He had to drop to the rock-strewn ground several times or be cut to pieces by his own terrified companions. Rolling to the side out of their way, Merrick drew his own weapon and came to his feet. In his mind he also drew something far more useful, the Fourth Rune of Sight, Kebenar, so that he might see the truth of what was happening around him.
It did no good. Another guard went down howling, his blood pumping from a torn throat, while his colleagues lashed about them hoping to hit something—anything! But whatever moved in the dark was either too fast or had no physical body.
Merrick called out to them. “Dael, the rest of you, come here! By the Bones, keep calm!”
Yet he was asking them to go against the most primitive human fears: the thing in the dark that had a taste for blood. One of the final two guards struck his compatriot in the neck by complete accident, and he went down like a felled tree. Then the monster in the dark took the last of the men.
Now there was only the Deacon, the darkness and whatever fell creature inhabited it. He stood there in a crouch, holding his sword before him, and waited for death to come.
Sorcha and the Prince of Chioma reached the Imperial Dirigible Station with little incident in the darkest part of the night—mainly because there was no one left to challenge them. Those few unbelievers of Hatipai had made themselves scarce, while the rest of the town happily marched out into the desert. She wondered if the call of the false goddess allowed the poor wretches to gather water before they did so; if not, there would be terrible casualties—especially among the children and the elderly. Sorcha doubted it would trouble the “goddess” much.
The Prince was staring at the two dirigibles outlined by the blue glow of weirstone torches with undisguised awe.
“Have you never seen the Emperor’s creations?” Sorcha asked, a tiny note of smugness creeping into her voice.
“Never,” Onika replied, as his contingent of half a dozen guards clustered closer.
“Well, if any of you smoke—I would suggest not to,” the Deacon went on, even though her fingers were twitching to be holding a cigar. “There is a reason they only use weirstones to propel the ship.”
When they looked at her questioningly, she mimed an explosion that made them blanch.
Luckily, Captain Revele appeared from out of the tion buildings and trotted over to Sorcha. Though she cast a curious glance at the strangely masked figure at the Deacon’s side, she saluted Sorcha. “Deacon Faris . . .” The slight slumping her shoulders was only perceptible to a trained Deacon. Sorcha knew full well it was because there was no Merrick at her side.
“Captain Revele”—Sorcha turned and looked toward the two moored dirigibles—“have you had any trouble here?” The last thing she wanted to get onto was a damaged vessel.
“There were a few locals who took exception to our presence”—Vyra’s lips jerked at the corners—“but we fired a few volleys over their heads, and they quickly decided there were softer targets.”
“The pull of the goddess is powerful,” Onika muttered under his breath, but he did not introduce himself.
Sorcha decided that it was the best policy to keep things that way. “Who is the captain of the other vessel?”
“Captain Poetion.” She turned, gestured to the rank of seamen standing watch over the guide ropes, and a tall, thin man strode over to meet them.
He snapped a salute to Sorcha. “Captain Poetion of the Winter Falcon, at your service, Honored Deacon.”
“Good, because service is what we need.” Sorcha pointed to his vessel, which looked to be the sister of the Summer Hawk. “We must make all haste into the desert after the citizens of Orinthal.”
Poetion’s face flickered with a moment of indecision that she really didn’t need to deal with right now.
“Speak up, man,” she snapped.
He cleared his throat. “The Falcon is currently at the service of the Grand Duchess Zofiya.”
Sorcha pressed her lips together; in the confusion she had completely forgotten about the Emperor’s sister. So there were only two options: she was either hiding, or she was lying in a pool of blood in the backstreets of Orinthal. If she said either of those things to Poetion, he would demand they start searching, and by then Hatipai would have the kingdom of Chioma in the palm of her hand.
So Sorcha did the only thing she could do at this vital moment; she lied. “The Grand Duchess is who we are following—I don’t see any conflict in your orders there, Captain.”
Immediately Poetion’s face relaxed. He was happy to have someone else taking responsibility. He stepped back and saluted. “Then the Winter Falcon is at your service. Please come aboard.”
“Deacon Faris,” Captain Revele broke in. “What are your orders for me and the Summer Hawk?” What she really meant was: “What about Deacon Chambers?”
Sorcha smiled slightly. “My partner will follow us as soon as he has concluded his business. I want you to bring him as fast as that contraption of yours can go to the Temple in the desert. It’s in the east, and apparently you can’t miss the damned thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She grinned broadly.
Sorcha found herself strangely satisfied that at least someone was happy in this crazy situation. “Just take care of him,” she said over her shoulder, and the words felt curiously final.
Onika and his handful of guards climbed aboard the Winter Falcon with the kind of trepidation that reminded Sorcha of Raed. The slight swaying and creaking of the dirigible had also alarmed him, but his anxiety had disappeared when they had lain together in the swinging bed. This trip would be considerably shorter and nowhere as enjoyable.
The crew leapt to their positions quickly, and Captain Poetion strode past his newest guests to take control of his ship. The Falcon took her name very seriously. She soared into the air toward the dark clouds highlighted by the moon. It was a surreal and beautiful moment, and Sorcha was determined to enjoy the spectacle, because she certainly wasn’t allowed to smoke.
At her side Onika’s hands gripped the railing. “Such things are not right.”
“Not right?” Sorcha looked down as the Hive City slid past under them. From up here, the little fires looked pretty, though they signaled chaos.
“Such things were why the Ehtia left this world,” the Prince muttered.
“The Ehtia?”
“Never mind.” Onika slid his hand beneath his mask and rubbed wearily at that magnificent face his mother had given him.
The Prince’s facade, hidden as it might be, was starting to crack. He sounded almost human under there. “Very well, Your Highness, perhaps we can talk about what we will face when we reach this Temple.”
He sighed heavily. “My mother will create a new body so she can have a grip on this world. It was what we took from her last time—but we could not banish her spirit, and that is what we imprisoned under Vermillion. Only a Prince and a person of faith could free her—it was the best lock we could make.”
“I wish Vermillion wasn’t such a popular place to dump problems.” The Deacon drummed her fingers on the railing as she digested this. She knew there were no true acolytes of the little gods in the capital—except one very famous one: the Grand Duchess Zofiya. She swallowed. The Emperor’s sister, who lived in the palace and was well-known for her strange adherence to a curious religion. Still, no one in Vermillion would have questioned Zofiya. Doing so would be detrimental to their health.
The Deacon began to wonder if she might have to kill the Emperor’s sister rather soon, and then she began to consider what her Arch Abbot would think of that.
“I hope your partner has found Japhne,” Onika said, his voice so low that it was almost drowned out by the hum of the weirstone engine.
“She’s his mother, so I think he has plenty of motivation, and Merrick is the most determined person I know.”