Once the ideas of what he could do within the Order were all run out, Merrick began instead to think through what his other options were; all of this while under the stern gaze of the Arch Abbot. That moment of consideration seemed to stretch forever, but really it didn’t take long for Merrick to make up his mind. Sorcha was his partner, and despite his love of the Order, he had seen its darker side. Corruption was not something alien to it, and Arch Abbot Rictun was no example of the best of their Order. Sorcha was. Maybe his partner was not perfect, but she had always been his back. No other Bond Merrick had ever heard of, or read of, had ever been as strong as theirs.
Quickly, he stifled these thoughts and decisions down. While it was entirely inappropriate for one Deacon to peer into the mind of another, he didn’t trust Rictun to not do what was inappropriate. While he did so, Merrick bowed—not too deep, lest the Arch Abbot suspect it was coming too easily—and sighed his regret. “Yes, Reverend Deacon. I am sorry, I guess I have just been confused by the last few months—and now this.”
The Arch Abbot stared at him with his jaw clenched—and there it was—the subtle probing of Merrick’s thoughts. Really an Arch Abbot, the only Deacon to be able to hold both talismans should have been better at this covert intrusion. That he was not, steeled Merrick’s determination that he was on the right path.
Merrick wondered what the punishment for daring to breach the mental defenses of an Arch Abbot would be. As he threw up a subterfuge of contrition tinged with an edge of outrage, he traced the lines of the rune Sielu and pressed it toward Rictun.
The Arch Abbot’s mind was a pit of unexpected fear. For a second Merrick teetered and almost fell into it. Everything was dangerous in the world. Everywhere in the Empire of Arkaym was danger and menace. Rictun was quite the consummate actor, the younger Deacon found. So much terror about what could be waiting around the corner was stuffed deep down inside him it really was amazing he didn’t just panic there and then.
His surface thoughts were easy to read: Rictun was relieved to be free of Sorcha and the trouble she always seemed to carry about with her. From her earliest days within the Order she had been a problem. A powder keg rocking on the edge of a great fall. The Deacons in charge at the time had foolishly accepted her, and for a while Rictun had been forced to deal with her. Now she was, with every moment, moving away from Vermillion and the Mother Abbey. Never had a thing been better done.
It was a tantalizing look into Sorcha’s past—a glimpse of something Merrick had in idle moments contemplated. Every Deacon had a past. Most were brought to the Order as children, and some of those children had been traumatized by geists before even getting there. Those that could best wield the runes were also the best focus for the unliving to attach themselves to, so the various Abbeys and Priories were used to dealing with problem children. Yet in Rictun’s mind Sorcha stood out.
Merrick was tempted to probe deeper, but the thought that she was moving away with every minute spurred him on. As quickly and efficiently as possible he let Sielu die away. After this, he would look differently at the Arch Abbot—but since he planned never to come back to the Mother Abbey that really did not matter.
“There is one other matter,” Merrick said, folding his hands into his cloak, just in case they shook a little. “Grand Duchess Zofiya has requested my presence tomorrow night at the Imperial Palace.”
“The Council are going to weigh the matter of your new Active partner.” Rictun smiled. It was as condescending and vile a smile as Merrick had ever seen. “I want you Bonded with someone more appropriate before the new moon. The Order has much for a Sensitive of your capacity to do—however it is the Emperor’s sister. I suppose the matter can be deferred until the day after.”
“Thank you, Reverend Father.” The title stuck in Merrick’s throat, but he comforted himself by thinking he would not have to choke it out much longer.
“You may go.” Rictun waved his hand. He paused and eyed the younger Deacon. “I can only apologize for you being paired with Deacon Faris. A more inappropriate pairing I cannot imagine, but as you know, that was my predecessor’s decision.”
Merrick nodded slowly, bowed, and made his exit. As he strode back to the dormitory he knew that the one thing he needed, but was unlikely to get this night, was sleep. After tomorrow, once he left Vermillion he would be a renegade, hunted down by every Deacon and Imperial Guard. If they considered him a real threat they would most likely form up a Conclave of Deacons and set them after him.
With those odds stacked against him, he would need a very good ally—a very powerful one. He would wait one night, because fortunately he knew where he could find one of those. Tomorrow night, he best dress the part.
SIX
Unholy and Unhappy Choices
Aachon did not like flying one little bit. He had not enjoyed it on his first occasion when traveling from Ulrich to Vermillion. That had been a mission of deadly importance—just like this one. Only grave matters would get the huge first mate of the Dominion on board a flying deathtrap.
Not that he said as much when he handed over his documents to Quent Lepzig, the captain of the Autumn Eagle. He was a small, neat man, with a ruddy mustache and the gleam of command in his eye—the same look Raed possessed. That at least made Aachon feel marginally better and he took it perhaps as a sign of good luck.
Captain Lepzig glanced up at Aachon and frowned slightly. “It says here I am to go wherever you need to. This is a little strange; to have no destination is dangerous for an airship. If we need to refuel and there is no station…”
“Would you care to pop back to the Mother Abbey and ask the Presbyter himself?” Aachon rumbled sternly. “I am sure he would not mind being woken up at this hour.”
The captain swallowed and glanced up and down the length of his deck, perhaps checking that none of his crew were near enough to hear. No man in command liked to be dressed down, especially on his own vessel, but Aachon could not afford to let this captain think he had the upper hand. “I understand the needs of the Order come above anything but the Emperor himself.” He straightened as he spoke, but it was a pointless exercise against Aachon’s height.
As they stood awkwardly to one side of the gangplank of the Autumn Eagle, the half dozen crew of the Dominion he had brought with him appeared from the darkness. Most were only lightly encumbered, their covert methods of traveling to reach Vermillion had seen to that. However, Serigala and Arriann were not so lucky; they carried Sorcha between them wrapped in a blanket. They were both strong lads from the isles and hefted her as easily as if she were a bundle of laundry.
Captain Lepzig flicked aside the covering and stared at the comatose Deacon for a moment.
“This looks like Deacon Faris,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “I had heard she was struck down, but what use is she to you now?”
Aachon folded his arms in front of his barrel chest. “What use she is to us is quite frankly no business of yours, Captain. Now where shall we put her?”
Lepzig’s mustache fairly bristled. “The aft cabin is available. May I be permitted to ask what direction we should head, since we have no destination?”
“Cast off and set course for west for the moment, but I will give you course corrections as they need to be made.” Aachon stared down at Lepzig and realized that they could be stuck together for quite some time. Taking that into consideration he decided to soften his approach. “I apologize that I cannot tell you our eventual heading.” He jerked his head in the direction the lads were carrying Sorcha. “She will tell us that as we go.”