The whole caravan lined up behind them, and they set off, the Chiomese Deacons leading the way.
Above the complaints of the oxen, Sorcha leaned over and asked her partner, “So what is with their cloaks? I’ve traveled most everywhere in the Empire and never seen Deacons wearing anything but the green or blue.” She flicked her cloak, which was the blue of the Active, but lined with the traditional black.
“Chioma is different. Weren’t you listening to me all the way here?
She laughed. “I didn’t realize there was going to be a test at the end! I admit I stopped listening just after we got onboard the Summer Hawk. ”
“ Well—” He looked dangerously as though he were about to give her another lecture on the principality.
“Please”—she held up her hand—“the short version.”
The corner of Merrick’s mouth twitched. “I suppose I have rather fallen into the schoolteacher mode.”
“Honestly, I thought I was back in the novitiate.”
“The brief answer, then.” He gestured toward the tall forms of the Deacons ahead of them. “Chioma kept many of its beliefs in the little gods—”
“Aha!” Sorcha flicked him on the shoulder. “I do recall you said not to call them that here!”
“Nice to know you were listening sometimes,” he retorted, “but indeed we should not. Yellow is the color of their goddess Hatipai, and the only way the Order could enter Chioma was to align themselves with her—hence the unique cloaks.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes slightly. In Delmaire too there were pockets of religion.
“Chioma is the oldest kingdom in Arkaym.” Jey turned and smiled, dropping back to walk between Merrick and Sorcha. “We are very proud of its history.”
The narrow streets suddenly flared into a wide town square, and the caravan was now moving through a choked marketplace. The guards ran forward to clear a way, ringing bells and shouting, “Make way for the royal Ambassador. Make way!”
Sorcha looked about with interest, getting her first real glimpses of regular Chiomese. The markets of Vermillion were familiar, bringing produce from every kingdom to the capital city—and so she had smelled the spices of Chioma before—but not in such abundance, and not so fresh. Her nose was full of sharp smells, sweet smells and ones that made her almost choke. Sacks, bowls and containers of all sizes were piled high in the tiled marketplace.
The heat in the square packed with people was overwhelming. Sorcha felt a new line of sweat break out on her back, and suddenly the idea of a cool bath in the Abbey sounded absolutely essential. She noticed the citizens around her moved languidly, which made them seem both much more elegant and much more sensible. Vigorous action of any sort here would be punished for certain. Without warning, her mind leapt back to Raed and their time locked in the cabin on the Summer Hawk.
Suddenly the heat on her wasn’t all the fault of Orinthal. Merrick glanced over his shoulder at her—the curse of their unusual Bond once again striking. Sorcha knew she blushed and hated it. In a vain attempt at recovery, she tried to examine the market more thoroughly.
The peoples around her were not as varied as those in Vermillion—faces were mostly dark, though there were shades of olive tones, much like Merrick’s. It was easy to pick out the traders and travelers from farther north—most doing business with the spice merchants—and not just because of their paler skins. Their clothing was drab by comparison. Every one of the citizens of Orinthal was dressed in vibrant colors; intense purples clashed with greens the color of a butterfly’s wing, while deep red sashes were worn about the waist of every woman she saw.
“In addition to poisons and spices,” Merrick hissed in her ear, “Chioma has the most wonderful selection of ingredients for dyes. The Imperial Coronation robes were made here.”
Her young partner was always such a wealth of information. Sorcha pursed her lips, holding back a comment as they left the market and headed up the hill toward the Abbey.
Buildings of the Order usually occupied high ground—much like temples or palaces. It made for not only the best scenery but also the best view of geist activity.
They were on the incline of the hill. The houses were beginning to dwindle and become more like shacks, when the familiar wailing of mourners reached them. They had come across a cemetery. That also was traditional. Burying the dead within sight of a Priory or an Abbey had become almost a necessity in the Dark Time and continued to be recommended. A burial was in progress.
Jey whispered in her partner’s ear—rather bad manners Sorcha felt.
“We must stop here for a moment.” Delie turned and addressed the Vermillion Deacons somewhat stiffly. “There were more deaths last night.”
No further explanation was necessary. Sorcha waited by the gate, while Merrick went back to tell Bandele to go on ahead to the Abbey. They had Deacon business to take care of.
It felt good to be of some use to their hostsed in herwo sets of partners examined the scene with practiced eyes. The Sensitives sent their Centers out, while the Actives remained poised in case they found something.
The knot of mourners was streaming into the graveyard. The gate and fence were both made of bone-white wood and rattled in the light wind. The sound was mournful, disturbing and had to be deliberate. When it mixed with the cries of the bereaved, the effect was enough to raise goose pimples on Sorcha’s arms, despite the heat.
Unlike in Vermillion, there was no coffin, just the body wrapped in brightly colored cotton carried on the shoulders of menfolk. Small medallions glittered and flashed in the sunlight where they hung from the body. Sorcha had studied enough to know they were symbols of little gods—indicating that this man was a believer. It mattered little to the geists.
“I see nothing suspicious,” Merrick whispered. His eyes were closed, but as he was sharing his Sight with Sorcha, she could see what he meant. The grief of the funeral cortege was all that stained the ether.
“The spectyrs have been very cunning of late.” Jey’s eyelids flickered. “We should make absolutely sure.”
Both Sensitives reached for their Strops by instinct. When Merrick secured the leather rune-carved strap over his eyes, Sorcha again shared his vision. The world was a beautiful place when her partner looked at it. They could see the movement of the wind, the sorrowful plumes of grief wafting from the mourners and the flicker of tiny insects over the flowers in the cemetery. Nothing escaped their gaze.
No shades followed in the wake of the dead. No spectyr wore the face of the lost one. Sorcha let out a held-in sigh of relief as her hand dropped away from her belt.
“Can you see this, Deacon Jey?” Merrick’s voice was full of dread, but he was not looking at the cemetery any longer.
Sorcha shared his vision, and what he was looking at was far in the distance. Against the horizon, on the other side of the river Saal, were a line of low hills. She had already noted them as they climbed out of the port city. The day was cloudless and relentless in its heat. However, with the aid of the Strop the scene was quite different. On those hills a gray mass, which could have been mistaken for thunderclouds, was gathering. It was as if a stone had dropped into the pit of Sorcha’s stomach.
“I can,” the Chiomese Sensitive choked out, “but I have never witnessed the like before.”
“Neither have I.” Her partner’s voice came out rough and shaken.
Naturally they would not. Both were too young to remember. Sorcha, however, had come across with the Emperor from Delmaire years before and seen many deadly things.
She had stood on a ship with Arch Abbot Hastler, the one who would later betray his Order, on one side, and Kolya on the other. Sharing his Sight and looking out toward the continent that would be her new home, she had seen the mass of clouds where there were actually none. She’d asked her Abbot what they signified, and his response had chilled her then as it did now.
“The geists are gathering, preparing for us, waiting for battle.”
“By the B
ones.” Merrick took his Strop off with shaking hands. “We had better report this to the Prior.”
Their simple trek to the Hive City was coinciding with something else—something far more momentous. Sorcha felt foolish that she had ever thoght this journey would be simple—that it would ever be just about Raed. The maelstrom was focused once again around the Triple Bond.
TEN
Within a Welcome Embrace
Merrick’s stomach rolled on seeing the cloud of geist activity on the horizon. It was always that way with a Sensitive; the body reacted against the undead. Sorcha might have witnessed such things before, but he had only read about them. As he fought down his nausea he realized that, despite his satisfaction at finally seeing Chioma, he would have been quite happy to never experience a geist storm firsthand.
Without a word passing between them, the four Deacons turned and very quickly passed the wagon train on the way to the Abbey. They all knew their duty to report what they had seen.
They were just going underneath the red archway of the building, into what Merrick might have termed safety, when the Bond sang. His Sight blurred, and he staggered back as the world that he knew dipped away. Inexplicably, his mouth tasted of dirty river water, and there was pain—so much that it felt as though his spine was being ripped out through his throat.
The sound of a savage growl echoed in his head—one that he knew very well. In the ossuary under Vermillion, Merrick and Sorcha had lost themselves, becoming part of a creature with Raed and the Rossin. It had been both terrifying and exhilarating—the kind of exhilaration that was full of danger. The kind you could easily get used to.
It didn’t matter how far away the Deacons were from the Young Pretender and the geistlord he carried; they could still draw on magic from Merrick and Sorcha.
They drowned in the geistlord for a long moment, lost in his strength and bloodlust. Then, mercifully and just as suddenly, they were free.
Jey and Delie were staring at them, wide-eyed and concerned. Sorcha had collapsed back against the door of the Priory, while Merrick found himself kneeling on the floor like a penitent of ages past. He knew they could not say anything to their fellow Deacons. Not even their superiors back at the Mother Abbey knew about the Bond with the Young Pretender—and for good reason.
The penalty would most likely be death. The sentence for any Deacon who had dallied with the Otherside was to be cleansed in the rune Pyet and their Strop or Gauntlets thrown in after them. It had been a generation or more since such a punishment had been meted out—but it was a ceremony that could easily be revived.
“Are you all right?” Jey bent down to help Merrick to his feet, while Delie ran to assist Sorcha.
His partner thought faster than he did. “Your weather takes some getting used to.” She mopped her brow and smiled shakily.
The look that passed between the two Chiomese Deacons said they were not entirely convinced that both of their Vermillion counterparts had been overtaken by the heat at the exact same time. Yet they were luckily too polite to challenge the explanation.
Bandele and the royal caravan passed under the mud brick arch last, and the gates were secured shut behind them. Merrick sidled up to Sorcha while the unloading went ahead. She must have felt what he had, but he still had to ask—to make sure he was not running mad.
Her face was white, her jaw set. Shoulder to shoulder, under the cover of their cloaks, he squeezed Sorcha’s hand. “He’s alive.”
She gave a quick nod as if she could not quite bear to speak yet.
“And close,” he added under his breath. The rest went unspoken. And so is the Rossin.
Sorcha flinched, but they dared not discuss this more, because someone in a vibrant green and blue cloak topped with a mustard yellow hood was coming down to greet them. The color clash alone drew the eye, but he was also a tall, broad man with a flashing smile—the kind of solidly built figure that would have made a fine warrior in any army. “Welcome! Welcome, Brother and Sister!” He eschewed the traditional bow and instead clapped them around the shoulders, as if they were indeed long-lost kin. “I am Abbot Yohari.”
Sorcha shot Merrick a surprised look, and he realized that she had not fully grasped how very different the Chiomese Deacons were. Such a greeting in any other kingdom’s Abbey would have been unthinkable; this man was among those who chose the Presbyterial Council, after all!
Lay Brothers scampered to help unload the caravan for their short stay. Guest quarters would house the royal retinue, while the two Deacons from Vermillion would naturally stay in the dormitory. There was one place that Merrick was longing to be. Chioma had been the only principality not to fall during the Dark Time, and it was rumored to contain some of the oldest manuscripts anywhere. However, he had not forgotten the menacing line of shades lurking in the mountains.
He gave an awkward little bow to Yohari. “If we could talk to you in private, Abbot. We have some concerns about what is happening in Orinthal.”
The smile faded on their superior’s face. “You are not the only one, Brother.” He gestured them in toward the cool interior of the building.
Once inside, Merrick could feel a little of his calm returning—enough to notice the architecture. Again he was reminded how very different Chioma was. All Abbeys, even the Mother one, were rather stark, removed of any decoration that harked back to the little gods. In this principality, however, the Order of the Eye and the Fist had to tread carefully, and the Priory held on to its religious roots in ways that would have shocked the Order back home.
The symbol of Hatipai was repeated on the tiny tiles that decorated the inside of the Abbot’s receiving room, and they made Merrick deeply uncomfortable. So he took a seat in the sunny nook where he wouldn’t have to look at them directly. A tall, clear window surrounded by panes of colored glass looked out over the city, and Sorcha remained standing before it. Her nerves would have been apparent even without the Bond.
“I too have seen the shades.” Yohari’s voice was now solemn; the act outside had been for the benefit of his Deacons. He gestured over to the desk where his Strop sat. “The gathering of them on the hills began two days ago along with an increase in general geist activity. So few of my Deacons are here in the Abbey—nearly every one fit for duty is out fighting the good fight.”
He leaned back, steepled his fingers and looked at them sternly. “If you were not escorting the royal Ambassador, I might prevail on you to assist.”
“Perhaps we could find some time . . .” Sorcha offered.
The Abbot inclined his head. “No, protecting the Ambassador is vitally important.”
Now Merrick was curious. “I am sorry, but we were given this job merely as a court. We weren’t told to guard—”
“I think we can all agree circumstances have changed.” Yohari gestured to the corner where a gleaming blue orb rested atop a brass stand. Merrick saw Sorcha flinch at the weirstone, but even she couldn’t complain about the Abbot having one or their use in the Imperial air navy. They made many things possible, the most important of which being communication between far-flung Abbeys, Priories and cells.
“I am waiting on word from the Presbyterial Council,” the Abbot rumbled, “though I certainly cannot mount an attack on them in the hills—not when the city needs protecting.”
Merrick nodded. If it was beyond the Abbot’s experience, then waiting was the wiser course. “Then may I ask permission to examine your library, Father Abbot?”
“The library?”
“If there is no service we can offer you, then I would very much like to view the treasures in it.” Merrick tried to keep the hint of avarice out of his voice.
The Abbot dismissed them quickly—having ascertained that two more Deacons would not make those hovering shades disappear. They took their leave from Yohari, and Sorcha let out a long sigh of relief.
They stood in the quiet corridor as lay Brothers began to light candles around them against the drawing night. Even so, Merrick co
uld make out deep shadows beneath Sorcha’s eyes. “Go get some rest.”
She raised an eyebrow at his almost commanding tone. “I hope you are not going all mother hen on me. Remember, I am old enough to actually be your mother.”
He laughed at that. “You’re not that ancient.” He chuckled somewhat forcibly. “I just think we need to be fresh tomorrow.”
Even Sorcha, spoiling for a fight, couldn’t argue with that. She rolled her shoulders and let her eyes close for a moment. “A cool bath and a warm cigar would be splendid. Are you really set on scouring the library?” He grinned, and she sighed theatrically. “I see you are.”
“I managed to sleep on the Summer Hawk,” he lied, knowing that thanks to their unusual Bond she wouldn’t believe it anyway. It was a little game they played.
Sorcha clapped him on the shoulder and then, muttering to herself, left him to it.
The Abbey was silent around Merrick, but that was just fine. He was itching to see what the library might hold. After a few wrong turns he found it.
It was larger than he had expected and packed with books, scrolls and manuscripts that made his blood rush. He was hoping to find something in here that might account for the cloud of shades, yet his scholarly instincts made him just want to dive in.
The sun began to creep down behind the horizon, and still Merrick kept scouring the shelves. He knew if he looked out the window aimed toward the mountains he would get all the inspiration he needed. Yet the library was proving a disappointment. Most of the works here were about Hatipai, and there was only so much adulation to a goddess even he could take.
Finally Merrick slumped down at the broad table in the middle of the room and admitted defeat. With his head in his hands, exhaustion began to overcome him; the long hours of traveling finally catching up.
He was just about to stagger upright and go to find a place to give in to sleep—when a strange noise made him pause. It sounded like onhe eerie sounds made by the Chiomese nose flute—the kind of vibrating noise that had sent him as a child running for his mother’s lap. It filled the long lines of shelves with a kind of tuneless vibration that he could feel in his bones.
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