Wrayth

TWELVE For Services Rendered

Merrick’s dreams were a confused tumble. He held Nynnia in his arms, but she crumbled to dust, and he could not hold her together. She sifted through his fingers and was lost.

Zofiya danced away from him covered in blood and cradling the Emperor’s severed head in her arms. The dead Arch Abbot, Rictun’s predecessor, Hastler wrapped himself around Merrick, whispering of conspiracies and murders still unfolding. The flames of war covered the Empire and Merrick was carrying a water bucket with a hole in it. Finally, he heard Sorcha call his name, but found his mouth stitched shut so he could not call back to her.

Yes, Sorcha was calling him.

Merrick lurched upright in the magnificent bed of the Grand Duchess Zofiya and for a moment had no clue where he was. Looking around he realized morning light flooded the bedroom and sparkled on all the treasures of an Imperial sibling. Calming his breathing, he closed his eyes and put aside the residual panic of the nightmare. Then the Deacon opened his Center and felt along the Bond.

She was there. His partner, Deacon Sorcha Faris was distant, and growing more distant by the moment, but he could feel her once more as a presence. Wherever she was, his Active had gotten free of the affliction that she had suffered from ever since Orinthal. Just how she had been healed when all the best minds of the Mother Abbey’s infirmary had been left baffled remained unclear.

Merrick let out a long, slow sigh of relief, and closed his eyes. It was true, he still felt guilty for not being there, and he was sure Sorcha was annoyed he was not, but at least he knew she lived. However, if she lived, she would find her way back to him. Deacon Faris was many things, but helpless was not one of them.

Hurry back. We need you. He sent that along the Bond, but the distance was too great for him to tell if she heard him or not. For a moment he sat poised, waiting for a response, but was not surprised when there was none. Even if she had heard his message she was probably not able to send one in return. There were a few things Sensitives always remained better at: diplomacy and messages were merely two.

The young Deacon pushed aside the fluttering sails of the canopy, and opened his eyes for the second time. He was ill equipped to be meeting this very important day, being both sleep deprived, and uncertain how the Grand Duchess would treat him.

As it turned out, he did not have to worry that Zofiya would treat him as a plaything or a marriage prospect, because she simply wasn’t there. Merrick laid his hand on the spot where she had collapsed after their exertions of the previous night: it was cold.

As a Grand Duchess she undoubtedly had many duties to attend: with the Imperial Guard, and her brother. Yet, he could not help being a little disappointed that she had not lingered. It would have been very pleasant to wake to her touch, and steal a few more kisses before the serious business of the day began.

As Merrick opened his Center once again, and sent it questing through the corridors for Zofiya, he found something else interesting. A large group of Imperial Guards was striding down the halls. They were accompanied by the Emperor himself, so something was surely afoot. It was not his concern, but it would be something that his new lover should be aware of.

With effortless ease, Merrick opened his Center wider and let it travel the length of the palace to find her. It dived down to the dungeons and the kitchens where people toiled. It scampered through the rooms of the powerful and aristocratic where they lay recovering from a surplus of wine. It twined through the ballrooms and card rooms that were being tidied by tired servants. Every man, woman and beast in the palace of Vermillion was accounted for.

About the time that a frown creased Merrick’s brow, at the exact moment he realized he could not sense the Grand Duchess anywhere in the palace, that was when the group of armed Imperial Guards burst through the privy chamber and charged into the bedroom itself. At their head was indeed the Emperor Kaleva of Arkaym himself. Unlike many who he had entertained the previous night, there was not a hair out of place on his dark head. He was dressed in the white uniform and sash that he wore when at state occasions—though why, was impossible to say. The other thing he wore was a very angry face.

Merrick was not at all used to the situation. He was more adept at helping rid the world of geists than at being caught in a young woman’s bedroom by her very angry brother. However why the Emperor would be so furious was inexplicable—no one could think the Grand Duchess a virgin; she’d taken other lovers in the Court before.

However, any more ruminations on exactly what was happening were cut short when the Emperor pointed at Merrick. “Seize this traitor!”

The Deacon forgot to breathe. Perhaps he was still enmeshed in those extraordinarily strange dreams? No Emperor or King could possibly ever call one of the Order a traitor. Rictun’s mad laughter as he summoned the Murashev was not a recollection he wanted to have at this moment. Yet that was the only example he could think of.

Merrick didn’t know how to react—however he was sure of one thing—he did not want to face his Emperor with not a stitch on. Quickly, before the Imperial Guards could reach him, the Deacon slipped into his trousers. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he began, but got no further.

“Bind his tongue,” the Emperor barked, “and then bring me his Strop!”

Two burly guards grabbed hold of Merrick and pinned him facedown on the bed before he could protest further. Another man appeared and what he carried made the young Deacon begin to struggle. In the old days, when a Deacon went mad and his brethren felt he might harm the innocent, a device called a brank was used. It was a large metal mask, with eyeholes cut out, and a strap underneath to prevent its removal. However its worst feature was a curving line of metal that was meant to run from each side of the prisoner’s mouth and hold their tongue still. Rows of spikes meant that any who attempted to talk paid a bloody price for it. To make it extra secure for the containment of a Deacon, a circle of weirstones was embedded around the crown.

They must have had to bring that from the palace dungeons, because he had not seen one except in a history book. He’d never thought to see one, and now that he had, the Deacon wished it very much gone.

It might not have been very dignified, but Merrick was not going to have his chance to talk to his Emperor before being taken away. Twisting, he managed to land a blow between the legs of the guard to his left, and then swung around, wriggling free of the other.

He only managed another “Your Imperial Majesty” before reinforcement guards surged forward and brought him crashing to the floor. Primitive instincts kicked in, and the Deacon still tried his best to get free, despite the pummeling he took for it.

It was a game he couldn’t win, and eventually with a great deal of swearing and hair yanking from the guards, they managed to manhandle the brank around Merrick’s head. They jammed it on with such force that it cracked the corners of his mouth and raked his tongue. The Deacon gagged on his own blood, while struggling to retain his consciousness. He could see only the carpet in front of him and a lined mass of Imperial Guardsmen feet. This was one terrible nightmare. This had to be what this was.

One more kick to his side rather destroyed that hope. No, it was real, and he was bound. Alone. Cut off from that which mattered most to him.

Out of the corner of one straining eye, he spotted a guard gingerly rifling through his bag lying on one of Zofiya’s velvet chairs. The investigator was clever enough not to pick up the Strop directly when he found it. Instead, using a pair of long-handled pliers, the guard pulled out the thick strip of leather, decorated with Merrick’s sigil and the Runes of Sight, and placed it in a silver tin. This too was studded with weirstones.

They had certainly come prepared. He had been anything but. Merrick could have kicked himself for underestimating del Rue, but surely the Mother Abbey would sort this out. Bedding a Grand Duchess was against no Imperial ruling or Order stricture. He had done nothing wrong.

The guards, now assured that he was neutralized, bound his hands behind his back, and hauled him to his feet. The Emperor still looked furious. “Where is she?”

Merrick shook his head to clear it, but stripped of his Sight and his voice, he was befuddled. How did the Emperor expect him to answer with the brank on? This was utter madness.

Then the enormity of what the Emperor had asked settled over him, and he was able to connect it with the discovery he had made just as they burst into the bedchamber. Zofiya was missing.

Now this situation became more than just a ridiculous reaction to his bedding a Grand Duchess. It became something far more sinister. Despite the pain it caused him he managed a muffled, “I don’t know!” Then gulped back the mouthful of blood that was the result.

The Emperor’s hands balled into fists. Merrick had never seen this side of his ruler before. It was frightening to see him so unhinged. “We all saw one of you damned Deacons with her, phasing through the wall. You took her, and by the time my torturers—”

“Your Imperial Majesty, I am here as requested.” Yvril Mournling, Presbyter of the Sensitives, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his hands folded into the sleeves of his green cloak. His face was as serene as if he were having tea with Kaleva rather than interrupting him threatening one of his fellow Brothers.

Mournling’s gray eyes flicked over the brank and the wide-eyed Merrick trapped within it, but he did not flinch.

“I most certainly did not request your presence,” the Emperor growled. “This man is involved in the disappearance of my royal sister, and I will have answers.”

“This Deacon,” Mournling emphasized, not moving an inch, “looks currently unable to answer any questions. Also, the Mother Abbey is the only one equipped to deal with his interrogation.”

“And how,” Kaleva said, his eyes darting around the room, “did you come to arrive here so quickly since no one sent for you?”

The Presbyter remained unmoved by the tone of his Emperor’s voice. “We are Sensitives, Your Imperial Majesty. He is our brother and our responsibility—as when we first set out with you from Delmaire.” It was so close to a slap in the face that Merrick could scarcely believe it. The Order of the Eye and the Fist swore an oath to the Emperor himself, and it was generally accepted they were part of his government. Deacons could requisition airships, command troops and enter and leave the palace as they saw fit.

After the Native Order was thought to have been destroyed, the geists came back. Everyone knew that without the new Order, Arkaym would have been overrun with the unliving and impossible for the Emperor or anyone else to rule effectively. Before their arrival with Kaleva the once-unified continent had devolved into petty principalities on the verge of losing control. Trade had dried up, and that had been what forced Princes to send for a new leader from Delmaire.

Stunned and injured as he was, Merrick suddenly saw how precarious a thing the relationship between the Emperor and his Order was. It looked vulnerable as it never had before, and as he swallowed blood he thought of the man that called himself del Rue whispering into Kaleva’s ear for all that time. He began to realize the damage that could be done with words—far more than if the Order of the Circle of Stars had stormed the Abbey with Gauntlets blazing.

Perhaps Zofiya’s disappearance was the kind of punctuation mark del Rue needed with the Emperor.

Both men waited as still as statues: the representative of an Order that had brought Arkaym back from chaos, and the Emperor who had been called from Delmaire to rule it.

A tiny muscle twitched in the Emperor’s jaw, but finally he spat out, “Very well, take him before your Council—for now—but my Guards will escort you back to your Abbey. I will expect your Arch Abbot to appear before me before midday.”

Merrick found himself yanked to his feet and bundled from the room. Mournling led the way, his hands still tucked in his sleeves. The Emperor could be heard behind them, yelling at the remains of his Guard. Despite Zofiya’s voiced concerns that her brother had been pulling away from her recently, he sounded quite unhinged.

Still the fact was the Grand Duchess was gone, and if the Emperor had him killed, Merrick would never be able to find her and get her back. He’d lost far too many women in his young life. He certainly was not going to lose another one. First things first; he had to get out of this dangerous situation.

The young Deacon was still in the brank, and Mournling was not making any attempt to have it removed. Merrick kept his head bowed, and tried to hold his tongue flat enough that it didn’t hurt.

They passed through the hallways, which were lined with members of the Court. He didn’t need his Sensitivity to tell him what they were thinking. Their pale faces, and the way they wouldn’t look directly at him said quite enough. Maybe it was a good thing Sorcha was gone.

They filed out of the palace, and through the courtyard, standing in two silent rows, were twenty pairs of Deacons. The line of grim hooded figures awaiting him made Merrick more fearful than he had been back before the Emperor. The Order was not without punishments of its own.

The Imperial Guards handed the young Deacon over to his brethren, and just as quietly they turned and took him from the palace grounds. Presbyter Mournling was at his side, and now apparently felt free to talk. “The brank,” he spoke softly to Merrick, not turning his head to address him, “is an unfortunate device, but we dare not remove it until we reach the Mother Abbey. You should be lucky that the Emperor’s Sensitive was watching the ether so closely last night. For now, please try your best not to talk, Deacon Chambers.”

They marched on farther downhill from the palace and the short distance back to the home of their Order. Merrick felt as if he were in the middle of an armed escort, though none of his fellow Deacons were actually carrying any weapons. It was a most odd sensation. As they approached the gates, he glanced up and noticed that for the first time ever there were hooded shapes also lining the walls.

The Mother Abbey was built within a great wall which had a portcullis and gates, but it was only manned at the entry—well, it had been. It looked like things had changed since he had left last night. Usually, even at the gate it was lay Brothers that took sentry duty. However those above were not in the gray. It looked like there would be no Feeding of the Poor today. That kindly ritual would have to wait. This all had to be on his account.

Merrick’s heart sank at seeing that, and he began to see the scope of what had happened in such a short time. He should perhaps have gone after Sorcha after all. Perhaps del Rue would not have moved so quickly if he hadn’t been there. Perhaps if a Deacon had not been in the Grand Duchess’ bed he would have taken more time to reveal his plan.

“You are beginning to see,” Mournling continued, “the consequences of what you have done, but you cannot possibly imagine them all. The Emperor has sent his Deacons back to us. For the first time since setting foot in Arkaym, Kaleva is without our protection.”

Worse and worse. Merrick couldn’t believe it was only half a day since he’d left the Mother Abbey. As he entered it again the angry stares and whispered comments followed him. At that moment he was almost glad not to be able to see into the minds of his fellow Deacons, or taste their contempt. All of them wore their hoods up, which mostly hid their faces and turned them into a rank of strangers. Except for one. Deacon Garil Reeceson stood to the rear of the crowd by the gate. His face was serious, but not angry. They shared more than just the Order and a history with Sorcha. Maybe he had come to make sure Merrick would not use his wild talent on the Deacons, or maybe he was there merely to give support. Merrick was not afforded the opportunity to find out.

“Take him to the Silence Room,” Mournling ordered once the gate was fastened. “Remove the brank once he is there.”

He stood before Merrick and looked at him; an odd mixture of compassion and distaste in his gray eyes. “The Presbyterial Council is in urgent session, and then Rictun will attend the Emperor. For now, this is the best I can do for you.”

Then his hand clamped down on Merrick’s shoulder as he repeated the mantra of the Sensitive, “See deep, fear nothing.” It was almost cruel to say such a thing, since both were impossible right now.

His fellow Deacons were however not unkind to him as they took him into the Devotional. The soaring walls, great vaulted ceilings and awe-inspiring stained glass windows had never felt anything but beautiful to him before this. Now, he feared where his colleagues were taking him.

Once, during his time in the novitiate, he and his class had been brought to the Silence Room. It had partly been to shatter any rumors and partly to serve as a warning. It was the Deacon equivalent of a geist horror story, since Deacons were not encouraged to fear the undead. Merrick had come late to the Order, but it had still frightened him.

All but two pairs of his escorts left him at the simple wooden door in the asp of the Devotional. One of the Actives removed a silver key etched with unfamiliar runes from her robe, and unlocked the door. When she turned and glanced at Merrick he was finally able to recognize her.

“Ofrior,” Merrick gasped out, before the brank reminded him he was not yet free of it. The pain had subsided to a dull burn, yet ranking his tongue against the spikes brought fresh waves of it back.

His friend from the novitiate winced, and held up her hand to the other Deacons about them. She glanced down into the darkness behind the open door and shook her head, then pulled him aside a little. While she dabbed gingerly at the fresh blood with her cloak sleeve, Ofrior Karli whispered to him. “Be strong, Merrick. The Abbey is in an uproar, but I heard old Mournling talking with Troupe just before we left. They said they have to be sure—it is their duty to keep the Emperor safe.”

“Ofrior!” Vermon, her Sensitive, gestured toward the door. “Now is not the time to disobey the Council.” He shot a slightly ashamed look in Merrick’s direction. “Sorry.”

The young Deacon couldn’t really say anything in reply, but he just nodded and gently pushed Ofrior’s hands away from his mouth. That she had used the sleeve of her own cloak to do it was enough kindness to get him through this.

However she would not go away. Her green eyes were wide, and she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him tight. “He also said something about the Pattern. I don’t know what that means Merrick, but he sounded…he sounded scared.” The two friends stared at each other for a moment.

The Pattern was a phrase he had never heard before, though he suspected he’d soon have ample time to mull it over.

Then he found himself whirled around. Vermon had lit a lantern and led the way down the spiral stairs down into the earth. Ofrior kept her hand on Merrick’s shoulder, which was just as well; with the brank still clamped around his face it was impossible for him to tilt his head down to see the steps. He would have stumbled and fallen several times without her assistance.

When they reached the bottom there were the rows of cells; four in all and every one empty. For the moment. They looked similar to any cell that might be found at the palace or in the office of the sheriff, except for one thing, the lining of the walls. Tiny slivers of weirstones were embedded in the stone of the walls, gleaming blue and beautiful. It was an expensive thing to do to control a Deacon—however the cell would be far more pleasant than the Emperor’s barbaric methods.

As carefully as they could Ofrior and Vermon took the brank off him. Merrick’s tongue was swollen and bleeding, and the corners of his mouth were not much better. Aside from the physical pain, he was still reeling from shock. He had no Strop. He was for all intents and purposes a normal citizen of the Empire—at least for his time down here.

“It won’t be long,” Ofrior said, as she guided him forward into the cell. That was the best she could offer as she first slid the bars shut and then pressed her hands against the weirstones.

That was when Merrick howled. He’d thought the brank was terrible, but in fact the room was worse. Instead of containing his powers, it flowed over them and ripped them from him. It was as if every nerve ending was set aflame, burning and cutting him to the bone. He lay on the floor, twitching and wide-eyed for a long time. Long after the other Deacons had left the room.

It took many hours for him to become used to the sensation of quiet that was buried in him. Eventually, he levered himself off the floor and made it to the hard bed of stone, covered with a thin blanket. Merrick sat there shivering, and tried to hold on to his sanity. The Bond was gone, the ever-present drone of life around him was gone, and most of all his awareness of self was badly bruised.

However, with all that extra noise gone, Merrick became aware of something else. A whisper in the corner of his mind, one that he’d been too busy to ever really notice.

And as he became slowly aware of it, the Deacon came to the horrifying conclusion that del Rue had been right. Beneath the Priory in Ulrich, on his first mission with Sorcha, he had taken a darkling into his soul. It had been a decision made in a desperate moment, and it had been instrumental in uncovering the rot in the town, but it had also exposed him to a little sliver of the undead.

Now, all alone in the Silence Room, she could be heard. A thin whisper of a life lost to conspiracy and treachery. One who had been taken by the machinations of the Order of the Circle of Stars.

He longed for his other partner. His living one.

“Sorcha,” he whispered into the silence, “I need you.”