Spectyr

FOUR A Warning from Beyond

“Your husband is now properly dead.” Merrick found it amusing how unaware his partner was that her tone was far from reassuring. She sounded so merry that the widow had to be wondering if something dire had happened inside.

The younger Deacon could understand Sorcha’s mood, though; he too had been glad to come face-to-face with a genuine geist. The strange message it bore, however, was unnerving. The three months of quiet were well and truly over—he didn’t need to be Deacon Reeceson, with his wild talent of prescience, to know that.

The Arch Abbot had kept them occupied with as many menial tasks as he could find since the incident in the ossuary. They had guarded endless empty corridors, escorted wagon trains of porcelain, and entertained every vapid courtier in the palace. With Rictun’s eye so firmly set on them, leaving Vermillion was going to be as problematic as getting in had been when they had been hunted fugitives.

“So what’s the situation, then?” The light, firm voice at his side made Merrick wince.

Turning, he saw that Deacon Kolya Petav had once again followed them on assignment. Though still pale and thin after months of recovery from the geist attack outside the Imperial Palace, Sorcha’s husband was stubbornly sticking to his rights as a partner. Kolya, as in all the other times, had not an ounce of guilt on his face.

Merrick blinked, unable to quite believe it. He knew if he was in Kolya’s place he would not dare Sorcha’s rage; instead he probably would have been curled up somewhere sucking his thumb like an infant in swaddling clothes.

Two months ago Sorcha had gone to the Civic Court, spoken the ritual words three times, and signed the writ before the worthies as required. The final death knell for her and Kolya’s marriage would be accepted in another full spin of the seasons. By comparison, breaking the Bond of partnership was almost impossible—at least when one of the party would not accept it.

Deacon Petav was definitely not giving up on that particular side of his relationship with Sorcha. Instead of accepting his soon to be former wife’s petition, he had gone before the Presbyterial Council and put up a strong argument for his rights. Why he had done that was still a mystery.

This was the second time he had turned up while Merrick and Sorcha were on duty. Now he stood before them like a statue wrapped in the emerald cloak of the Sensitive. Previously his wife had ignored him, but Merrick wondered if this time, after recent revelations, she would be so restrained. Deacon Chambers feared a scene—something the Order could well do without these days. As Sorcha finished her discussion with the widow, Merrick scrambled to try to prevent that possibility.

“Deacon Petav”—he dared to put a hand under his fellow Sensitive’s elbow—“we have dealt with the geist, so there is no real call for you to be here.” He thought his voice was both deferential and low.

Kolya looked down at Merrick, the only sign of any emotion being a slight hardening around his eyes. “Are you trying to hurry me along?” He might not have said the word “boy,” but it was implied. “I have the same right to be here as you.”

Merrick could feel himself beginning to bristle and remembered Sorcha’s description of why her marriage had died. It was like struggling against a void, looking for love and affection but finding none. He had nothing but admiration for Deacon Petav as a Sensitive, yet as a man Merrick thought he was a fool.

“But Sorcha . . . ” he hissed to Kolya.

“Sorcha is confused,” his fellow Sensitive replied mildly. “She imagines life is a fairy story. When she realizes that it’s not, she’ll come round.”

This was so contrary to what Merrick knew of his partner that he stood there for a moment, completely unable to come up with an answer.

Kolya took his silence for something it was not. “She is such a child—sneaking out of the Abbey to avoid me.”

Now Merrick could feel his awkwardness turning into anger. He was searching for words that would not communicate that when Sorcha turned.

Merrick knew her natural inclination was to rage, but even Deacon Faris realized how precarious the public’s faith in the Order was at the moment. Her brow darkened like a storm front, and her mouth opened to let something fly. Then, in a display of control, her jaw snapped shut. So as the Merchant Quarter continued on its business, she stalked away past the two Sensitives—not acknowledging either of their presences.

Unfortunately for her, Kolya was taller and easily kept pace. “You should keep me informed when you go out like this, Sorcha.” His voice remained low, and it was not tinged with anything like accusation. He said it as conversationally as if he were asking her to pass the salt.

Merrick had already been caught in the middle of several of these “discussions,” and now, as then, he felt as useful as . . .

“Tits on a bull?” Sorcha shot a grim look at him over her shoulder, before turning back to her original partner. “Can’t you see you’re not wanted here, Kolya? Be a man, and let it go.”

Her old partner shrugged. “Arch Abbot Rictun has not decided what will happen in our . . . unique position. I have primacy over Deacon Chambers, after all.”

Sorcha’s back stiffened. Rictun was an old adversary of hers—though Merrick was not certain of the reason for it. If the younger Deacon had been given a choice, he would have picked a partner without these issues, but in his own way he was just as stubborn as Kolya. The Bond and the history between Merrick and Sorcha were strong, and he would struggle for them as his partner did.

“This is not the place,” Sorcha hissed, “but I can tell you that I only wish you had fought for our marriage as you are fighting for our partnership.”

With an outraged snort, Sorcha set a cracking pace through the city and soon got them out of the Quarter. Merrick trailed behind as they climbed over the gleaming Bridge of Gilt, which as its name suggested had been gilded by a rich trader seeking favor. It was the most impressive and, Merrick thought, most ridiculous of Vermillion’s many bridges. Tall gold cupids cavorted on a series of plinths along its length, and even the oak boards under their feet were decorated with insets of brass. The broad deck was also lined with many small shops that stood cheek by jowl right up to the very end where it landed on the Imperial Island. By law there was no trade in this part of the city, but the merchants played it as close as they could. The three passed through the granite gates and into the gleaming center of the Empire, walking briskly past the homes of the aristocracy, up the hill toward the Mother Abbey. Only the Imperial Palace stood higher on the man-made mount in the middle of the lagoon. Merrick’s wide-eyed view of the beauty of the place had changed—he now knew that not everything was as it seemed. He loved the Order, believed in the good work it did, but Arch Abbot Hastler’s failed attempt to bring the Murashev into the world had revealed a hidden side to it that he had never imagined.

As he contemplated that, Merrick had been left behind by Sorcha and Kolya, who were striding along at great speed. Deacon Petav’s soft voice was hard to make out over the rumble of carriages passing them—Sorcha’s was not.

“—don’t try to sell me that, Kolya! I know the Otherside ebbs and flows, but this is not part of that natural cycle. And if Hastler—” Sorcha stopped, catching herself using the dead Arch Abbot’s name rather than that of his successor. She growled in irritation and walked even faster up the hill.

Kolya shrugged at Merrick as if they were part of some club of Sensitives confused by Sorcha. The older Deacon cultivated an aura of passive acceptance, but Merrick knew he could turn that around suddenly, making it seem as though it was the other person in the wrong. It was quite a talent.

Luckily they reached the Abbey, and never had he been so grateful to see the high, white walls that surrounded it. They went in the postern gate, past the lay Brother guards, and into the courtyard. To the right: the infirmary, the gardens, and the stables. To the left: the dormitory, the refectory, and the novitiate house. Ahead were the lines of cloisters with Deacons strolling through them, talking or just quietly contemplating.

As Sorcha lowered her head and made her way there, Deacon Petav stopped and called her name. She completely ignored him, pulled her cloak around her shoulders and stalked off. Now it was Kolya who caught at Merrick’s arm. “She has to talk to me!” He appeared genuinely bemused by his nearly former wife.

The other Sensitive stopped and stared at him. “You must know she is resolute in her decision, Deacon Petav, so tell me, why do you persist?”

His tall form bent then, just a fraction. “This is all that remains.” He spoke the words quietly before walking away toward the dormitory. Merrick watched him, wondering at the man who had let Sorcha go without complaint yet now regretted it so bitterly.

However, Deacon Petev had made his own bed—his inaction had consequences that he must now deal with. Merrick turned and ran to catch up with Sorcha, who he suddenly realized was making her way through the cloisters ditly toward the receiving chambers of the Arch Abbot. Going toe-to-toe with Rictun was in no one’s best interests. Merrick called her name. It echoed in the ceiling of the cloisters, and several of their fellow Deacons glanced up. Surprisingly, she did stop.

“Not there—please, Sorcha!” He didn’t care who heard, because they were already the talk of the Abbey.

Their eyes locked, and it was she who flinched. Her hands clenched the edge of her cloak. Instead, she stalked into the Devotional. Before the arrival of the geists this had been a church—a place to worship the gods. Now it hosted gatherings, meetings and training to fight the unliving. Still, as they entered the heart of the Abbey, the great soaring ceiling, the beautiful stained glass windows, even the statues of the Deacons of the Old Order stirred Merrick’s heart. He loved the services they had here, the words of wisdom passed on by others of the Order, stories of the past—all those things. It gave him peace, and he hoped it did the same for his partner.

It was a sign of Sorcha’s bewilderment that she let herself be hauled into one of the chapels that ran the length of the great vaulted space that was the Devotional. Merrick could read her confusion in the tight line of her jaw and the way she would not meet his eyes.

“I saw him die.” She whispered, so that the vast space would not catch her words. Sorcha looked up at him then, her blue eyes uncertain—frightened, perhaps, of her partner’s response.

“I saw it too!” Merrick touched her shoulder, and for a second she did not move.

Then, sliding away from his touch, she leaned against the gray stone wall and looked through the stained glass window at the lay Brothers. Out in the garden they were bustling to harvest late-summer crops. “But I suppose you think it means nothing?”

“Actually”—Merrick leaned on the wall opposite and tucked his hands inside his cloak—“I believe it would be foolish to ignore this message.”

She looked at him askance. “It was Nynnia who delivered it.”

Merrick shook his head, terrified and hopeful. “I don’t know if that is even possible—we still don’t understand what she was.”

“But what if it is true?” Sorcha returned. “What if Nynnia is on the Otherside, and she wants us to stop Raed’s murder?”

Outside, the bells began to ring, summoning the Initiates to their classes. Merrick had very recently been among their number, and yet now he was preparing to go against all those years of training. Again. Still, he too was bound to Raed and knew him for a good man.

So, pushing off from the wall, he smiled at his partner. “Then let us do just that.”

The brightness of Sorcha’s smile could have melted winter ice.

Merrick held up his hand. “On one condition—we do not go haring off without preparing properly.”

Sorcha’s lips twitched, but she sketched a bow in front of him. “Whatever you say, my lord Chambers.”

That one gesture brought up long-forgotten memories, which he struggled to stuff down. With a cough he turned away. “Let’s adjourn to my cell and see if we can find out what that message of yours really meant.”

The dormitory was quiet at this time of day, with most Deacons being on duty, but a few retired to their cells to study or mediate with the talisears of trof their art. Sorcha had moved from a large cell shared with Deacon Petav to a smaller one next to Merrick’s. It was a significant sign that he knew had caused the birth of many rumors.

Despite being serious people dedicated to protecting the world, Deacons were just as prone to foibles as the rest of humanity, and gossip could be as rampant in the dormitory as at any boarding school. Though Merrick had gotten over his fear of his partner, he was not going to reach out to her in that intimate way. They already had enough complications in their lives.

His cell was just like every other one in the dormitory: whitewashed, narrow, containing a bed and a set of camphor wood drawers. A Deacon was only supposed to have enough possessions that could be carried in saddlebags—a throwback to their history of wandering the land serving the people. It was all very different from his childhood as a young aristocrat.

Merrick rolled the meditation rug out on the floor. It was a fine piece of tapestry with the Ten Runes of Dominion and the Seven Runes of Sight on it. It was woven by the lay Brothers with fine Frigyian wool and was the only splash of color to be found in the room. The runes themselves, unlike cantrips, held no particular power—only when carved on the Gauntlets or Strop by a Deacon were they given potency—but they did serve the purpose to concentrate a Deacon’s mind. In the days before the Break of the Otherside, the ancient days when the Order had been a religious one, it would have been called a prayer rug.

Sorcha knelt on it, her fingertips brushing the Runes of Dominion, while Merrick took up a mirror place next to those of Sight. He did not need to work hard to find the rune Sielu, the First. Activating this old friend did not require the Strop over his eyes.

“Think of the spectyr,” he said in a soft undertone. “Think of what it showed you.”

Sorcha sighed, sounding exasperated, as if she would rather be running to the stable for their horses. The Bond suggested that was exactly her immediate instincts.

“Sorcha,” Merrick snapped, closing his eyes, “concentrate!”

Sinking back on her heels, he was surprised when she didn’t reply. Against his eyes the images she had been fed by the spectyr danced. They were quick, like a flicker of cards in the hands of a master player.

Merrick invoked the rune: capturing the images, holding them, and then seamlessly playing them back through the Bond. Sorcha hissed over her teeth, and that was the only admission of admiration his partner would give.

Indeed, there was a lot of blood in the imagery—and a lot of it was flowing from Raed. The Rossin was also there—dying. It was a great red room, but the details were obscured. The flicker passed on, and he saw something that he immediately recognized. It was not anywhere that he had been, but as an avid student, Merrick had no trouble identifying the Hive City.

“ Orinthal.” It sat on his tongue like a foreign fruit, full of mystery and promise. His great-grandmother had come from there, bringing wealth to his great-grandfather’s meager estate—and adding a little dark coffee to their skin tone. He recalled the heavily wrought gold chain nestling against his mother’s collarbone as she told him bedtime stories that, to his childish imagination, had smelled of spices.

“Never heard of it.” Sorcha eased herself off the rug. “Damn it, I think my bones are getting older.”

Merrick refrained from making any jokes about his partnr’s not so really advanced years. She had a good ten on him but was still a handsome woman.

“The capital of Chioma. I will need to do some research, but I am sure that is what you saw.”

Sorcha leaned across to touch Merrick’s shoulder. “I know this sounds ridiculous . . . I admit we didn’t know Raed long, but—”

“I share the Bond with both of you,” he reminded her somewhat awkwardly. “I don’t want him to die either.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Sorcha said, stretching her back.

“To Orinthal, then,” he replied, and despite everything, he felt his own excitement rise.

Up there on the dais everything probably looked very simple. Sorcha, standing below on the mosaic floor of the Chapter House, tilted her head skyward and tried not to feel intimidated. She also tried not to glance to her right and see Kolya. Much as she’d hoped that her soon to be former husband would not be present at this hearing, he had found out. It was easy to guess who had given the game away.

Arch Abbot Rictun, wrapped in his cloak that was both blue and emerald green, sat on his newly carved chair and smiled down at her. Two chairs on his left and two chairs on his right held the rest of the Presbyterial Council. The only one Sorcha did not know well was Thorine Bolzak, the new Presbyter of the Actives. She was young and had been chosen by Rictun from one of the outlying Abbeys. When Zathra Trelaine had been promoted to Presbyter Secondo, Bolzak had been brought in to take his place. She was remarkably quiet for an Active, but maybe that was merely the shock of such a sudden elevation to power. And now she was one of the five people who held Sorcha’s future in her hands.

Merrick had not been included in this hearing. Having just finished her defense of the decision to stay with the younger Deacon rather than return to Kolya, she was feeling confident. That was until she locked her gaze with Rictun. Multicolored light from the windows gleamed on his golden hair, but there was no reflection in his eyes. With an inclination of his head, he let his words fall on her like little sharp stones. “We have still to decide on this issue, Deacon Faris.”

Kolya shifted beside her. Once, his attention was the only thing she wanted, and she had dreamed of her husband fighting for her. However, he had let those times pass by, and now he couldn’t seem to understand that she no longer cared. Sorcha carefully tucked her hands under her blue cloak, behind her back, and squeezed them so tightly her knuckles cracked. She counted her breathing, one, two, before opening her mouth.

Melisande Troupe spoke before any words could escape Sorcha. The Presbyter of the Young brushed her white gold hair from her eyes and spoke in a gentle tone. “You must not think us unmoved by your plight, Deacon Faris and Deacon Petav.”

Yvril Mournling, the Presbyter of the Sensitives, fixed Sorcha with a hard gray gaze. “We are still looking for precedent for your . . . peculiar situation.” He gestured to the stack of leather-bound books piled by his chair. “The partnership between Active and Sensitive is sacred—even if you think of it a tad more lightly than we do.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Kolya broke in, his voice calm and dispassionate. “While our marriage vows may be broken with ease, the Bond we made within the Order should not be so lightly abandoned.”

“The Bond can be broken by death or madness—lack of love should b another reason.” Sorcha cleared her throat. “With respect, while you wait to test our case, neither of us can move on. Do you not think this a waste of our talents?”

Rictun snorted, but when Presbyter Secondo Zathra Trelaine spoke, he was abruptly silent. The old man’s voice was cracked like a piece of sun-dried leather, but it had the weight of authority and wisdom. “She does have a point. Deacon Faris is the most powerful Active we have—having her sit idle goes against good sense.”

Sorcha caught a breeze of a chance. She dipped her head so that the Arch Abbot would not see how much she needed this. “I would like to get out of Vermillion for a while, Presbyters. Just for a time, to let the dust settle and while you decide. Having Deacon Chambers, Petav, and me in the confines of Vermillion has become untenable.”

“I am sorry you find this situation awkward”—Kolya stepped forward into her field of vision—“but this has never happened before—and I think—”

“Having both you and Deacon Petav in the same place is rather disturbing,” Presbyter Troupe broke in. The corners of her beautiful lips lifted. “Especially to my charges.” She directed her brown eyes on their very new Arch Abbot. “At the moment we all need stability. Time to heal.”

Sorcha could swear that her breath was choking her throat. Presbyters were nominated for their skills but elected by all of the Order. The Arch Abbot was chosen by the Presbyterial Council—but people in that position had been unceremoniously removed before. Rictun was still very green and undoubtedly anxious not to be the shortest reigning Arch Abbot in the history of the Order of the Eye and the Fist.

A little muscle in his jaw began to twitch. “Very well, perhaps a small break from this tension will be good for everyone in the Mother Abbey.”

Kolya’s shoulders slumped a little, but he dared not challenge the Arch Abbot—that would have been supremely out of character. He glanced over at Sorcha, his look pleading, but any power he had to move her had been washed away through years of disappointment. She would not show an ounce of sympathy for him; she knew how he turned that always to his advantage.

“I have just the role for Deacons Faris and Chambers.” Yvril Mournling’s eyes fixed Sorcha to the spot. She recalled how he had covered up the wild talent Merrick had used to save Raed. It was still uncertain why exactly he had done that. The Presbyter flicked his cloak aside with his great sinewy hands. “The delegation from Chioma needs two Deacons as escort home.”

Presbyter Bolzak was looking nervously between her colleagues, feeling the tension but not knowing what to do about it. She shifted in her carved wooden chair uncomfortably. “You mean the delegation dealing with the Emperor’s marriage negotiations?”

It was the talk of Vermillion and had been for weeks. The Principality of Chioma was far to the south, a kingdom that had stuck firmly to its traditions. Yet it was also rich with gold, spices and gems. The delegation had come to negotiate for one of its princesses to marry the Emperor.

Rictun’s smile was thin, and Sorcha could almost hear him thinking. Chioma in summer would be hot, dusty and damn uncomfortable. The Arch Abbot nodded. “Indeed—a fine idea, Presbyter Mournling. The journey will give Deacon Faris here time to think and decide if this is what she truly wants.”

“And carry messages to the Hive City,” the Presbyter of the Sensitives agreed.

“The . . . Hive City?” Sorcha dared a question.

Mournling nodded, his eyes drifting to a point somehow past her. “The city of Orinthal is made of the mud of the land, baked hard, like the homes certain insects of that place build.”

Deacon Faris had to swallow hard while the image of a tall earthen building, made of ocher earth, rose against a flawless blue sky. It was the city the spectyr had shown her. Risking a glance at the Presbyter, she caught a flicker of something that might have been the slightest inclination of the head. Mournling was among the greatest Sensitives of his age—and she shouldn’t have been surprised he had gleaned something from her thoughts.

Presbyter Trelaine leaned back in his chair. “I concur; let us have some more time and send our best Active to guard the Ambassador. It seems a good choice to me, and it will please the Emperor.”

Rictun waved Sorcha away. “Go, make your arrangements. The Presbyter Secondo will give you details later.”

Sorcha tried not to show her joy as she left. Despite everything, she did not want to rub Kolya’s face in her little victories. She had no idea what Mournling was doing—why he was helping them—but one thing was sure: she had more allies than she ever guessed.

The Hive City of Orinthal awaited, as did Raed Rossin, the one man she wanted to see above all others in the world. It was almost enough to make her start believing in fate. Almost.