Wrayth (18 page)

“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.