“Yes.” Her voice was muffled and distant, but he felt the smooth warmth of the talisman glide over his eyes. Suddenly everything was clear, and Merrick Chambers slipped into the Otherside.
The pain in Sorcha’s head was not going away—a hollow space in her mind where awareness of Merrick should have been. Her protective instincts told her to race up the hill back to the Priory, blast the doors off with Chityre and demand her partner back. However, she had not reached seniority in the Order by giving in to pure impulse.
Sorcha could feel Aachon’s glare like a knife in her back. She didn’t turn about until she had explained the last of her plan to the Mayor and the citizens of Ulrich. She kept it simple; the fewer people running about with complicated instructions, the better.
“As soon as you see the light, retreat back as quickly as you can. Aachon will do the rest.” Only when the crowd had nodded and shuffled away with something that looked like hope in their eyes did she turn around to face the wrath of the first mate.
Raed was enjoying this moment; he had a grin that threatened to split his face. If he was afraid of her plan, there was no sign of it.
Sorcha gave him a glare, but wasn’t about to get into a fight. Over the Pretender’s shoulder, the sun was sinking into the sea. The days here were incredibly short and they had little time to pull this off.
Taking out her Gauntlets, she thrust them onto her hands in a couple of short gestures. “Aachon, you understand how important timing is? You must choose your moment and wait until the Actives are on the wall—all of them.”
The man’s brow furrowed and he glanced down into his right hand, tightly clenched around the weirstone. “It feels wrong . . .”
“That’s because it is wrong,” Sorcha snapped. “Imagine how it is for me—this goes against everything a Deacon is ever taught!” She readjusted the slim pack on her back and watched him out of the corner of her eye.
Perhaps those had not been the right words, for he actually flinched as if struck. The native Order had fallen apart under the weight of the politics of so many fractured kingdoms. That they had rejected a man with such excellent Sensitive potential was only a symptom of that internal rot.
“Old friend,” Raed broke the stalemate, “we are all risking much here, but I know this is the right thing. I cannot always be hiding, and this is what a proper prince would do for his people.”
Aachon glanced down at the brilliant blue orb in his hand, staring into its depths as if the answer could be found there. Finally when he spoke, his deep voice vibrated with emotion. “I was given care of you by the Unsung, but you are my leader, my prince. I know you are also a good man, and if you say this is the way—then this is the way.”
With that, he took his place among the crew and waited for the sun to finish sinking. Sorcha led Raed away, far enough so that they could choose their moment, concealed among the rubble of rock to the right of the road. A quick glance at the Pretender brought her some reassurance; despite their plan hinging on releasing his inner beast, Dominion’s captain looked remarkably calm. His eyes darted to where his crew stood loading their weapons and preparing to assist the citizens. Two rickety old rifles wouldn’t bring every heretic Deacon to the wall, hence the full firepower of his crew. By the slight frown on his forehead, she knew his concern was all for them. Good; she didn’t want him thinking too much on his part in this hasty plan.
His hazel eyes were green in the torchlight when they turned on her. “A lot of people are counting on you knowing what you’re doing.”
Sorcha clenched and stretched her fingers in her Gauntlets; the well-used leather made not a creak. Command often fell to a Deacon in similarly volatile situations, yet her heart was pounding and a tingle ran down her spine. She told herself it was just because Merrick was in danger and she didn’t want to lose her partner.
“I am aware of that, Raed,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the citizens advancing toward the gates. “Believe me, I am fully aware of that.”
With the addition of the crew members, the mob did seem larger and imbued with a newfound enthusiasm. As before, they charged toward the gates, but this time they carried a sturdy length of oak offered up by the local carpenter. It made an excellent battering ram. For effect, the raiding party from Dominion began shooting at the crenellations of the Priory, creating lots of noise and dislodging flying fragments of stone. The booming sounds of the battering ram and the angry mob’s roar were quite impressive.
And so too were the imposter Deacons. Sorcha tugged Raed down into a crouch next to her as hooded forms appeared on the battlements. It was immediately apparent that Aulis’ initial restraint had been all for show, because these newcomers were already reaching for runes. Sorcha’s hand tightened on the Pretender’s shoulder. “Here’s hoping the Mayor remembers what I told him, or this could get very messy.”
The words had barely left her mouth when Mayor Locke, standing right near the front, called out. The speed with which the citizens dropped the battering ram and scattered was impressive. They might not hold formation liked trained men, but they at least took orders—or maybe they simply had a good, healthy dose of fear.
Aachon now stood alone at the foot of the wall, the swirling weirstone held up. In the dark, he needed no torch; the orb’s light flared blue, making him look like an actor on some eerie stage.
“He’s a bloody beacon.” Raed made to get up.
“And he knows what he’s doing.” Sorcha grabbed his arm. “Give him a second.”
She hadn’t been wrong—if she had, it would have been the end of this whole crazy endeavor. Through her limited Sight, she watched Aachon summon shades. Of all the geists, they were the best choice, being common, hungry and incredibly mindless. Stripped of all humanity, they were drawn like magnets to Actives since they had no power of their own.
Raed and the rest of the citizens would see only twists of mist, like strands of thrown scarves floating up to the battlements, but through her Sight they had shape and form. The stretched and screaming wraiths might seem exactly as a child would draw a geist on paper, but their effects when they reached the Actives would be far from infantile. She wondered if the punishment dished out to Deacons for calling geists into the world applied to instructing someone else to do so.
“Is that mist going to be able to hold them?” Raed asked doubtfully.
Sorcha could feel a cruel grin forming on her face. “Without Sensitives? Oh yes, they’ll be occupied for a while.” A couple gave out screams, batting at the circling geists. It was most satisfying. For what they had done to their partners, they deserved every moment of it.
The first mate had chosen his moment perfectly. Aachon turned and jogged back to the mob, but he did glance in their direction. Sorcha got the message. Raed gave a little reassuring salute in the direction of his crew, while she took a deep breath—ready to break every lesson of her training.
She was doing the right thing. Raed would never know what she’d done, and once it was over, she would break the Bond. The Pretender frowned when she grasped his hands, but he didn’t look away when she looked into his eyes. It was too late now to go back, yet as the Bond snapped into existence Sorcha already regretted her choice. Raed Rossin, the Young Pretender to the Imperial throne, had been a very bad choice of Bond partner.
Merrick had told her about the silver fire he’d seen around the Captain. She’d glimpsed it herself, but it was a very different story when it was in her. Naturally, being untrained, Raed could not feel the Bond—it was a one-sided joining. Sorcha held back a curse.
“Let’s go,” she whispered as lights began to flash and burn on the battlements. It might take a long time for those heretic Deacons to find the right rune to fight off the shades, but then again, they could stumble upon it by accident at any moment. Crouched over, the two of them ran toward the rear of the Priory, where there was nothing but wall and tumbled rock. It was as impregnable as any Imperial fortress.