Philippa Ballantine - Spectyr

Merrick stood there for a long moment, feeling his mother’s arms now go around him. She was soft and cool comfort. And he was alive.

When the Deacon pulled back, she still held on to his hands, cradling them in her own. He looked down, fearing what he would see. They were not blackened lumps as he might have guessed, but they were bright red and blistered. It was going to be painful, but he might keep his hands.

“How did you—” he began.

Japhne smiled, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “The Ancient blood flows in your veins—but not from your father’s family.”

“The Ehtia,” he whispered in return, wondering how much of the wild talent that his Order was so afraid of came from them. “So you—”

“It is a little talent.” His mother stroked his hair back from his face. “I can calm magic from time to time. It turned out to be a very useful skill when I fell in love with Onika.”

Despite the situation, Merrick blushed—he had wondered if the Prince kept his mask on in private—but if Japhne was unaffected, then it all made sense. He quickly changed the topic of conversation, which was unseemly and awkward for him as both a son and as a Deacon.

“Come on.” He put his arm around his mother. “We have to get you back to the palace, and then I must try to catch up with Sorcha and Onika. They have gone to stop the goddess Hatipai gaining a body in this world. I fear I know how I was able to channel an Active rune.”

Holding each other up, they made it back to the junction with the pipe under the palace. Now, with the darkness lifted, Merrick could make out a circle of weirstones embedded in the brickwork—it was a masterfully done job.

“But your hands,” his mother murmured as they stepped out of one pipe and back into Chioma.

Once there, Merrick could feel the Bond singing in his head. The buzz was not a comforting noise. Somewhere not far off, he feared he had left his partner significantly diminished. He glanced down at his palms. “I’ll bind them. Perhaps if I take the fastest horse, I can still catch them.”

Japhne frowned, undoubtedly thinking of her own lover in danger. “What use can you be, my son? Surely what is done is already done?”

“Not where Sorcha is concerned, Mother.”

“Then go to the dirigible station.” Now she was tugging him along. “There are two vessels in port, and if they burn weirstones, you may just get there in time.”

Merrick’s heart welled with admiration and love for Japhne. He had saved her, and then she had saved him. The young Deacon could only hope that he would get to his partner in time to bring her the same hope.

Sorcha woke in a cradle of sand. It had blown over her, cushioned her, but was now trying to swallow her. She jerked erect, the broken swing tangled on top of her, her mouth dry and her pulse racing. Turning her head to the left, she saw the still-smoldering remains of the Winter Falcon spread over the dunes.

The brave Chiomese and the Imperial sailors had died together because of Hatipai—Sorcha had no doubt of that. It was up to her to stop the false goddess from taking any more victims.

After she pushed herself free of the remains of the swing, she dragged herself to her feet and examined her body carefully. She felt as though she’d been given a damn good beating, and even without pulling aside her clothes, Sorcha could tell there would be plenty of bruises. Though she had no way of knowing how far she’d fallen, nothing felt broken. Next she tried to orient herself under the blazing sun.

“It’s over there.” Onika’s voice at her back made her jump like a green Initiate. The Prince of Chioma could have been a statue revealed by blowing sand—he certainly didn’t look as though he had fallen any great distance either. He looked no more ruffled than if he’d been standing in his own Court.

He didn’t point, but then he didn’t need to. The Temple of Hatipai was the only structure in a blinding ocean of sand. It stood out, red like a blister among the gold of the dunes.

“You don’t have to go.” She tottered over to stand at his shoulder. “I have sworn an Order Oath; I have to go down there, but you—”

“I too swore an oath.” The Prince raised his hand and tore off the shining mask. He flung it into the sand as if it were something vile, but he didn’t turn around. “The people of Chioma are mine to protect—they always have been.”

Sorcha averted her eyes. “How can you protect them if you are dead? What about your son waiting to be born?”

His voice was calm. “I cannot think of that now. Even as much as I love Japhne and him to come, I cannot put them above my people. I trust Merrick will take care of his mother.”

The Deacon heard his cloak slide through the sand as he moved forward, but she still dared not look. She could almost feel the heat of his charisma beating on her head like the sun. “A child should always have its parent.”

“Not everything that can birth a child can be called a parent.” Onika touched her hair. “Some parents do better to leave this world before they can teach a child to fear. How could I have a son who cannot even look at my face?”

Sorcha had never known her own parents, so could not argue with him. His open hand appeared in her peripheral vision.

“Please, Deacon Chambers, I need someone to look at me.”

His voice cracked with melancholy and fear. Sorcha looked up and opened her Center. While her humanity was stunned by the immortal god, her Deacon training helped her see behind it to the man he was.

“Why?” she stammered through numb lips and burning eyes. “Why are you going down there straight into her hands?”

The Prince smiled and jerked aside his cloak. Underneath, hanging from his belt was a long, curved dagger with a weirstone gleaming on its hilt. “Not long ago I found a secret book of prophecy. It can only be done by me, with this blade, in her Temple, as she becomes mortal. Just before she does, there will be a moment of weaknesses.” His hand touched Sorcha’s head lightly. “I am the only one who can strike.”

As a Deacon, Sorcha was sure she didn’t believe in prophecies or fate, but in the gleaming light of his charisma, she trusted him.

“But I have something for yof this should fail.” From one of the pouches at his belt Onika pulled a strange sphere. It was about the size of his fist with a miniature crank in its clear side. When he turned it, a high-pitched whir sounded, while around the Prince the air shifted. His face flickered with momentary pain as a silvery gray liquid filled the sphere, but from where it came, Sorcha could not tell.

“Hold out your hand, Deacon Faris.” Sorcha offered her palm, and he placed the strange device into it. “This is one of my mother’s gifts, a protection for the body. For a human with no trace of geist it should not last long, but it will help you if things go wrong in the Temple.” Onika spun the crank in the opposite direction. The gleaming liquid now began to drop away in the sphere, until there was no liquid apparent. Instead, Sorcha felt warmth spread over her.

For a second her skin gleamed like it was covered in a thin film of oil, but then that too vanished. “You’ve made me immortal?”

Onika laughed again. “Temporarily your body is protected—that is all, Deacon Faris. Do not get arrogant, for it will wear off in a few days. You are not born of a geistlord as I am.”

“And you?”

“If I survive this, I want to grow old with Japhne.” He glanced back toward Orinthal. “I want my son to rule in Chioma, so it is no loss to me.”

Giving up this was a sign of faith Sorcha could not understand, but she wouldn’t argue with it. The look in his eyes said this was no sudden decision.