Once beyond the ring of the cantrip’s protection, his Sight flickered down the corridors, and it didn’t take long to find the body. The cellar was at the end of the corridor. The Deacon jogged toward it, his throat already dry. The door was locked, but Merrick carried his tiny toolkit everywhere out of habit so it took only a few moments with the brass implements to flick the mechanism open. The Sensitive must have been truly terrified because she had also barricaded herself in.
Merrick had to shove hard against it to get past the barrels she’d used. He knew that she was dead long before he actually saw her. Yet, the moment he burst in, for a blink of an eye, he considered that he’d been wrong. A pale shape flickered in the corner, the face turned toward Merrick in abject misery. The glimpse of her shade lasted only a moment, a full apparition that blinked back to the Otherside as soon as she had been seen. Whatever her name, she’d waited to be discovered.
The young Deacon was curled up in the dusty corner of the cellar. One of her hands, lying limp and red by her side, showed where she’d taken her own blood to write the cantrip. Her eyes were wide and bulging under cropped blond hair, while the Strop she’d been using hung slack and askew around her neck. It was charred as if it had been held over a flame.
Merrick shifted aside his cloak and glanced down at his own Strop, still firmly in its case. Until now there had been no call to use it, but as this whole mess was unraveling he was certain that would change.
Kneeling next to her, Merrick carefully slid her eyelids shut, avoiding touching the Strop. Only an Abbot could touch another’s talisman without repercussions. His attempt at dignity made no difference to a corpse, but not having to look into her ruined eyes made him feel a little more comfortable. He examined the scene as his training had taught him. She was wearing the emerald cloak, but underneath she was dressed in a light shift, the kind of thing a Deacon might well sleep in. Therefore she’d obviously got up hurriedly, stopping only to grab her cloak and Strop.
Cautiously he opened her curled, bloody left hand. The tips of four fingers were sliced almost down the bone in ragged cuts that indicated she’d been in a hurry—desperate for her own blood to save her. A small knife was discarded only a few feet away, its dull blade darkened with blood. It was not much of a weapon, more like something used at the dinner table than for eldritch spells. He could see no other wounds immediately visible.
Merrick pressed his own finger to her flesh. She was cold, but it was clear she hadn’t died in the initial attack. She could have come upstairs at any time for help—and yet she hadn’t.
Sitting back on his heels, the living Deacon ran his eyes once more over the scene to seek out anything he may have missed, but the body before him seemed to have already revealed all it could. The Strop was another matter. Such an intimate item, so personally connected with another Sensitive, and she had actually died wearing it. Merrick was not foolish enough to pick it up, even though it looked destroyed.
A noise, the slightest noise in the ether, made him spin around on his heels and reach for his saber. It was nothing mortal. Some other part of the dead Sensitive still lingered in the dimness of the cellar. Carefully Merrick rose to his feet.
The unliving thing was scuttling among the barrels like an ill-proportioned rat. He knew it instantly—a darkling. Mortals, when touched at the moment of death by the Otherside, usually passed through into it. But some, those touched by the unliving, became shades. The darkling was a form of shade, one created specifically from Sensitives. If they were killed while their Center was away from their body, it would shatter and the pieces could become darklings.
Merrick quickly brought his Center back to him. He didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to him; even death was preferable to that. He knew he should lay down some light cantrips of his own, go back upstairs and get one of the Actives to exorcise the darkling as quickly as possible.
It was only the smallest of geists, a slice of pure blackness that seemed unable to find its way out of the room. It had no physical presence, but as it stumbled around the barrels rolled sideways and the dust from the floor kicked up. He actually felt sorry for it.
Caught in a moment of indecision, he glanced over at his dead fellow Sensitive. If the Actives came down here, they would kick the darkling back to the Otherside within moments, and it was the only portion of the nameless Deacon left.
“Bones,” he swore at his own recklessness. His tutors back in the Abbey would have a fit at what he was about to do.
Merrick held out his hand to the darkling—more than that, he stretched out his Center to it. The shade spun around, sensing warmth and Sensitivity; it was drawn to it like a mad magnet.
The portion of the dead woman rushed into Merrick, locking itself into his Center. To take a piece of the Otherside in like that was prohibited by everything the Abbey taught, but the time to obey prohibitions was long past. If the unliving had stopped following the rules, then so would he.
The darkling merged with him, becoming part of his own soul; a tiny sliver like a scar that he would bear forever. But it brought with it memories, flashes of what the young female Deacon had seen.
Sweat broke out on Merrick’s forehead. Shakily he got up and went to the body. “Illas,” he named her softly. “Poor brave Illas.”
Gently he rolled her over. Thanks to the darkling, he knew what would be under there, but still he had to see.
The Deacon’s corpse made a gentle sighing noise as the final air was squeezed from her lungs. Beneath were the marks he’d known would be there, but that he feared.
Five deep gouges had wrecked the stone, tearing it as easily as cloth. They had passed through the Deacon’s body, destroying her but leaving not a mark on her. Only the stone revealed what had actually killed her.
Merrick let out a ragged breath and slumped to his haunches, staring at those five marks. They were so familiar and had haunted his nightmares since he was seven. Five gouges in stone, just the same as had been carved above the stairs where his father had stood on that terrible night. They’d summoned a Deacon all the way from Delmaire to try to help him, and it had ended in disaster. Distantly, he heard himself let out a strangled gasp.
He delved suddenly and dangerously into the darkling’s memory. It was not the moment of her death that Deacon Illas had desperately tried to preserve; it was not even the memory of the night she had died.
Through the eyes of his compatriot, Merrick watched the Prior Aulis give the command—the command that Illas could not obey. It was this command that had sent her fleeing in terror in the dead of night, rather than join the rest of the Priory at morning Matins.
The attack on the Sensitives had not been a surprise. It had been deliberate, arranged by the Prior as a way of summoning a being from the Otherside.
Merrick came to himself, choking on disbelief and shock. This was why Illas had risked creating a darkling; her darkling was a bottle cast adrift on the sea, seeking a home and someone to believe her story.
He was shaking, terrified of what he had found. This was a cursed way for him to get an introduction to the life of a working Deacon. Struggling to his feet, Merrick felt the cellar spinning around him. He’d grab Nynnia and find Sorcha. Only together could they decide what to do with this rebellious and corrupted Priory.
“Well, aren’t you the little investigator?” The sound of Aulis’ voice behind him made Merrick jerk straight. Wheeling around, he saw Aulis and three of her Actives framed in the doorway. He moved to draw his saber, an instinct that seemed justified even if it was against his own kind.
The room shimmered with heat and the air cracked with power. Merrick didn’t have his Center open, but he caught a glimpse of one of the Actives raising a Gauntleted hand even as Merrick was slammed back against the wall and held there like an insect. It was Deiyant, the ninth Rune of Dominion, and they had used it against him. Merrick screamed out in shock more than pain.
Knowing it was useless, Merrick struggled nevertheless
, furious and raging. His fingers arched, desperate to reach his Strop and invoke the final solution taught to every Sensitive.
Aulis, the Prior who had seemed impassive but honest, now grinned at him, crossing the distance and ripping the box containing his talisman from his belt. “You won’t be needing that.”
“Abomination,” Merrick yelled fruitlessly. “Fallen into the clutches of the unliving, you sacrificed your own Sensitives. Kill me if you like. It will make no difference . . .”
“Ah, but it will.” She smiled up at him. “It will most certainly make a difference. Our task is not done here, and you, young Deacon, will help us complete it.”
Merrick would have denied it, but a sickening realization was growing in him. Whatever this corrupted Prior was planning for him, it did not require his permission. His only chance was to reach Sorcha across the Bond, warn her if he could . . .
The rune Deiyant tightened around his throat. He was choking and twitching. His Sight twisted and blurred; the one thing every Sensitive relied on was suddenly being taken away. He reached out desperately for his partner, hoping despite it all that they couldn’t stop him. Sorcha, be careful, Sorcha. They are . . . And then all was silent.
THIRTEEN
The Congregation Will Speak
If the sight of a poltern-possessed little girl had not sickened Raed enough, he was treated that very morning to a tour of Ulrich’s misery. The grocer and his lad had not seemed very surprised that Sorcha had been unable to save the girl. Apparently the Priory had fostered fairly low expectations among the population of the town.
Wailace showed them more; much more than Raed had wanted to see. It was no wonder that the townsfolk had assaulted the Priory. Twelve children were possessed by poltern in a similar manner to the first. Sorcha did not repeat her experiment with the pot again, but her face grew sterner with each visit. Raed did not get any more accustomed to the stench and the horror.
After the first five, he waited outside. Sorcha, however, insisted on seeing all of them. When she came out of the last house, she looked gray. Leaning against the wall, she wearily rubbed her face.
He knew enough about her to realize that she was craving a cigar and a quiet place to smoke it. If he’d had his choice, he would have sailed Dominion out of the cursed place. Since that wasn’t an option, he had to make do.
Raed was not used to following another’s lead; he’d always been the heir to his father’s Curse, and that meant he had a small retinue to obey his orders. When the time had come, it had been these soldiers whom he had led into battle. Then, after the first onset of the Curse, when he’d taken to the sea, he’d been captain of a whole crew.
Yet now he was watching this woman—this Deacon, what was more—and hoping that she had some answers. Apparently there wasn’t a worse place in the world for him and his Curse to be.
Sorcha pushed herself away from the wall and walked over to him. The moment of exhaustion had obviously passed, for there was a real spark in her eye.
“So.” He stroked his beard and glanced warily at her out of the corner of his eye. “Just how bad is it?”
The Deacon chewed on the edge of her lower lip, for a moment looking as though she might be choosing her words with care. “Let’s just say that I have been a working member of the Order for nearly twenty years, and this is the worst outbreak of poltern possession I have ever seen. Bar none.”
“And you can’t help any of these children?”
“Not without Merrick, and not without identifying the foci.” At his blank look she sighed.
Raed felt a little flare of resentment. “Look, I am not your partner—I know that—but I am the best resource you have right now. I’m sorry you have to explain things to me, but please do.”
She unfolded her arms. “For a cluster of attacks like this, something so consistent and so particular, there must be something holding a gateway open. Not a large opening, or we’d be seeing a full-on invasion of geists, but one concentrated on particular levels of the Otherside.”
“So, some sort of object?”
Sorcha nodded.
“And any idea what it would look like?”
The Deacon began tying back her bronze curls, reclaiming the severity that didn’t do her beauty justice. “That’s the bad news. It could look like anything.” She pushed one stubborn strand back out of her eyes.
“Then how are we expected to find it?”
The Deacon opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a strangled whimper. Grabbing her throat, she slumped backward, and only Raed flinging himself forward and catching her prevented her fall to the ground. A fine bead of sweat had broken out on her forehead while she clawed frantically at her neck.
He loosened her collar, wondering if she was choking on something or being strangled by some sort of invisible foe. After a second she let out a great gasp and stiffened in his arms, her blue eyes wide. Raed was sure she was dying, but then she shook herself like a cat emerging from a dunking.
Jerking free of him, Sorcha leapt to her feet. “Merrick—Holy Bones, something has happened to Merrick!” Her face was as pale as milk and her lips, drained of blood, were a straight line of anger.
Raed knew of the Bond between partners; the kind of connection that was both a strength and a weakness to the Deacons. Fearing that she would leap over the side and start racing back up toward the Priory, the Pretender put his hand on her shoulder; partly in reassurance, but also partly in restraint.
“Calm down,” he said as reasonably as possible. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”
She pressed a hand to her forehead, her breath still coming in little gasps. “Yes. He’s alive. You’ll have to excuse me, pirate Prince. This Bond Chambers and I share, well, it’s surprisingly strong. I have never felt anything like it before with any other partner.”
Was that a twinge of jealousy niggling at his core? Raed stuffed that strange emotion down as best he could, and tried instead to understand what Sorcha was going through. “Can you See where he is, what has happened?”
She gave him a quizzical look, as if he were a child. “The Bond does not allow me to See through his eyes. I heard his voice, like a muttering in another room. I could hear his tone, but not the words.”
“And then?”
She pulled out her Gauntlets and stared down at them in some concentration. “I recognized something, the taste of . . .” She shook her head. “No. No, that is impossible!”
“What is it?” Raed watched her fist clench tightly on the Gauntlets. “Come on, Deacon, we’re all in this nasty little affair together—like it or not.”
“Unholy, cursed Bones.” She spun away, pushing her hands through her hair. When she turned back, he could see the rage in her eyes. “I recognized Deiyant, the ninth rune.” She waved her Gauntlets at him. “Do you understand? A rune from these!”
Saying, “I told you so,” at this point would probably have earned him more than a slap. He was not that foolish, but he had to mention the thoughts that had been running through his sleepless mind. “They meant to kill you.”
The anger drained out of her face and now she looked very vulnerable. Having people that you trusted turn on you—he could sympathize with that easily enough; he and his family had been living with the consequences of that for years.
“Do you think so?” She remained staring at her Gauntlets as if they had the answers. “Unholy and damned Bones, I think you’re right.”
“What now, then?” He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Now?” Sorcha said, not shaking off his touch. “We go and get my partner back—by whatever means it takes.”
Together they glanced up the hill to where the Priory dominated the ridgeline. She smiled at him, a weary, bitter little smile that brought no warmth with it.
Merrick awoke adrift in his own Center, falling into it rather than letting it go ahead of him. All of his normal sensations were denied him, and now vibrant hues of his Sight were all he could see. The
Prior and her Actives burned like recently raked fires as they clustered around him. He couldn’t hear what they were saying—yet the ether was turning a distinctly indigo shade and the smell of burning invaded his brain.
They were going to do something terrible to him, and it would not just involve death. His senses let him drift higher, and from his height he could make out the faint blue glow of a Sensitive below—it was his own body.
Around it he could see flickering designs that he recognized from his training—the training that had warned of dark things that could be done with cantrips. If he’d been capable of it, he would have recoiled.
A hissing roar enveloped Merrick, a pulling tug that he did not want to give in to. The Center was a more pleasant place, and now he wanted to stay—down below, pain waited for him. The Deacon struggled, but he could feel awareness of his body coming back to him. It was reeling him in, and despite his training, he couldn’t resist.
The first sensation to return was a bruised and sore windpipe. The Actives had surely been within moments of killing him. He retched and gagged on the sharp taste in his mouth. So far, Aulis had not noticed he was conscious again, so he took the chance to try to see exactly what they had done to him.
The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, so he knew he was somewhere underground—maybe another cellar. He was pinned to the bare earth, his arms and legs spread.
Merrick tried to reach out along the Bond; the powerful nature of their partnership, unexpected and annoying as it had been up until this point, might prove to be useful. The pain that flared through his body gave Merrick a more complete understanding of Aulis’ methods. It was impossible to break a Bond, but it could be rendered poisonous to a Sensitive by overloading his talent.
Geist Page 18
