Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

“I never used to wear anything but my uniform,” Zofiya whispered, and smiled somewhat sadly, “but many things have changed since Chioma—my fashion and my brother for example.”

Her voice was so melancholy that Merrick couldn’t help pulling her a little closer. “He still loves and cares for you, Zofiya.” Her name just slipped out over his tongue.

It was the kind of error that she’d challenged men to duels for in the past. When she pulled back and stared at him, Merrick felt his throat grow a little dry.

Her smile was dazzling, but her eyes still darted around the room.

“Do you see him over there?” she whispered in his ear, as she danced a circle behind the Deacon. Aside from the words, the feel of her breath on his neck was quite distracting.

He had in truth almost forgotten her mission, in the turmoil of thinking of his own. As he turned to face Zofiya he managed to catch a glimpse of the person who had her so worried—and instantly his vague interest sharpened to something else. It was a face that he could not forget.

In the tunnels beneath Orinthal, Merrick had faced a group of people who wore the insignia of the Order of the Circle of Stars—the native Order of Arkaym. They had tried to take his mother from him, and he had only managed to recover her by using his own shameful and hidden wild talent.

The face of the other Deacon was burned into Merrick’s mind. He was not wearing the cloak of his Order, but the finery of a minor lord as he chatted amiably to an older lady over by where they were serving wine on a damaskcovered table. Merrick did not know his name, but he knew one thing—that he was here in the center of the Empire boded ill.

He glanced down at the Grand Duchess and feverishly considered his options. Should he tell her? Should he shout and point the finger at this man right now? What would Zofiya’s reaction be if he did anything like that? Merrick realized it would be his word against that of a member of Court.

So instead he spoke as calmly as he could manage, “I shall have to speak to him to find out.” Then, with his heart pounding in his chest, he worked his way toward the so-called del Rue. His coming did not go unnoticed. The gray eyes lifted from the woman and fixed on the young Deacon.

The older man stepped forward to greet him and raised his glass. “Why Deacon Merrick Chambers. I did not expect to see you here—but I can say it is not unpleasant to run into you like this.”

It was just as it had been when they had “run into” each other in the tunnel. Merrick could feel his rage begin to boil again. He sorely felt Sorcha’s absence at his back. However, thinking of his partner helped him keep a hold on his anger. Yet only just.

“What are you doing here?” Merrick managed to keep his tone soft, but not necessarily civil.

“I should ask you the same question.” The man, whose real name was most likely nothing like del Rue, smiled and took a long draft of his wine. “After all, I am not the one with a darkling shard in my soul.” That piercing gaze narrowed—in an instant going from charming to razor sharp.

Merrick jerked back, feeling his skin grow suddenly cold. In Ulrich he had been forced to take a sliver of the soul of a slain Deacon into himself to unravel a conspiracy within a Priory. It had been his only choice, and he thought to outrun any consequences from it. Yet here was this man pointing it out like it was a red letter painted on his cheek.

“It does make you rather stand out my young friend.” Del Rue picked up one of the tiny cups filled with candied fruit and began to nibble at it. “As does that wild talent of yours. Quite the conflicted little bundle aren’t you?” He tapped his spoon against the bowl. “Still I am not surprised anyone in your Order missed it. They are as near blind as to make no difference.”

It was unnerving that the man was able to place verbal jabs into the most vulnerable places. However Merrick was not going to show how well they were hitting home. “Maybe I am conflicted, but if I turn around and tell everyone here how we met it is you that will be reduced to a little bundle.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he put down his little half-eaten cup of fruit. He smiled. Then he laughed. It was loud enough to draw the attention of the glittering folk nearby. Undoubtedly they were wondering whatever a dour Deacon could possibly say to get such a reaction.

The older man’s expression was now ice-cold. “Tread carefully, Merrick. I am a close confidant of the Emperor. He trusts and values my opinion, whereas you are merely a Deacon—a Deacon with a terrible reputation.” He leaned forward. “Who will believe you—the Emperor? Or perhaps your Arch Abbot who hates you?”

Merrick felt his throat close up, words deserting him. Yet he opened his Center and examined the older man through it. Nothing. Despite what he had seen in the tunnels in Chioma, and the sly smile on the Native Deacon’s face, not a trace or hint of power could be seen. It was impossible. Merrick knew himself to be one of the strongest Sensitives in the Order, and yet this man was a blank slate—no more talented than the servers whisking away their used dishes.

All he could tell—and that was by looking—was that del Rue was amused. He flicked his fingers at the Deacon. “Now go on, scuttle away. I have more important matters to attend than yours.”

He turned away from Merrick.

As the young Sensitive made his way back to the Grand Duchess’ side, his mind swirled chaotically. His first thought was of his mother. She was kept largely away from Court life, and had Lyon to look after, so she must not have ever run into del Rue; something that her older son could only be grateful for. Yet, if he tried to use her as a witness, then perhaps she would be a target again. He wasn’t even sure how clearly she had seen her abductors in Chioma. Too much had happened in one night, and it would take a few moments to come to any kind of decision.

Zofiya smiled at him as he approached and a horrible possibility leapt into his mind. Del Rue knew that he had the ear of the Grand Duchess. She could be in danger as well.

However, he realized he was in the more dangerous position. Whatever the Native Deacon was up to, he was surely not yet ready to risk murdering the Emperor’s sister—who besides everything was much harder to kill than might be supposed. Even though right now she looked like merely another Court beauty.

So Merrick let her take his arm and lead him out of the flow of the party.

“Merrick,” Zofiya whispered, her fingers tightening around his wrist, “you have gone frighteningly pale, which I am not taking as a good sign.”

The Deacon could feel her; not the woman at his side, but the woman he shared a Bond with. His Active was getting farther and farther away from him. She was his responsibility, they were Bound tightly together—closer than siblings or lovers—and yet she was not his highest calling. The vows he’d taken, along with every other Deacon, echoed in his head like uncompromising drums.

I promise to protect and shelter Imperial citizens from all attacks of the unliving—even to the end of my mind, body and soul. I shall never lie down before the geists and give up a mortal while they have soul or breath.

The Order had never lectured on this particular choice, but they did school them that every Deacon was disposable. As a student, Merrick had nodded and agreed—but it was quite different when faced with the reality. With a start, he glanced up and saw that the Grand Duchess had guided him toward the edge of the partygoers that lingered in the hallway outside the ballroom. The guests were chattering on—completely unaware of the dangerous currents that flowed around them.