The men were staring at her hard now. People usually looked at Deacons with a great deal of trust and expectation, so she wasn’t used to this expression of wariness. She only hoped that they weren’t catching whatever had infected the townspeople.
Infected. The word bounced around in Sorcha’s head. Out from under the horror of the Priory, her mind was beginning to work; maybe the Otherside had infected Ulrich. In the textbooks, there were old cases of such things.
It was a consideration that required a cigar. Perching on the gunwales, she took out one of her precious supply and opened the storm lantern to light one. Her companions seemed to expect some further explanation, but she was not yet ready to give voice to her thoughts. Instead, Sorcha drew in a mouthful of smoke and blew smoke rings into the night air.
“Wonderful!” Raed glared at her from under lowered brows. “So, are you suggesting someone has deliberately sealed us in here?”
“Not necessarily.” The Pretender hadn’t taken her hint. “I have a few theories, but I would prefer not to voice them until I’ve spoken with Aulis and Chambers. For now my suggestion is this: we all get a good night’s sleep, and then we get your crew to safety up at the Priory. I have a few ideas that I’ll need to discuss with Aulis and Chambers.”
Raed looked for a second as if he might grab her cigar and flick it over the side. If that happened, he would be following soon after.
“Very well.” He and Aachon turned to take her sensible advice, but he stopped as he realized she wasn’t moving from her spot. “What about you, Deacon Faris?”
Sorcha grinned back. “Remember, Deacons need very little sleep. I’ll keep watch tonight.”
A rakish smile pulled at the corner of his lips, perhaps recalling how little sleep he had gotten up on the hillside. Sketching a little bow, the Pretender left her to her vigil and her cigar.
Things had calmed down in the infirmary, but Merrick could not relax. The Active he’d been restraining earlier had subsided into a hazy serenity after receiving a tincture from Nynnia’s father. Still, Merrick felt very much at a loose end.
“Prior Aulis, what exactly can I do to help?”
She waved a hand at him without even looking up. “What you Sensitives do: watch. Let me know if any of those damnable townspeople come back to the gate.”
The tone in her voice was not one that Merrick was used to having directed at him. To the outside world, it might indeed seem that the Sensitives were the subordinate partners, the ones with less flash and not much to do. But they were the cool hand on the hot mind of the Actives and, if necessary, there were things that only they could do to restrain their partners. For this they were valued, elevated to high positions, and never, ever talked to as if they were servants or dogs.
His back stiffened, but Aulis didn’t see it; she’d already gathered her group of uninjured Actives around her. Merrick had never felt so dismissed in his life. He could have eavesdropped on their conversation, but that would have broken several rules of the Order, and there’d been enough of those destroyed lately.
“Deacon Merrick.” Nynnia emerged from one of the side rooms where the most critical of the injured had been placed. She smelled of sage and soap. Her beautiful brown eyes locked onto him and a wide smile parted her soft lips. It took the Deacon a while to notice that her stern-eyed father was at her side.
Even that made no difference—Merrick realized he was melting and had no idea how to stop it. The logical, trained part of his mind knew it was ridiculous to be entranced by a woman after so short an acquaintance, but other, less ordered parts were shouting at him more forcefully.
“Is everything all right?” he asked in a low voice, knowing that the question was a foolish one as soon as it was out of his mouth; everything was patently not well around them.
“The injured are at least comfortable now.” She glanced at Kyrix. “Father has them well sedated.”
“Much good it will do some of them,” Kyrix muttered. He looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to come up behind him. Merrick felt the stirrings of unease.
“Do you know anything more about the attack, sir?” Merrick decided to err on the side of diplomacy, even though he was technically the superior in this situation.
The old healer’s face folded into a dark frown. “Things have not been right at the Priory for months.” He touched his daughter’s shoulder. “That is partly why I sent Nynnia away to my sister’s home in Vermillion. I am sorry to say that there has been no improvement.”
The concern in his voice was palpable, but Sensitive senses also picked up an edge of real fear. “Things?” Merrick pressed.
Kyrix shared a glanced with Nynnia, but after she took his hand and squeezed it he seemed to gain strength. “Prior Aulis.” He kept his voice to a low whisper. “Ever since her arrival the Priory has felt . . . different.”
“And not in a good way,” Nynnia added.
The healer guided them over into a corner. “As soon as she was assigned here she cast out most of the lay Brothers.”
That was different, indeed. Deacons depended on lay Brothers to handle the practical tasks necessary to keep the Order running smoothly. But as much as he wanted to rush to judgment, Merrick knew that the feelings of two people he had just met were not enough evidence. The attraction he felt toward Nynnia was something he could absolutely not allow to sway him.
And perhaps the Prior had wanted to bring in her own lay Brothers, or had purged those she thought below her own standards. Such things, while rare, were not unheard of and would be in keeping with Aulis’ evident arrogance.
“Thank you, sir. The information you’ve given me is very valuable,” he replied. Then he turned to Nynnia. “I know that neither of us has slept since we’ve arrived, but I am eager to begin my investigation. Care to join me?”
Kyrix looked sternly at Merrick, so that the Deacon quickly added, “I’ll absolutely look after her.”
“You can trust him, Father.” Her tone was insistent, and she squeezed his hand. “And who knows? Perhaps Merrick will need me to watch after him.” She gave an odd little laugh.
Kyrix stared at them a moment before grumbling, “I really should sit watch on my patient. Mind you do take care of Nynnia.” With that the old man stalked off back to the infirmary.
Merrick wanted a closer look at the main Hall first. Sorcha had cast a cursory look over it but they’d all been in a state of shock. Nynnia watched quietly from the pulpit area as he walked to the place where the geist had appeared. The scorch marks blasted into the stone were indeed impressive, but not quite as Sorcha had said. They were not in the exact center. Though they were in the middle of the length of the Hall, they were slightly to the right in the width. He knew well enough that the Sensitives always sat to the right of the pulpit.
He took a long, slow breath and glanced over at the woman at his back. She wasn’t smiling any longer, but her gaze was unflinching. Despite her slender form and doe eyes, there was real strength beneath—he liked that about Nynnia. Distractions, distractions, he told himself firmly. Turning once more to the scorched stone, Merrick stepped into the blackest and most deeply pitted part of the floor.
His Center had been open for hours, and like an eye that had stared too long at the sun, it was tender. He knew that when he moved into the place where so many had died, it would not be easy or pleasant. It wasn’t. It was like stepping into a tornado. When the ungifted died suddenly, there was a rend in the ether—a brief moment when the Otherside could be glimpsed. When Sensitives died, their deaths stained everything.
Merrick had walked into the moment of their destruction. The horror and disbelief of nine Sensitives engulfed him. He felt their fiery deaths burning on his own skin and howled as they had for a brief moment. Yet his training held firm. Even while he relived their experiences, he tried to see what they had been too busy dying to observe. The geist.
It was indeed like nothing he’d read about or seen. The geist that had sma
shed down on the Deacons was more like a being of fire than the typical power vortex. It even seemed to have material form and, obviously, the intent that went along with it, which was also unheard of. The unliving acted through mortals. Of course, they also never attacked Sensitives. Merrick trembled at even this secondhand view of it. His sight blurred with tears—looking upon it burned both his eyes and his Center. And the geist looked back.
Little Deacon Chambers. The eyes of burning light bored into him, saw him standing in the black ring where others of his kind had died. It was merciless and ancient and reaching down to him . . .
“Merrick!” Nynnia jerked him from the place of death. Her hands, digging into his forearm, were shaking.
He staggered a little, taking a long time to shake his head loose of that vision. Nothing remained here but the still silence and the smell of charred death. The thing he had seen, the entity or whatever it was, had no name in any of the books he’d learned from. Nor had he heard of anything like it from the older Sensitives.
What if this wasn’t a geist? Surely if it was like no known form, it might be something else entirely? That idea was worse by far than any uncertainty. If it were so, then they were unprepared for dealing with this new threat.
He pressed a hand to his mouth and swayed slightly. Catching himself against an upturned pew, Merrick happened to glance up. The hammered-beam ceiling was made of oak and almost as badly charred as the floor. If the stone flagstones were where the being had landed, then the towering ceiling was burnt for a reason. “Look, Nynnia. I think the thing entered this world from there.”
“Through the roof?”
It was a common misconception that a summoning circle was the only way a geist could be purposefully called into the world. Sometimes a certain person or thing, a nursery rhyme or a pattern of music, could also summon them. However, as he concentrated his Center upward, Merrick realized that there had been something carved on the ceiling. The words had been blasted clear away, but visible under the charcoal was a heraldic figure, and one that he knew very well. The Rossin.
Without thinking twice, Merrick reached out across the Bond, feeling with dread for Sorcha. She was there. He let out a ragged breath. “Thank the Bones, she’s alive.”
“Deacon Faris?” Nynnia’s mouth twitched in an unconscious bitter smile. “Why would you think she’d be dead? If anyone can look after themselves, she can.”
Merrick let out a short laugh, but he did not mention the Rossin. It could just be coincidence, and the Pretender had been with them for the past week. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more.
Putting away his own fears and concerns, he went back in his head to the basic training of his kind. Terrible as it was, the only clues were in those dreadful moments he’d glimpsed before death took the Deacons. Letting his head droop a little, he shut away all physical sensation, relying totally on his Center; replaying those moments as slowly as possible. Then, through the confusion, he began to count the screaming faces he had seen.
“How many Sensitives did the Priory have?” he demanded of Nynnia.
“Ten,” she replied quickly.
A look of hope spread across his face. “I only saw nine die here. And yet . . .” His Center darted once more around the Priory. “I can feel no other in the area.” He paused and cocked his head. He could feel all the little embers of people inside and out, townsfolk, Deacons and lay Brothers. Even the smallest animal could not escape his notice: the tiniest of insects flowed through his awareness like bright motes. However, what he could not feel was anything, anything at all, living below his feet. It was as if the sphere of his awareness had been cut in half.
“Nynnia”—Merrick felt his heart begin to race with dawning realization—“are there tunnels and chambers underneath the Priory, apart from the one to the town?”
She felt the seriousness of his question, but couldn’t possibly know why it was important. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “When this place was a fortress, the Felstaads built many.”
He could not feel even the smallest beast down there, and surely there could be only one explanation: something or someone was blocking his perception. He took her hand. “Show me.”
Nynnia was used to the strangeness of Deacons, and led him to the farthest end of the keep without further question. An iron-bound door was set into the wall and swung soundlessly when she pulled it open. Merrick frowned, his Deacon observational skills already burning with curiosity. It looked ancient and seldom used, yet when he ran his fingertip over the hinges he could see they were new.
He hesitated a moment, feeling along the Bond with the distant Sorcha to reassure himself that she was all right. Training told him that he should wait until his Active returned, yet he couldn’t afford to. If there was a Sensitive somehow miraculously still alive, then they might not be safe. If that being came back . . .
Merrick swallowed and adjusted his saber at his hip. If it came down to that, he was surely done for. “Stay here,” he said to Nynnia.
“Shouldn’t I go tell the Prior?” she asked.
He paused and thought about it. Somehow he didn’t trust that the Priory Actives would be able to protect him. After all, they had failed to save their own Sensitives right in the middle of Matins. Merrick shook his head. “If I’m not back in half an hour, then yes, but I should be fine.”
He looked at Nynnia then, and though he hadn’t even thought about kissing her before, the possibilities of what might be down there spurred him to action. The soft touch of his lips on hers was almost gentlemanly, but he was proud of himself for having taken that step. It had been a good few years since he’d kissed anyone in such a manner. Then, while she was still looking at him in surprise, he turned and strode down the stairs. If this was to be his final impression, he wanted it to last.
TWELVE
A Deacon and Her Rites
The sunrise was flickering off the ice, and Sorcha was still huddled at the stern in her fur cloak, a dark shadow except for the copper blaze of her hair. Raed paused as he came up the stairs of the quarterdeck. She had to be aware of his presence, but she did not turn.
As he watched, Sorcha flicked the remains of her cigar over the side. “Well, that was the last one of those.” She sighed theatrically.
“I have some in my cabin,” he offered, walking over to stand at her back. “I acquired them off a pirate captain.”
Sorcha glanced up at him. “No honor among thieves, then?”
Raed laughed despite himself. This Deacon was as prickly as a desert cactus. Leaning on the gunwales, he stared over the ice. It was beautiful in a threatening kind of way, like shattered gleaming glass as far as the eye could see.
“I don’t suppose you are going to be able to careen your ship now.” Sorcha pulled her legs up close to her on the bench in a curiously childlike gesture.
“Now, that would be rather foolish under the circumstances.”
She shrugged. “You could. After all, it doesn’t look like anyone is going anywhere for a while.”
“Which leaves us with another problem. What do we do about these annoyed townsfolk? They outnumber us by quite a bit, and not all of my crew are fighters.”
They were both silent a moment. The sun was finally free of the ice, but Deacon Sorcha Faris was not looking at it. She was looking at him with an expression he interpreted as trust. Something had definitely changed between them back in the tunnel.
Both of them glanced up at the sudden creak of a step. Aachon, his weirstone clenched in one hand, had managed to walk up on them unnoticed. The Pretender knew by his expression that he did not like the look of the situation he thought he’d stumbled into. His first mate knew him better than even his own father, and he felt incredibly uncomfortable under that dark gaze.
Still, on the surface Raed managed not to reveal that, keeping his voice level when he spoke. “What is it, Aachon?”
“I thought you’d like to see this,” the older man replied and gestured
toward the quay. Quickly, Raed and Sorcha scrambled down to where a group of the crew was leaning over the side.
Jocryn, with his shock of balding red hair, was yelling something down to someone on the dock. For a second Raed thought that a battle was about to break out. That was, until he heard, “No, I need more fresh kale, my friend. These mouths need feeding, you know, and sharpish.” As Dominion’s cook, Jocryn was in a constant battle to keep the vessel provisioned, ideally with supplies that wouldn’t be—literally—thrown back in his face.
Sorcha yanked at Raed’s sleeve. “Townsfolk.” Her look was still feral, and he remembered her display on the walls of the Priory with sudden vividness. Quickly, he looked her over. The tell-tale blue cloak was in his cabin, and nothing about her screamed Deacon . . . except for one thing. When he reached out and took her badge of office from her shoulder, he thought he was about to get another slap. Perhaps even a punch.
“Wait.” He held up one hand. “You’ve just discovered the Priory is not what it seems. Maybe the townspeople aren’t, either.”
“Your point—and quickly?”
“The Deacons are not exactly popular here.” Raed pressed the badge into her hand. “So perhaps a little discretion would be sensible right now.”
Sorcha’s fingers tightened on her badge but she gave a little nod. “Very well, then, but I think these might also be a bit of a giveaway.” The Gauntlets.
Raed snorted. “I was not about to try and take those off you.”
“Sensible.” A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she loosened her shirt and tucked them underneath, against her skin; his eyes followed the Gauntlets’ progress. Ancients, he had been naked next to her only hours ago.
The crew were now yelling at Jocryn, while he continued to negotiate with the unseen person down on the dock. Food was the only thing that crew ever argued about. A long time at sea had only sharpened their desire for decent rations, and their confinement on Dominion had made them somewhat cranky.
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