Geist

by Philippa Ballantine

  He was about to wander away, but she held on to him a moment, a twinge of concern tickling her conscience. “Is everything all right with you, Garil?”

  Was it her imagination, or did a tiny muscle near his eye twitch? “As well as can be expected . . . you know, in this weather.” He rubbed his leg and glanced up as if he was expecting rain. “Well, must get in.” Garil turned and hobbled away from her.

  Sorcha stood staring after him for a minute, knowing that something was bothering the older man. Still, if he had wanted to talk about it, he would have; they were good enough friends for that. Once this foolish mission for the Arch Abbot was over, she’d catch up with Garil and see what was chewing on him.

  Inside the infirmary it was thankfully warmer, though it smelled of sage smoke and soap; smells that irritated her senses. The building might be a place of healing, but it always made her uncomfortable—and it was not just the smell. Lay Brothers ruled here, gliding about with silent efficiency in their brown robes. Deacons might know little of healing, but thanks to the library and careful use of sanctioned weirstones, the Abbey’s infirmary was the best in the nation.

  So good, in fact, that even royalty came here. Sorcha flinched, but the Grand Duchess Zofiya had surely heard her footsteps. The martial sister of the Emperor, used to commanding troops, missed very little that went on around her. A young male soldier of the Imperial Guard was standing stiffly at attention, holding the royal bags and glowing with pride. The Grand Duchess was looking at her gold fob watch, standing by a neatly made bed she had only recently occupied. On her dark brow was a slight but significant frown. It was a face that might have been called sweetly beautiful, if it had not been for a pair of determined, dark eyes. Sorcha knew in public the Duchess had a smile that could melt hearts, but in private she was rather stern. Snapping shut the watch and tucking it into her dress uniform, she turned.

  When Zofiya’s lips hardened into a firm white line, Sorcha knew that the truth of yesterday’s events had reached her—not the tissue of denial the Arch Abbot was selling to the public. The Deacon’s stomach clenched.

  The royals might have no direct control over the Order, but they still had plenty of influence. Sorcha was sure that she was about to feel some of it.

  “Deacon Faris.” The Grand Duchess’ voice was still deeply marked by the accent of Delmaire. Unlike her brother, she had not taken pains to remove it. Even with her arm in a sling, Zofiya stood ramrod straight as her gaze ran up the length of Sorcha.

  The Deacon bristled at being treated like one of the damn Imperial Guard, but she held herself in check. “Your Imperial Highness.” She dipped her head to the appropriate level. “I am glad to see you are fully recovered.”

  Zofiya shrugged, the brass of her military jacket gleaming in the wan sunlight. “Viscount Jurlise was lucky.”

  Before Sorcha could catch herself, she let out a snort. “Not that lucky—I hear you shot him between the eyes like he was a prize stag!”

  Dueling wasn’t common in the Empire, but the Grand Duchess was not one to turn away when her brother was insulted. When the two of them were new to their positions, many had disagreed with their appointment. Back then the Grand Duchess Zofiya had spent a great deal of time shooting at the aristocracy. These days there were few who were stupid enough to slight the Emperor within her hearing. The rumor was that her father had been more than happy to send his difficult youngest daughter off with her brother—before his own dukes and earls were decimated.

  Zofiya’s eyebrow rose, but she made no comment. Perhaps she recognized an attempt at distraction when she heard one. “I understand there was some kind of geist attack outside the very gates of the palace. I hope the Deacons are still capable of doing their job.”

  The Grand Duchess had seen plenty of evidence that they were. When the Order had sailed with her to this new and troubled land, she and her brother had witnessed plenty of geists being handled. Sorcha bit the inside of her cheek so that observation didn’t pop out. “It was an unusual event, Imperial Highness, but we quickly had the situation under control.”

  “My brother and I count on the Order to take care of these things.” She jerked on fine black gloves and shot Sorcha a calculating look. “If there are any issues we should be aware of . . .”

  By the Bones, Sorcha thought, I am not made for this intrigue. “The Arch Abbot is fully aware, Imperial Highness, and we are taking steps to make sure it will not happen again.”

  “I should hope so. Citizens being killed by geists at the very gates of the palace is not the image my serene brother wants to convey. People need assurance that we are in control. You can be confident I will be talking to Arch Abbot Hastler further on this matter!”

  Sorcha knew there was no retort for that one. The Grand Duchess made her feel like an initiate again, so she merely nodded agreement and stood as still as possible as the other woman strode from the infirmary with her adoring soldier trailing in her wake.

  This day was getting worse by the moment. Sorcha sighed, straightened her cloak and tilted her chin up. Facing her husband was going to be easy after a kick in the teeth from both the Arch Abbot and royalty.

  Making her way out of the general ward, she paused at the only locked door in the infirmary. Beyond she could just make out the wails of the geist-struck Deacons; locked away lest they wander in their madness. A shudder of deep fear ran through her—she did not envy their caretakers.

  Kolya was in the smaller ward, the place where the more critically injured were kept. In here it smelled sharply of vinegar, and there were fewer Brothers. The one at the door was mixing potions and nodded to her as she came in. Sorcha inclined her head, but was also taking the time for a deep breath. The atmosphere in here was even more oppressive and silent. The Brothers moved about on muffled slippers, and the only sounds were the labored breathing of the patients and the odd moan of pain.

  Kolya was at the far end of the room, two of the Brothers hovering around him like bees. She might have faced the unliving of all types, but seeing her partner and husband lying there gave her pause. Sorcha found herself on tiptoes as she approached his bed. The healers made room for her to take a seat at her husband’s side. They continued to bustle around the room, and Sorcha sat almost motionless and watched Kolya.

  The previous day he had looked better. He’d been gray and pale and bleeding, yet today he was enveloped in bandages and had sandbags up against his sides to hold him steady. He didn’t look anything like her husband, this still form on the bed.

  As she sat there watching him, Sorcha waited to be swallowed by a tide of emotions. She knew she should feel devastated. She’d spent enough time in the infirmary to see how wives react at times like this. But nothing came.

  I don’t feel broken like I should, she thought to herself. I don’t feel anything. The truth was it was more than a year since she had felt anything real or passionate toward Kolya.

  Her had shut her out—quite an impressive feat for a Bonded Deacon—and yet he had not always been this way. After the terrible ache of losing three partners in quick succession, Kolya had seemed a safe haven, a smooth harbor in a storm. Only now was she realizing that she needed something more. And yesterday morning she had been nearly ready to speak her mind. Now that chance had been taken away from her. If she believed in Fate, she’d think him cruel indeed.

  “He is quite heavily drugged,” Brother Elies, the man charged with Kolya’s care, whispered, making her lurch out of her reverie. “Yet he is showing signs of brief moments of consciousness.”

  “Good.” Sorcha nodded, daring another look.

  “But there are also signs of unliving canker in him.”

  The Otherside was a dangerous realm, and those who suffered its effects often were left with something similar to mortal poisoning. While Kolya’s wounds were life-threatening enough, it was the infection in his blood that would take the longest recovery time.

  Carefully she touched the back of his hand; it was swollen a
nd very warm. Kolya stirred. His pale blue eyes roved around the ceiling before finally drifting over to his wife. Yet there was no sign of emotion. His smooth features showed neither distress nor passion, nor anything at all. Just the same as always, Sorcha thought bitterly, then, realizing how awful that was, smiled as best she could. “How are you, Kolya?” It was a stupid question; she realized that as soon as it was out of her mouth.

  “Oh, you know,” came the faint reply. Always so self-contained, even in pain. Her teeth ground together. Absolutely no way to light a cigar in here, nor was there any way that she could continue the argument begun that morning. Like Garil, it was something that would have to wait until she returned, until she could tell him the truth.

  “I have a mission. The Abbot has assigned me a temporary partner. I leave tomorrow.” She said it quickly.

  Kolya’s brow furrowed a little. Most husbands and partners would have been outraged, but he only shrugged a bit. “I am sure he knows what’s best.”

  She cleared her throat, feeling her hands growing clammy. “I imagine so, but it means that I must leave you alone.”

  “That’s what we do, Sorcha.” As always, it was like pushing against nothing, struggling to get any reaction. Perhaps getting away was a good idea after all.

  Pushing her copper hair out of her eyes, she rocked back on the stool. “I should be here with you,” she murmured, sounding unconvincing to her ears.

  Brother Elies shuffled to the other side of the bed. He had a small bowl of something foul-smelling in one hand. “We need to . . .”

  Sorcha hastily stood up. She didn’t want to see what they were doing to Kolya, didn’t want to hear him in pain. Even their Bond felt faint and half-broken by what had been done to him—like their marriage. “That’s all right . . . I . . . I have to pack.”

  Words that usually came so easily to her lips had somehow dried up. “Be safe,” Kolya whispered from the bed.

  Leaning over, she dropped a kiss onto his pale forehead, holding back all those feelings that had been bubbling up in her for months. “I will try,” she whispered in return.

  The Arch Abbot may have done her a favor—but it had only put off the inevitable.

  Cleaning up after his new partner before he had even met her was not, Deacon Merrick Chambers decided, a good sign. He stood alone in the bustling Artisan Quarter of Vermillion and opened his Center wide. Presbyter Rictun had demanded that every Sensitive in residence at the Mother Abbey scour the streets for any sign of the geist that had attacked Deacons Faris and Petav.

  Around the young Deacon, the bustle of Vermillion went on as if the confrontation at the gates of the palace had never happened—at least to normal eyes and ears. Merrick, however, was not normal.

  He saw a huddle of women at the corner of the street by the coopers’ yard and could hear their agitated conversation as sharply as if he were among them. Interesting. They were talking of the near riot—with no mention of the geist’s involvement. It was not his place to question the Order, but Merrick found the use of magical cantrips and misinformation to hide the truth distasteful. This, along with the fact that Presbyter Rictun had not shared the exact nature of the geist they now sought, left Merrick feeling deeply unsettled. Still, he had not trained for years to throw it all away now; not on the very cusp of acceptance.

  Overhead an Imperial blimp passed, its weirstone engines giving off a low hum, the weak winter sun gleaming on its brass fittings. The new airships were still a rarity anywhere outside of the capital city—especially in the countryside where Merrick’s family lived. Merrick glanced up at it in fascination. Maybe if he was lucky, one day his missions as a Deacon would take him aboard one.

  For now he had to banish all those blue-sky thoughts from his mind. He had a job to do. Pushing his dark hair out of his eyes and turning slowly, Merrick opened his Center wider—searching for the trace of geist among the living.

  A humming, soft but insistent, began behind his eyes. People, rats, horses, dogs, cats, even the smallest insect burned in his mind like tiny pinpricks of light. His senses raced over stone roofs, spread out along the streets dedicated to craft and art, and delved below into the sewers. The essence of every living creature, dark or light, was revealed. Nothing escaped Merrick’s notice.

  Finally he was satisfied. He had done his duty and cleared the section of street he’d been assigned. It was time to get back anyway.

  Crossing the Farewell Bridge, Merrick paused for a moment. The Imperial capital was beautiful this early. The sun gleamed on the icy canals and reflected off the faint snow on the rooftops. He loved the myriad bridges that led to the center and could name only half of them. This city was now home, and today he would confirm that. The young Deacon set forth with determination.

  His path took him through the Merchant Quarter, packed with wagons, carts and stalls. The scents of exotic spices competed with the stench of horse and man for his attention. Stepping out of the way of haggling merchants and Tinkers, he dropped a shilling into the grubby hand of a tiny girl child who sat in misery near a stack of cartons.

  She would be lucky to survive the winter. When she looked up at the young Deacon he tucked her fingers firmly around the silver. “At midday at the Abbey there is food and drink available for free, little one.”

  When she tried to get to her feet, he realized she wouldn’t make it on her own. So tucking the little bird fingers around his neck, he carried her with him. Silently the girl dropped her head on his shoulder and sighed.

  Most likely Presbyter Rictun would think a Deacon carrying a filthy orphan into the heart of the Empire unbecoming, but Merrick knew the true meaning of the Order even if his superiors had forgotten.

  Together, then, the Deacon and the child passed through the granite gates and into the Civic Center that lay at the very heart of Vermillion.

  The houses here were magnificent, belonging to the most aristocratic families; those who could afford to live close to the Emperor. Carriages rattled past full of finely dressed lords and ladies, and his heightened Sensitive smell caught alternating waves of perfume and wig powder. These treelined streets were far quieter and more elegant than the less salubrious sections of the city. However, Merrick, despite having been raised an aristocrat, found them stifling and too pretentious.

  He hurried through these parts, until the level ground began to slope upward toward the palace and the Abbey. His pace quickened further as he murmured words of comfort to the little girl.

  Once beyond the gates he found Melisande Troupe, Presbyter of the Young, and gave the waif into her gentle care. Only then did he race up the stairs to his cell to prepare.

  It was one of many narrow rooms in the dormitory with only a small bed and a pine dresser in it. Though members of the Order had few possessions, the top of his was scattered with tiny cogs and tools. Merrick had always been fascinated by mechanics, and in fact as a child he had dreamed of being a Tinker’s apprentice—that was, until his father’s death.

  Now he pushed this little project of his away. Today was the beginning of his new dream.

  After washing his face and neck and combing his hair, Deacon Merrick Chambers wiped his palms down the length of his tunic for what felt like the fifth time in as many minutes. Then he stepped out of his chamber.

  Despite the season, he was sweating as if it were high summer. His little errand had put off this moment, but now the stress and terror came rushing back full force. The cause of it was his new partner; She Who Must Be Obeyed. The one time Merrick had met her as an adult, his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth; speechless was not the young Deacon’s normal state.

  As he adjusted his badge of rank and prepared for their second meeting, he remembered those sharp blue eyes. The most famous Active in the Order would have been a good target to fall in love with—beautiful, powerful and unattainable—but for Merrick that wasn’t an option. Deacon Sorcha Faris scared the shit out of him.

  Unlike many of her fellow Deacons, M
errick had seen her power unleashed to its fullest. He was also one of the few who had lived to remember the experience. Usually he managed to forget that night, but today as he checked his uniform in the mirror at the top of the stairs, it was unavoidable. The scars were still evident in the ancient stone of his family’s castle. The place where his father had died was marked at the top of the grand staircase by five long gouges.

  “And now she’s your new partner.” Merrick took a deep breath. She couldn’t know; he’d made sure the Abbey would never find out his real name, and it was unlikely she’d recognize him. He’d been only seven and not allowed to meet the explosive young Deacon come to test his father. Yet he had seen it all, hidden in the chamber above.

  Taking the spiral staircase down, Merrick practiced keeping his Center still. As long as he did, Deacon Faris was too weak a Sensitive to catch any stray thoughts. He didn’t anticipate their partnership lasting long enough for them to actually build any sort of deep Bond.

  The Arch Abbot and Yvril Mournling, Presbyter of Sensitives, were waiting for Merrick in the Chapter House.

  Merrick had seen little of the Arch Abbot himself during his training, but he’d spent many hours under the stern gray eyes of Presbyter Mournling. Though the older man was a member of the Presbyterial Council, he still made time to teach the advanced classes to the Sensitives. The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles when he saw the young Deacon—the newest member of the Order. Arch Abbot Hastler held a long wooden box in one wizened hand. Actives had their Gauntlets, but the Sensitives were not without their toys either. Hastler opened the container.

  “Name them and control them.” He spoke the words of the final test.

  Merrick swallowed hard, though he had repeated the Litany of Sight hundreds and hundreds of times. He held his hand over the box and its contents.

  Sielu, I see through another’s eyes.

  Aiemm, the past is real.

  Masa, the future is a puzzle.