Raed glanced over his shoulder. There were thumps in the depths of the building, the rattle of angry fists on the doors of the prison. He strode to the cell door and, grasping it, made to call out to his jailor. The door swung in his grip. While he’d been occupied with the scene outside, his newly unfriendly captor had unlocked it.
So, his guardians were of the same opinion as the mob. The smell of smoke wafted up from outside just as the screaming reached a level to make his ears ring. Even if there was one jailor that didn’t like the taste of a lynch mob, there was no way that man would risk his life for the Pretender. Raed slipped through the door and into the corridor, but after that his plan got very blurry.
“Not staying for the show?” The woman’s voice was behind him, and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
Spinning around, he caught Sorcha’s grim smile—and she was not alone. Merrick, despite the fact that Hastler had tricked him into partnership with the older Deacon, remained true to his vows.
“It doesn’t sound like my sort of party,” Raed admitted, before kissing her. In his mind, there was always time for that.
“Quickly.” Merrick grabbed them both and tugged them down the corridor in the opposite direction from the screaming of the mob. The alarming smashing now sounded very much like a door giving up its hold on its hinges.
Together the three of them ran past the row of cells full of cheering, howling prisoners. Down a spiraling staircase, they found the back door. It was smoking and lying on the ground. Raed shot Sorcha a surprised look, but she smiled back. “We were a little short of time.”
He was not going to question her methods, because behind them they could now hear the sound of pounding feet. Dashing out into the alleyway, however, he found the rescue more than a little lacking. “I hate to be picky—but shouldn’t we have some method of escape?”
Silk Road, to their right, was still packed with angry people; angry because they were unable to get to the front of the lynch mob pouring into the Imperial Jail.
“We had horses!” Merrick’s face was pale.
“You can’t leave anything lying about in this town.” Raed shrugged, feeling that knot of dread tightening up once again.
There was nowhere to hide in this narrow alley, and several of the mob had become aware of the three of them. People had been swallowed by shared anger, losing all inhibition and control. It was now turning toward them like a great beast with many heads. Raed wondered how painful getting torn apart would be. He would have at least liked to have had a sword.
Sorcha tossed him hers without him having to ask, but her next action startled him. She shoved her Gauntlets on her hands and turned toward the onrushing mob. He recalled suddenly her outrage at Aulis when she threatened to use the runes on the public. And along the Bond he could feel her—it was not fear of death that she was feeling; it was something colder. She had lost her faith in the Order and what it stood for. Her concern now was purely about defending those who mattered to her.
Green fire sprang along the length of her spread fingers, and the stony look on her face was one he had never seen before—even when they had faced the Murashev. Join her. The Rossin was aroused by the promise of unfettered violence. Unleash me.
The mob bore down on them and the air tasted like sweat and electricity, as Sorcha raised her Gauntlets and prepared to break every tenet of the Order she’d been a part of since childhood.
“Sorcha, don’t!” Merrick was usually the calmer, tempered one, but his voice cracked with such power that for a moment she did indeed pause. Or maybe it was the world itself—for it dipped into that misty moment that Raed had experienced before; the time before decision and death.
What happened in the next heartbeat, the Pretender could not quite identify. The walls of the alleyway distorted, bending in an optical illusion that stopped everyone short. And then the tide of emotion swept over them. Suddenly Raed was thrown back to that moment when he had awoken with his mother’s blood all over him, her broken and torn body at his feet. The grief washed over him, as fresh and terrible as it had been in the moment when it had dawned on him what the Rossin had done.
At his side, Sorcha was curled in on herself, a strangled sound of utmost despair clawing its way out of her throat. Through his tears, Raed was able to see that the crowd—descending on them angrily only a second before—was also wracked with despair. They huddled on the street, sobbing and clutching at one another, in the throes of the emotional storm; a wash of misery that had been leveled upon them far more easily than anything Sorcha could have done.
Raed was only just able to nail that observation down before the waves of his own emotions crashed over him once more. The rawness of despair ran through his body, the depth of melancholy impossible to resist. That was, until Merrick’s hand touched his shoulder. “Raed.” His voice cut through the grief and pain, removing it as swiftly as it had come.
The Pretender climbed to his feet, noticing that Sorcha had also been pulled free of whatever had happened to them. She was brusquely wiping away her tears, turned slightly away; embarrassment burned along the Bond.
Merrick’s Strop dangled from his fingertips, tucked behind his back as if he were ashamed of it. A flicker of rainbow light played across its surface and was gone. Raed had studied the ways of the Order, and he had never heard of any Sensitive doing any such thing. Yet there it was; Merrick had leveled a lynch mob by reaching in and twisting their emotions—hard.
The three of them stared at one another, and then Deacon Chambers folded his Strop and tucked it inside his shirt. His expression was as flinty as his partner’s had been when she had faced the mob. “It won’t last long.” He flicked his reversed cloak around his shoulders and began picking his way through the still-weeping crowd.
Sorcha and Raed followed after. They had to be careful; people were rolling around sobbing, crying the names of dead relatives, and merely howling incoherently. No one paid the three of them any mind.
The circle of this emotional storm was three streets wide, leveling every citizen—even those beyond Silk Road who had not been involved in the lynching. Sorcha draped her cloak over Raed as they found the edge of the effect, lifting the hood to hide his features. Ahead of them Merrick was still striding, not looking over his shoulder, his back ramrod straight.
“Do you know what that was?” Raed whispered, clenching her cool hand in his.
She shook her head, her eyes wide, concerned and still a little red from the sudden tears. “There are many things that Actives do not know, about what Sensitives do,” she muttered, “but I do not think this is taught in any class at the Order.”
“And by the looks of him, now is not the time to ask.” Raed lifted her fingers and kissed them lightly. “But I appreciate the rescue.”
Her smile was bright, sudden, and concealed immediately. “It was not quite as planned.” She did not say it, but Raed could hear her thoughts. Consequences be damned.
Eventually they passed through another section of narrow alleyways and into the Artisan Quarter. Weavers hung their wares out in front of stores while talking with passersby. It was loud and vibrant, and stood out in stark contrast to the weeping mob they had so narrowly escaped. Merrick flicked aside a tapestry that, ironically, showed the achievements of the native Order, and led them into the depths of one of the shops.
In the basement Raed felt the last of the melancholy lift from his shoulders. “Aachon!” He crossed the short distance and grabbed hold of his first mate before the man could move. The slap on his back was gruff but heartily meant. The Pretender laughed loudly as the rest of his crew crowded around him; not a single one was missing.
Over the tops of their heads, he glanced back and saw the Deacons standing as still as herons by the door. They, Raed realized, had risked a great deal to get him to safety. To extend such loyalty to someone not in the Order was something he had not expected. But the Bond was still there. He might have wanted it gone, but it had saved them all.