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Carefully, he leaned down and examined it before opening it. It was a large piece of fur, wrapped in red string. After he had checked from all angles, he took a chance, unraveled the fur and spread it on the rock.

It was a thing of great beauty. The sunlight gleamed on the tips of the strange silver fur, and Raed leaned forward to run his hands through it. It had to do with the Rossin, of that he was sure. Despite that, the Young Pretender scooped it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. Instantly warmth enveloped him. He wanted to throw it away because he was sure that there was more to this gift than it appeared. Yet, it was protecting him. The Young Pretender was caught in the middle. The pelt was seducing him, a deep part of his being understood that but could not fight it.

Still Raed turned back toward the citadel, and began walking, clutching the warmth and softness of the pelt to himself. Hopefully somewhere along the way he would find his clothes.

That search however was going to be nothing compared to having to explain to Sorcha where he had been. She was bound to have felt the Rossin appear, and was certain to have questions. Those he feared facing, because at this stage he really didn’t have any answers.

FOUR

A Blown Leaf

In the wake of the attack, there was no time to even take a breath. Zofiya stood in the doorway watching Sorcha and Merrick talking quietly to each other while the smell of death was ventilated from the room. Something had just happened, something that shook them to the core, but she found herself hesitant to interrupt.

While she helped clear the debris out of the Great Hall, stepping over pools of scarlet blood, a lay Brother appeared at her elbow. He was tall, thin and pale faced, but his hand was not trembling as he passed a roll of paper to her. “Imperial Highness,” he said, and she managed not to flinch at the use of her title, “you asked if we could find any news of your brother’s activities to the north. We have been able to secure this.”

Zofiya’s hand clenched on the scrap, but she managed to remain calm. “Where is this information from? Can we trust it?”

“Indeed yes! It is from a lay Brother who escaped a Priory to the north of Vermillion.” The young Brother dropped his eyes. “Like many others he managed to get out with a weirstone and has been sending in what reports he can.”

“Thank you,” she managed, while her eyes darted over the short message. It felt like ice water flooded through her veins. What she read there made up her mind immediately—she had to get out of the citadel.

Without a word to anyone, she spun on her heel and made her way back to the room she shared with Merrick.

In the city of Vermillion, she’d slept on a bed carved like a boat and had whatever material possessions she had wanted. In the citadel, they had a narrow camp bed with a thin blanket to cover them both.

Shutting the door behind her, Zofiya leaned on it for just a moment. “I am the Grand Duchess of Arkaym,” she whispered to remind herself, before snatching up her rucksack and starting to throw the few items she had into it.

Merrick had saved her, and it had been a relief to give herself over to that fact for a time: to be a follower rather than a leader. However, the appearance of geists tonight had merely underscored what she had already known. Her brother was part of this, and she had to do something about it. Now, she must leave and not think about how doing so would hurt.

“Zofiya?” Merrick had slipped in the door behind her without her noticing. He was capable of great silence when required—certainly, he would have made an excellent spy or assassin.

She looked up at him and into those brown eyes that were the most reassuring she had ever seen in any human. In them, for a few months at least, she had been able to rest and recover. Yes indeed, it had been a dream, but now it was time to wake up.

When she could no longer take Merrick’s puzzled look, Zofiya thrust the piece of paper with the dire news on it into his hand. She didn’t wait for him to finish taking it in.

“I have to go,” Zofiya said, turning her back on him and rolling up the final few clothes. “I am who I am, and I can’t pretend I am just some camp follower any longer. I need to speak to my brother immediately. You know I am the only one he might listen to.”

She heard him let out a long sigh, presumably after reading what she had. When he spoke, his voice was laced with sadness. “You know that I have never thought of you as a camp follower. You are the Grand Duchess of Arkaym.” His hand rested on her shoulder. “You are also not responsible for what your brother does.”

Zofiya had been born a royal, taught that human connection—even to her own family—was a danger; however, at that moment she wanted to turn around and take his hand in hers. Her whole being told her to bury her head against his shoulder and stay there. She’d never had anything so good that she feared losing it so badly; lovers had come and gone for her.

She paused, took a breath, and pushed her dark hair off her face. “I didn’t mean responsible—at least not to him. My duty is to the people of Arkaym. It is for them I must try and talk sense into Kal.”

Merrick walked around her, so that she had to meet his eyes once more. Normal lovers she suspected would have begged her to stay, covered her with hollow promises of eternal love, and thrown themselves against her will. Not Merrick. He saw too much for any of that.

“I realize that,” he whispered, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I understand it too, but I hope you don’t think his destruction has anything to do with you?” The candlelight flickered over his face, now forever marked by the runes of his calling. The change in his appearance had been startling at first, but Zofiya had become used to it. It rather suited him she thought—and she would miss it.

Zofiya reached out and cupped her hand against the strong line of his cheek. Even though he saw so much, she couldn’t leave without having actually spoken what was inside her. “I have been happy here with you, Merrick. Even with all the running, the awful food and dreary conditions, I have been more content than anywhere else in my life.”

The corners of his mouth turned up, as he spoke, “And yet you are still going to use that weirstone that Aachon found here, aren’t you?”

Despite the sad moment, the Grand Duchess laughed. “I should have realized you would know immediately.” She sat down on the bed they had shared and looked up at him. “Why didn’t you say anything about it before?”

Merrick shrugged and took a spot next to her. “I thought it would make you feel better to have it with you.”

Zofiya reached into the rucksack and pulled out the swirling blue stone. It was not a large weirstone—not enough to power an airship—but it was enough to contact one. It was also how she had already reached out to several officers in the Imperial Guard whom she trusted implicitly.

Looking down into the weirstone, she commented, “For a person so committed to the old Imperial family, Aachon has been quite helpful. He’s taught me the basics of using it for communication.”

Merrick shrugged. “I think the death of Raed’s sister made him see how little his friend wants the throne. It’s been quite a change for him.”

Both of them started as the sound of footsteps raced past in the hallway outside. Merrick got that distant look in his eyes, for just an instant, before returning to their conversation; nothing beyond their room apparently required his attention. The Deacon wrapped his hands around hers. “What will you do?”

Zofiya lurched to her feet and shrugged the rucksack onto her back. “The Summer Hawk and her captain are loyal to me, and we are not far from their usual route. I will send the message as soon as I am clear of the citadel.”