Kolya had been left in charge of the remaining Deacons; a steady and dependable rudder on this madcap ship. All of the things Sorcha had found boring about him nonetheless made Deacon Petav an excellent administrator.
Exactly what Raed felt about all of this was impossible for Merrick to know, without the Bond. It also made focusing on the path ahead that much more difficult. He found his thoughts wandering away from him, dwelling in dark corners and conjecturing everything.
While he did that, Sorcha pulled out a set of binoculars and focused them on the postern gate of the palace. Apparently she was not having the difficulties that Merrick was laboring under. The Emperor’s palace was not built to withstand sieges of any kind, with sprawling gardens and elegant white stone walls. However the inner fortress was older, and had crenellations and battlements that had seen war in the centuries past.
“Only a light guard tonight,” Sorcha whispered over her shoulder. “I guess we can thank the Arch Abbot for that.”
“We’ll need every mercy and good turn we can get.” Raed checked his pistols for what had to be the second time. “Now where are this del Rue’s apartments in the palace exactly?”
Merrick pointed to the east wing. “Third floor. Not quite on the same level as the Emperor himself, but very close to it.”
“And are we just supposed to shoot the guards to gain access?” Aachon growled. Being without a weirstone had not improved his mood any.
However, there mightn’t be a need for it—not if Merrick’s wild talent worked. He hoped it would; these were guards that the Order had worked with, and he knew many of them by name. He’d hate to have this terrible week culminate in slaying those that were in fact on their side.
“No,” he snapped rather forcefully. “Let me deal with this.” Then, before any of them could argue or stop him, he darted out from the shelter of the building and toward the gate. As he reached the point where he wasn’t going to be pursued by his friends, he slowed down, and strolled toward the palace as if he were in fact expected.
His heart was pounding, and at any minute he expected the guards to shoot him. It was a very tenuous and vulnerable position. Without the comfort of the Bond, and with the knowledge that it might never come back, he felt as though he were stepping out into space with no surety that there would be anything under his foot when he put it down. This was the spot where, last year, Sorcha had fought a geist-powered mob, and Kolya had been badly injured. This was, then, in reality, where his adventure had begun. It was fitting.
As Merrick approached the gate, he was very glad that he had left his cloak, folded reverently in the Vashill attic, behind. Two guards stood by the gate, while another two were talking with each other in the guard post. He could discern nothing particularly alert about them, but then without his Center he couldn’t be sure of anything.
“State your business,” the guard standing in the shadows barked. He was holding a staff with a weirstone the size of his fist embedded in the top. Merrick knew its purpose; to summon more guards if needed. In the flickering lantern light he recognized only one of them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were on nodding acquaintance from when Merrick was coming and going at Zofiya’s insistence.
The young Deacon’s heart began to race. He had no time to mess about; he had to use his wild talent and quickly before he was in turn recognized. The trouble was, he really had no clue about what he was doing.
“I said, state your business,” the guard reiterated, taking a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick saw the others shifting, turning and beginning to wonder what was going on.
Panic started to surge through Merrick’s body, and he became aware how foolish this was. They might not think immediately that he was a Deacon, but he was a man, unannounced at the gate in the middle of the night; a night that the rest of the guards had been summoned to do battle with the Order.
Within, he groped furiously for the talent, but that meant Merrick was nearly incapable of doing anything else—such as replying to the guard’s challenge. He caught sight of one of the men raising his rifle to his shoulder.
What feelings would guardsmen have foremost in their mind? What would they respond to? Merrick pushed down deep, letting their emotions wash over him like a river of confusion. One trait was shared by all of them: dedication to their duty.
It was not like it had been outside the prison, or in the Mother Abbey, where emotions were already running high and easy to tap into. These were calm, centered individuals, but they shared this one thing. Merrick’s talent reached out, wrapped itself around that and twisted it.
When he looked at them, their eyes were gleaming with intensity, and they listened to him, though he could not tell what they were seeing. Still, the words that came out of his mouth rang with command. “Your Emperor needs you, report to the Mother Abbey immediately!”
They swayed slightly, caught in the breeze and influence of his wild talent. Merrick could feel his heartbeat banging in his throat, certain that he was about to be shot down. The guards’ eyes flickered from side to side, as if seeking something that did not exist. Then they snapped to attention and marched from their post like windup children’s toys. Merrick stood alone there for a moment in the rain, feeling light-headed with his hands shaking just a fraction.
“You’d make a fine general.” Raed and the others had run up quickly to him as soon as the soldiers left. He gave Merrick a sharp little nod.
Sorcha caught his elbow, lending him physical strength even if she could not offer him anything else without the Bond. “Well done,” she whispered, “but pace yourself—we may need that power again.”
He nodded and, gathering himself, followed after, as they all slipped in through the gate. The pleasure gardens beyond were gray and smothered in low mist. No lantern light punctured it and nothing moved. Yet, Merrick couldn’t shake the feeling that something was hovering just beyond the perception of his eyes.
Aachon and Raed led the way, with the crew and the Deacons taking the rear of their little assault force. Even in his worst nightmares, back in the novitiate, Merrick could never have imagined he would be helping the Young Pretender to the throne break into the palace.
Raed knew the way through the palace, and led them to a side door. Obviously his father had made sure his son knew everything about Vermillion, including the layout of the royal lodgings. What he probably hadn’t taught his son was lock picking. Merrick shot Sorcha a glance over the Young Pretender’s back as he bent and worked the door open. She shrugged, as if to say he was just as much of a mystery to her.
They slipped inside the quiet palace. A building like this should not be silent. Merrick’s skin ran icy cold. As he passed the halls and the doorways, he recalled their visit to another royal home in Chioma, as well as the death and disaster they found there. The religious riots that Hatipai had stirred up were unlikely to be repeated here, but he had the feeling that the Circle of Stars was waking with far more wide-reaching consequences. What they would find in the Vermillion palace terrified him.
They padded down corridors and should have met at least servants or guards, yet it was as if the residents of the building had all vanished. Merrick longed to investigate the matter, but caution held him back from opening doors. They had to find del Rue as quickly as possible.
At last, the group reached the carved and gilt-worked main stairwell that led up to the top floors of the building. Barely had Sorcha put her foot on the first tread when cold enveloped them. Merrick saw her breath outlined against the flickering lantern, as if she were outside in the depths of winter.