It was not fear or disgust she saw there, though his brows were drawn together and his jaw was tight. Raed’s voice, when it came out, was hoarse and strained. “You know, no one has ever asked me that.” He swallowed. “It has become . . . easier . . . if that is the right word for it.”
Neither of them was happy with this conversation—Sorcha didn’t need to be a Sensitive to figure that out—yet she pressed on. “Does he . . . does he speak to you?”
“Sometimes,” Raed confessed. “Usually when he is trying to get me to do things, or when there is some immediate danger that he doesn’t want his body involved in. Since Fraine’s death he’s been more interested in keeping me alive.”
Sorcha clenched her jaw hard and turned away before whatever feeling was bubbling up could show itself on her face, but Raed’s hand pressed against her shoulder. “Is there a reason you are asking, love?” he asked softly.
She didn’t want the Patternmaker to be the only one who knew . . . just in case something happened later on. “It has to be the weakening of the barrier,” she stumbled out. “The Wrayth like every other geist are gaining power . . . and I am starting to hear them . . . just now and then . . . sometimes . . .”
If the fledgling Council she was creating got wind of this, the remains of the Order would fall apart completely. Merrick in good conscience couldn’t keep it from them, and by not revealing her Wrayth heritage he was already lying to them. Raed at least had none of those allegiances.
The Young Pretender stared down at her, his fingers still grasping her shoulder. “Have they asked you to do anything . . . anything that you feel compelled to do?”
She shook her head while choking back the desire to throw herself into his arms. It was an unfortunate truth that she cared too much what he thought of her to break down—but it would have been nice.
“Then you can live with it,” Raed said, his breath making tiny white clouds in the cold air around them as he leaned closer to her. “The Wrayth is probably just trying to unnerve you and sway you from your course. The Rossin does it all the time to me, but neither of us needs to listen.”
They were the very words Sorcha needed to hear. Her lack of sleep had to be caused by the extreme stress of these last few months. A long-held-in breath escaped her. “Right, then,” she said, “let’s see what is going on down here.”
Holding her arm in front of them, she took his hand with her left. It felt good to be able to do that since they were down where no one could see. It was almost as if there was no one in the world but the two of them.
Soon, the light around them was coming not just from Sorcha’s rune. Other twinkling colored lights began to appear on the face of the rock tunnel.
“Cantrips?” Raed breathed. “I’ve never seen so many.”
Sorcha glanced up at the complex patterns. “I have heard tell the roots of the palace at Vermillion are also very complex, but I don’t think there is a Deacon alive that has seen them.”
“Except maybe for Derodak,” Raed breathed.
Her heart leapt in her chest, but the Emperor had run mad and was no longer her concern—though she feared for the people of the capital.
Her lover cleared his throat, and tried to change the subject as quickly as he could. “So, what are we looking for?”
“Changes in the pattern,” she said, pointing to the concentric rings that rose from the floor upward. “The lower-down ones are the more ancient, and they get newer the higher they get.”
He frowned as his eyes focused on the tiny inscriptions. “I feel like I might need eyeglasses for this task, love. How on earth do you read . . .”
Sorcha wasn’t quite sure how to tell him what he was really here for, but it wasn’t as if she could put it off any longer. “I read them, Raed. You touch them.”
The Rossin was not active in him and thus was not going to be affected by the cantrips; however, direct contact to his flesh should be the only experiment that needed to be conducted. It couldn’t be the first time that he’d felt the sting of a cantrip.
“I see . . . it is not just my charm and good looks you were after,” he replied with the faintest hint of a sigh. “Very well.” He bent down, and touched the first ring of cantrips. The snap of blue power struck his finger.
The Young Pretender leapt back. “By the Blood!” He stared at Sorcha, and she—only just managing to conceal her smile—gestured to the next line of cantrips carved into the root of the citadel.
With a slow shake of his head, he obediently touched the next one. It went on for another hour, as they circled the foundations, testing the lines of cantrips.
“I think you are starting to enjoy this,” Raed grumbled in a slightly overly hurt tone.
“Starting?” Sorcha shot back, but applied a kiss to the end of his fingertips. “I promise I will make it up to you somehow . . .”
He stared down at her, those hazel eyes locked with hers, and the shiver that ran up her spine was not at all related to the chill in the foundations. Raed must have felt it too, because he smiled slightly before turning back to his task. “How many more to do?”
Sorcha flicked her eyes up. “I think we should go upstairs. I don’t know how the cantrips were breached; perhaps there is something Derodak can do that we don’t know about, something not written in any book.” That idea had been haunting her thoughts since the attack.
“Perhaps you’re right, I can think of—” Raed stopped suddenly, and squeezing past Sorcha in the tight confines of the tunnel walked to where it finished abruptly. The glimmer of the cantrips danced over his skin as he reached out to touch one that gleamed pale green. Nothing happened.
Sorcha hurried to his side, as Raed repeatedly touched the line. Still nothing.
They shared a look, and she dropped into a crouch to examine the cantrips more closely. “It looks like some kind of fissure opened up here,” she muttered, running her fingers over the surface of the rock, and feeling a sliver of a gap. “The cantrips here were added fairly recently to seal it, but . . .”
She stopped, suddenly, as her touch found a dip in the rock.
Raed swiftly joined her, leaning down on all fours to see what she had found. He brushed away a layer of gravel and rock that had been piled up along the edge between wall and floor. “Looks like a chisel has been used to knock the last few cantrips out and the damage was covered by loose earth. I would say rather recently.”
Sorcha sank back on her heels as the realization washed over her. “Someone in the citadel is a traitor . . .”
With everything else they had to deal with, now they had to watch their backs. She’d thought everyone she’d saved and led through endless portals to this place had shared her determination to preserve something from the shards of the Order.
It was possible here to let her feelings out. Sorcha leaned against Raed. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “We have to find Derodak and the rest of our Brothers. We don’t have the time to ferret out a traitor. Besides, if they can hide from our Sensitives, then how do we even . . .”
“This is a distraction,” Raed replied, giving her a squeeze. “Derodak wants to harry you to a standstill. You mustn’t let him.”
They both stared down at the disturbed earth, which signified yet another problem. Sorcha relaxed into his embrace for a moment, letting the calming sound of his heartbeat become hers.
Then with a jerk, she got to her feet. “You’re right. Onward is the only direction we have.”
As they turned and walked back the way they had come, she slipped her hand into his. “Just don’t tell anyone, Raed. We can’t afford to start doubting each other now.”