Spectyr Page 14

  “Tell me what happened.” He squeezed her fingers.

  Japhne brushed her tears. “I asked to move to the gatehouse—I would have been happy to end my days there—but he would have none of it. I was forced to go back to my brother’s home.”

  Merrick knew his uncle Edrien was a prickly bag of bones and the main reason Japhne had married so very young. Returning to his care must have been galling for her. Da Nanth was in many respects a throwback to an earlier age—very like its neighbor Chioma. Women there did not hold property or title and were totally dependent on their male kin.

  “That was where I received Onika’s suit,” she whispered. Her cheeks flushed red, and her hand rested on her ripe belly. “How he heard of me, I don’t know.”

  The flower of Da Nanth—that was what they called her. Snatched up and married when she was but sixteen, even in the last days of her thirties she still deserved that title.

  Although there was some part of Merrick that disliked that she had remarried, the logical part of him realized that she had few other choices. Japhne had been thrust into an untenable situation under her brother’s constantly watching eye—no position, and no way to support herself. So Merrick choked back his first reaction in his throat before it had a chance to escape.

  His second thought was to wonder if the Prince took his crystal mask off beyond the throne room—but then the images of where he might do that were far too disturbing for any son to contemplate. Her swollen belly loomed large in his vision.

  Instead, Merrick choked out, “What . . . what is he like? Does he treat you well?”

  Her smile was soft. “He is very kind. I do not understand why he bothered with me, though—and I am certainly on the verge of not being able to bear any more children. So this was a surprise.” A gentle rub on her stomach communicated contentment and joy more succinctly than any words could. “I was just a wee slip of a girl when I married your father and had you. This feels very different—not bad—but different.” She settled back on the bed. “Now I want to hear about your life. I would never have guessed you would choose the Order.”

  “I am sorry.” Merrick clenched his hand on hers. Opening the deep well of grief and guilt was something he had avoided doing for years, yet under the gaze of her gentle brown eyes he had no chance.

  Japhne’s fingers ran lightly over his hair, her gaze distant. Merrick knew he looked very like his father.

  “No need for sorrow—just tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what happened to my boy.”

  Merrick shrugged, feeling the weight of the cloak and the badge. “I wanted vengeance for Father. I wanted to help others. I wanted to be a better Deacon than those who came to save him.” He smiled a little. “But Fate does have a funny way of turning things around. My partner is now Deacon Sorcha Faris.”

  “I thought I recognized her.” His mother let out a long breath. “Hers is a face hard to forget.”

  “She has a certain”—Merrick paused and then looked up with a slight smile—“way of doing things.”

  “Just don’t fall in love with her!” Japhne flicked the tip of his nose.

  “Never!”

  One of her hands cupped his face. “What I really want to know, my dearest son, are you happy?”

  No one had asked him that—not in all his time in the Order—and it was easy for the unconsidered reply to slip out from his mouth. “Absolutely—this is what I always wanted.”

  “But you gave up your name—”

  “If they knew who I was, Mother, who my father was and that he was possessed, they would never have taken me.” Guilt, the kind of guilt he had first felt when he spoke his new name to the Presbyter of the Young, surged through him.

  She bit her lip and nodded. “It seems we are both caught in a similar trap, then. The Court of Chioma is even more riddled with conspiracy than Da Nanth. If any of the other wives found out you were my son, they would use it to their advantage.”

  Her voice trailed off. For a moment mother and son sat there, aware how completely they were snared in their past. Finally, Japhne levered herself off the bed. “I must get back to the women’s quarters—I cannot afford to be missed.” Her hand described a circle on her belly. “The cantrips said this little one is a boy.” Her smile was uncertain. “And heir.”

  Her son the Deacon squeezed her fingers. They both were perfectly aware of the consequences—both good and bad—of giving any Prince an heir.Finally she bent and pressed her lips to Merrick’s forehead. “I do appreciate your new name though, my son. I know your grandmother would be very happy that you are carrying it forward.”

  He pressed his eyelids closed, feeling the sharp prick of tears against them. “Will I see you again?” He sounded just like that boy in a run-down castle, with his parents the twin pillars of his world.

  “Of course.” She stood at the door, shadow hiding her round belly. “Onika has many questions for you and your partner—I will try and get him to keep you here as long as I can.” Then she blew him a kiss, glanced once out the door and slipped into the corridor.

  Merrick stayed where he was, seated on the floor, uncertain what to make of this revelation. He would soon have a half sibling in line for the throne of Chioma—but that was nothing compared to the emotional stomach punch of his own guilt. Tonight he feared would be a restless one.

  Sorcha sat on the wide, luxurious bed and felt her nervousness sink its teeth into her. Keeping her arms wrapped around her knees, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been rejected by both men: the Bond was silent, and Raed was nowhere to be seen.

  She jerked her Gauntlets out from her belt and stared down at them. Once she had thought all the answers lay in those Runes—that the Order was the great protector. No longer. It had been years since Deacon Sorcha Faris had cried with despair, but now she was perilously close. She had never felt so out of her depth, plunged into a principality that was unlike any of the ones she knew. Floundering was not a sensation she enjoyed in any capacity. And yet she was doing it twice over. Raed—am I being a fool over Raed?

  While Sorcha had not thrown herself into his arms, a portion of her was rather upset that he had not done the same to her. Ridiculous, but she would have known what he was thinking.

  From her pocket she pulled out the ring he had given her. It remained unknown if it were a promise or just a keepsake that he had boxes of and cast to women who lay down with him throughout all of Arkaym.

  Not for the first time did Sorcha think that she was too old for so much turmoil.

  With an aggravated groan, she stripped off her cloak and flung it over a chair. At least she could get some sleep tonight. This separate and guarded wing of rooms only for the women was a strange idea, but she would be grateful for an undisturbed rest. These thick mud walls ate up sound even more completely than they swallowed the heat.

  Sorcha was just unbuckling her belt when she heard a scraping at the window. Snatching up her knife, the Deacon padded to the shutters. They were three stories up, but assassins were always a possibility in any Court.

  The shutter moved a little, and as Sorcha slipped into the shadows, she saw the tip of a knife work its way between them to lift the latch. Then they were flung open, and only the flare of the Bond stopped her from plunging the knife into the back of Raed Syndar Rossin.

  “Hello there.” He swung his legs over the lip of the window and smiled as if he’d happened upon her in the street and not climbed three stories into a sealed harem.

  A thousand possible answers to his jaunty greeting flashed across Sorcha’s mind, but none of them mattered as much as the fact that he was there—in the room. Instead, she dropped the knife to the floor, stepped forward and grabbed him by the tunic. Heips were on his immediately, and they were sweeter and better than she remembered. He tasted of leather, cigars and sex. All other concerns and fears evaporated.

  Raed kissed her back and pulled her in tightly against him so she could feel his sudden rush of excitement. For a long, head
y moment the Deacon indulged her pent-up frustrations and desires.

  Then Sorcha shoved him back—though taking her lips from his felt incredibly wrong. Trapped in contrary emotions, she fell back on what she knew—outrage. “What are you doing here?”

  Raed cocked his head with a grin on his bruised lips. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

  “I am escorting the Chiomese Ambassador back from Vermillion. I am not a wanted criminal with a bounty on my head in the middle of the Empire!” She was so vexed she wanted to throw something, but she also wanted to rip off both of their clothes and use the large bed for a better purpose than mere sleep.

  He sighed. “I have no choice—I got word that my sister has been taken—and the trail led us here.”

  “To Orinthal?”

  “To Orinthal.” Raed picked up her hand and kissed her palm. The feel of his lips and the brush of his beard on her skin sent shudders running into Sorcha’s core.

  “I am sorry to hear it.” The anger was melting out of her. “Can I help?”

  “I am sure you can.” Now Raed pressed her hand against his chest, so she could feel that his heart was racing. “But not tonight.”

  Sorcha could tell him about the spectyr, the visions and everything—but it would make no difference—not to this moment.

  The Deacon ran her thumb over the line of his lips, feeling them curve upward under the delicate touch. Something about him was so beautiful to her.

  “You make such a fool of me.” It was the truth, but she was half laughing.

  His smile, the secret smile she only saw when he was alone with her, struck her through. His hazel eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

  “As you do me, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” Then he kissed her again, slower this time, but full of the same hunger.

  Raed was alive and so was she—there was nothing wrong with remembering that. Under her fingers his skin felt so exquisite that she wanted more. She wanted it all. They stumbled, fumbled with clothes; it had been so long, so many weeks, so many months. Sorcha was hungry, and she could feel that hunger in him too. Need would have to be satisfied before anything else.

  “No swinging bed this time.” Raed’s laugh was low and throaty and set all the deep places inside her on fire.

  “We’ll make do,” she replied before fastening her mouth on the warm, soft spot on his neck.

  He groaned when she nipped him there. “I am glad these walls are thick,” she went on, her hands tugging on his belt buckle. The jingle of it hitting the ground was deeply erotic.

  Raed’s hands buried in her hair, tugging her tightly against his mouth—the sting of it was sweet. In return, she raked her fingers down his back. The most basic part of her wanted to mark him, claim him, make him say that he was hers, just as he had taken all of her without so much as a by-your-leave.

  The circular effect of want and desperation made their embrace into almost a tussle, until falling onto the bed, Raed began licking his way down her body. She wanted more, wanted him, but his strong arms held hers down, until his tongue drove all struggle from her. It was the ultimate indulgence, and Sorcha knew life seldom afforded her such moments. She was happy to voice her delight, so he knew what he drove her to.

  When finally she spiraled into pleasure, only then did Raed slide up her body and enter her. Yet, when he began to stoke slow and deep inside her, Sorcha twisted under him, spilling him onto his back.

  “Now,” she laughed wickedly, “who is the prisoner?”

  The Young Pretender chuckled in response, his hands falling back on the sheets. “I am yours once again, fierce Deacon—to do with me as you will.”

  “I will,” Sorcha returned, rocking her hips upon him. “But there will be long hours of interrogation for you, I fear.”

  Raed tilted his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes as her hands clenched on his chest. For an instant—just a split second—Sorcha saw something else there too, the hint of something darker. The Rossin flickered across the face of the man she was so addicted to. It was a reminder of the Beast within.

  Yet, Sorcha was too far gone to deny either of them pleasure. When Raed’s eyes opened again, the hazel of them had gone dark green in the half-light of the candles, and his breath hissed over the perfect line of his teeth.

  She had never thought to see him again, and so she would make the most of this moment—and make it last as long as possible. Sleep was, after all, highly overrated.

  FOURTEEN

  Alone with Consequence

  When finally Merrick slept, it was not the deep rest he really needed.

  Every Deacon knew there was one place where the barriers they trained so hard to create slipped. Sleep, which every mortal needed, was a perilous place. Luckily there were few geists that could penetrate that landscape—but it didn’t mean that it was secure.

  Merrick was on a great plain of sand, standing naked looking up at the stars. The air was cool, a breeze coming as if from some distant sea. He felt open to the world and to nature as he could not remember being since childhood. Even his nakedness did not disturb him.

  Above the sky was a stretched silk of deepest blue, unmarked by any moon—all there was were stars. Merrick had studied long hours. He knew every constellation and formation in the night sky both north and south. The stars above him were in the constellations he recognized, but not a single one was in its correct place. It was as if some great hand had adjusted the parchment of the sky, and now many of the southern shapes were in the northern sky.

  Where was he? The edges of fear trickled over him. On the horizon five stars detached themselves from the firmament and spun toward him. At first he was amazed, but then horror overcame him. The stars loomed bright and larger as they bore down on him.

  Merrick turned to run with the stars burning and snapping at his heels. Under his feet the sand was fickle. It pulled him toward the stars, rushing past his toes. He stumbled many times, his breath rammed in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. Yet he was unable to make any distance.

  Our son—the voice in his head was not Sorcha’s—do not run, there is nothing to fear.

  Ahead a palace erupted from the sand, and suddenly the dreadful singing of the stars stopped. Now sand was blown against his face, stinging it like acid. Merrick stopped, panting, terrified, and craned his neck to look up at the building.

  The white stone was carved with many seated figures, all of them the same, all of them wearing the crystal mask of the Prince of Chioma. When the crystals moved, it seemed as though he might be able to see beyond them and make out a face. Yet, whenever he leveled his gaze upon that space, all he beheld was a blindingly golden light that hurt his eyes more than the sand. Something beautiful and terrible was beyond.

  With a grinding sound that made him clap his hands to his ears, the statues all stood, but as they did, they broke and shattered.

  All must be broken. All must bow. All must be made anew.

  The voice was female, seductive, and it surrounded Merrick. It was not his mother. It was not Sorcha. Yet he knew it. He knew it from childhood.

  Somehow, though, the stars were gone. All of them. The sky above him now was totally blank. Instead, the golden light was spreading across the horizon, banishing the darkness.

  The light was all around him, wrapping him in its embrace. Merrick bowed his head, accepting the light if it would have him. He fell to his knees—

  And that was when the screaming woke him.

  While Sorcha lay tucked in his arms, her breathing slow and deep, Raed found he could not do the same. Their sweat was drying slowly in the sheets, and yet he could not rest as his mind was troubled.

  When he had turned to see her simply standing there, he’d felt as though he’d been hit between the eyes. Yet it was Sorcha, wearing the same unassuming clothes and blue cloak of the Deacon as when Raed had last seen her. Merrick, a little more muscular, a little more adult around the face, stood at her shoulder. In that instant, even Raed,
without the training of the Order, felt it. The Bond they talked about. The one that Sorcha had formed so flippantly in a moment of danger.

  If there were gods, they had an interesting sense of humor.

  Raed trailed one hand down her cheek. She murmured and stirred under it, wriggling closer to his naked skin. He’d been afraid to see her—afraid that what they had shared in those moments on the dirigible had been merely a reaction to the danger. Now he didn’t know what to think—or where to file away these sensations.

  With him, women and relationships had always been shortlived things; his status as hunted criminal in the new Empire forced them to be. Dare he start thinking that these interludes with Sorcha could be strung together into something approaching a real relationship? It would mean she would have to surrender all of her current life.

  Raed knew he certainly had nothing left to give up, or to offer her, for that matter. As a fugitive, the Young Pretender had to make do with moments of happiness, so he wasn’t going to spoil this one thinking about what he could not have.

  He also wouldn’t tell her about the Rossin having broken free so recently; he knew what would happen after that. Sorcha would offer to find Fraine herself and send him back to the ocean and safety, and he feared that with the Bond she could force him to do just that. t souldn’t risk it. His sister’s life was at stake.

  Gently blowing aside a strand of Sorcha’s long red hair, Raed worked his way down to rest in behind her as close as he could: one hand wrapped around her waist, the other gently cupping her breast. He had just closed his eyes, when the scream rang out.

  Both of them scrambled out of bed and reached for weapons before their clothes. With her hair curling down her back and around her breasts, Sorcha went to the window, inched open the shutters, and looked out. Raed waited.