Onika nodded and became silent as they flew on. Sorcha stepped away and helped the guardsmen find places to sleep. They, like she, would certainly need rest. A lifetime of the thin mattresses in the Abbey helped her sleep pretty much anywhere, and it had been a long, long day.
Sorcha curled up in the empty hold with a mat of straw under her and caught a few vital hours of sleep. What the Prince of Chioma did was his own business. The smooth progress of the Winter Falcon lulled her off to sleep, where dark shadows waited to chase her.
What woke her up, however, were a lurch and the sound of feet pounding on the deck. Grabbing her Gauntlets, Sorcha leapt up and ran outside to find what fresh trouble had them.
It was a staggering progress, though, as the dirigible was bucking and shaking itself like a maddened bull. The clouds, which had been distant, were churning around them with lightning rumbling in their bellies. The con shook and creaked, throwing around her occupants, so that even the crew had to hang on to the rigging.
Sorcha proceeded forward in a sort of monkey scramble, more swinging than walking. She found the Chiomese guards clustered around Onika—all of them were wet and panicked. The Prince’s mask was shaking and trembling, and this meant that every few heartbeats his face was revealed. His poor guardsmen were alternatively terrified and struck dumb with his glory.
Sorcha averted her eyes and tried instead to make out what was happening to the Falcon. Sharp rain stung her face, and howling winds pulled her hair loose from its pins. She’d been on dirigibles during storms before, and usually the captains took their vessels above the clouds—yet she couldn’t feel any change in the Falcon’s altitude.
“Stay here,” she yelled over the sound of wind and then half crawled toward the cabin. The dirigible bucked and hummed as if she were in pain, and the Deacon had to latch on to the rigging as best she could while working her way forward.
She had only just reached the flight cabin when the door flung open, and Captain Poetion appeared. His face said it all, though as a trained officer in the Imperial Air Fleet, he tried to hide his look of terror beneath a mask of professionalism. Yet it was there.
“We have reached the Temple,” he yelled over the cacophony, while clenching onto the frame of the door. “But we can’t get above this storm. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“That is to be expected.” Onika appeared at Sorcha’s shoulder. “Captain, if you want your vessel to survive this, you must let us off. Immediately.”
Poetion glanced back into the flight cabin where the wheelman struggled with the controls of the Falcon. The dials danced as if possessed, while another member of the crew tried to hold the levers steady.
The captain leaned into the wind and shouted at Onika and Sorcha, “We can’t control the altitude at all. If you want to get off, we are going to have to use the swings.”
The Deacon’s stomach lurched, and it didn’t have anything to do with the mad bucking of the dirigible. Nobody could be sure how high they were, but Sorcha was sure the Prince knew what he was doing.
As quickly as possible, Poetion led them to the rigging on the starboard side. The swings, which Sorcha had used once before, were unhitched by crew who looked glad to be rid of their passengers. In the rain and the wind, Sorcha’s fingers were numb as she struggled to get into the harness. She couldn’t see much, and her heart was racing. The firm wood placed under her bottom did indeed resemble a swing, though there was a small comfort in the fact that she and Onika were buckled into it.
The guards were arguing with Poetion, demanding to go down ahead of their Prince, but it was Onika who cut in.
“The sooner I am on solid ground, the better for all of you,” he said, and that was that. The tiny glimpses of his compelling face made sure that no one disagreed. He and Sorcha poised on the edge of the railing, their feet dangling out into space. The Deacon took a long, deep breath, trying to keep herself from breaking out into full-fledged panic. A crew member stood ready on the each of their winches, waiting for the signal.
Poetion looked to the Deacon, and she realized that even in this moment of madness it was up to her to say the word. Clenching her hands around the swing’s chains, she pushed with eet. The arm of the device swiveled out, and now she was hanging over nothing. Below, all she could see was mist and rain—no sight of the ground at all.
“I wonder how many people have wanted to drop a Deacon like this,” she muttered before waving to the grinder on the end of the winch. “Ready to go.”
And then there they were, descending into the darkness. Her hair was blasted free of its ties, so she was almost blinded by it. The rain picked up, each droplet sharp on her skin, while the rumble of thunder deafened her. It didn’t seem that the storm was abating—in fact, it was intensifying. She wondered if this was how a worm on a fishhook felt.
The swing was certainly living up to its name, but unlike a childhood pleasure, this jarred her stomach and robbed the breath from her body. Sorcha couldn’t even see Onika, though he was surely only six feet from her.
Pushing her hair out of her face, Sorcha looked up with her Center. She immediately wished she hadn’t. The clouds above danced with lightning, but this only served to illuminate the darkness that was deeper in the throbbing mass. It looked exactly like a clawed hand reaching down. Sorcha tried to work out what sort of geist could do that, but it was hard to think clearly when those talons were obviously wrapping about the Winter Falcon.
The swing jerked, spun her around, and began tipping backwards. A scream escaped Sorcha and was swallowed by the storm. Falling had always been her greatest fear, and hours of Deacon training had only blunted its edge. A terrified glance down told her nothing at all, because the storm wrapped around everything. They could be five feet from safety or a hundred.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed immediately after. Sorcha’s head rang, and she was blinded for a second. Some primal survival instinct made her look up again, and there it was; the hand clenched around the dirigible flashed with lightning. If no one was allowed to smoke on the Imperial ships, they were certainly not allowed to throw lightning into them either.
“Onika!” Sorcha screamed, uncertain where he was. The envelope of the Winter Falcon caught fire with an ear-ringing roar. The heat was so intense that the Deacon threw her arms around her head, fearing her hair would catch alight. The dirigible burned bright blue, and flames licked up the skin as if caressing it. It would have been beautiful if it wasn’t also everyone’s death.
The Deacon knew there was nothing to be done now. The Falcon was bending in half, falling toward them, and they only had one chance. Everything slowed.
To her right she could at least now see Onika. “Cut the harness! Cut the harness now!” Sorcha screamed to him, unsure if in the panic he would hear her. Then she pulled her knife from her belt and did as she hoped he would.
Free of the swing, she didn’t want to let go for a split second. Her mind screamed denials, but the device was a false safety—they would be tangled with the doomed Falcon and burn with it.
Sorcha took a deep breath, wiggled free and then with a cry dropped into the darkness. All she could hope for was sand or a quick death.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Despair and Delight
They dragged Raed into the Temple and locked him a room about the size of a cupboard, but his surroundings mattered ttle. The Young Pretender lay there waiting for the hurt to stop. It didn’t. Eventually blessed unconsciousness wrapped itself around him.