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.