He took her subtle hint and followed her over to a place just out of earshot.
“I am near the end of my strength.” Sorcha knew there was no point concealing it from the first mate; he would be able to feel that through the weirstone. “However, if you can find a way to give me a little more, I will be able to help get Fraine back.”
Aachon looked down at the weirstone, as if weighing it—perhaps he actually was. “I could,” he murmured, “but the stone only has so much to give before it must replenish itself. In fact, it could be destroyed if I misjudge it.”
“So could I.” Sorcha met his eyes calmly. She would rather die than return to that dreadful prison of her own body. It was a feeling that she now knew her mother had shared—in a very literal sense. “The question is, how badly do you want to stop a war in the Empire? I know you care little for Kaleva—”
The first mate raised his hand. “I have no love for your usurper, Deacon Faris, but neither do I wish innocent people to suffer needless war over who wears the crown.”
“Then we have an accord?” she asked, head tilted, eyes narrowed on him.
“Yes.” The corners of his mouth twitched, as he rumbled, “I would never have guessed that I would be fighting to protect the usurper.”
“Life is full of strange twists and turns we never see coming.” She glanced back at Raed who was conferring with his crew. The Young Pretender was a turn in her path that she found both terrifying and delightful. “He believes that civil war is not the way—and I know you believe in him.”
“He doesn’t even want the crown,” Aachon said, a deep frown folding his forehead. “It belongs to his family by rights, but he has never wanted it.”
Sorcha stared at Raed a moment, trying to imagine him on the Vermillion throne, dispensing justice and commanding the Order of the Eye and the Fist to protect his citizens. It was not a difficult image to conjure up.
“Perhaps the best man for the throne is the one who wants the power of it the least.” She whispered so low that Aachon did not catch her words.
The first mate was instead examining the swirling weirstone, searching for flaws in it perhaps. He sighed. “I will try my best with this.” He wrapped the stone in one sleeve end with a smooth, practiced gesture. “Now tell me your plan to achieve this rescue.”
Sorcha smiled at him. “Merrick is the one with plans. What I have, Aachon, is power. Do you think I am quite spent?”
Aachon’s eye ran her length, examining her as he had the weirstone. “We shall see I suppose.”
Despite the moment, Sorcha laughed. If her Sensitive were here she just knew he would have been unimpressed.
Kolya led Merrick into the Edge of Vermillion. “Just to be sure we’re not followed,” he hissed.
Both of them, as Deacons, were particularly familiar with this, the least attractive and prosperous part of the capital city. The scent of the Edge greeted them long before they saw it. It was the odor of a swamp: rotting things, marsh gases and desperation. To make matters even more enjoyable, the clouds above finally provided the rain that had been threatening all day. The two men pulled their inconspicuous cloaks of muddy brown tighter about themselves and splashed onward through deepening puddles.
They slipped over one of the fifty bridges that led from the islands that made up the better parts of Vermillion to the shore of the lagoon. Only a few of these bridges were reliable; the main ones were maintained by the Imperial City. The others were creaking things that had been put up by denizens of the Edge: smugglers, cutpurses and servants who worked deeper in Vermillion and wanted a way to get there more easily. The bridge Kolya chose was made of slippery, rotting wood that seemed in imminent danger of falling into the water and taking them with it.
Luckily it held long enough for two Deacons to cross. Deacons? Merrick clenched his fists as he followed Kolya into the blue gray mists of the Edge. Could they really still call themselves that, now that the runes were overthrown and every Strop and Gauntlet rendered useless? It was enough to make many turn back to the little gods in despair. He wondered if the news had filtered out to the citizens of Vermillion yet, and how long it would take the geists to make a return.
As if he was thinking the same thing, Kolya slipped Merrick his own Strop, hidden by the large sleeves of their cloaks. It felt good to have it back, but it felt like a lifetime ago that it had been taken from him in the Grand Duchess’ bedroom.
The younger Deacon ran his thumb over the runes, broken and stretched as they were. No power remained in there. Through a tight throat, Merrick managed, “Thank you for bringing it Deacon Petav. It is a very kind gesture.”
Kolya nodded grimly. “A bit of a pointless one though.” They walked on through the rain a little farther, the older Deacon looking back over his shoulder every now and then. Then he grasped Merrick’s elbow. “Do you think if we recarved the runes, perhaps on the other side of the…” His voice trailed off as they shared a look. “No, I didn’t think so either.”
They were silent for a while after that, like rudderless ships adrift on the ocean. Merrick had never felt like this before, and it was something that he could not allow to stand. He finally tugged Kolya into the lee of a pair of huts. It was the kind of place a cutpurse would have waited for his prey, but luckily the rain had driven even thieves indoors.
“What was the book you took from the library? Will it help us?” he demanded.
In this light, the elder Deacon’s face was terribly gray. He shrugged. “It doesn’t really make sense.”
“Let me see,” Merrick demanded. The other Deacon held the book awkwardly between them so he could see the cover.
The title read, Saints of the Order: Tales from the Darkness. Merrick tilted his head. It looked rather like one of the books that all first-year initiates were given to read. Most such tales were of a dubious nature, since in the dark times after the Break there had been little time for record keeping. Still one was nearly universally accepted; the first Deacon was the progenitor of the line of Rossin Emperors, and a mythical boy who had risen from nothing and disappeared back into nothing.
Interpretations of other founding tales had led to the schism where different Orders split off. The Order of the Eye and the Fist had grown and flourished since that time, but many others had fallen by the wayside. The real mistake had been believing the Order of the Circle of Stars had been among them.
“And the dark-haired woman in your dreams said to get this from the library?” he asked doubtfully.
Kolya nodded while water ran down the hood of his cloak but missed hitting the book. “She was most insistent.”
For a moment the rest of the world ceased to mean anything to Merrick. All he could think about was the woman. Nynnia.
“And this was hidden?”
“Indeed.” Kolya touched the book lightly on the cover. “In a secret compartment at the very bottom of the history section. I don’t know how long it has been there.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt it. It was cold in this little spot just off the street, but something freezing touched his shoulders, as if an icy hand was pressing on his flesh. Both Sensitives looked at each other with horror. By Kolya’s wide eyes, Merrick knew he was experiencing the same.
“A shade,” the younger Deacon said, his breath coalescing before his eyes. Every inch of his skin was prickling and running, and his heart racing in his chest. “Yes, a shade for sure.”
“I can’t even see the damned thing”—Kolya flailed his arms around, as if that would help. “I hate being this blind!”
Merrick raised his hand. “Be quiet! Listen!”
For a moment, the sound he only faintly discerned was drowned out by the rattle of the rain on the nearby roofs, then he heard it; two words repeated. He thought of the spectyr that had brought Sorcha her vision of Raed’s peril and set them on the path to Chioma.