See deep, fear nothing. The words engraved above the door were the code of the Sensitive. The trouble was Merrick was seeing deep, but he was afraid of what he found.
“Where is your shelter now?” the Sorchas cried, though their voices were now not hers. They were something else. “How can you protect anyone, when you can’t protect yourself?”
They charged at him, and he fled the room completely. He raced up the hallway, letting Masa run out of his fingers, and abandoned his Center.
Merrick knew immediately that he had to find the answers somewhere else. He couldn’t tell anyone about what he had found—least of all his partner. No, he would say that he had failed to see anything at all. That would be better than the truth.
TEN
On the Hunt
Sorcha sought out Merrick as the evening began to pull in, and even though they shared a connection, he was remarkably hard to find. Along the Bond she could feel his bitter frustrations and disappointments, which only magnified her own. She returned to the Great Hall and found him sitting alone in the chair by the window. He was wrapped in a luxurious fur cloak on which tiny beads of water from the falls had gathered like a scattering of diamonds. It had to be from the storerooms of the citadel; the lay Brothers were still finding all sorts of interesting items down there. The roar of the waterfall was slightly muffled by the stonework, but it still sounded like oncoming thunder.
Merrick’s face was set in still lines, and his eyes locked on the magnificent view, yet Sorcha could read him well enough to know that he was seeing none of it. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence.
“Merrick?” She finally had to speak and then again. “Merrick?”
He actually jumped a little.
“Is everything all right?” The words sounded ridiculous coming out of her mouth. They’d been attacked in their own halls and had a madman living over their heads—yet what Sorcha meant wasn’t any of that. She cleared her throat. “I mean are you all right?”
“I am . . .” He licked his lips and stared down at his folded hands on his lap. “I am here.”
Somehow Sorcha got the feeling that wasn’t completely true. “Did you examine the cantrips at all?” She didn’t add “as I asked,” since things were far too precarious right now for her to start throwing her metaphorical weight around.
He shook his head. “No, sorry. I was too deep in the future. The Conclave has only just gone downstairs for some sleep.”
The strains of Masa were not something Sorcha could comprehend, but she could see the exhaustion written in every move of her partner. She took hold of his elbow and pulled him to his feet. “And that is where you should be too.”
He made a weak gesture, attempting to stave her off. “We have to reach out with the weirstones every day, Sorcha. We have to search the future for a place to strike at Derodak. Choosing the wrong one could be disastrous.”
“Indeed it could,” she said, smoothly sliding her hand under Merrick’s elbow, “but you won’t be able to do that if you burn out like a candle.”
Giving in to the inevitable, he finally allowed himself to be led back down the stairs. With her hands on the soft fur cloak, his partner helped him to his room. Sorcha tucked him into bed and wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm. She’d been expecting some kind of further resistance, but as soon as his head touched the pillow Merrick’s eyes closed. For a moment she stood looking down at him, strangely maternal feelings welling up inside her.
Her partner was not quite young enough to be her child, but the emotions they shared veered everywhere. The relationship of Sensitive to Active was a complicated and unusual one. However, there was one thing Sorcha knew for certain: Merrick would strive until his body and mind broke. He had changed a great deal since their first meeting. His nerves back then had shown in the humor he tried to force. Now he barely had the energy for words of any kind.
“That lad looks like death warmed up,” a voice commented out of the half light of the corridor.
Sorcha turned to see Raed stepping out of the darkness and nodded her agreement. “He’s been pushing himself too hard.”
“I think Merrick would say there is nothing that’s too hard, love.” Raed took her hand in his, and his skin against hers was a comfort. “You didn’t come to bed last night, and the night before that you fought off a geist attack. You need your sleep. I hope you’re not tiring of me already, are you?”
She wanted to blurt out some of what the Patternmaker had said, but she was still digesting it herself. Additionally, she didn’t want him to know one more disturbing fact about herself: she was needing less and less sleep. She’d spent the night on the battlements of the citadel thinking hard on her time inside her mother’s head. Those thoughts that they’d shared might contain some way for her to defeat her heritage. Nothing however had come. All she’d done was recall the one who had birthed her, and the fear and desperation that had driven her right to the edge. Sorcha ended up worrying if she was coming close to that place herself.
“Don’t be foolish. I was just busy.” It was much easier to lie to Raed than it was to Merrick. The Bond between the Young Pretender and herself was strong, but did not communicate stray thoughts.
“But I am glad you are here,” she said, tugging him out of the room and quietly shutting the door behind them. “I need your help with something.”
He straightened slightly. “You just have to ask, you know that.”
She was playing on one of Raed’s principle concerns: not being of use. Her request might also serve to distract him a little, just in case he saw panic in his lover’s eyes. Sorcha knew what she had learned from the Patternmaker was nothing she could fix. She’d been born as part of the Wrayth, and if they came for her then she would have to deal with that. Right now however, there was something far more important.
“We have to find how the geists got inside the citadel’s cantrips and runes,” Sorcha said as she led him away from Merrick’s room and down the steps deeper into the bones of the building. “Even with this weakening of the veil, they should have provided some protection. The citadel is hundreds and hundreds of years old, and has been layered with barriers by every generation of Deacons. I asked Merrick to look into it but . . .” She shrugged.
“How can I help with that?” he asked. “I’m no Merrick that can—”
“You have him.” Sorcha cut him short and pressed her hand against his chest. “You have the Rossin, the master of breaching barriers, and . . .” She smiled.” . . . I could do with your company, plus I have something that I want to talk to you about.”
“I am afraid marriage is quite out of the question without you asking my father first.” She caught a glimpse of his white teeth gleaming in the fading light of distant torches.
Sorcha wasn’t sure if she should smile back. She settled for a short laugh, and then called on Yevah, just a little. The red fire ran through the designs on her arm, providing a useful if slightly strange light as they descended deep into the roots of the citadel.
The question Sorcha was burning to ask Raed was weighing her down, and it was harder to get out than she had expected. She found her mouth was a little dry since she’d not revealed to anyone—not even Merrick—how the Wrayth had been whispering to her of late. Finally, she choked out, “I need to know what it feels like to have the Rossin inside you . . .”
For a moment there was only the sound of their boots on the stone, and Sorcha worried that Raed was too stunned by her question to reply. She wheeled around in the narrow confines of the corridor and held her arm, burning with red fire, up slightly so she could see his face.