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.