Geist

THREE The Giving of Affusion

Sorcha left the Abbot’s chambers and strode through the Devotional with a lot more certainty than she actually felt. It was cool in the stone corridors of the building, high-vaulted ceilings perhaps not the best design choice for Vermillion’s winter climate, but the building had been inherited much as the Emperor had received his palace.

She passed underneath carvings of the native Abbots who had once ruled here, their symbol of a circle of five stars pinned to their chests. Many of their stone faces had been hacked off. The wars of this continent had not discriminated against those who wanted to protect it.

In the north wing, there were still lay Brothers clambering up scaffolding to install a new slate roof to replace the one destroyed in the fire that had wiped out the remainder of the native Deacons nearly seventy years before. The Mother Abbey’s Devotional building had lain in ruin, open to the tender mercies of nature, until Arch Abbot Hastler had brought the new Order to the continent. Now three years of repairs were drawing to a close. Once the roof was in place, only the scars would be visible, not the destruction.

Sorcha paused for a moment to watch the artisans working on the northern rose window—replacing the glass they’d recovered and installing new portions where that was impossible.

“Sorcha!” The familiar voice snapped her out of a melancholy turn of thought.

A tall figure emerged out of the shadows, his hands covered in white dust, his step halting.

“Garil.” She smiled in genuine happiness. “What are you doing here?”

Sorcha knew as his gray eyes looked her over that nothing could be hidden from him; the slight slump in her shoulders and the fractional frown on her brow. Yet unlike most Sensitives, she didn’t mind him observing her. Garil had been her first partner, but despite that and everything that happened, he still held her in high regard. It always rather shocked her.

“Little Red.” He hobbled over to catch her in a rough embrace. “They poked me out of my tiny Priory with some rubbish about needing my skills for this project.”

No one since Pareth, the Presbyter of the Young during Sorcha’s childhood, had dared give her a nickname, but from Garil it was somehow acceptable. Sorcha threw her arms around him with a laugh until she realized how thin he was beneath the charcoal robes. She could feel every bone. Garil was one of the few Sensitives forced into retirement by severe injury. The perpetrators had not been the unliving, but if she ever found them, they soon would be.

“So how are you, Garil?” She gently squeezed him back, afraid that she might hurt him.

“Ah, you know.” He shrugged, an awkward movement. Despite how hard the physicians had tried, his broken pelvis and back had never healed straight. “It still feels strange to wear the gray after so long in the emerald.”

He should have stayed in Delmaire but had insisted on joining the Emperor’s expedition. He’d been old then, but still one of the great Sensitives of his age. The Bond they had shared as partners had been very strong.

Sorcha cleared her throat, feeling his sadness like it was her own. Being rated unfit for duty and having to wear the charcoal robes of the retired Deacon was something that few ever got to enjoy, yet it was obvious that Garil took no pleasure from it. She could hardly blame him; the heady rush of geist battle was addictive.

“I was in the infirmary when they brought Kolya in.” The elderly Deacon shook his head. “Most unfortunate to be caught in a riot like that.” His eyes grew distant as he undoubtedly thought of his own dark night in the alley. Why anyone would beat such a kind man within an inch of death was still a mystery.

It was becoming clear that no one was going to mention the geist that obeyed no rules or her opening of Teisyat. It seemed the paper shufflers in the Abbey would be saved any disturbance.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Very unfortunate.” Glancing up at the beautiful rose window, she attempted to change the subject. “How is the restoration going?”

Garil laughed, a short little sound that contained more than a hint of bitterness. “They really don’t know what to do with an old Deacon here.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think the Arch Abbot believed I was going a little crazy out there in the wilds, worried I might say too many things.”

Sorcha shrugged. “Well, you have a lot of experience, something that we lack this far from Delmaire. You know how to get people to do things.”

Garil sighed. “Even our beloved Emperor has spent years restoring the palace—so I should not grumble.”

“Then you are following an excellent lead.”

Her old partner nodded slowly, but she sensed something else; the elderly Deacon was holding back. At any other time she would have pressed him, but she had enough on her plate not to go looking for trouble. Not today anyway.

In the name of distraction Sorcha tried him on his favorite subject. “Do you think the native Order would appreciate what we are doing to their Abbey?” She said it in jest, trying to get his grim mood to lift, but the old Deacon shrugged.

“They left so few records it is impossible to tell. I do know that when they were cut off here for so long, their ways were rumored to have grown a little strange.”

During her training, history had been the bane of Sorcha’s life, but now her interest was a little piqued; the looming statues of those who had come before seemed somewhat more than mere rock today. She knew that in the dark ages Saint Cristin had landed in a tiny boat on the new continent and founded the native Order, but that was as far as her knowledge went. Garil had studied everything he could about the founding Deacons, yet even he didn’t have all the answers.

The conversation had strayed into uncomfortable territory. “Perhaps if our Order stays here for six hundred years, we too will be considered strange,” she offered.

Garil’s great bushy eyebrows drew together, and he looked away. “Maybe we already are.” His voice was a low rumble, and Sorcha restrained an inappropriate smile. Her old partner was not taking retirement at all well.

“You at least have earned some rest, Garil.”

“Maybe so,” muttered her old partner as he glanced up at his workers. “But back in Delmaire . . . Well, there are more gray cloaks. Here . . .” The rest remained unsaid. Here there were very few old members of the Order.

Garil shifted uncomfortably, and she realized he had more than his share of aches in badly healed bones. The wintry air she found pleasantly bracing would not be so kind to him. Her ire rose toward whichever clerk had thought this a good project for an old man.

“Surely they don’t need you to watch glass getting slotted into place.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Keep me company to the infirmary?”

He shot a look up at the artisans and then laughed. “These young people know what they are about, and I could do with some more tincture for my old skin. It gets so thin, you know.”

It would in fact be for the pain, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit that. Sorcha knew full well what Garil was like. Together they strolled out of the Devotional toward the low stone building that housed the infirmary. A low lavender hedge contained a physic garden at the front, where lay workers were rushing to gather the final autumn plants. To the right were the drying rooms, and the apothecary where potions, tinctures and rubs were prepared. The scent that wafted out of the open doors was so soothing Sorcha almost forgot why she was going there.

Garil patted her arm. “I’ll let you go and find your husband. Give him my best.”

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 and 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, Merrick 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.

Kebenar, I am open to the truth of all things.

Kolar, this soul has wings.

Mennyt, no path is locked, even to the Otherside.

Ticat, the name unspoken, the purpose in shadow.

Merrick glanced up. That last rune would never be spoken of in the presence of anyone but a Sensitive, and his mouth still stumbled on that final phrase.

But Presbyter Mournling merely nodded and then spoke the words every Sensitive hoped to live by: “See deep, fear nothing.” His smile was cheery, but somehow did not reach his gray eyes.

With a deep bow Merrick took the contents of the box. Made of thick brown leather—the Strop might have at first been mistaken for a wide belt; it did indeed have a pierced length on one end and a buckle on the other. However, on closer examination the Strop was tooled with the seven Runes of Sight. The only other decoration was his personal sigil that he’d carved laboriously from obsidian, set on a brass loop and which would sit, once the Strop was in place, between his eyes, and above his nose. This rock-and-metal setting could also be slid up by virtue of the loop to rest higher, against the third eye. Though it held all the Runes of Sight, wearing the Strop was necessary only to invoke the final two. The Strop blinded the Sensitive to the real world but heightened his exposure to the unliving. Thus, it had to be used with more caution than the Active’s Gauntlets. Its hidden purpose, the one only Sensitives knew about, made it more powerful than the dazzling gloves.

After receiving the blessing of both of his superiors, Merrick got to his feet. The Arch Abbot’s hands shook as he closed the box, but his eyes were still sharp. “Don’t let Deacon Faris see your nerves, young Deacon. Remember, we wouldn’t be sending you if you were not equal to the task.”

This would have been comforting had Merrick not known more about her than Hastler possibly could imagine. He merely smiled at his superiors and nodded.

Deacon Sorcha Faris was waiting for him in the rectory. She had her back to him when he entered, making a good display that she didn’t care. Merrick made no effort to conceal his entrance, so her pretense was obvious. She was wearing the dark blue cloak of the Active, and when she turned around in an almost lazy fashion, her Gauntlets were clearly visible tucked into her belt. It wasn’t the norm for them to be kept there within the bounds of the Abbey, but then, this, too, was probably for his benefit.

She was of average height, but that was the only thing average about her. The bright auburn curls, which she usually kept tied up, lay on her shoulders and down her back. Perhaps she had heard he was younger than she and was trying to look a similar age. Her face was deceptively soft and beautiful, but when she spoke, the strength of her personality changed that perception. It was another weapon in her arsenal and Merrick was sure she knew how to use it.

Among the novices, Sorcha Faris was something of a regular conversation starter. She’d been one of the youngest Deacons to gain full rank, yet had been among the last to receive Teisyat. Hours were whiled away trying to decide why that might be. Merrick, more than most, had a good idea.

What he’d heard, and what he believed was actually true, was that she had power in full measure, but that her control was sometimes in question. It was just the ultimate irony that he was being partnered up with the one Deacon who gave him nightmares.

And now she was looking him up and down. He didn’t need to be a Sensitive to know what she was thinking. Unholy Bones, they’ve teamed me up with a child!

It was his dark curly hair and maybe the touch of Ancient blood in him that did it. Everyone always assumed he was only a teenager, when in fact he’d seen twenty-three years his last birthday. Sorcha might be in her late thirties, but he still bridled at the assumptions she’d obviously made about him in the first thirty seconds. Age had nothing to do with competence as far as Merrick was concerned.

“Haven’t we met?” she said, eyebrows knitting together in an expression that wasn’t totally related to memory recall.

For a second he froze, and only Deacon training kept shock off his face. Then he realized what she must mean. “You taught a basic class in structure of the Gauntlet in my second year.”

She grinned in a somewhat feral way. “You asked a question about Teisyat, didn’t you?”

At the time, Merrick recalled experiencing the same sick feeling that was building up in his stomach now, but he had indeed asked the question. He couldn’t be sure that she remembered what it was, but he did. How much control does the tenth Active Rune require?

She hadn’t answered, just glared. It had been innocently asked, though, for at that moment he’d had no idea she was having problems with that very same issue. Now he decided just to shrug and take refuge in the “I’m just a Sensitive” act.

“Well,” Sorcha sighed, “we better get this over and done with.”

Merrick’s heart leapt, racing like a jackrabbit’s, but he held his hands palm up to her. The bustle of Deacons and lay Brothers at the door suddenly seemed like it was calling to him. If he just darted out into the corridor, he could join them and get away from this moment.

He took a quick, nervous glance down at his hands; mercifully, they were still dry.

Placing her palms down against his own, she locked eyes with him. Hers were the darkest blue he’d ever seen, with an almost-black circle right round the iris. For an instant nothing seemed to be happening, and then came the tug.

It was his first partnership; he knew it was her fifth. She was not gentle, but then, he’d not expected her to be. The wrenching pull broke him free of the real world. He was plunged down into Sorcha Faris, spiraling into her eyes and consciousness in a way that actually hurt. He could feel the bright gateway within her, that place through which the Actives drew power from the Otherside. Inside her head, it burned hot and white and large, and it seemed ready to consume all that he was.

With a stifled yelp, Merrick returned to his own body. The Bond was formed, fragile and not at all comfortable, but definitely there. It would take some time for him to adjust to the awareness of Sorcha in the periphery of his senses.

“Good, then.” She snatched back her hands and for a moment almost looked like she might wipe them on her trousers. “I see you have your Strop. Is the rest of your kit packed?”

He nodded. “I got it down to the stables last night. I understand the Abbot wants us to leave immediately.”

“That’s what I heard.” And then she turned and strode out of the room, utterly confident that he would follow after.

Fear and anger did a brief battle inside Merrick’s head. She might only be of average height, but she moved as quickly as a person twice as tall. He found himself at a near trot to keep up with her. In this way they made smart progress out of the confines of the Abbey, toward the outbuildings. Novices were already in classes but the lay members of the Order were up and about. At this time of the year there was little to do in the gardens, but many were bustling around the stables. Geist activity was not solely limited to manipulating humanity. Locals often brought their livestock in to be freed of unliving influences.

Sorcha was going to ignore him as much as she could. She was colder than the late-autumn day, and the only thing Merrick had to warm himself was his growing anger, so he nurtured it a little.

“Perhaps”—he smiled at her while matching her pace— “perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened outside the gates two days ago? The whole Abbey is rife with rumor.”

Her stride broke for just an instant. “The Abbot will talk about it at Matins when it is appropriate.”

“Ah, but you see, we will be gone before that happens; and besides, now I am your partner . . .”

Sorcha stopped completely and spun about. He observed how she held her body in tight, tense lines. “Are you trying to irritate me? You’re bringing up things I have no control over, and I don’t like having no control. Having no control makes me exceedingly cranky, and when I get cranky, I eat novices for breakfast.”

Merrick found himself enjoying the moment. He could actually vaguely sense her discomfort on the edge of his perception. He liked it. “Fair point,” he replied with a slight twist in his lips, “but I am no longer a novice and therefore not on the menu. I only want to be the best partner possible.” The tinge of humor in his voice was apparent even to himself.

It was also immediately obvious that his gentle dig was not the sort of thing she appreciated. Her mouth opened a couple of times before she finally ground out, “You can do that by being the quietest partner ever.”

He made the universal lip-buttoning gesture with one eyebrow cocked. Sorcha stared at him hard for a minute, before turning away and shaking her head. “Unholy Bones, I need a smoke.”

Merrick followed her meekly into the stables. The idea of pointing out how the infirmary staff had told him that smoking of any sort was injurious to a person’s health popped into his head. However, pushing the point, he sensed, bordered on the dangerous. Many of the Deacons smoked and drank. It was not as if there was any injunction against it, and the life of a Deacon was generally not long.

His would be shorter than most if he crossed his new partner. After what he’d seen as a child, his fear of her wasn’t going to go away. But he might have discovered a way to hide it.

Inside, the lay Brothers had saddled up two of the Abbey horses for them. The Breed was almost as ancient as the Order; jet-black, tough as a mountain pony but as beautiful as any from the Emperor’s stable. If there was one real perk to doing battle with the forces of the Otherside, it was the chance to ride one of the Deacon Breed.

None of the Deacons actually personally owned any of the Breed, since the only objects any of them kept solely for themselves were the tools of their trade, but particular animals became favored by certain Deacons. Sorcha was examining her stallion, running her hands down his legs and over the withers to check his fitness. She was taking more care doing this than she had in forging the Bond with Merrick. Sometimes being a Sensitive was too much to bear.

“Shedryi?” Merrick cocked his head and examined the stallion. “He was shipped over from the old country, wasn’t he? A bit long in the tooth to be relied upon, surely?”

Sorcha glanced up, and her look was pure venom. “And what about me, young Deacon? Would you say I’m a bit long in the tooth as well? Shedryi and I have a real relationship, which is more than can be said for us right now.”

Not being that clued up on his horseflesh and also sensing danger in the air, he decided to concentrate on his own mount. As a novice he’d been trained to ride on a variety of lesser horses, and had sat on one of the Breed only in the last few months of training. He’d not settled on a favorite and was happy enough to accept the stablemaster’s choice.

Melochi was smaller than Sorcha’s stallion, but she seemed well proportioned and more biddable. Her wide dark eye followed him with an expression that might have been resignation, but that was better than the fierce look in Shedryi’s. Merrick made a mental note to keep out of the stallion’s reach. He had a wicked look about him, as if he had understood the man’s aspersions. The pack mule, who he found out was named Horace, was tied to the pommel of Melochi’s saddle and looked resigned to his lot in life; following around the superior breed. Merrick wondered if that was to be his lot as well.

Having completed her check of horses, mules and supplies, Sorcha swung up onto Shedryi. Merrick could have sworn she was still glaring at him. “I take it you are a good enough horse-man to keep up.”

He shrugged. “Winner of the All Novices four-hundred-yard gallop, runner-up in the—”

“A simple yes would suffice,” Sorcha grumbled, her bandaged fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as if she were in pain.

“Well, then . . . I suppose so.”

“Good, because the fastest way north is going to be the road. The currents around Vermillion are treacherous this time of year, and no ships are leaving until next week at the earliest.”

“The Abbot needs us there that urgently?” Merrick had been so long thinking about the ramifications of partnering with Sorcha that he had not really taken much note of their first assignment. “I can catch up on the details when I read the report,” he said as smoothly as possible.

This was obviously immensely cheering to his new companion; she actually chuckled. “I’ll get you up-to-date with the salient points on the way, lad. You won’t have time on the ride to be reading any reports. Keeping your seat on these roads will be enough work.”

And with that, Deacon Faris urged Shedryi out of the stable and onto the open road, leaving her fifth and newest partner to once again rush to catch up.