Geist

EIGHT Bringing Judgment

Merrick felt like he was sitting on a powder keg. Sorcha was mortally offended by the Young Pretender’s use of the weirstone and seemed unable to realize that their transport, and most likely their life, relied on him.

“He’s a danger,” Sorcha growled, sucking down the last of her cigar and flicking the remains over the edge. “We’re supposed to protect people from loose cannons like this Pretender.”

Something about being fished out of the water had really irritated the Deacon. It was almost as if she would have preferred to drown. The Bond between them was no weaker; Merrick could feel her tension in his own bones.

Wearily, he rubbed his head, feeling a headache build behind his eyes. He was unable to tell if it was his or hers. “We’re all tired, Sorcha. Can we please just rest and recover a little? Being attacked by two geists in four days has really taken it out of me, and you’ve had one more than that.”

Her eyes locked with his, and there was a strange giddy sensation as for a minute the Bond swallowed them. Both of them felt it, but it was Sorcha who turned pale.

“All right,” she whispered. “Yes . . . Yes, that is probably best.”

As she went into the cabin, Merrick turned around to find Nynnia at his side. Her dress was torn, but her dark hair had dried in soft curls around her face. Merrick’s eyes darted over her, but the tears in her clothing were not matched by any injuries he could see.

None of the crew was nearby; most of those not busy were clustered around the hold hatch where the Breed horses had finally been stowed. Gently, so as not to alarm her, Merrick took Nynnia’s arm and guided her farther away.

“I have arranged for you to stay in the Captain’s cabin,” he started. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened a little. Merrick felt all the blood rush into his face. “Oh, no . . . no . . . The Captain has kindly given up his cabin. You will only be sharing with Deacon Faris.”

“Very well.” The young woman sighed. His partner had not taken any care to hide her dismissive attitude to the other woman, so it was Merrick who found himself making excuses.

“Faris has had a difficult week; her husband was badly injured and . . .”

“I’m sure she has,” Nynnia said quietly. “It’s just I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Merrick looked down into her soft brown eyes. For a woman who had survived both shipwreck and sea monster only to be rescued by what amounted to pirates, she was very calm. She seemed very young and yet there was a cord of strength in her that ran just as deep as in Sorcha. Through his Center, he glanced down at her. She was so vital and lovely it bled into the ether. With the Young Pretender and Nynnia on board, and with the water no longer providing protection from the geists, Merrick feared they were in great peril.

“She is not as bad as she seems, and it would be best if you stayed close to her.”

“Why?” Her doe eyes were wide, and with a lurch, Merrick recalled the feeling of her lithe body pressed against him while Melochi swam.

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. On the whole, the Order frowned on discussing the Otherside with the ungifted; mostly, they believed it only inspired people to dabble with things they knew nothing of. Yet Nynnia was in as much danger as the rest of them and she deserved to know. Merrick cleared his throat, glancing around one more time just to be sure. “Have you heard of the Curse of the Rossin?” He made a subtle gesture up to where the flag of the beast flapped.

Nynnia looked at the flag with the mer-lion creature. Her brows drew together in a frown, still pretty but perhaps more human. “Everyone knows the Rossin is just a story, the creature that gave the ruling family their name . . .”

“And strength to rise to High King over all the other princes. We studied it in the Abbey; the most famous case of geist familial attachment in the book. This ancient unliving creature made a deal with the family, giving them its name and power to rule. In return they agreed that their heir would belong to the Rossin, and could never be born anywhere but Vermillion.”

Up on the quarterdeck, Raed the Young Pretender was giving orders to his crew. Nynnia followed Merrick’s gaze. To her the Captain would appear nothing more than a slightly rakish, bearded man, but when Merrick looked through his Center, he was almost blinded by the man. The halo of silver fire that burned through him was like a glimpse into the raging core of the Otherside.

Merrick could not look at him long through his Center. “The Unsung’s son was not born in Vermillion and he has inherited the Curse. The unliving are drawn to him . . . and when they touch him . . . the Rossin is unleashed.”

“Unleashed?” Nynnia smiled slowly. “But being a mer-creature . . .”

“The Rossin has many shapes, not all of them as pretty as the one on the flag, and all of them uncontrollable.”

“But they cannot cross water . . .” she whispered. “Everyone knows . . .”

“All the rules are being rewritten, Nynnia—even that one. We are not safe.”

She bit her lip and glanced down at her toes, swaying slightly. “What—what do you want me to do?”

“Stay close to Deacon Faris.” Merrick pressed her shoulder lightly. “She may be prickly as a desert cactus, but she is also the most powerful weapon against the geist.”

“Very well.”

With real relief he turned toward the quarterdeck himself.

“Merrick.” The tremble in her voice made him pause, as did her use of his name. “What are you going to do?”

“The thing I do best.” He smiled broadly and went up the first step. “Watch.”

Sorcha did not like the guard dog Merrick had set upon her. Those wide brown eyes followed her as she paced the Pretender’s cabin. Being closeted with nothing more than a girl, let alone a girl who was obviously made nervous by her, was demeaning. Sorcha realized that she had misjudged Merrick; he was a schemer. Making a deal with the Pretender was surely just the beginning of the end. Sensitives, if you didn’t watch them, could easily believe they were the boss in a partnership. Actives, they said, were nothing more than weapons to be used.

Sorcha strode to the window and looked out into the darkening sky. Night was sinking over the ship and, despite everything, she thought of the sea monster with a shudder. Surely that particular individual had had enough of life on the surface, but if the unliving could possess one, then they could possess others. That realization was deeply disquieting—enough to make her glad of her sharp-eyed partner above. Yet there was nothing for Sorcha to do but pace and feel uncomfortable under scrutiny.

She stalked the decks for a while, feeling more helpless than she had in years. On her return to the cabin she realized why.

In all her time as a member of the Order Sorcha had never let her Gauntlets be anything more than an arm’s reach away. But they had never been soaked in seawater, and so she had left them drying by the little range. The door was open a fraction and through it she saw something that made her freeze in place.

Nynnia wasn’t actually touching the talismans—that would have been dangerous—but her fingertips flickered over the tops of them. Curiosity was perhaps understandable—her words, however, were not. She was reciting the Litany of Dominion. Her voice was soft as she repeated the words an initiate learned in their first years in the Order.

Aydien, holds my foes as bay.

Yevah, my mighty shield of fire.

Tryrei, a peephole to the Otherside.

Chityre, the power of lightning in my fist.

Pyet, the cleansing flame consume them all.

Shayst, my enemies’ strength is mine.

Seym, makes me more than I am.

Voishem, no wall can hold me.

Deiyant, everything moves to my will.

Teisayt, the door to their world I dare not open.

The Deacon could not abide the travesty any longer. “You know the words, child.” Sorcha strode over and snatched up her Gauntlets. “But you should not meddle in the Order’s affairs.”

Nynnia flushed scarlet and scampered back to her side of the cabin. “Forgive me. I just heard the chant around the Priory.” She picked up some socks she was darning for the Captain and remained silent for the rest of the night.

Though the explanation made sense, it also disturbed the Deacon. What if Nynnia was more than just a stranger they’d encountered by chance? Sorcha shook her head. No—if anything was amiss with Nynnia, she trusted Merrick would have seen it. The world was already full of enough complications.

Trying her best to ignore her silent young companion, she decided that if the Pretender had given up his room, it was her golden opportunity to do some snooping. On the table were spread various sea charts that she could not see much of interest about, and the rest of the cabin was sparsely decorated. The only items that were intriguing were an old sea chest and a large leather-bound journal that she found rammed down the back of a battered chair.

Head on one side, she considered. One hand strayed to her Gauntlets while the other traced the outline of the embossed cover. She drew out one of the fine pins that held up her hair and set to work on the large brass lock of the journal. While the sea chest might contain treasures, the pages of a journal would reveal even more.

The little brown-eyed mouse in the corner squeaked. “I don’t think you should—”

Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. The woman was barely out of girlhood, sitting with her hands folded ever so properly. Undoubtedly she had some moral objection to Sorcha’s little piece of thievery, but then, maybe she’d never had to live in the real world. With a snort, Sorcha focused on the lock once more.

“No, I really think you should—” Nynnia ventured again.

“Don’t you dare—” Sorcha rounded on the other woman and then stopped. Standing in the doorway was the owner of the book she was trying to pry open.

For a moment, all three of them stared at one another like some comic tableau. In this light the Captain’s eyes were hard and green. Sorcha’s mind scrabbled for a witty excuse. In the intervening silence, the Pretender’s voice was flinty. “May you excuse us, Miss Macthcoll?”

The girl exited the room without so much as a whimper. Yet she shot Sorcha a strangely triumphant look, the expression of a far older woman.

Sorcha straightened and as calmly as possible slid the pin back into her hair. “I wasn’t aware that we had anything to say to each other, Captain Rossin.”

He carefully closed his own door and walked over to the table, his lips pressed together in a thin line above his neatly trimmed beard. Sorcha was not much of a Sensitive, but she was enough of one to sense something strange about the man. This close and all alone, he had a faint attractive scent: leather and sea salt. She couldn’t help it; she let her Center fall toward him.

Merrick was right. In the normal world Raed was a handsome man, but through geist-Sight this man blazed, and not just visually. Her partner had not mentioned the scent, but that was probably because he was a male. Raed’s was like a heady perfume. Sorcha’s Center enhanced all her usual senses, which could produce some rather uncomfortable chemical and physical reactions. With a little gasp, Sorcha put away her Center and dropped back into her body. She shook her head to try to get past the effect.

“Are you all right?” Raed leaned forward, his hand resting on the top of the charts. “Or just trying to apologize?”

Sorcha tried to still her racing heart. The unliving had many aspects, many ways to tempt mortals to bend to their will, and few were more primitive than sex. The possessed often displayed aggressive sexual behavior or urges. This man, this cursed man, had a flame in his core, a flame that was designed to draw people to him. Even those who weren’t Deacons would be unconsciously attracted to him; would find him good-looking, charming and very, very sexy.

Sorcha knew of nobles who would kill for such effects. But she was damned if she was going to tell him this. “I don’t know what you mean,” she snapped, feeling her body respond to the unliving effect.

The flicker of concern slipped from his features and was replaced by the kind of dark scowl that should have thrown ice over her. It didn’t. “Well, then maybe you can explain why you are taking advantage of my good nature by breaking into private property?”

She felt a pang of guilt, but didn’t let it show. Shoving the book toward its owner, she tried to act flippant. “As a Deacon, I have the right to examine any item I think may contain information on the unliving.”

His jaw clenched. “Again, we are back to that.” He leaned forward once more, both hands now on the table. “I am not—repeat, not—a citizen of the Empire, so your foolish rules do not apply.”

Sorcha laughed shortly. Spinning on her heel, she threw herself onto the chair in a studied example of indifference. “I would think our agreement gives me the right. After all, I may have to throw myself between you and a raging geist at any point.”

His mouth opened and she was sure there was a bitter retort ready to come, yet he bit it back. Sorcha swung her leg over the arm of the chair and tried not to inhale his scent.

Instead of replying, he made a grunt of displeasure and turned his back on her to open the sea chest. She tried to crane her head as subtly as possible, but it appeared all he was taking out was a clean shirt. Ignoring her completely, he stripped down to the waist.

If Sorcha didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he was deliberately trying to distract her. Admiring the shifting planes of the muscles in his back was certainly diverting, but the fact remained: this man was the burning light, and the places they were going would be full of very large, very dangerous moths. She clenched her fingers in the arm of the chair and reminded herself that her reaction was all related to the Curse.

When he turned around suddenly, Sorcha quickly flicked her eyes away—hopefully, quickly enough. “I appreciate your talents, Deacon Faris”—his voice was softer—“but I am still captain of this ship. And, while on my ship, I would be grateful if you at least showed me the common courtesy of a houseguest to a host.”

Sorcha’s mouth twisted. “A host that could turn into a raging beast at any moment.”

For a moment, his hazel eyes reflected the light of the waning sun. “Yes, and you’d do well to remember that in the future,” he growled, his body tense like a coiled spring.

Sorcha’s heartbeat leapt up two levels and her skin prickled as if in the presence of a geist. Every instinct screamed to her to leap out of the chair and wrench on her Gauntlets, but a quick flick of her Center revealed nothing but the flaming presence of the Pretender.

She forced herself to remain still, though her mouth was dry and her hands trembled with their yearning to be wielding power. Instead, she let him get away with something she rarely allowed: having the last word. He stormed out of his own cabin, taking his disturbing presence, thankfully, away.

For the next two days, Sorcha took Merrick’s advice and stayed in the cabin. Even Nynnia was better company than the Captain. Merrick, however, seldom ventured below. Her partner had taken it on himself to watch the seas for more unliving activity. Across the Bond, Sorcha could feel his guilt at not having spotted the sea monster that had brought them to this. He ran himself hard, napping on the quarterdeck when exhaustion claimed him.

While he slept, Sorcha would venture above decks, drape her cloak over him and take up his duties as best she could with her Sight. The crew seemed to take comfort in the fact that two Deacons were on board. After their initial fright, they began to see the advantages and show some proper respect for their passengers.

They also seemed intrigued by the Breed horses. The stallion and mare were in the small confines of the cargo hold, along with two goats and a crate of chickens. Sorcha visited, but found two crew members tending to them, one carefully grooming the mare while a slight young girl fed Shedryi lumps of sugar. The old devil rolled one eye at her as if in embarrassment but snuffled up the remaining sugar like a child’s pony.

Apart from watching over Merrick, Sorcha found herself next to useless on the ship, and while the same had been true on the first vessel, somehow this was different. The Pretender watched her but did not approach, probably still annoyed about her little slipup. She was very glad when the coastline moved from ragged cliffs to undulating tundra and Ulrich itself came into view.

Joining the throng on the deck, Sorcha discovered Ulrich was just as bleak as she feared. She’d seen many little towns just like it, huddled on the edge of the Empire, scraping an existence out of the sea. It was low-lying and gray, and the only thing to recommend it was the deep harbor and wharf jutting out into the sullen ocean. To the right of the jetty, a long stretch of sandy beach continued the half-moon shape of the bay.

The relief of the crew around her was palpable. Merrick wriggled his way past them to stand at her side. “I’ve never been so glad to see dry land.” He rubbed his darkly circled eyes wearily and leaned on the gunwales.

A twinge of sympathy disturbed her own dark thoughts. “You’ll be able to rest in the Priory.” She pointed to the one hill that looked above the town. “I suppose that will be it.”

Priories were usually ramshackle affairs, yet this one looked to be the proudest building in the town; with its white stone and parapets, it almost resembled a fortification.

Both Deacons glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.

Nynnia had followed in Merrick’s wake and, seeing their confused expression, laughed. “Everybody is surprised at Ulrich Priory. It was built as part of the defenses of Felstaad, hundreds of years ago when this area was being fought over.”

“Who would war over this place?” Merrick wondered aloud.

Sorcha knew enough of her history to answer that one, before Nynnia could impress him. “This area used to be rich with minerals, gold and silver in particular. But those were mined out over a hundred years ago.”

“Now there is only the fishing”—Nynnia tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear—“and no one is prepared to go to war over herring.”

“Not even good herring.” The Pretender’s voice made Sorcha jump a little. She didn’t turn her head to acknowledge him as he continued. “But it will suit us well enough to beach Dominion and get her careened and repaired.”

“Careened?” Nynnia asked.

“It means scraping all the barnacles off the ship’s arse.” Sorcha turned and beamed at the girl. “Useful if you want to keep out of the way of the Imperial Navy.”

She could feel Merrick tensing at her side. Diplomacy wasn’t her best skill—she’d never really needed it before. She let the Sensitives deal with all of that.

Dominion docked easily enough at the jetty, with local harbor workers rushing up to tether the ship. No other vessel could be seen, and at this time of year the workers would be grateful of the fee.

Raed grinned as his first mate handed him papers. Sorcha glanced at them, but one look at the Captain’s face told her that he wasn’t about to explain. He leapt lightly off the ship, before the gangplank could be added, and strode in the direction of the harbormaster’s building at the end of the quay.

“You’d better go after him, Chambers.” Sorcha could feel her lips settling into an unhappy line. “You made the deal, so go and make sure no little geist creeps up on him.”

Not as limber on board as the Pretender, her partner scrambled to obey.

“You could be nicer to Merrick,” Nynnia said at her side, and her voice seemed stronger somehow. “He is trying very hard to be a good partner.”

“Oh, really?” Sorcha gave her a wicked grin. “And how can he do that, pray tell, when he is also trying very hard to please you? Or have you not noticed his attentions?”

The girl turned bright red for an instant, and then straightened up, tucking her shawl around her and trying to look calm. “You, Deacon Faris, are a very uncomfortable person to spend time with.”

She gave a short laugh, thinking of partners past and present. “That’s what they say.”

Merrick and the Captain returned in short order. Raed looked very pleased with himself. He stood at the end of the gangplank. “Everything is arranged. Let’s start unloading.”

The tension seemed to go immediately out of the crew.

“All passengers”—Aachon’s stress on that word was hardly friendly—“should now disembark.”

It felt good to be on dry land. Merrick stood at her side while the Breed were carefully led out of the hold and onto the quay. Shedryi and Melochi looked as well-groomed as they would have been back at the Abbey, but they would need rest and care to recover their strength. The mare seemed to have fared better than the stallion. Shedryi would bear scars on his fine black hide for the rest of his life. Even if there had been saddles available, Sorcha would not have advised they be ridden.

Merrick had taken Melochi from the quay worker, and was talking in a low voice to Nynnia on the other side of the horse. He was not that far away, yet he was using some Sensitive trick to conceal his words. Feeling along the Bond brought Sorcha a sensation like a slap. That boy was getting decidedly uppity, considering how long they had known each other. One rescue and suddenly he was in charge. She clenched her teeth on a growl of displeasure.

“We should get to the Priory,” Sorcha snapped, taking hold of the stallion’s bridle and patting his tall, arched neck. Raed was standing a few feet away, shouting directions up to his crew as they bustled about like ants. “That means you too, Your Highness.”

A muscle twitched under the narrow strip of his short beard. “I have duties to attend.”

“Certainly. But we need to report in,” she replied sweetly. “And as such, your geist protection will be out of range. Is that all right with you?”

She found something very satisfying in the angry look he shot her. However, there was nothing he could do; either resist and be open to the unliving, or follow along like the horses.

Sorcha turned Shedryi’s head up the hill toward the impressive Priory and led the way through the town, ignoring the Pretender’s glare. Merrick hung back, still jawing away with Nynnia. Apart from the looming castle above, it was an unimpressive place. Little gray stone buildings low to the ground indicated that in winter this was a dire town. Nets were strung everywhere, and presumably the fishing fleet was out today, which explained the lack of other ships in the harbor. A few citizens were about, wrapped up tightly in wool or, in some cases, oilskin.

Their cloaks and the Breed horses marked Sorcha and Merrick out as Deacons, so eyes did follow them, but there was something very strange about that. She’d been to towns with plagues of unliving, and in every single one of them the Order was greeted like delivering heroes. Naturally, people rejoiced in the arrival of Deacons to clear up their pesky unliving problems.

Not the residents of Ulrich, however—they actually seemed to flinch away. No one ran up to the Deacons and thrust a squalling child at them, begging for them to protect it. Not a single person clutched at their cloaks howling for salvation. One old man, sitting in front of his house mending a net, actually frowned at Sorcha, dropped his needle and hurried inside.

“I’m beginning to feel we are not the most popular new arrivals,” Sorcha whispered back to her partner. “Do you See anything?”

Merrick caught up with her, so that the horses were between them and prying eyes. He was impressive; even she was not able to tell just by looking at him when he was using his Center.

“Nothing,” he whispered back after a moment. “Nothing unliving, that is. This place reeks of anger, not fear. And it is directed at us.”

“Ungrateful idiots,” Sorcha muttered.

“And I thought Deacons were usually greeted with more fanfare.” The Pretender had pressed his way to the front, and the smug note in his voice made Sorcha even less happy with the situation. Walking between them, he actually threw an arm over each of their shoulders as if they were comrades. “Whatever have you folk of the Order been up to?”

Sorcha tried to shrug his arm off, rather unsuccessfully, as Shedryi had recovered some vigor and was prancing about. The touch of his arm only increased her sensitivity to that strange geist charisma that infected him. “They are probably just annoyed that their local Deacons haven’t been able to help. Once we sort this situation out, they’ll give us a parade.”

Raed glanced around with a skeptical tilt to his eyebrow. “That, I wouldn’t bet on.” He cleared his throat, as if pleased with his own wit. “Or don’t Deacons gamble?”

Sorcha glanced at him, feeling his immovable damn arm tickling her neck. “Deacons gamble. Deacons can do anything they want to; drink, whore around, smoke. We gave up those inhibitions centuries ago, along with religion.”

“Oh, really?” Raed’s grin widened. “Decided the gods don’t exist, then?”

Sorcha really wasn’t up to giving a history lesson. “There are plenty of religious orders back in Delmaire. Ours chose to refocus on protecting the world from the unliving.” She flicked his hand off her shoulder, and her glare indicated that he’d better not replace it. “I notice your native pantheon of gods didn’t exactly help you out.”

A full-blown argument was brewing, and Merrick, like all Sensitives, tried to act as peacemaker. “We’re nearly at the Priory.” He pointed to where the town faded away and the raw rock slope led up to the looming castle. It was certainly impressive.

The first thing that Sorcha noticed as they climbed the hill was that the Priory had a portcullis and it was lowered. The place was presenting formidable defenses, as if it was expecting an army rather than ragtag travelers. She idly fingered the edges of her Gauntlets and glanced over her shoulder. The stares of the townspeople suddenly felt more ominous.

“Keep an eye out.” She nudged Merrick.

“Already doing so,” he replied. “Want me to share?” Recalling his blinding strength, she shook her head. “No, just give me a warning if something is about to happen.”

“Nothing, so far . . .” But his voice held a waver of concern. She couldn’t blame him; after the week they’d had, pretty much anything was possible.

The Pretender at their side drew his breath in over his teeth. Raed, that blazing silver fire in the ether, had his hand on his cutlass, as if he too could sense the malice in the air.

This was just a Priory. It was perhaps not as safe as an Abbey, but it was still a place of the Order. Sorcha kept telling herself that as the four humans and two horses approached the gatehouse to stand before the gate and the lowered portcullis.

“This isn’t right,” Nynnia whispered to Merrick. “The portcullis is never lowered like this.”

“It’ll be all right,” he replied to her, the assurance not tripping easily off his tongue. “The Arch Abbot must have sent word by weirstone that we were coming,” he hissed to Sorcha.

The sharp edge of his concern felt through the Bond only added to Sorcha’s own worry. At her side, Shedryi gave a sharp whinny and pranced as if jabbed by something. Yet nothing appeared from the air, and Merrick was silent.

Finally, after a few inexplicably tense moments, Sorcha managed to move her hand from the Gauntlets to the rope hanging by the gate. The clanking of the bell in such silence made them all even edgier. She was so tense that her grip on Shedryi’s bridle actually hurt. Merrick shifted closer to Nynnia, and Raed’s breathing went up a notch. She was well aware that her own was doing similar.

When the crooked figure of a young man hobbled to the portcullis, she let out a long breath. Wearing the brown of a lay Brother, he was at least a sign of normality. He looked at them through the bars with unveiled caution, and her ire started rising to replace her concern.

Handing Shedryi’s bridle to Raed, she walked forward to confront the man, her hand on her cloak, the badge of the Order standing out bright silver. Even though he glanced at it, he didn’t rush to raise the barrier.

“Who are you?” He spoke slowly through malformed lips.

“Deacons Sorcha Faris and Merrick Chambers. The Abbot should have weirstoned the Prior that we were coming.”

The answer that the young Brother gave made her start. “Our Priory stone was destroyed four nights ago.”

The wrongness of this place was now impossible to ignore. “Quickly, then . . . We must speak to your Prior.”

“She’s busy, and I’m not allowed to admit anyone.”

Her anger was about to boil over, and her fingers itched to be in the Gauntlets and blasting the damn portcullis out of its footings. Once again, it was Merrick who found the right words.

Standing next to her, he took out the long, decorated leather Strop and held it before him. “Do you know what this is?”

The young Brother’s eyes lit up. “The Strop of the Sensitives.”

“Good.” Merrick pointed to the Gauntlets tucked into Sorcha’s belt. “And those?”

“Gauntlets of the Active.”

“And you know only Deacons can wear them?”

“Yes.” The Brother nodded so hard it seemed his head might fly off.

“Then you can let us in. Your Prior wouldn’t want you to keep out Deacons.”

After a moment’s deep contemplation, the Brother finally scampered off to turn the wheel and raise the portcullis. Once they ventured inside he seemed incredibly excited, capering around them and barraging them with questions. Eventually Sorcha gave Shedryi and Melochi into his care just to get him out from under their feet. He grew quite solemn with the responsibility, and led the horses off toward the far corner of the courtyard.

“Prior Aulis is over there.” He jerked his head toward the main doors of the keep, before turning back to the horses and the stable.

The large yard was the place in which Felstaad’s knights would have assembled in olden times, but it made a very poor showing in the current one. Sorcha had read the file before it had been lost with their first ship; Ulrich Priory had only a compliment of a dozen Deacons and twice that of lay Brothers. This place could have housed a hundred times more.

Abruptly, she remembered something. “You live here?”

Nynnia nodded mutely.

“Then, is it usually like this?” Sorcha gestured to the quiet stone expanse that looked as deserted as a grave.

The girl shook her head, foolish brown eyes wide like those of a spooked deer.

Sorcha gritted her teeth and then took a deep breath. “So where does your father practice his craft, then?”

“In there.” Nynnia pointed timidly toward the main keep.

The Deacon realized there was not going to be much sense coming from that particular quarter.

“You know”—Raed still hadn’t let go of his cutlass—“this has the feeling of a trap.”

“Here?” Merrick’s brown eyes were still scanning the area, and his voice had a note of real concern. He didn’t want to believe that such a thing was possible in a house of the Order, but some deeper instinct was kicking in.

Bunched up together, they climbed the short flight of stairs and opened the doors. Immediately, the smell of charcoal and smoke forced Sorcha back a step. Glancing to her left, she got a little shake of the head from Merrick, and she went in.

Sorcha found herself wishing very hard that there might be some rules that still remained sacrosanct. A week of strangeness—geists crossing water, geists laying traps and geists summoning sea monsters—was still nothing to this. The inside of the keep’s great hall had been laid out to mimic the form of an Abbey, as all Priories were, yet it was burnt to a cinder. The white stone was charred and, when she cautiously laid a finger to it, she realized that it had actually melted on the surface. Remains of wooden pews were scattered about, some disintegrated into ash, while others lay discarded at the edges of the room as if flung there by fleeing Deacons. Debris crackled under their boots as they cautiously moved up what had once been the central aisle, but Sorcha did not bend to examine it.

Nynnia let out a muffled sob, her hand up to her mouth. Merrick put an arm around her, but his other hand still held his Strop ready. Reaching the pulpit where the Prior would have given her daily lesson, Sorcha turned to examine the scene. The front of the hall was relatively undamaged. The hanging above the pulpit was not even singed.

“Whatever happened”—she swallowed hard to regain a measure of her professionalism—“it happened right in the center of the room.” Glancing down, she realized that the Prior’s notes were still on the lectern. “And it happened suddenly.”

Raed, the pirate and the Pretender, obviously thought he knew more than a Deacon. “But the Brother outside, why did he let us in? If they are under attack . . .”

“We were under attack.” A steely voice to the right made them all jump. A neat little woman in the blue cloak of an Active, pinned closed by the grand flourish of a Prior’s insignia, stood watching them with bright green eyes. “But it was not the total devastation you see here.”

“Prior Aulis.” Sorcha gave the appropriate bow to a superior, and felt a little warmth return to her bones. She’d imagined all of the Deacons dead, so the relief made her actually smile.

“Enough of that.” The woman turned and gestured them to follow. “I have no time to spare. We need your help immediately.”

That much was obvious; yet the sight of a living Prior was still a good sign.

As he brushed past her, Raed raised one eyebrow. “This deal about you protecting me . . . I think I got the raw end of the bargain.”

Sorcha resisted the urge to slap him and followed after, moving deeper into the Priory to see what further horrors awaited.