Geist to-1

by Philippa Ballantine

  He reached down and held his hand, fingers spread, inches above the dark orb. “I can feel the geist presence, but also another.”

  “Human?”

  His brow furrowed. “They have covered their tracks somehow, messed with the ether to disguise themselves. I can’t see beyond it . . .”

  Sorcha bent down next to him and drew in a long mouthful of smoke. “You’re the best the Abbey has, Chambers. Are you telling me that there is someone better than you?”

  Her new partner glanced up at her, his brown eyes suddenly not at all friendly. “Give me a second.” It was actually a growl.

  She didn’t go far; staying crouched down, looking about and trying to enjoy the taste of the smoke on her tongue. What Sorcha couldn’t enjoy was the vague frisson of concentration that was leaking across from Merrick. She hated to think what was leaking in the other direction.

  Finally her partner sighed and got up. “Definitely human, and definitely male.”

  She stood next to him and tried to moderate her tone to something that wasn’t disappointment. “Anything else?”

  He kicked the remains of the weirstone. “Not after the damage the geist banishment caused. If I had found it when the weirstone was still active, maybe . . .”

  “Don’t waste time on maybes,” Sorcha said. “I have a feeling that we’ll be getting another chance at this.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She pointed to the road. “This isn’t a well-traveled spot at this time of year, and the bodies were fresh. They must have only been here overnight.”

  “So?”

  She tapped him lightly on the forehead with one fingertip. “It was a trap for us.”

  Merrick blinked once in confusion, and then his eyebrows drew together in a frown. “But we only knew last night that we were leaving . . .”

  Sorcha puffed contemplatively on of her cigar, let it linger a moment and then breathed it out regretfully. “Indeed, so there are only two options: someone was watching us leave the Abbey, or the perpetrator can somehow see into the future. Take your pick.”

  Merrick turned pale, quite impressive in this cold. “I don’t know which I like less.”

  Sorcha jerked her head over toward where their packhorse was standing. “How ’bout we get the shovels and bury these poor folk while you think about it?”

  SIX

  Into the Mouth of the Beast

  Two days of riding and Merrick’s head was still buzzing with the possibilities of the attack. Even when they rode into the port town of Irisil, he remained shell-shocked. It made sense, yet he almost wished that she hadn’t voiced it.

  Most novices would have given their eyeteeth to be teamed up with Deacon Sorcha Faris, but now he realized that his nightmare had just begun. Ahead, where she rode, his new partner gave no sign she even knew he was following. However, both were fully aware of each other’s presence. The Bond took care of that.

  Though neither of them spoke about it, they both knew it was there and very strong, much stronger than it should have been. Merrick worked very hard to keep his thoughts reined in, but was frightened by the possibility that she would hear them again in a moment of stress. The one thing that he did not want was Sorcha running around his brain. The memory of the night that his father died floated to the surface whenever she was about.

  As they trotted through the ramshackle buildings and lines of nets hung up to dry, he could feel his anxiety growing at the prospect of being on board a ship with her. How he was going to occupy his mind for that time was a real and growing concern.

  “This is the place.” Sorcha interrupted his flow of depressing thoughts by pulling up outside a house that more resembled a lean-to.

  “This is where we take ship?”

  She had slid down from her stallion and was grinning up at him. “Not quite to your standards, my lord?”

  It was the limit. He was wracked with fatigue, nerves and the overwhelming desire for a bath, and here she was making fun of him. Merrick opened his mouth to let fly with every expletive he’d learned in the novices’ hall, when his eye was caught by a slim form coming down the road toward them, apparently making for the same dreary little building.

  His occupational hazard was seeing the inherent beauty in everything. The simplest forms like a petal or the song of a bird could entrance a newly created Sensitive, but he’d thought himself over that stage.

  Merrick knew he was agape as the young woman coming toward them glanced up shyly. Her eyes were the most entrancing color, like a woodland doe’s, her lips a perfect bow set in a heart-shaped face. As he turned his neck to watch her, she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and entered the building before them. The scent she trailed behind her was light and sweet. Merrick blinked.

  It took him a moment to realize that Sorcha was talking to him. He glanced down at her, already feeling a slight warmth in his cheeks.

  She might not be a Sensitive, but his new partner wasn’t an idiot. Shooting a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the vision, she smirked. “Chambers, you’re not going to drop into one of those Sensitive trances over a girl, are you? If so, tell me now so I can have a slap ready.” Her fingers were tapping on the edge of her belt pocket, as if she was indeed holding one back.

  “Did saving your life not earn me a little respect?” he snapped back. “Just like an Active to forget so quickly.”

  “Yes, yes, I know . . . Without you I would be blind.” Sorcha actually looked away. “You did well, Deacon Chambers. Many newly ordained would have stumbled, faced with something so . . . unexpected.”

  Merrick decided to take the compliment, and perhaps, in the interests of getting along with his partner, offer one of his own. “You handled Pyet and Yevah expertly. Many Actives would have stumbled at having to manage two runes like that.”

  Her smile was slow and amused. If Deacons wore hats, she might have tipped hers. “I guess that you and I have been dumped into a maelstrom. The things that have been happening in the last few days”—she shook her head, as if only beginning to catalogue them—“we should perhaps turn back and report to the Arch Abbot.”

  “You suggested that two days ago, and we decided that we have our orders.” Merrick dismounted as smoothly as possible and was glad not to collapse immediately. After two days his thighs still ached. “Think of all those people in Ulrich who are under attack. If we wait, how many more will die? Besides, with the Priory weirstone I can contact him from our destination.”

  Sorcha nodded and handed the reins of her stallion to a stable-hand who had finally appeared around the corner of the building. “We go on, then.” Entering the building, both of them, not the tallest of Deacons, had to duck their heads. It was just as cramped inside. Behind a leaning desk sat a tiny old woman who was coughing so hard Merrick was worried a lung might appear at any moment. In front of the desk stood the beautiful woman from outside. When Merrick saw her, he almost straightened up—though naturally, he realized she would be in here. Without any subtlety, Sorcha elbowed him in the ribs. Only the Bones knew what the Bond was telling her about his state.

  The young woman glowed to his Sensitive Sight in the dingy light. She was standing, her head only slightly bent, and her voice was soft and light when she spoke. “But surely there must be room on board. My father arranged . . .”

  The old woman stopped coughing long enough to wheeze out a phlegmy reply. “We have an agreement with the Order; they take precedence.”

  The young woman pressed her folded hands to her small breasts and inclined her head toward the hunched one behind the desk. “But I must get back to my father in Ulrich—he is lost without me.”

  The older woman, however, had already spotted the two Deacons through her watering eyes and dismissed any further complaints. “Honored guests!” She rang a battered bell until three young men, presumably her grandsons, appeared. Before either Deacon could protest at this preferential treatment, their baggage was taken from them and they
were ushered to the desk.

  “You are blessed lucky,” the old woman croaked. “The tide is near to turning and my son will have to sail with it.”

  Sorcha allowed herself to be guided toward the rear door but Merrick paused and glanced back. The young woman was standing stock-still, arms folded tight around her.

  He swung about to face the proprietress. “Surely there is room on the ship for this lady?”

  Merrick caught sight of Sorcha’s amused expression and raised eyebrow. Oh really . . .

  The old woman grimaced. “The Abbey specifies that we only carry their people, and they pay very well for the privilege.”

  His mouth ran away with him before his brain quite caught up. “She is part of our party.”

  When the old woman glanced at Sorcha, she only shrugged her compliance, but could not quite seem to keep the smirk off her face.

  “Makes no difference to me.” The crone coughed, and spat into the corner. “If you say she is part of your group, then she is your problem, not mine.”

  While Sorcha started out of the building and toward the gangway, Merrick turned back to the younger woman. “Please forgive my presumption, but I hope you don’t mind being an honorary Deacon if it means getting home?”

  “I’m very thankful.” From some women it might have sounded common, but she said it so quietly and with such honesty in those brown eyes, he didn’t take it at anything but face value.

  He held out his hand. “Deacon Merrick Chambers.”

  “Nynnia Macthcoll.” She stared at his offered hand for a minute, before putting her own much smaller one in it with a rather uncertain shake.

  Only then did Merrick realize he’d done something very foolish. Dealing with Deacons for years, he’d forgotten that most well-brought-up ladies of any standing found a handshake rather offensive. Quickly he jerked his hand back, though holding hers had been a more-than-pleasant experience.

  “Shall we go?” He remembered enough to let her out of the door before him. The scent when she passed was like apples and sweet spring grass; Sensitive observation was certainly a rod to bear at times like this.

  Outside a brisk wind had picked up, the slate gray ocean heaving against a stony beach. A set of dark wharves thrust out into the harbor, and their small ship was the only one tied up there.

  As Merrick and his new acquaintance walked up the pier toward the ship, he took note of her clothes, trying to judge what they could tell him about her. The sky blue dress she wore was covered with a dark gray cloak, and both seemed somewhat richer than a farmer’s daughter might have worn. The hem of the dress, however, was roughened and rubbed, indicating excessive wear. He began to surmise that its owner had fallen on hard times. He imagined this might be her only remaining dress out of a once-larger wardrobe. The small bag that she would not relinquish to him also had the look of being well traveled but seemed rather light for a long sojourn. Her long dark hair was carefully groomed and modestly plaited at the crown with five jet pins holding it in place, which, if she was traveling, showed a dedication to proper appearance.

  Merrick ran his hand through his own curly hair, suddenly aware how uncombed it was. “Are you traveling to meet family in Ulrich, Miss Macthcoll?” he asked. The pier was slick with salt spray, and he offered her his arm as she struggled against the wind to follow the striding Sorcha.

  “Yes,” she replied, leaning her slight weight against the crook of his arm, and hitching up her skirt to edge past a stack of barrels. “My father is a physician and works for the Deacons as a lay healer. I was raised in Ulrich, and now I live there assisting him.”

  “Then I was not really lying.” He chuckled. “You are almost part of the Order.”

  Merrick felt her stiffen a little against his side. This close, that sweet scent was very distracting, but he still caught a glance she shot him; it was frightened, or possibly angry. Either he wasn’t very good at this chitchat or something else was bothering her. Even after years of study, he couldn’t be that clumsy.

  Clearing his throat, he stumbled on. “Did you come from the south?”

  She nodded, pulling her dress slightly up at the hem. “Yes, from Vermillion. I was visiting a sick relative there. We lived in the city when I was a child, before—” She paused. “Before my father lost his position there.” He didn’t need to be a Sensitive to know that was a subject she was entirely unhappy with, but it explained the worn appearance of a once-beautiful dress.

  Yet her revelation had finally given him something to say. “It was lucky you were ahead of us. My partner and I were attacked on the road. A rather nasty geist.”

  The look she gave him made him realize the error of it immediately. “You . . . you were attacked?”

  “Yes, most likely an ambush.” He tried to swallow his words but they kept tumbling out.

  Her eyes dipped away from him. “It was indeed lucky that I was ahead of you, not behind. Anything could have happened.”

  Merrick felt his face heating up. “Then we would not have been able to assist you with passage. Fate is sometimes kind.”

  They reached the ship and paused. The Breed horses and Horace the pack mule were being led up the rear gangway and into the hold. Well accustomed to travel, they were providing no problems, and the crew loading them appeared to know what they were doing.

  “The Abbey only has two ships stationed at Vermillion”—Merrick decided to try another subject with the silent woman—“and both are to the south with the Imperial Navy. No one thought that they would be needed at this time of year.”

  She turned and faced him, looking directly up at him, a slight smile curving her bow-shaped lips. “And why exactly is it that you are going to Ulrich this late in the season, Reverend Deacon?”

  Merrick was caught by surprise. Most people would not question the movements of any from the Order, but it was perhaps an understandable query considering that they had nearly caused her to be stuck in the South. Still, he couldn’t just divulge what he’d read in the report. “The Deacons there are in need of assistance before winter sets in.” He hoped she would assume it was a leaky roof, or maybe illness.

  “The outpost is small.” Nynnia lifted the edge of her skirt and walked up the gangplank unassisted. “I hope you will not be disappointed by what you find there.”

  Up on deck, his partner was watching the stowing of the mounts with an eagle eye, but she did look up in Merrick’s direction when they approached. Luckily, the smirk had gone. “So, who is our newest recruit, Deacon?”

  “Miss Nynnia Macthcoll, may I present my partner, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” He waited for the fireworks to begin.

  “Deacon Faris.” The younger woman inclined her head. “You would be the Deacon who expelled the ghast from Baron Leit last summer.”

  Sorcha’s eyebrows shot up, but the corners of her mouth twitched. While the Order did not like its members to be prideful, Merrick could understand a little of the feeling he was sensing across the Bond. Seldom was the work of the Deacons actually discussed in polite society. “My husband and I were involved with that case. I didn’t realize that word of it had got out.”

  “Miss Macthcoll is the daughter of the physician stationed at the outpost in Ulrich.”

  Across the Bond he felt Sorcha’s interest wane. I’ll leave you to deal with the pretty face. “Well, let us hope we have smooth sailing all the way there.” Sorcha gestured to the front of the ship, where a tall man dressed in oilskins and sporting a massive red beard was supervising the securing of the hatch. “The captain seems to think that we may be lucky with the weather.”

  Without so much as a farewell, she turned and went below, no doubt to see if their accommodation was as good as their horses’. Merrick bit back the urge to apologize for his partner’s rudeness. At all times, bonded Deacons were supposed to show solidarity. If Nynnia knew anything about the Order, she would be surprised if he showed any disloyalty.

  “Seven days,” the young lady said, turning to look where t
he crew were casting off. “Even one day can be a long time in these oceans. I doubt if the captain is being anything other than reassuring to your partner. No one can tell what the weather will do in these currents.”

  Then she excused herself most sweetly and went below to find her cabin.

  Indeed, this was going to be a long trip. Merrick sighed and idly fingered his belt pocket where the Strop lay curled. He’d feared having to keep his thoughts reined in and away from Sorcha, but now with this new heady distraction he doubted if he would be able to. He imagined that this journey would be full of jabs and jokes of all kinds. Even though he expected Ulrich to be rather bleak, Merrick found he was looking forward to seeing it.

  After two days of travel, Sorcha was ready to throw herself over the side and swim for it. Merrick and his cow eyes were only physical symptoms of what leaked across the Bond. It was deeply disturbing to feel his attraction to this girl as intimately as Sorcha felt it.

  It would have been bad enough if she’d known him for years, but they had been partnered for only a week. She was standing on the deck on the third morning, smoking a cigar that she had hoped to keep at least until Ulrich. She had needed an excuse to get away from the general foolishness belowdecks. Merrick was too damn Sensitive.

  Blowing out a plume of smoke, she watched the umber sun wallow out of the sea. The thought crossed her mind that she was either old and bitter, or old and jealous. Kolya’s courting of her had been a lot more measured and a lot less romantic. Partners for a year—it had seemed the logical thing—there had been little in the way of romance.

  Certainly there was no injunction against marrying one’s partner, nor anyone else, but within the Order, marriages were not common. Life was often short and brutal for Deacons, and Sorcha was honestly surprised every day that neither she nor Kolya had been killed thus far. He had been a good friend and partner—but perhaps she’d been expecting their marriage to end more dramatically than it was—most likely in her own death.