They are gone and we are all unfettered.
Raed did not repeat the words to his companions, because he immediately knew what that meant. He didn’t need to have it explained—he could feel them out there. The geists were stirring.
Yet when he shot a look at Sorcha he knew she didn’t feel a thing. So he urged them on through the streets of Vermillion, across the gilt bridge that was strangely calm, and to the Imperial Island itself.
His crew tried to hide their awe as best they could. A few of them had been with him last time they were in Vermillion, but the Imperial City always impressed, with its canals gleaming under the moon, and its vast network of lamps on every street. By rights, the crew of Dominion should be coming here as heroes, not as thieves in the night, but Raed had long ago learned that life did not necessarily give people what they had earned.
Still, it was what it was. Raed gestured to Aachon, and they broke up the crew into three smaller groups, so as not to draw the attention a small mob would. However all of them strolled as casually as they could toward the same goal.
It was quiet out. The fancy residences on the lower slopes had many lights burning in the windows, but there were no carriages about on the street. Sorcha kept her hand in his and would not let him go. Truthfully, it was a comfort to him as well. In this crumbling world, he would hold on to Deacon Sorcha as tight as he dared.
He squeezed her hand, and she looked at him with a smile that made everything seem all right, even if it were for just a second.
It was as if Fraine took this as a cue. She’d been quiet for a long spell, but then, just as the crew that held her was taking in the sights of Vermillion, she moved.
Raed heard Aleck yell, and then shouts from the rest of the crew members. Aachon reacted first, darting—with surprising speed for a man his size—after the fleeing Fraine. Raed spun around to see Aleck clutching his nose, which was spurting blood down his shirt.
“Sorry, Captain,” he choked out, “she’s got a pretty good uppercut.”
They should have bound her hands behind her. “Stay here,” the Young Pretender shouted to Sorcha, before joining Aachon in the pursuit. He told himself they should be able to catch her easily enough; she didn’t know the city that well.
They chased her down an alleyway, and then another with low-strung laundry. “Fraine! Wait!” Raed bellowed uselessly after her, but the only glimpse he got of his sister was her white shirt disappearing around another corner.
Raed eventually passed Aachon, who was puffing and panting, but still gamely kept on. Ahead came a vague rumble of noise, and one that the Young Pretender was very familiar with; it was a mob.
“By the Blood, Fraine!” he shouted, as ahead he could see the entrance to the street. Fraine shot a look over her shoulder, victorious and enraged. The rumble of the crowd was nearby, and now he could identify screams and howls. Something was driving these people, and if Sorcha had lost her power, then he could hazard a guess what was loosed in the city.
Raed caught a glimpse of his sister, outlined against the chaos. She looked into it, the tumble of arms and legs, and the bodies already falling to the hard stone.
Fraine stepped out into the street with a cruel grin in his direction. The mob swept her up, hundreds of terrified people running for their lives in one direction. Aachon held his arm, but Raed did not go into the street. He swallowed hard and stared into the maelstrom of panic. He could see, thanks to the Rossin, the faint wisps of geists darting among them, driving the crowd to greater frenzy and panic.
They came nowhere near him though—the geistlord so near to the surface kept them back like flame in a wild animal’s eyes. The mob passed as quickly as it had come, moving on and leaving a trail of dead and injured in its wake.
Raed had to know. With Aachon silent at his back, he walked out onto the street, his boots occasionally slipping in blood and gore, until he found her. Looking down at his sister, her limbs spread at odd angles, her eyes wide and her lips still stretched in a mad grin, Raed felt his world contract.
“She did this deliberately,” Aachon said, but bending and draping his own cloak over her. “My prince, you should not—”
“Enough,” Raed held up his hand, feeling his insides turn to lead. “You’re right, but she is still my sister.” He picked her up and carried her back to the group.
The crew glanced between the first mate and their captain in utter shock. Sorcha’s jaw clenched. Raed deposited Fraine’s still-warm body into the arms of Arriann. The young man swallowed hard.
“You know your way back to the ossuary?” Raed croaked out, and when Arriann nodded he continued. “Take her back there, then come find us at the Abbey. It is fitting that my sister should lie in the boneyard of our ancestors. Be quick about it.”
The young crew member dropped his gaze away from his captain’s and turned to do as bid.
Sorcha started forward, “Raed, I—”
“Not yet.” He held up one finger sharply before her. “This will be for later.” He’d always known that trying to stop Fraine might mean her death, but he had never imagined she would choose to take her own life. That was a specific kind of pain.
“To the Mother Abbey then,” he said, and turned back to their original course.
They didn’t have to walk far up the hill to see what else was wrong with Vermillion. Sorcha stopped, absolutely still in the middle of the road, and stared.
Raed was not a Deacon, but he also felt the shock of what they were witnessing. The Mother Abbey stood as it always did, with the Devotional towering behind the walls, and the cluster of lower buildings around it only glimpsed over the top of them. However the gates were shut, and no lay Brother guarded the outside this time. Ranks of Deacons in the blue and green lined the walls. They were armed. It was immediately obvious why; lined up outside the gate were ranks upon ranks of Imperial Guard. They looked like red toy soldiers lined up at their master’s bidding.
Indeed, the Emperor must have emptied their garrison, because it looked like all five hundred were outside, at attention.
They were not attacking the Mother Abbey that Raed could see, but they were most effectively blockading it. Sorcha took a step forward as if to try and simply walk through the lines, but Raed grabbed her shoulder.
“Don’t,” he hissed to her.
When she spun around on him, he could see the glint of panic and rage in her eye. This had been a dire day for her; learning how she was conceived, losing her Gauntlets and now seeing her Order put under virtual siege. A weaker person would have crumbled under such an assault. “I have to get in. By the Bones, I have no love for the Arch Abbot, but he is still my superior—”
“Look at these!” Raed snatched her Gauntlets from her belt and brandished them in front of her face. “Have you ever heard of the runes being destroyed like this? I had the best education my father could provide, and I can tell you I never have!”
Aachon was also gape-mouthed and staring at the quite unimaginable scene. Raed knew his first mate concealed his disdain for the Order, but by the expression on his face, he too was at an utter loss.
Luckily, all of them standing around staring in slack-jawed horror was not going to attract any attention, because there were plenty of other folk doing the very same thing. The citizens of Vermillion clustered in the shadows of nearby buildings, whispering among themselves as if afraid the Guard would turn on them.
Since no others of his crew were quite capable of movement or thought, Raed took it upon himself to find out what he could. A huddle of three older women seemed the best pick to approach. Two were wearing the long aprons of fishmongers, and smelled appropriately, while the third had the look of some old streetwalker well past her prime. They were obviously not residents of the Imperial Island, but must have trekked from other parts to observe proceedings.