Caoirse knew all the runes, but she’d only been able to carve three into the skin on her arms before the ink ran out. Voishem, Seym and Pyet. It was probably best that she’d only managed those. Her Active power was minor, and she’d be acting as a conduit for Daughter’s.
Daughter. That was the only name she would give this little creature, until they were safe; until she could tell if the Wrayth had made something horrific or miraculous with her, and if either of them would survive. Naming things was of great importance, and something she dreamed of doing in the sunlight. She missed sunlight.
It was time to find out what Daughter was. Her body was telling her to move, to push and uncover the truth. Everything went still, perfect and still. She felt open and alive, poised for a perfect moment in this darkness. Caoirse pushed, feeling her whole body open, and bright white light flashed behind her eyes. Then Daughter lay in her hands, not twisted, not malformed. Beautiful. She stared up at Caoirse with tiny, bright blue eyes, while her new mother cleaned her with the least stained cloth she had in the cell. Daughter had a beautiful crop of reddish hair, and, as if knowing the situation they were in, didn’t cry.
The desire to nurse her was intense, but Caoirse resisted it. If she lay back and coddled Daughter there would be no going back. The Wrayth would find them both there, and take her baby away to whatever fate it had planned. Then there would be no escape for either of them, and what they would do with Daughter could only be a nightmare.
She swiftly tied a thread she’d worked loose from the sheet about the umbilical cord, and sawed it free with a rock she had sharpened over long months for this particular purpose. Finally she waited for a time, until she had birthed the placenta.
Then she carefully wrapped Daughter up in her sheet. The little girl wriggled a little, but her eyes never left Caoirse’s. The once-Deacon had to smother back a sob. She took a moment to compose herself and to put all the pieces of her plan together one final time. So many things could go wrong—not just the Wrayth stopping her. A Sensitive using an Active power could burn out like a snuffed flame, or up like oil thrown on fire. She was not familiar with the runes, and they could turn and devour her.
Yet it was the only way. She had to warn the Order that this was happening; that not all their Deacons that went missing were killed. She could do this. One last time, Caoirse went over her plan.
First, Voishem to get her out of the cell, then Seym the Rune of Flesh to give her the strength to run. She’d race to the right, out of her cell; that was the direction all the women came from, and she remembered coming that way from the strange tunnel. The gleam of weirstones had been the last thing she recalled. If the tunnel had taken her far from Delmaire then it could take her back there. Then to the Abbey, if Seym would carry her that far. If any Wrayth got in the way or tried to stop her then she would use Pyet on them. She smiled grimly. Maybe she would use the cleansing flame on them anyway.
Gathering up Daughter, she called on the child’s power. It was so much more than she could have expected. The rune’s power scampered up the marks on her arms, and it was like pouring liquid lead into her veins. Her muscles spasmed and it felt like her eyes would burn out of her head. So much pain, but she couldn’t afford the time to stop and feel it. For the Order’s sake. For Daughter’s sake.
Caoirse held up her hand, trembling and thin as it was. Voishem made the world pale and insubstantial. She liked that. Clutching Daughter in the crook of her arm, she stepped forward and out into the corridor.
Raed was watching Sorcha, who had only just placed her hand on the bloodstain, but he was also keeping an eye and an ear out for anything coming along the corridor. She’d said Aachon was near, but he heard no reassuring pistol shots or sounds of victory to tell him that this assertion was true. He wished Merrick were here to tell him what was going on with Sorcha, and perhaps to provide a little levelheaded sanity to this situation.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute since Sorcha touched the blood before she let out a tiny gasp and slumped back. It was only his hand on her shoulder that kept her from falling over completely.
Her fingers clutched onto him, and then, most remarkably of all, she buried her head against his chest. Just for a moment, even considering the dire place they were in, Raed spared time to cradle her head there, stroking her hair and making noises of comfort.
“She got away.” Sorcha pulled back, wiped tears from her eyes and looked up at him. He had never before seen that expression on the Deacon’s face; true wonder. He wanted to kiss her even more now; to make her eyes stop crying, and her chest stop struggling to find breath. This was not Sorcha—at least not the Sorcha he knew.
“Who got away?” he asked gently.
The Deacon gestured to the blood on the floor. “My mother. Caoirse. She was here, the Wrayth were breeding me from her. Just like those other poor women.” She swallowed hard. “By the Blood, this was where I was made, in this horrible place!” She spun about abruptly and dry retched into the corner of the cell. It was a miserable sound, as if she were trying to purge her body and soul.
Raed sat back on his heels and rubbed her back softly. He knew better than to question what she had learned from the blood: the Order was the authority on such things.
Eventually, she collected herself, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and glanced over her shoulder at him. Raed looked around. So this was where you were born? It hardly seemed like the place for a powerful Deacon to come into the world.
“That’s why I am powerful!” Sorcha shook her head, and seemed not to notice that he hadn’t spoken at all. It unnerved Raed no end, but he didn’t bring it up. The Deacon looked as though she was already tottering on the edge of complete collapse. She was so much thinner than last time he’d seen her, and the large circles under her eyes told him many more things than she would ever say.
He waited in silence for her to explain. The distress across the Bond was something he could feel, like a foreign substance in his body. Something about the Rossin being so close to the surface had made him aware of the connection like he had never been before. Raed was not entirely sure he liked being conscious of it, especially in this situation.
Sorcha clenched her hands on the folds of the cloak he wore. “It’s why the Bond is so strong between the three of us, don’t you see? Even what happened with the Prince of Chioma’s gift. It’s because I am partly made of them.” She stared at her hands with such fixation and such fury that he was worried she might start tearing at her very flesh. “I am part of their bloody breeding program—whatever they were trying to make, they made me along the way!”
He was familiar with her despair and rage. Far too familiar. The Young Pretender had gone through all those emotions himself when he first realized he was cursed. He knew how deeply destructive thoughts like that could become.
Carefully, Raed laid his hands on hers, swallowing them up. “They might have made you, but you are not their creature. Your mother gave birth to you, she loved you enough to get you out of this place. You are hers too. Don’t forget that.”
It was a lesson Aachon had often repeated to him when he feared there was nothing but the Rossin in him.
Sorcha held his gaze for a moment, and he tried his very best to project safety, kindness and understanding across the Bond. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, or even doing it at all, but after a second or two, she nodded.
“You’re right.”
“Say it again.” He smiled softly. “I love it when you say that.”