“Everything since that damn geist in the mob has been madness.” Her mind suddenly knew that too had been planned, to get Kolya out of the way and make room for Merrick.
“Are you going to finish what you started, or have yourself a temper tantrum on the floor?” Garil asked mildly. “Merrick is no more able to tell you these things than you can tell us how to control the Gauntlets. He is not the one who can explain.”
“The Arch Abbot,” Raed growled. “It’s about time we went and got some bloody answers—and he must have them if anybody does!”
With a start, Sorcha realized a tremble was growing in her hands. She had known Hastler all her life, traveled with him from Delmaire hot with the fervor of her convictions. To all of the Deacons, he had been a hero, someone ready to lead them to glory and victory. She recalled him serving her hot tea, the calm smile on his face—she’d thought it meant he knew something she did not. She hoped it was not true in the worst sense.
Straightening, she looked at Garil, who was watching her with hooded eyes. “If you cannot tell us what lies ahead, what is the use of your gift?”
His old eyes watered slightly. “I have often asked myself that question. I can only see pathways, Little Red—possibilities. If you get your answers from the Arch Abbot, then I may be able to point you in a direction. However”—he reached out and grabbed her hand—“I can tell you one thing: I am not the only one with these gifts.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, her lips yearning to be clamped around a cigar. “Come on, then . . . We came here for a reason. Let’s go get this whole mess sorted out.” The clench of her innards, however, told her she might not like the answers when they finally came.
Merrick watched Sorcha slide on her Gauntlets, and then shot a glance across at Garil. The older man would not meet his eyes. All Sensitives prepared for the day when their final training might be needed—and every one of them hoped never to use it.
Raed wouldn’t look at anyone either. The Pretender stood glaring into the fire, his fists clenched on the mantel.
“She meant well,” Merrick muttered to the other man. “She meant to protect you from the Rossin.”
Raed grinned, but it was a bleak expression with no comfort in it. “Who knows what she was trying to do, Merrick, but now we are all stuck. Not much else we can do but go on.”
The three of them did, indeed, have no choice. Garil would tell them no more, though Merrick was sure that the elder Sensitive had Seen paths of both success and devastation ahead of them. He had brought them back from the Otherside, and his part for now had apparently been played as he had Seen.
“So, what is the plan?” Raed asked, his hand curling around the hilt of his saber. “Are we just charging in?”
“Hopefully, just walking,” Sorcha replied mildly, though she sang with tension through the Bond. Unlike Merrick, she might not remember the glimpse of the geist realm, but the body and soul did.
“With all these Sensitives around?” the Pretender asked.
Sorcha’s lips twitched. “In the history of the Order, no one has ever breached a Mother Abbey. Those few on watch will have their Sight fixed on the walls.”
“And the others?”
She raised a finger to her lips. “I strongly suggest silence.”
They slipped out into the frosty night air where their cart stood. The donkey was mercifully quiet, his head drooping slightly as he chewed on scruffy lavender that grew against the wall. Avoiding the loud white gravel of the paths, they followed alongside them farther into the complex, toward the Abbey itself.
It had been only a few short weeks since the two Deacons had walked here with all the possession of belonging. Now every tiny noise made Merrick’s heart leap. He could, of course, send his Center out, but then their chances of being detected would be even greater. To any Sensitive, another’s Center would be a bright beacon, and would be bound to invite investigation in the quiet of night.
Instead, they had to rely on soft footsteps and low breath to get them deeper in. They kept to the shadows of the gardens and worked their way toward the side entrances. Above them towered the shape of the Devotional, the tallest building in Vermillion—not even the magnificent Imperial Palace stood as high and proud. The great spire blocked out sections of the stars like some ancient giant; that which had been so comforting to Merrick now seemed to loom over him like a disapproving parent.
The cool feel of the wall cut like ice against his back as they took their bearings before entering.
“Guards within?” Raed’s whisper sounded loud in the still silence.
Sorcha shook her head mutely, unable to meet the Pretender’s eyes. They might have been manipulated into this Bond, but Merrick could feel the strength in it. She had woven the Bond with Raed as casually as she had with Merrick, but it was as deep and as powerful as any he had studied. If he concentrated, he could actually feel the Rossin hidden with Raed, like a coiled darkness waiting to be set loose among them.
For a second, the Beast looked back at him, with ancient eyes that surveyed him as if he were an insect. Merrick broke away with a little gasp.
The Pretender, with no trained senses, was already moving toward the door. Merrick had to hurry to catch up with the other two as they lifted the bar and slipped into the Abbey. It was colder inside than outside. Merrick’s breath fluttered white in front of his eyes.
Hunched low, they ran up the nave toward the rear of the Devotional, where a series of doors led to the living quarters of the Arch Abbot and the Presbyters. Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick saw something twist like a glimpse of ash blowing through the air, and instinct made him grab hold of both his companions. He yanked hard, since yelling would have only echoed down the stone Devotional like a gunshot.
No one ever expected Sensitives to be physical—but like the Actives they had their own training regime. Geists were supposed to ignore Sensitives, but that didn’t mean that humans always would, and geists were not the only threats a Deacon faced. The other two jerked to a halt, and he pressed them down among the pews with a hand on each of their backs.
Something white was indeed floating in the opposite direction from them, only a few feet away. He could barely believe it—there had not been any geists, any shades, in the Abbey, since the first few days after their arrival. And yet there it was; a shade in the deepest sanctuary of the Order. The pale, flickering form lit up a corner of the vast building with a shifting blue-white light, a shimmering flutter to normal eyes. But when Merrick used his Sight, he could make out far more detail. What he Saw took his breath away.
The face, tilted slightly upward toward the rose window, was bone-white and skeletal, so the victim was long dead. But it was the robes it wore—the cloak of a Deacon—that appalled him. He could make out the hint of blue about the clothing, through the Sight, and when it turned, even the glimpse of gold could be made out at the shade’s shoulder. It was the mark of an Order, indeed, but a graceful circle encompassed the five bright stars, rather than the fist and eye of the newcomers from Delmaire. The stars were the symbol of the native Order, the one that had destroyed itself nearly seventy years before the Emperor and his Arch Abbot had come across the water.
Raed’s eyes widened and Merrick knew why. The Rossin twitched, stirring with that hidden part of the Pretender. The thought of the Beast loose in the Abbey was a nightmare that Merrick couldn’t let become real.
The younger man called not on his training, but on his past. He whispered across the Bond, words of comfort and calm—the words of a mother to a restless child; soothing balm to a creature not even human. And they worked. Sorcha might not have known what she was doing when she made that Bond, but there was no doubting the strength of her work.