He sketched a little bow, though in these circumstances it was perhaps a little over the top. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve just come in from the countryside, and had a message to deliver to the Arch Abbot. Do you know what is going on here? Is it some kind of ritual?”
“Ritual!” one growled. “Not like one I’ve ever seen, and I’m born and bred in Vermillion.”
“The captain of the Guard demanded the Deacons open the gates half an hour ago,” a second, with a kindly face, spoke with the hushed tones of one in the know and more than willing to share. “They said something about being traitors.”
“Never liked them Deacons,” the third offered, “but they did protect us. Now there is a rumor going around all their power is gone.”
“They deserve it though—taking the Emperor’s sister right out of her own bed and all!”
Raed couldn’t quite believe what they were saying. He was no friend to Kaleva, or his sister, but he had saved the latter’s life once. That tended to stick with a person.
He put on his most winning smile. “Forgive me, lovely ladies. But I have been long from Vermillion, and had not heard this news.”
“Really?” The fishmonger with a face like it had been struck with a fry pan, glared at him. “Living under some kind of rock were you?”
The streetwalker however flashed him a grin, almost devoid of teeth. “The Order took her last week. Snatched from her own room, and she hasn’t been heard from since. The Arch Abbot there won’t give up the Deacon that did it neither.”
“You don’t happen to know the name of that particular Deacon do you?” A deep part of the Young Pretender twisted—like he’d eaten something rotten.
“I do,” the second fishmonger said, waving the stump of her index finger. “Made me laugh and all…something like chamber pot I think.”
By the Blood, it could only be one Deacon. “Could it have been Chambers, perhaps?” Raed ventured.
“Oh yah, that’s it!” two of the ladies piped up, while the third deliberately turned her back.
The Young Pretender smiled. “Thank you for your kindness gentle ladies.”
The streetwalker actually reached around and pinched his backside as he made to go. “I’d love to do you a quick one right here,” she shouted after him, “but this looks like it’s getting interesting real soon.”
Raed half backed, half leapt away, before striding back to his companions. He put his hand on Sorcha’s shoulder, and leaned in close to her ear. “I am sorry to tell you this—but I think what has happened to you has happened to all of the Deacons.”
She sagged against him, and he would not have given her the terrible news about Merrick, but she needed to know. She glanced up at him. “There’s something else too, isn’t there?”
He swallowed. “Yes, yes there is. According to that huddle of gossips, last week your partner was accused of kidnapping the Grand Duchess.”
Sorcha looked down at her feet, her jaw working from side to side, and her grip on his arm tightening. “I knew he was going to the palace just a bit too often, but I can’t believe he was stupid enough to kidnap Zofiya—and besides—why would he want to?”
It did seem ridiculous. Merrick was far too clever a young man to do anything so mad. Yet, he had been quite deeply in love with Nynnia and then had her snatched away. Had he set his sights on another unattainable woman?
“I don’t know,” Raed shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. But then”—he swept his arm to encompass the whole scene before them—“none of this does.”
“The runes destroyed,” Sorcha repeated under her breath. “That is even more unbelievable.”
Perhaps she’d been hoping it was just herself that was affected, and when her colleagues examined her Gauntlets they would have an answer. It was not to be.
That was the final straw. She had been through too much, and her energy was sapped beyond words. Sorcha slumped against him, staggering on her feet like an injured horse. Raed swiftly picked her up, cradling her against his body. She was terribly thin and light. In comparison, he had more energy than he knew what to do with. The Rossin had eaten well. He could have carried her for hours.
Sorcha’s head lolled against his chest. “We must get inside and find Merrick,” she gasped. “I need him but I can’t feel him anymore.” Her eyes were so glassy it seemed she might cry. He wouldn’t blame her.
He is not in there. The mouse has escaped his trap. Perhaps he gnawed off his own paw.
The Rossin was almost purring, and very near the surface now.
Can’t you feel him? He is a part of you, as much as he is a part of her.
When the Rossin pointed it out—full of strength and vigor—Raed could. The Bond Sorcha had created had always been such an intangible thing to the Young Pretender. She’d spoken of it, and he knew it existed, because she had found him in Orinthal with its help, but he’d never been able to sense it. Until now.
It was a pull, the direction of all things. Perhaps this was what migrating birds on their way south for the winter felt. Raed twisted his head back and forth feeling the unusual nature of this awareness.
The Rossin was helping him. Just why he would do that was another impossible question to answer.
“I can feel him,” he whispered, and Sorcha, still held in his arms, stared up at him in undisguised disbelief and relief. “He is not in the Mother Abbey. He is in the city, not far away.” Raed kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go find him.”
TWENTY-ONE
Old Friends and Industry
Sorcha was enjoying being carried by Raed. It was the only enjoyable thing about this whole day. Even though the Order was in ruins, the Grand Duchess abducted from her bed, and the whole world seemingly falling down around them, she would take comfort in small joys. The Young Pretender’s arms were strong, and though he smelled of sweat and blood, underneath she could detect his warmth.
For just an instant she imagined retreating to a cabin in the forest somewhere. No Order. No Emperor. Then, reality reclaimed her. She knew her nature; that would never be enough for her.
Still, it would have been pleasant to find a place, and expend the last of her energy with him. She’d dreamed of him while she lay in the infirmary, and gradually given up hope that she would ever be able to make love with him again. Now she was mobile and so was he, but there was no time.
Everything was as per usual.
Nestled against his chest, she did manage to keep one eye open as they traveled through Vermillion. They went back across the Bridge of Gilt, which was her least favorite of the city’s many bridges, and traveled through the prosperous merchants quarters. Raed had abandoned stealth it seemed, because he pushed through crowds of folk with never a care, even when the hood of his cloak blew off.
She could understand why; there were far more problems in Vermillion tonight than one dispossessed Emperor. Everyone was pouring out into the streets, as word spread that a standoff was occurring at the Mother Abbey. Many people were streaming toward the Imperial Island, which seemed mad to her.
The whispers that passed them said that most were expecting a show, but talked of not venturing too close, lest there be a riot, or perhaps an explosion of rune magic. Sorcha wouldn’t have been surprised if they were looking forward to something like a fireworks display.
Not many who they passed were raising words in defense of the Order. Most were whispering about “their good Emperor finally taking control,” or “about time the Deacons were taken down a peg or two.” Her ire finally began to overcome her shock.
These were the people that the Order of the Eye and the Fist had protected for years. They were the reason so many of her brethren had laid down their lives. And yet, here they were almost looking forward to its demise. Maybe the Circle of Stars was right, perhaps the people of Arkaym should be ruled over ruthlessly since they had so little thankfulness for what was done in their name.