Wrayth, page 12
They marched on farther downhill from the palace and the short distance back to the home of their Order. Merrick felt as if he were in the middle of an armed escort, though none of his fellow Deacons were actually carrying any weapons. It was a most odd sensation. As they approached the gates, he glanced up and noticed that for the first time ever there were hooded shapes also lining the walls.
The Mother Abbey was built within a great wall which had a portcullis and gates, but it was only manned at the entry—well, it had been. It looked like things had changed since he had left last night. Usually, even at the gate it was lay Brothers that took sentry duty. However those above were not in the gray. It looked like there would be no Feeding of the Poor today. That kindly ritual would have to wait. This all had to be on his account.
Merrick’s heart sank at seeing that, and he began to see the scope of what had happened in such a short time. He should perhaps have gone after Sorcha after all. Perhaps del Rue would not have moved so quickly if he hadn’t been there. Perhaps if a Deacon had not been in the Grand Duchess’ bed he would have taken more time to reveal his plan.
“You are beginning to see,” Mournling continued, “the consequences of what you have done, but you cannot possibly imagine them all. The Emperor has sent his Deacons back to us. For the first time since setting foot in Arkaym, Kaleva is without our protection.”
Worse and worse. Merrick couldn’t believe it was only half a day since he’d left the Mother Abbey. As he entered it again the angry stares and whispered comments followed him. At that moment he was almost glad not to be able to see into the minds of his fellow Deacons, or taste their contempt. All of them wore their hoods up, which mostly hid their faces and turned them into a rank of strangers. Except for one. Deacon Garil Reeceson stood to the rear of the crowd by the gate. His face was serious, but not angry. They shared more than just the Order and a history with Sorcha. Maybe he had come to make sure Merrick would not use his wild talent on the Deacons, or maybe he was there merely to give support. Merrick was not afforded the opportunity to find out.
“Take him to the Silence Room,” Mournling ordered once the gate was fastened. “Remove the brank once he is there.”
He stood before Merrick and looked at him; an odd mixture of compassion and distaste in his gray eyes. “The Presbyterial Council is in urgent session, and then Rictun will attend the Emperor. For now, this is the best I can do for you.”
Then his hand clamped down on Merrick’s shoulder as he repeated the mantra of the Sensitive, “See deep, fear nothing.” It was almost cruel to say such a thing, since both were impossible right now.
His fellow Deacons were however not unkind to him as they took him into the Devotional. The soaring walls, great vaulted ceilings and awe-inspiring stained glass windows had never felt anything but beautiful to him before this. Now, he feared where his colleagues were taking him.
Once, during his time in the novitiate, he and his class had been brought to the Silence Room. It had partly been to shatter any rumors and partly to serve as a warning. It was the Deacon equivalent of a geist horror story, since Deacons were not encouraged to fear the undead. Merrick had come late to the Order, but it had still frightened him.
All but two pairs of his escorts left him at the simple wooden door in the asp of the Devotional. One of the Actives removed a silver key etched with unfamiliar runes from her robe, and unlocked the door. When she turned and glanced at Merrick he was finally able to recognize her.
“Ofrior,” Merrick gasped out, before the brank reminded him he was not yet free of it. The pain had subsided to a dull burn, yet ranking his tongue against the spikes brought fresh waves of it back.
His friend from the novitiate winced, and held up her hand to the other Deacons about them. She glanced down into the darkness behind the open door and shook her head, then pulled him aside a little. While she dabbed gingerly at the fresh blood with her cloak sleeve, Ofrior Karli whispered to him. “Be strong, Merrick. The Abbey is in an uproar, but I heard old Mournling talking with Troupe just before we left. They said they have to be sure—it is their duty to keep the Emperor safe.”
“Ofrior!” Vermon, her Sensitive, gestured toward the door. “Now is not the time to disobey the Council.” He shot a slightly ashamed look in Merrick’s direction. “Sorry.”
The young Deacon couldn’t really say anything in reply, but he just nodded and gently pushed Ofrior’s hands away from his mouth. That she had used the sleeve of her own cloak to do it was enough kindness to get him through this.
However she would not go away. Her green eyes were wide, and she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him tight. “He also said something about the Pattern. I don’t know what that means Merrick, but he sounded…he sounded scared.” The two friends stared at each other for a moment.
The Pattern was a phrase he had never heard before, though he suspected he’d soon have ample time to mull it over.
Then he found himself whirled around. Vermon had lit a lantern and led the way down the spiral stairs down into the earth. Ofrior kept her hand on Merrick’s shoulder, which was just as well; with the brank still clamped around his face it was impossible for him to tilt his head down to see the steps. He would have stumbled and fallen several times without her assistance.
When they reached the bottom there were the rows of cells; four in all and every one empty. For the moment. They looked similar to any cell that might be found at the palace or in the office of the sheriff, except for one thing, the lining of the walls. Tiny slivers of weirstones were embedded in the stone of the walls, gleaming blue and beautiful. It was an expensive thing to do to control a Deacon—however the cell would be far more pleasant than the Emperor’s barbaric methods.
As carefully as they could Ofrior and Vermon took the brank off him. Merrick’s tongue was swollen and bleeding, and the corners of his mouth were not much better. Aside from the physical pain, he was still reeling from shock. He had no Strop. He was for all intents and purposes a normal citizen of the Empire—at least for his time down here.
“It won’t be long,” Ofrior said, as she guided him forward into the cell. That was the best she could offer as she first slid the bars shut and then pressed her hands against the weirstones.
That was when Merrick howled. He’d thought the brank was terrible, but in fact the room was worse. Instead of containing his powers, it flowed over them and ripped them from him. It was as if every nerve ending was set aflame, burning and cutting him to the bone. He lay on the floor, twitching and wide-eyed for a long time. Long after the other Deacons had left the room.
It took many hours for him to become used to the sensation of quiet that was buried in him. Eventually, he levered himself off the floor and made it to the hard bed of stone, covered with a thin blanket. Merrick sat there shivering, and tried to hold on to his sanity. The Bond was gone, the ever-present drone of life around him was gone, and most of all his awareness of self was badly bruised.
However, with all that extra noise gone, Merrick became aware of something else. A whisper in the corner of his mind, one that he’d been too busy to ever really notice.
And as he became slowly aware of it, the Deacon came to the horrifying conclusion that del Rue had been right. Beneath the Priory in Ulrich, on his first mission with Sorcha, he had taken a darkling into his soul. It had been a decision made in a desperate moment, and it had been instrumental in uncovering the rot in the town, but it had also exposed him to a little sliver of the undead.
Now, all alone in the Silence Room, she could be heard. A thin whisper of a life lost to conspiracy and treachery. One who had been taken by the machinations of the Order of the Circle of Stars.
He longed for his other partner. His living one.
“Sorcha,” he whispered into the silence, “I need you.”
THIRTEEN
Dropping from the Clouds
Sorcha wished she could have recorded in some way the expression on Aachon’s face when he entered the cabin to find her sitting up—albeit shakily—on her bed. He could not have looked more surprised if he had walked in to find Raed there.
Calling his name had quite taken all Sorcha’s strength, and she had to make several urgent gestures for water, before the first mate came back to himself enough to understand. He had plenty of questions, but she decided that despite his loyalty to her lover, he had also participated in kidnapping her from the Mother Abbey, and that meant he needn’t be privy to everything that had happened. So she kept quiet about the geistlord who had removed the cloak. Instead she made up a tale about how getting away from the Mother Abbey had revived her. Aachon was no great lover of the Order and swallowed the lie easily. It was a performance worthy of a Sensitive, and one she did not think the Fensena would interfere with.
In fact, the next morning after her revival, it was found that Serigala had disappeared. Even though the Autumn Eagle was searched thoroughly, he could not be located. The other crew whispered that he must have come down with a fever from the dog bite, and fallen overboard. However it was Lepzig who pointed out that one of the landing ropes was unwound, though how anyone could survive a fall into tall jungle was impossible to imagine. Sorcha remained silent on Serigala, but then why would they suspect a Deacon who had just climbed out of a coma would know anything?
The next few days were spent trying to get used to walking again. In a normal patient, such as she had seen many times in the infirmary, this process would have meant months of gradually easing herself back to normality. However, her limbs had not atrophied at all, though she had lost some weight and had to double her belt around her waist to keep her pants up.
Captain Quent Lepzig took time from his duties where he could, and helped Sorcha circumnavigate the airship holding on to his arm. Aachon, despite using the Deacon’s abilities to direct their course, seemed unwilling to spend time with her. Sorcha suspected something within him was warning of the unnatural nature of her recovery. He was not, however, a fully trained member of the Order and so his concerns remained unconfirmed.
Sorcha would work to keep it that way.
So instead she started off dragging her arm over the shoulder of the surprisingly strong captain, and took her exercise like a good little recovering invalid. In another day, she had moved to just holding on to the crook of his arm. While they walked, the two of them talked, and despite their age difference and their different professions, it was a pleasant way to spend the time. Captain Lepzig, it turned out, was quite the wit, and several times had Sorcha in hysterics with his dry humor. One would never have suspected it from a member of the Imperial Fleet.
Three days after her recovery, Sorcha was making another tour of the Autumn Eagle, first thing in the morning. It was almost becoming a habit.
Sorcha no longer needed Lepzig to hold her up. He merely hovered nearby just in case she should fall. The Deacon would not normally have liked such mothering, but the captain was a kind man, and it would have been humiliating to fall on her face.
However as she felt strength returning to her legs, she was also feeling her concerns mount. Having successfully managed to shove aside the fact she owed a favor to a geistlord, she began to think of finding Raed and bringing him home. Wherever that might be.
She missed him. Standing upright, she could face that. She had missed Raed Syndar Rossin in all those months, and now she wanted nothing more than to see him again. Her memory kept reminding her how good his skin on hers had felt, how his smile made her feel. When she found him, she would not let him out of her sight again—no matter what the Rossin or the Order did.
Sorcha leaned on the gunwales and smiled. The land below was hidden by a mass of thick white clouds, and for some reason this made her unreasonably optimistic. In this stillness, she heard voices talking beyond the stack of barrels on the deck. It irritated her for a moment, until she recognized the voice of Captain Lepzig and his first mate.
Haltingly, she walked toward the voice, ready to reveal herself and share how much she was enjoying the day sailing above the skies, until she heard the tone in his voice and the word he whispered. “War.”
The Deacon stopped, the moment of joy draining away. Instead of revealing herself, she hitched herself into the shadows, folding her cloak about her.
“Surely not, Captain…” Sorcha could see the first mate of the Autumn Eagle’s head flicking around, but she was good at hiding when she had to be.
From her position she observed Lepzig’s magnificent mustache ruffled by the breeze. “Think about it, Melso. You can almost feel it in the air.”
The first mate was silent a moment and then muttered, “I did find it mighty strange when we hailed the Sunrise Dove last week, and she didn’t reply to our signal. We were at the same altitude even.”
Sorcha glanced forward to where great lanterns with shutters were hung. Next to them, two large scarlet flags would take care of communication during the day. An Imperial Airship not communicating with another—strange but not a reason to think of war. She wondered if all this lonely toing and froing around the continent was getting to Captain Lepzig and his crew.
Lepzig however nodded. “And think of what we’ve been ordered to do of late. Shoring up the garrisons, bringing in troops—and all the time not to speak of it to anyone.”
Now he really had Sorcha’s attention. Troop movements could only mean that the Emperor was feeling vulnerable. The Princes in the most isolated kingdoms were always prone to delusions of grandeur. They grew complacent far from Vermillion, and forgot the benefits of the Empire in their desire to keep all the wealth of their area. Also, it helped that the Deacons had brought more stability to Arkaym. They were also quick to forget how it had been before the Order came with the Emperor. They might even labor under the assumption that the geists would never come back.
The Empire could not afford a civil war. It was something that the geists would take full advantage of—not to mention, the spilling of blood could bring on a new wave of undead activity.
While she pondered that, Lepzig tugged his first mate closer. “The soldiers weren’t nearly as tight lipped though…were they?”
Melso shook his head slowly. “No, they were all far too young to keep secrets; all too eager to tell anyone that would listen how important they were. Still, I confess, I thought it was all just talk.”
Sorcha thought of the eager young men in the Imperial Guard she’d been in charge of briefly in Vermillion. Where were they now? She’d seen no war herself, but she’d studied the past ones enough. The outcomes had been terrible—not just in terms of lives lost, but also in numbers of geists created.
She pressed a hand over her forehead. As if they needed more troubles. If what Merrick had talked about all those long nights in the infirmary were right, then the Order of the Circle of Stars could have something to do with it. They certainly would want revenge, and bringing down the Empire would give them ample opportunity.
“Then think of this Deacon business,” Lepzig continued. “What are they doing heading west in the dead of night?”
“Sorcha?” Aachon’s voice boomed somewhere farther aft, and she just about leapt out of her hiding place. He wasn’t actually visible, just shouting for her, but immediately the captain and first mate ended their discussion and went back into the belly of the ship.
With a sigh, Sorcha moved out of the shadows, and caught hold of some nearby rigging. Her legs felt like string, and her head was pounding with effort.
At last Aachon appeared. When his gaze fell on her, she knew immediately that he wanted something from her. The usual something.
Raising her hands in surrender, she gestured him over. “Your compass awaits,” she said sweetly.
The large man’s eyebrow shot up, but he withdrew the small weirstone from his pocket. As he swung it on the chain over her, she dared a further comment. “You know you can just ask me now which direction to go.”
He glared at her.
“Do you think I would steer you wrong then?”
Having ascertained the westward pull of the stone, Aachon tucked it away and fixed her with a dark look. “I lost a crew member in mysterious circumstances around you, Deacon Faris, so I am double-checking everything.”
“You have my word I had nothing to do with that.” It wasn’t a lie, though she would have lied if needed. She tilted her head and regarded him. “You don’t much like me do you, Aachon?”
“I don’t know you well enough to say,” came his gruff reply. “I only know that things seem to happen when you are about. Sea monsters rise, deadly geistlords appear and my prince is constantly in danger.”
Sorcha appreciated his loyalty to Raed, but she was feeling more than a little on edge. Shoving back her cloak, so that he could see her Gauntlets tucked into her belt, she leaned forward. “It is a dangerous world—you know that as well as I. I’ve been trapped in my own body for months, and your Prince has been lost for that long. That isn’t my doing either.”
“Danger follows you—”
Sorcha didn’t let him get any further. She surged forward and grabbed Aachon by his collar. Where the strength to thrust him back against the gunwales came from was an utter mystery, but she did it. Holding him, back arched over the void, she put her face only an inch from his. “Danger follows Raed too. None of us are saints in this, but I want you to know something…” She released him enough so that he would be able to tell she wasn’t about to shove him to his death. “I love him.”
For a moment they stood toe-to-toe. Aachon’s dark eyes searched her face, no doubt trying to find a lie etched there. Finally, he shook his head like a wounded bear, and slid away from her, raising his hands.
