Sorcha appreciated his loyalty to Raed, but she was feeling more than a little on edge. Shoving back her cloak, so that he could see her Gauntlets tucked into her belt, she leaned forward. “It is a dangerous world—you know that as well as I. I’ve been trapped in my own body for months, and your Prince has been lost for that long. That isn’t my doing either.”
“Danger follows you—”
Sorcha didn’t let him get any further. She surged forward and grabbed Aachon by his collar. Where the strength to thrust him back against the gunwales came from was an utter mystery, but she did it. Holding him, back arched over the void, she put her face only an inch from his. “Danger follows Raed too. None of us are saints in this, but I want you to know something…” She released him enough so that he would be able to tell she wasn’t about to shove him to his death. “I love him.”
For a moment they stood toe-to-toe. Aachon’s dark eyes searched her face, no doubt trying to find a lie etched there. Finally, he shook his head like a wounded bear, and slid away from her, raising his hands.
Now Sorcha recalled Garil’s words to him. Perhaps nearly dangling the first mate of the Dominion over the edge of the ship had not been a good choice to convince him of her intentions.
Still, she was surprised when Aachon began to laugh. It was a low deep sound that he appeared reluctant to let loose. “I do believe I have never heard of a Deacon in love,” he gasped.
It was a ridiculous comment for anyone to make, but Sorcha shook her head. “You nearly went into the Order, you know it is possible.” She fixed him with a sharp look of her own, “You loved Garil.”
The big man’s laughter stopped. “Yes, yes I did.”
What Sorcha didn’t share was the fact that she didn’t even know if she would still technically be called a Deacon. She’d left her partner behind, and was most likely considered dead. She still had her cloak and her Gauntlets, but that was about it.
She could feel the Bond with Merrick, a faint tugging on her conscience from the east, but he and the Mother Abbey seemed a long way off. She missed him and his sensible ways. Still, he was safer behind her than ahead where she was going. Ahead was a stronger tug on her. The Bond with Raed, leading her on like a lodestone.
As if in echo to her thoughts Aachon muttered, “Love seems a long way off in this world.” He was very melancholy for one with such a tough appearance, and Sorcha wondered if that was because of what he had seen in his travels.
The two of them slid down the gunwales, and sat on the deck in silence for a while, watching the sun flicker above them. It was beautiful and serene—at least for a moment.
“He’s not dead,” Sorcha eventually offered. “Whatever mess Raed has got himself into, I know he is not dead.”
“But war is stirring.” Aachon’s words on the heels of Lepzig’s made her shudder, but she did not offer comment. Even when he got to his feet and looked down at her. “Come what may, we will find the Prince and the rest will fall where it must.” With that he turned and left her.
It was another two days later that they finally saw Phia off the starboard side of the Autumn Eagle. They arrived just as evening was taking over from day and a full moon was beginning to rise. Even in the evening, it was a beautiful-looking town with tiled roofs, and the buildings stacked down toward a deep blue black lake. Aachon and the rest of Raed’s crew came up behind Sorcha. The first mate moved forward and joined her, looking toward the city.
“What do you know of Phia?” he asked, his hand clenching on the rigging.
Sorcha shrugged. “Not a thing. Merrick would have been the one to ask, and he would give you an encyclopedia’s worth of an answer.” She tried to sound offhand about it, but even saying his name gave her a pang. It hadn’t even been a year, but she had come to rely on him, and being separated from her partner felt unnatural. She’d lost him for a time in Orinthal, and she hated this even more.
Sorcha turned her face east, and even though she knew he couldn’t possibly hear her at this distance she tried. I’ll be back soon. Look after yourself.
Then she faced Aachon. “Now we find Raed, and for that I will need your help.” At the far end of the lake was a huge, strangely windowless fortress. She’d seen enough palaces of Princes that she could spot one immediately, however this one gave her a chill. It was typical of Raed that he would bring her to this sort of place. He really was the most awkward, dangerous man. Unfortunately he was also charming and good-hearted. Still, when she saw him again, she was going to certainly have words with him—among other things.
She cleared her throat, and focused her thoughts on what needed to be done. “I can tell he is in that direction, but I will need you to act as my Sensitive.” The words were almost choked out, because just one year earlier she would have never imagined saying such a thing. Her loathing for weirstones was legendary among the other Deacons, and she’d often complained to Merrick about the weak minds and foolishness of those that wielded them. How he would have laughed if he’d been standing on the deck of the Autumn Eagle right now.
The tall first mate inclined his head, gestured for the crew to stay back, and withdrew his weirstone from the bag hanging from his belt. Now that she understood Aachon’s training within the Order, Sorcha felt a little better about him handling it—but she was not going to tell him that.
Captain Lepzig strode up behind them. “What are your orders, Deacon?”
Sorcha took a breath. Now was the moment she wished she knew something of Phia, because there could be repercussions. “Take us in close to the fortress. I want to have a look at it.”
Lepzig didn’t question, he snapped a salute and returned to the bridge. As the Autumn Eagle turned into the wind and the engines began to spin the propellers, Sorcha opened her Center. She’d formed a Bond with Merrick and even Raed with ease, but she was not willing to do that with Aachon. Instead, she would use the weirstone to enhance her own nascent Sensitivity. It was dangerous and tricky, but there was nothing left but to do it.
With eyes half-lidded she whispered, “Open the stone.”
Holding it in the space between them, Aachon did so. Weirstone power was something Sorcha had never sampled before. She was not one of the Deacons who had ever worked with them, and it was so strange that she was knocked back, distracted for a moment. Whereas Merrick was warmth and gentleness, like smooth cream over her own sharp characteristics, this tasted almost medicinal. It contained not an ounce of human emotion or connection—which was the thing that made the Bond. She took another breath, unclenched her hands and reached out for the stone again.
Underneath the chill indifference of it was a well of power. Touching it, Sorcha realized why those who used them were so drawn to them; the power was clean like a river from a glacier. It was totally without the complications of a partner, but then it was also not as deep a well of strength either.
“Are you all right?” Aachon’s voice seemed like it was coming from a great distance, and it took some time for her to find her voice.
Her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to mumble, “Yes. Fine.”
“Then look for the Prince,” Aachon snapped in return. He’d probably forgotten about the first time he reached for a weirstone’s power.
Still, Sorcha managed to ignore his rudeness. She turned her Center away from the Autumn Eagle and toward the fortress of the Shin. To her altered Sight, it was like looking into a cube cut from the night itself. A window into nothingness. The only thing she could discern was the Bond disappearing into it.
The airship circled low over the fortress, so that she could pick out the glow of people standing on the parapets, but apart from that she could not see beyond the walls. She felt sick to her stomach just looking at it.