Spectyr

TWENTY-SEVEN A Son’s Love

Walking away from Sorcha was hard, and Merrick was afraid to do it. Everything that he had ever been taught told him to stay with her—but a child’s love for his mother went deeper even than that. It was certainly not a situation he had ever envisaged, but if they found Japhne quickly enough, then he should be able to get back to his partner before she faced the goddess.

The palace was not making Merrick feel confident about his goals, though. He kept his Center open, but all he captured was the feeling of panic and terror.

“Sir.” One of the guards, by his insignia a sergeant, glanced around the corner of the corridor. “If you don’t mind me saying, don’t you Deacons always travel in pairs?”

Merrick could smell the fear coming off the man; these guards were trained to deal with assassins, rabble-rousers, and maybe a catfight between the Prince’s women. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Dael.” His eyes flickered uncertainly to Merrick.

“Well, Dael”—Merrick led them around the corridor brusquely, communicating certainty he didn’t feel—“while members of my Order do indeed customarily travel together—we are also trained to look after ourselves.” He left out the bit about the strange Bond and the power it gave him and Sorcha over and above a normal Deacon.

They reached the harem to find the doors swinging open and a dead eunuch in the garden, but it was another direction that interested Merrick. There in the disturbed gravel of the once immaculate path he found what he was looking for—a single tiny drop of blood.

He bent and held his open hand over it. It was hers, and Merrick would not permit himself to think about the circumstances in which it might have landed there; the thing that mattered was it was just one tiny drop. This was no murder scene. Aiemm, the Second Rune of Sight, flared in his mind, and he looked back in time to his mother’s terror.

Running, she was running, and someone pursued her. The cut in her hand was tiny, one slip of the knife she’d used to defend herself. She held it tightly, the pain inconsequential in her panic. Her pursuers were cloaked, even in the heat of the garden, and her stride was awkward this late in her pregnancy.

Merrick opened his eyes. She hadn’t seen; they weren’t just chasing her—they were herding her.

“Quickly.” He stood up. “There is still time.”

It was down into the tunnels once again—that was where they had harried his mother to, like so many sheepdogs. Except he suspected these dogs would bite.

Merrick’s mind raced, and not just with the unnaturalness of this situation; he was thinking of a time when he had lost another parent.

The taste of remembered fear filled his mouth, and suddenly he was that little boy hiding behind a tapestry and watching his father being ripped apart by something from the Otherside. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t uttered a word, but he recalled the anguish. His mother’s sobs had seemed to have no end, all through his childhood. And finally he summoned up the image of Japhne of a few nights before, sitting on the end of the bed, smiling with genuine happiness. He had never thought to see that look on her face again. He had thought she would never see his face again.

He swallowed hard on the knot of fear in his throat. Remaining calm was the only course now—if not, his mother would be lost.

“Down here,” he barked as they turned the final corner of the final staircase and reached the tunnel from which Nynnia had taken him. Something had reached out to grab him then, and she had pulled him through time and space to save him. Merrick could only hope she would understand why he was now stepping right into the jaws of that trap.

The guards waited patiently as he stared down into the broken maw of the storm-water pipe that had collapsed under his feet what felt like an age ago now. His Center was wide and open, so he easily found another splatter of blood—this one larger. Japhne had placed her hand right there and somehow lowered herself down into the tunnel. It was quite a feat for a woman seven months into her pregnancy—but there was nothing like being pursued to provide motivation.

His mother might have been a noble lady, but she had never been one to stick to needlepoint—it was one of the reasons she had been such trouble for her brother to marry off. When Merrick’s father had been alive and in his own senses, she had ridden often to the hunt with him. Still, running for her life in the dark tunnels under Orinthal while heavily pregnant was something no one trained for.

“Light your lanterns,” Merrick instructed the guards over one shoulder. As a Deacon he didn’t need light to see, but the others would. Three of the ten guards at his back took hooded lanterns from the walls of the corridor, while others nervously waited for his next instruction.

When Merrick gave it, he knew that they wouldn’t like it. “Follow me.” And then he swung down into the pipe. He had never actually hit the bottom before; Nynnia had been very accurate when she snatched him away.

It was pitch-black, but with his Center open he could feel so many more details than mere human sight could give him. When the guards dropped down behind him, he barely registered their arrival.

The tunnel was old, more ancient than even the palace above, and had been made with great care. The whispers of the makers, even after centuries, still clung to the curved brick walls. The water at the bottom was only an ankle-deep trickle, and thankfully this was not part of the smaller sewage systems that burrowed above this grand pipe.

“This carries flash flood waters away from the palace,” one of the guards muttered. “I pray there is nothing happening in the mountains while we are down here.”

Despite the serious situation, Merrick’s lips twitched in a faint smile. With the kingdom gone to chaos above them, the guard was worried about the weather? If rain came, then it would wash all of them away before they had time to care.

No sign of his mother or any other human was on the ether, but there were plenty of rats and crawling creatures in the pipe to keep them company. Merrick pushed harder with his Center, burrowing into their mercurial brains in which thoughts ran like water, but the most important ones were for survival.

It was possible for some people and geists to erase their passing in the ether—not common but possible. However, everything that walked or scurried on the earth had a memory, even if it was a small one, and that was far harder to erase.

The Deacon inhaled slightly, closed his physical eyes, and drew in his mind the outline of the First Rune of Sight, Sielu. Using it to look through human eyes could drain his strength, but he was not using it on them in this instance. Instead, he spread his net far wider and far lower.

In the tiny brains of the rats that lived here there was a flickering memory. A large shape, slipping and sliding in the dark had disturbed them. She had screamed and sent the rodents squeaking in annoyance. Then more shapes. The rats did not like the smell of these ones—they reeked of danger and the sharp tang of the Otherside. Not that rats really knew what that place was, but their natural instincts were well attuned to survival—like all living creatures, except Deacons, they fled it.

Merrick could make out no details of the pursuers that had disturbed the rodents, since what they had seen was in a very limited range—boots, and trailing cloth—however, Merrick was able to tell they had traveled up the pipe to the west.

It was the opposite direction than everyone else in Orinthal was taking, so it was not that his mother had been enthralled by Hatipai. “What lies west of here?” he asked the guards.

The lead one, whose burly frame nearly filled the storm-water pipe, shrugged. “The valley the palace is built on runs out and becomes nothing but desert.”

“And this pipe?” Merrick pressed.

Another, shorter guard seemed glad to offer what he knew. “It flows into the irrigation ditches, I think.”

Merrick didn’t want to tromp through fig and date plantations as night drew in, but they had no other choice; that was the way his mother and her mysterious pursuers had gone.

Holding Sielu in his mind gave him a disconcerting fractured vision through the rats’ perspective, but it also meant there was no way anyone would shake him off. Merrick steadied himself for just a moment on the wall of the pipe and then led the way deeper and west.

The guards followed silently, their concern a dim impression on the Deacon’s senses. Holding the rune while keeping his Center open was tricky and not something recommended by the tutors at the Mother Abbey. It was akin to rubbing your stomach and patting your head while walking—but Merrick did not want them to run into the pursuers without warning. He had a feeling that would be a very bad idea.

The pipe began to flare wider, and other tunnels began to join onto this main one, though the smell was damp and tinged with the odor of rot. The guards’ footsteps echoed and splashed. Suddenly every one of them irritated Merrick.

He turned and hissed over his shoulder, “Gentlemen, please . . . a little stealth if you can!”

The guards grouped together and by going single file managed not to splash in the overflow quite as badly. It wasn’t their fault that they were used to guarding doorways rather than engaging in covert pursuits.

“Thank you,” Merrick managed. His mother had always taught him politeness in any situation—and it seemed particularly appropriate in this one.

Together they traversed another few feet, until an unexpected warm breeze wafted over Merrick’s face. He jerked to a halt. The pipe suddenly had a branch, but this was different from the others they had already passed.

The rune Sielu was no longer needed, for there were absolutely no rats here. Dropping it, the Deacon checked with his Center; it wasn’t just rodents, there were no animals at all in the area around this new opening.

As the guards waited at his back, Merrick examined this new pipe. The breeze comg out of it was indeed warm—not cold like the other junctions. The brickwork too was different. Unlike the ancient bricks they had been traveling past, these were bright red and very, very fresh.

“Someone has been doing a few renovations,” the Deacon commented, running his hand lightly over them. These were different from the original bricks in another way; he could feel no hint of a maker’s impression on them. They were wiped clean as effectively as a clever murderer would clean a knife. Yet here again was the handprint of his mother, just a few more specks of her blood. Maybe it was a son’s imagination, but he could almost smell Japhne’s fear.

“Keep your rifles primed,” he whispered to the guards, “and your blade loose in its sheath.” If Hatipai was heading to her Temple, then someone else must be pursuing his mother, and few of the unliving ever bothered to hide their tracks like this. Only humans were this crafty.

Merrick Chambers had not forgotten his dreams nor the whispers in them. They had not tried to hide themselves. They wanted him to make the connection. The circle of five stars was an echo from an Order supposedly many generations dead—the Native Order.

He could not shake the feeling that it was not just his mother who was being led.

This new direction was not one any sensible person would take. He knew it. The guards knew it. It mattered little; they still had to go forward. After taking a long breath, one a diver might suck down before heading for the deep, Merrick led them into this new tunnel.

Immediately he knew the tunnel was more than it had appeared to be. His Center, which he had kept open, twisted, and for a terrifying moment everything went black. Panic washed over Merrick—he was being suffocated, scrambling for life and tumbling through space.

Then just as quickly it was over. The Deacon spun around, but all of the guards were still behind him; their eyes were wide and terrified in the lamplight, as Merrick knew his own to be.

The opening to the main pipe was right behind them, but Merrick’s Center could travel no farther than the doorway. They were now a very, very long way from the tunnel beneath the palace—certainly more than a few strides.

Dael licked his lips before he dared use his voice. “Honored Deacon, what just happened?”

Merrick closed his eyes for a second, orienting himself in the world again, feeling his place in it. What he found made no sense; they had not only moved hundreds of miles, they had moved hours—well into the belly of night. It was something that might have been achieved by cantrips and weirstones, but he had seen none at the entrance to this tunnel.

Letting his guardsmen know how this surprised him would do them no good. “We are no longer in Chioma—we have moved.” The men shifted, but in a testament to their character and training, did not break for the doorway, which did seem only inches off. “This means nothing—we are still going after the Lady Japhne.”

“Yes, sir!” Dael spoke up, and the Deacon was so grateful he could have shaken the man’s hand right then.

Instead, Merrick merely nodded and took the lead into the darkness. What had felt like warm air when they’d been in Chioma was now freezing. The change had to be a result of the power used to create the gateway.

What was more disturbing was how little his Center was bringing him. Merrick did not mention it, but the darkness was just as deepound his senses as it was around the guards.

Merrick was as shocked as the guards when the void suddenly came alive, but he had no way of telling with what, because the first men to go down were those three carrying the lanterns. Around him he heard something moving; to his confused ears it sounded like wet laundry flapping on the line. The guards screamed only a few feet away; the sound echoed in the pipe before it was cut off with a choked gurgle. His first thought was to draw his sword, but he dared not strike without knowing where their attacker was. In the confusion they could all kill one another.

Apparently the guards had not considered that. They raised their rifles and fired about, punctuating the darkness with bright flares that burned Merrick’s eyes, now used to semidarkness. He strained his ears to hear past the sound of angry, frightened men and the reports of gunfire. Merrick spun around, aware that other guards had their steel drawn and were laying about them in the pitch black. The ice-cold tunnel now smelled of blood, gunpowder and panic.

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.”

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.