Her partner struggled briefly and then sagged in Sorcha’s grasp. She was wise enough to know she was outmatched. Sorcha pushed her away hard, using her arm as leverage. When Delie turned about, her eyes were hard and bitter. Whatever force had the Chiomese, it had sunk its claws deeper into her than Jey.
Logically, Sorcha should have drawn her sword and dispatched the two of them, because they would undoubtedly bring back reinforcements to finish the job—but she hesitated.
Her training had taught her sympathy and care for those possessed—and though Sorcha had never seen anything like this kind, she knew it was something similar. Though her hand caressed the pommel of her sword, she did not draw it.
“Come, Jey,” Delie snarled, yanking her Sensitive to her feet. Tears looked ready to spring to the young Deacon’s eyes as she followed her Active away down the alleyway.
That was when lightning struck out of the clear blue sky. It smashed the three-story wall above the Chiomese Deacons with a deafening boom of thunder that filled the tiny space and knocked Sorcha and Merrick off their feet. For a moment everything was white.
When it finally cleared enough for her to see again, she turned to see Abbot Yohari propped up on the street behind them, his Gauntleted hand raised with the remains of Chityre still dancing on it. His dark, handsome face was twisted in pain and rage for a heartbeat before it was quickly smoothed away in a wash of trained discipline.
One glance back to where the tumbled remains of the building stood told Sorcha that no one was climbing out of that wreckage. Still, she looked to Merrick. His shake of the head was the final confirmationidtv>
Standing over the Abbot, she released her breath slowly before pointing out to him, “They were retreating.”
His expression would have suited a statue. “They strayed from the path,” was his only reply.
Sorcha couldn’t decide what to make of this implacability. The Order had plenty of rules that she was sure she didn’t care to know about.
Yohari stripped off his gloves, tucked them under his belt and then imperiously held out a hand to Sorcha. Their gazes locked, and for the longest moment Sorcha didn’t move. Finally it was Merrick, faithful, dependable Merrick, who darted forward and helped the injured Abbot to his feet.
Every muscle that Sorcha owned, as if on cue, began to ache—but it was highly unlikely that she would have time for a soak in a hot bath. Not for a very long time. Despite the pain, she did not remove her Gauntlets.
“Take me to the Prince.” The Abbot leaned against Merrick and glared at Sorcha. “We must get to the Prince.”
She would have loved an excuse to leave Yohari—but somehow the Bonds of loyalty still held her to the path of the Order—and she couldn’t let Merrick shoulder all of this burden. Taking her place under the Abbot’s right arm, smelling the tang of blood and incense, Sorcha found herself agreeing with him.
“To the Prince, then—and by the Bones, it had better be a short, uneventful walk.”
They reached their destination in the sullen cold of the evening. Raed had long ago given up trying to outlast Zofiya and had dropped back to sleep in the swaying carriage. If life on the run had taught him anything, it was that you were always best to take rest where you could.
So when the carriage rumbled to a stop, he jerked awake and reached automatically for his sword. The sheath was empty at his side, and his hands remained tied firmly with the weirstones.
Zofiya, on the opposite seat, smiled at him almost coyly, then, leaning forward, she yanked on the cord that bound him. For a second Raed contemplated putting up a fight but then decided his energy was best preserved. If the Grand Duchess got her thrills leading him around like a tame animal, then he would let her grow accustomed to that illusion.
“I hope we haven’t kept everyone waiting,” he muttered as he stepped out of the carriage.
Zofiya’s laugh was low and delighted. “They would wait for you, Raed Syndar Rossin, because you are the guest of honor.”
It was not exactly a cheery comment, so Raed decided to ignore it.
They were still out in the sand—hardly surprising, since they had been traveling with the setting sun on their left, which meant only more desert. The heat had long dissipated; instead, a freezing cold wind was blowing off the dunes. Raed shivered and looked about him. A long row of flaming torches led somewhere in the dark, though he could make out a hump of some kind on the horizon—it blocked out the stars. It could be just another sand dune, but some deeper awareness, something from the Rossin, most likely, said it was not.
“I do hope this isn’t another ‘we need royal blood’ ritual.” He sighed in mock boredom. “Because I already went through one of those recently.”
“The Murashev in Vermillion?” Zofiya’s voice was tny in the vast desert. “That was a geist—this is for our Bright One.”
“It’s not royal blood they want, Brother”—a second female voice came out of the dark—“else they could have had some of mine.”
For a long beat of his heart Raed remained frozen, certain that somehow his mother’s spectyr had found her way here. It was her voice, light and sweet but still full of the command of a royal lady. Tears leapt to his eyes in an instant as the last image he had of her flashed before him—her beautiful face twisted in agony, just before the Rossin took her life.
The Young Pretender spun around. A form, tall and shapely, stood by the closest torch. It was hooded, but as he watched, delicate hands pushed aside the cowl. Curls of bright gold hair tumbled down her back but were held away from her face by a string of gleaming pearls, and Raed took a step away in shock. His sister was the living image of their mother.
“Fraine?”
His sister stood by the torch and made not a move toward him. It had been nearly ten years since he had seen her, but her face held not one ounce of joy. Nor was she bound; however, as he looked closer, there was something missing in her eyes—they were as blank as a blyweed user.
Raed shot a glance back at Zofiya, who merely smiled. “Fraine”—Raed ventured cautiously forward, his eyes darting into the darkness—“what have they done to you?”
“That isn’t the right question you know, Brother. You should be asking what I have done to you.” Her voice was strangely flat.
Raed felt his spine run with ice water as a terrible sensation of unreality crept over him. This couldn’t be Fraine! It had to be some cruel illusion of his beloved sister. He couldn’t have traveled all this way to find this.
“Fraine?”
“Do stop using my name!” she hissed, finally moving forward. Dimly, Raed realized that his sister was as tall as he. “Don’t tell me you honestly thought I had been kidnapped?”
Everything was still. Even the wind off the dunes had died down. Raed’s mouth was dry. He did not know what to say.
“But Tang said . . . ” He was grasping at anything—any facts.
“I am not as blinded by old loyalties as I once was.” Tangyre Greene walked into the light to stand next to Fraine.
This was like some sort of grotesque stage play. Raed had always prided himself on his quick wits, and yet, though everything was making a kind of cruel sense, he still couldn’t bear to accept it. He shook his head. “What would make my family do this to me?” It was whispered under his breath, but the two women heard him well enough.
Tangyre glanced at her Princess but saw that for the moment she had the floor. At least Captain Greene had enough loyalty to look guilty. “It’s not about you, my Prince—but about what you have failed to do.”
Raed managed to find some dull anger. He glared at her. “And what is that?”
“Protect your family.” Her jaw clenched. “You have been happy to leave your father and sister to rot on that stinking island.”
“I had no choice.” He turned to Fraine, pushing aside the shade of their mother that hung between them. “You have to know that.”