Spectyr

He gave an awkward little bow to Yohari. “If we could talk to you in private, Abbot. We have some concerns about what is happening in Orinthal.”

The smile faded on their superior’s face. “You are not the only one, Brother.” He gestured them in toward the cool interior of the building.

Once inside, Merrick could feel a little of his calm returning—enough to notice the architecture. Again he was reminded how very different Chioma was. All Abbeys, even the Mother one, were rather stark, removed of any decoration that harked back to the little gods. In this principality, however, the Order of the Eye and the Fist had to tread carefully, and the Priory held on to its religious roots in ways that would have shocked the Order back home.

The symbol of Hatipai was repeated on the tiny tiles that decorated the inside of the Abbot’s receiving room, and they made Merrick deeply uncomfortable. So he took a seat in the sunny nook where he wouldn’t have to look at them directly. A tall, clear window surrounded by panes of colored glass looked out over the city, and Sorcha remained standing before it. Her nerves would have been apparent even without the Bond.

“I too have seen the shades.” Yohari’s voice was now solemn; the act outside had been for the benefit of his Deacons. He gestured over to the desk where his Strop sat. “The gathering of them on the hills began two days ago along with an increase in general geist activity. So few of my Deacons are here in the Abbey—nearly every one fit for duty is out fighting the good fight.”

He leaned back, steepled his fingers and looked at them sternly. “If you were not escorting the royal Ambassador, I might prevail on you to assist.”

“Perhaps we could find some time . . .” Sorcha offered.

The Abbot inclined his head. “No, protecting the Ambassador is vitally important.”

Now Merrick was curious. “I am sorry, but we were given this job merely as a court. We weren’t told to guard—”

“I think we can all agree circumstances have changed.” Yohari gestured to the corner where a gleaming blue orb rested atop a brass stand. Merrick saw Sorcha flinch at the weirstone, but even she couldn’t complain about the Abbot having one or their use in the Imperial air navy. They made many things possible, the most important of which being communication between far-flung Abbeys, Priories and cells.

“I am waiting on word from the Presbyterial Council,” the Abbot rumbled, “though I certainly cannot mount an attack on them in the hills—not when the city needs protecting.”

Merrick nodded. If it was beyond the Abbot’s experience, then waiting was the wiser course. “Then may I ask permission to examine your library, Father Abbot?”

“The library?”

“If there is no service we can offer you, then I would very much like to view the treasures in it.” Merrick tried to keep the hint of avarice out of his voice.

The Abbot dismissed them quickly—having ascertained that two more Deacons would not make those hovering shades disappear. They took their leave from Yohari, and Sorcha let out a long sigh of relief.

They stood in the quiet corridor as lay Brothers began to light candles around them against the drawing night. Even so, Merrick could make out deep shadows beneath Sorcha’s eyes. “Go get some rest.”

She raised an eyebrow at his almost commanding tone. “I hope you are not going all mother hen on me. Remember, I am old enough to actually be your mother.”

He laughed at that. “You’re not that ancient.” He chuckled somewhat forcibly. “I just think we need to be fresh tomorrow.”

Even Sorcha, spoiling for a fight, couldn’t argue with that. She rolled her shoulders and let her eyes close for a moment. “A cool bath and a warm cigar would be splendid. Are you really set on scouring the library?” He grinned, and she sighed theatrically. “I see you are.”

“I managed to sleep on the Summer Hawk,” he lied, knowing that thanks to their unusual Bond she wouldn’t believe it anyway. It was a little game they played.

Sorcha clapped him on the shoulder and then, muttering to herself, left him to it.

The Abbey was silent around Merrick, but that was just fine. He was itching to see what the library might hold. After a few wrong turns he found it.

It was larger than he had expected and packed with books, scrolls and manuscripts that made his blood rush. He was hoping to find something in here that might account for the cloud of shades, yet his scholarly instincts made him just want to dive in.

The sun began to creep down behind the horizon, and still Merrick kept scouring the shelves. He knew if he looked out the window aimed toward the mountains he would get all the inspiration he needed. Yet the library was proving a disappointment. Most of the works here were about Hatipai, and there was only so much adulation to a goddess even he could take.

Finally Merrick slumped down at the broad table in the middle of the room and admitted defeat. With his head in his hands, exhaustion began to overcome him; the long hours of traveling finally catching up.

He was just about to stagger upright and go to find a place to give in to sleep—when a strange noise made him pause. It sounded like onhe eerie sounds made by the Chiomese nose flute—the kind of vibrating noise that had sent him as a child running for his mother’s lap. It filled the long lines of shelves with a kind of tuneless vibration that he could feel in his bones.

Then the whispering began. A cool chill ran up his neck, as subvocal human noises echoed through the library. He was sure that there were words in there, but as much as he strained his ears, he could make none out. So he did the one thing that a trained Sensitive Deacon would always do; Merrick closed his eyes and flung out his Center.

His awareness spread wide over the whole building. He could count every Deacon in the Abbey and every animal too. Swallows were nesting under the building’s roof, a colony of ants were harvesting leaves from the garden, and a hundred tiny pinpricks of awareness in his sight showed where earthworms were digging deep in the soil seeking whatever moistness remained there. He could sense all of these tiny things, yet apart from himself and a straying bee battering itself against the window, there was nothing else in the library. No hint of the Otherside was anywhere in the room.

Merrick told himself that, yet the ominous sounds continued around him. They ebbed away, seeming to move through the stacks of books, roll around in the corners and come back stronger.

Wrapped in confusion, he took a step back, banging into the table. All of his life in the Order he had been able to depend on his Sight—it was the one constant. And more than that, he was the best at what he did. His tutors had told him so. He had been partnered with Sorcha Faris because of it. It was the one thing he relied on.

His childhood had been ravaged. Every happy memory had been stained by seeing his father killed on the stairs of their castle by a terrifying, still unidentified geist. So he had run, taken another name, taken refuge in the Order—because that was what they offered—order. And now, in one instant, he was beginning to doubt all that.

The whispering continued, as if mocking his uncertainty. It sounded harsh and demanding now—like all his worst thoughts were bubbling to the surface. Merrick’s head was spinning, and he had the horrible feeling that maybe he was going mad. No—he would not allow that. Surely madness was something that came on gradually, not as a sudden avalanche of half-heard voices. Perhaps the Bond that Sorcha had created with the Cursed Young Pretender was having consequences; maybe the Rossin power was finally corrupting him.

Then just as the whispers rose to the point where he could almost discern words—there was silence. Abrupt and total; the atmosphere went from tense to serene. Merrick stood very still and held his breath. His mind raced to find an explanation.

It had not been a geist. So what else could it have been? If only he were back in the Mother Abbey. He might have plundered their larger library or had a quiet word in Deacon Reeceson’s ear, because one explanation remained: a wild talent.

Shaking, Merrick sat on the nearest chair. He’d tried to block out all memory of the incident outside the jail. Just after they had rescued Raed, the three of them had been nearly torn apart by an angry mob. He had no clue how he had brought all those people to their knees racked by sorrow—but he had.

The wild talents, not sanctioned by the Order, were dangerous things to admit to. Even Deacon Reeceson, an elderly and venerable member of the Order, kept his gift of prescience to himself—sharing it with very few. So when Merrick thought of what these whispers might mean, what wild talent they might evealing, he shuddered.