fall. The Deacon would not normally have liked such mothering, but the captain was a kind man, and it would have been humiliating to fall on her face.

However as she felt strength returning to her legs, she was also feeling her concerns mount. Having successfully managed to shove aside the fact she owed a favor to a geistlord, she began to think of finding Raed and bringing him home. Wherever that might be.

She missed him. Standing upright, she could face that. She had missed Raed Syndar Rossin in all those months, and now she wanted nothing more than to see him again. Her memory kept reminding her how good his skin on hers had felt, how his smile made her feel. When she found him, she would not let him out of her sight again—no matter what the Rossin or the Order did.

Sorcha leaned on the gunwales and smiled. The land below was hidden by a mass of thick white clouds, and for some reason this made her unreasonably optimistic. In this stillness, she heard voices talking beyond the stack of barrels on the deck. It irritated her for a moment, until she recognized the voice of Captain Lepzig and his first mate.

Haltingly, she walked toward the voice, ready to reveal herself and share how much she was enjoying the day sailing above the skies, until she heard the tone in his voice and the word he whispered. “War.”

The Deacon stopped, the moment of joy draining away. Instead of revealing herself, she hitched herself into the shadows, folding her cloak about her.

“Surely not, Captain…” Sorcha could see the first mate of the Autumn Eagle’s head flicking around, but she was good at hiding when she had to be.

From her position she observed Lepzig’s magnificent mustache ruffled by the breeze. “Think about it, Melso. You can almost feel it in the air.”

The first mate was silent a moment and then muttered, “I did find it mighty strange when we hailed the Sunrise Dove last week, and she didn’t reply to our signal. We were at the same altitude even.”

Sorcha glanced forward to where great lanterns with shutters were hung. Next to them, two large scarlet flags would take care of communication during the day. An Imperial Airship not communicating with another—strange but not a reason to think of war. She wondered if all this lonely toing and froing around the continent was getting to Captain Lepzig and his crew.

Lepzig however nodded. “And think of what we’ve been ordered to do of late. Shoring up the garrisons, bringing in troops—and all the time not to speak of it to anyone.”

Now he really had Sorcha’s attention. Troop movements could only mean that the Emperor was feeling vulnerable. The Princes in the most isolated kingdoms were always prone to delusions of grandeur. They grew complacent far from Vermillion, and forgot the benefits of the Empire in their desire to keep all the wealth of their area. Also, it helped that the Deacons had brought more stability to Arkaym. They were also quick to forget how it had been before the Order came with the Emperor. They might even labor under the assumption that the geists would never come back.

The Empire could not afford a civil war. It was something that the geists would take full advantage of—not to mention, the spilling of blood could bring on a new wave of undead activity.

While she pondered that, Lepzig tugged his first mate closer. “The soldiers weren’t nearly as tight lipped though…were they?”

Melso shook his head slowly. “No, they were all far too young to keep secrets; all too eager to tell anyone that would listen how important they were. Still, I confess, I thought it was all just talk.”

Sorcha thought of the eager young men in the Imperial Guard she’d been in charge of briefly in Vermillion. Where were they now? She’d seen no war herself, but she’d studied the past ones enough. The outcomes had been terrible—not just in terms of lives lost, but also in numbers of geists created.

She pressed a hand over her forehead. As if they needed more troubles. If what Merrick had talked about all those long nights in the infirmary were right, then the Order of the Circle of Stars could have something to do with it. They certainly would want revenge, and bringing down the Empire would give them ample opportunity.

“Then think of this Deacon business,” Lepzig continued. “What are they doing heading west in the dead of night?”

“Sorcha?” Aachon’s voice boomed somewhere farther aft, and she just about leapt out of her hiding place. He wasn’t actually visible, just shouting for her, but immediately the captain and first mate ended their discussion and went back into the belly of the ship.

With a sigh, Sorcha moved out of the shadows, and caught hold of some nearby rigging. Her legs felt like string, and her head was pounding with effort.

At last Aachon appeared. When his gaze fell on her, she knew immediately that he wanted something from her. The usual something.

Raising her hands in surrender, she gestured him over. “Your compass awaits,” she said sweetly.

The large man’s eyebrow shot up, but he withdrew the small weirstone from his pocket. As he swung it on the chain over her, she dared a further comment. “You know you can just ask me now which direction to go.”

He glared at her.

“Do you think I would steer you wrong then?”

Having ascertained the westward pull of the stone, Aachon tucked it away and fixed her with a dark look. “I lost a crew member in mysterious circumstances around you, Deacon Faris, so I am double-checking everything.”

“You have my word I had nothing to do with that.” It wasn’t a lie, though she would have lied if needed. She tilted her head and regarded him. “You don’t much like me do you, Aachon?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say,” came his gruff reply. “I only know that things seem to happen when you are about. Sea monsters rise, deadly geistlords appear and my prince is constantly in danger.”

Sorcha appreciated his loyalty to Raed, but she was feeling more than a little on edge. Shoving back her cloak, so that he could see her Gauntlets tucked into her belt, she leaned forward. “It is a dangerous world—you know that as well as I. I’ve been trapped in my own body for months, and your Prince has been lost for that long. That isn’t my doing either.”

“Danger follows you—”

Sorcha didn’t let him get any further. She surged forward and grabbed Aachon by his collar. Where the strength to thrust him back against the gunwales came from was an utter mystery, but she did it. Holding him, back arched over the void, she put her face only an inch from his. “Danger follows Raed too. None of us are saints in this, but I want you to know something…” She released him enough so that he would be able to tell she wasn’t about to shove him to his death. “I love him.”

For a moment they stood toe-to-toe. Aachon’s dark eyes searched her face, no doubt trying to find a lie etched there. Finally, he shook his head like a wounded bear, and slid away from her, raising his hands.

Now Sorcha recalled Garil’s words to him. Perhaps nearly dangling the first mate of the Dominion over the edge of the ship had not been a good choice to convince him of her intentions.

Still, she was surprised when Aachon began to laugh. It was a low deep sound that he appeared reluctant to let loose. “I do believe I have never heard of a Deacon in love,” he gasped.

It was a ridiculous comment for anyone to make, but Sorcha shook her head. “You nearly went into the Order, you know it is possible.” She fixed him with a sharp look of her own, “You loved Garil.”

The big man’s laughter stopped. “Yes, yes I did.”

What Sorcha didn’t share was the fact that she didn’t even know if she would still technically be called a Deacon. She’d left her partner behind, and was most likely considered dead. She still had her cloak and her Gauntlets, but that was about it.

She could feel the Bond with Merrick, a faint tugging on her conscience from the east, but he and the Mother Abbey seemed a long way off. She missed him and his sensible ways. Still, he was safer behind her than ahead where she was going. Ahead was a stronger tug on her. The Bond with Raed, leading her on like a lodestone.

As if in echo to her thoughts Aachon muttered, “Love seems a long way off in this world.” He was very melancholy for one with such a tough appearance, and Sorcha wondered if that was because of what he had seen in his travels.

The two of them slid down the gunwales, and sat on the deck in silence for a while, watching the sun flicker above them. It was beautiful and serene—at least for a moment.

“He’s not dead,” Sorcha eventually offered. “Whatever mess Raed has got himself into, I know he is not dead.”

“But war is stirring.” Aachon’s words on the heels of Lepzig’s made her shudder, but she did not offer comment. Even when he got to his feet and looked down at her. “Come what may, we will find the Prince and the rest will fall where it must.” With that he turned and left her.

It was another two days later that they finally saw Phia off the starboard side of the Autumn Eagle. They arrived just as evening was taking over from day and a full moon was beginning to rise. Even in the evening, it was a beautiful-looking town with tiled roofs, and the buildings stacked down toward a deep blue black lake. Aachon and the rest of Raed’s crew came up behind Sorcha. The first mate moved forward and joined her, looking toward the city.

“What do you know of Phia?” he asked, his hand clenching on the rigging.

Sorcha shrugged. “Not a thing. Merrick would have been the one to ask, and he would give you an encyclopedia’s worth of an answer.” She tried to sound offhand about it, but even saying his name gave her a pang. It hadn’t even been a year, but she had come to rely on him, and being separated from her partner felt unnatural. She’d lost him for a time in Orinthal, and she hated this even more.

Sorcha turned her face east, and even though she knew he couldn’t possibly hear her at this distance she tried. I’ll be back soon. Look after yourself.

Then she faced Aachon. “Now we find Raed, and for that I will need your help.” At the far end of the lake was a huge, strangely windowless fortress. She’d seen enough palaces of Princes that she could spot one immediately, however this one gave her a chill. It was typical of Raed that he would bring her to this sort of place. He really was the most awkward, dangerous man. Unfortunately he was also charming and good-hearted. Still, when she saw him again, she was going to certainly have words with him—among other things.

She cleared her throat, and focused her thoughts on what needed to be done. “I can tell he is in that direction, but I will need you to act as my Sensitive.” The words were almost choked out, because just one year earlier she would have never imagined saying such a thing. Her loathing for weirstones was legendary among the other Deacons, and she’d often complained to Merrick about the weak minds and foolishness of those that wielded them. How he would have laughed if he’d been standing on the deck of the Autumn Eagle right now.

The tall first mate inclined his head, gestured for the crew to stay back, and withdrew his weirstone from the bag hanging from his belt. Now that she understood Aachon’s training within the Order, Sorcha felt a little better about him handling it—but she was not going to tell him that.

Captain Lepzig strode up behind them. “What are your orders, Deacon?”

Sorcha took a breath. Now was the moment she wished she knew something of Phia, because there could be repercussions. “Take us in close to the fortress. I want to have a look at it.”

Lepzig didn’t question, he snapped a salute and returned to the bridge. As the Autumn Eagle turned into the wind and the engines began to spin the propellers, Sorcha opened her Center. She’d formed a Bond with Merrick and even Raed with ease, but she was not willing to do that with Aachon. Instead, she would use the weirstone to enhance her own nascent Sensitivity. It was dangerous and tricky, but there was nothing left but to do it.

With eyes half-lidded she whispered, “Open the stone.”

Holding it in the space between them, Aachon did so. Weirstone power was something Sorcha had never sampled before. She was not one of the Deacons who had ever worked with them, and it was so strange that she was knocked back, distracted for a moment. Whereas Merrick was warmth and gentleness, like smooth cream over her own sharp characteristics, this tasted almost medicinal. It contained not an ounce of human emotion or connection—which was the thing that made the Bond. She took another breath, unclenched her hands and reached out for the stone again.

Underneath the chill indifference of it was a well of power. Touching it, Sorcha realized why those who used them were so drawn to them; the power was clean like a river from a glacier. It was totally without the complications of a partner, but then it was also not as deep a well of strength either.

“Are you all right?” Aachon’s voice seemed like it was coming from a great distance, and it took some time for her to find her voice.

Her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to mumble, “Yes. Fine.”

“Then look for the Prince,” Aachon snapped in return. He’d probably forgotten about the first time he reached for a weirstone’s power.

Still, Sorcha managed to ignore his rudeness. She turned her Center away from the Autumn Eagle and toward the fortress of the Shin. To her altered Sight, it was like looking into a cube cut from the night itself. A window into nothingness. The only thing she could discern was the Bond disappearing into it.

The airship circled low over the fortress, so that she could pick out the glow of people standing on the parapets, but apart from that she could not see beyond the walls. She felt sick to her stomach just looking at it.

Aachon grabbed hold of her arm as it seemed she might topple. She shook him off. “I can’t see past the stone walls. It must have its own cantrip defenses. We’re going to have to get in somehow.”

She let go of the weirstone power and sagged back against the gunwales with a shudder. The rest of the crew shuffled their feet.

“What now Aachon?” one of them asked, but she could not focus on who it was who spoke. She was struggling to reel in her Center. Still, she did not like that they were asking the first mate and not her. Sadly Raed’s crew had completely forgotten anything like real discipline.

“Now”—Sorcha heard the dark tone in Aachon’s voice—“we go and get our captain back.”

Recovering herself a little, the Deacon smiled. It would be good to do that. Just as long as she could keep her feet, everything would be fine.

In the dark and silence Merrick woke. He had ceased to be able to tell what time of day it was. He couldn’t even be sure whether it was day or night beyond the stone walls. He thought of Zofiya and wondered if she was dead or alive.

He knew he should have been thinking about Sorcha and where she might be, or del Rue and what he was up to, but the Grand Duchess’ wide eyes and smile kept coming to him. It seemed impossible that she had been taken. Merrick had only ever known one person that was as ruthlessly efficient and competent as the Grand Duchess in his time, and that was his partner. Yet in one season he had seen his partner laid low with a mysterious illness and now Zofiya taken.

He sighed and rolled awkwardly onto his back. He was not a broad man, but even to him the bunk was incredibly narrow. They had not built the Silence Room for comfort.

The strangeness of the place was starting to get to him. For the longest time he thought he heard a voice repeating the word “Ratimana” over and over. What it meant was impossible to say. It was strange what the mind could conjure up when left to its own devices.

So he stared up into the blackness and thought dreary thoughts. It felt like from the first moment he’d stepped out of the initiate and become a fully functioning Sensitive, the Order had been under attack. The Murashev had tried to destroy Vermillion, and now he was certain that Arch Abbot Hastler had been working with the Circle of Stars. Hatipai had tried to return to the world, and he had hard evidence that they’d aided the false goddess there too. Now one of their number was in the Imperial Palace, spreading poison and arranging for the Grand Duchess to disappear.

“I have to get out of here,” Merrick said aloud. It was mostly to hear the sound of his own voice before he went mad—however once he had let the words out, he wished he had not. The room ate his words. No echo, no sound reached his ears. It was a horrible effect that gave him chills.

He decided immediately that he would keep his thoughts to himself.

However, they kept rolling around to Zofiya. It was maddening not knowing if she was dead or alive. Surely they would have come down and fetched him if she had been found murdered. That sort of deed would demand immediate retribution from the Emperor, and even the Presbyterial Council would not be able to stop him.

Merrick struck that eventuality off his list. They had not come for him, therefore Zofiya must still be missing. And if she was missing, then she was of some use to the Circle of Stars. The Sensitive ground his teeth together. One fact kept rising to the surface. She was the second in line to the throne.

When the King of Delmaire had sent one of his spare sons to rule over Arkaym, the deal had been that his unwanted sister went with him, and should Kaleva produce no heirs…

The young Deacon swallowed hard as he considered the implications of that. Implications that also included him. By the Bones! What if he’d gotten the Grand Duchess pregnant?

That thought made Merrick sit bolt upright in his narrow, mean-spirited bed. All the other quandaries paled in comparison to that one. No, no, Zofiya had been no maid. She would have taken the powders to keep that eventuality from occurring. Still…he had slept with the Emperor’s sister.

He would see her again. If the Circle of Stars had her, and thought she was useful enough to keep, then there would be a way to get her back.

Only the darkling in his head whispered to him.

You could not save Nynnia. You could not protect her.

The idea that the same thing could happen to Zofiya was too horrible to contemplate—and not just for the Empire. Despite all his control and all his training, the thought chased around in the back of his brain, and would not let him sleep for the longest time.