secrets than was right. She was just about to demand some sort of explanation when Merrick flicked two sheets aside and saw a scene that neither of them could walk away from—even if they wanted to.
Abbot Yohari was the last person Sorcha would have expected to see in the back alleys of Orinthal, especially bleeding on the ground holding up the blue fire shield of Aydien while being attacked by his own Deacons.
Merrick stood there for a moment, horrified by the sight of those attackers Delie and Jey. The older partner saw Sorcha and smiled—a smile that sank reality into the Vermillion Dacon’s heart. She was not wearing her Gauntlets—the other Active most certainly was.
It was not the first time she had faced off against one of the Order, so she moved a little faster than Merrick. Grabbing him by the back of his robe, she yanked him hard, sending them both tumbling, just as the lightning of Chityre filled the alleyway. It danced over the Abbot’s waning shield before flicking and spitting up the mud walls. Seldom had Sorcha had the opportunity to experience the rune from the other side of the Gauntlet—it really was most impressive.
Still, finally she had a target for her rage. Sorcha had her Gauntlets on in a heartbeat, rolled to her feet and wrapped her own Aydien around them. No Chiomese turncoat Deacon was going to best her. Even the idiot Arch Abbot Rictun had never brought into question her own talent or power. Her shield pulsed brighter, moved faster and enveloped Abbot Yohari before his could drop away. Together Merrick and Sorcha went to his side.
She could not, however, spare a glance down; it was not that holding Aydien up was hard, but she watched Delie carefully as she dropped Chityre. The older woman whispered a word to her Sensitive, who looked as calm as a rabbit before a polecat.
At her side Sorcha heard Merrick tending to the Abbot, though her partner’s Center still remained open and shared with her.
“You’ve attacked your own Abbot—a cardinal offense whichever way you cut it.” Sorcha cocked her head and addressed the two rogue Deacons through the flickering blue of Aydien. “As representative of the Mother Abbey, I demand you surrender your Strop and Gauntlets to me and prepare to be escorted to Vermillion for trial.”
Delie’s lip curled while her hands flexed—Sorcha already knew the answer before it came. “Never! The Order is a hollow nothing now that the Bright One has returned.”
The idea that anyone would place the Order of the Eye and the Fist below a little god made Sorcha bark out a laugh. “You break your oath to the people of this land for a childish imagining? I did not know fools were so easily let into the Chiomese Order!”
“Perhaps not the best reply—” Merrick’s warning was cut short as Delie shoved Jey out of the way and raised her Gauntlets. The green light of Shayst flickered on the Chiomese Deacon’s Gauntlets, and Sorcha felt her rage flare at the same time. She had to let it out.
If these Deacons thought that they could drain power from her with the very same rune they used on geists, they were about to be disabused of the notion.
“Take out that damn Sensitive!” she snarled at Merrick while calling Seym to her. A giddy rush and then the Rune of Flesh filled her muscles with strength, giving her the power of one possessed.
Gauntlets were seldom used as a weapon of physical attack—but that did not mean they could not be put to that purpose. Sorcha delivered a strong left hook into the other Active’s stomach, knocking her back and leaving her gasping for breath.
However, she too could draw on Shayst, and when she did, she came at Sorcha with as much rage as the Vermillion Deacon. They had no time to spar or take each other’s measure; the runes could not be held indefinitely, and this was no competitive boxing match.
Merrick and Jey were fighting nearby, their strikes fast and more accurate than those of the Active. Yet none of them were drawing swords. Despite falling on one another like brawling children, not one of the Deacons would draw their blades on another.
Though she might be angry, somewhere in the back of Sorcha’s mind lurked the suspicion that Hatipai had done something to her fellow Deacons. Unlike the traitors in Ulrich, these two had a bemused air about them, as if they were not quite all there.
Still, they could do plenty of damage. Sorcha took a good uppercut blow from Delie and reeled back. The Rune of Flesh dulled pain and swelled muscles, but she would feel the damage all the same when she let go of it. The next blow the Chiomese Deacon hammered down at her, Sorcha caught fast with her left hand. Pivoting on one foot, she caught Delie in a wristlock behind her back.
“Give up,” she hissed in the other’s ear. “Remember your training and your loyalty.”
Her opponent struggled. “My first loyalty was always to the Bright One—there can be no greater calling than to obey her will.”
Sorcha dared a glance at Merrick. His eyes were shadowed with pain, even as he kicked out and knocked Jey from her feet. It was not surprising that he took no pleasure from attacking a fellow Deacon and a woman. The female Sensitive looked up at Merrick and for a second there appeared some clarity in her vision.
“Delie,” she gasped, “please—let’s just go.”
Her partner struggled briefly and then sagged in Sorcha’s grasp. She was wise enough to know she was outmatched. Sorcha pushed her away hard, using her arm as leverage. When Delie turned about, her eyes were hard and bitter. Whatever force had the Chiomese, it had sunk its claws deeper into her than Jey.
Logically, Sorcha should have drawn her sword and dispatched the two of them, because they would undoubtedly bring back reinforcements to finish the job—but she hesitated.
Her training had taught her sympathy and care for those possessed—and though Sorcha had never seen anything like this kind, she knew it was something similar. Though her hand caressed the pommel of her sword, she did not draw it.
“Come, Jey,” Delie snarled, yanking her Sensitive to her feet. Tears looked ready to spring to the young Deacon’s eyes as she followed her Active away down the alleyway.
That was when lightning struck out of the clear blue sky. It smashed the three-story wall above the Chiomese Deacons with a deafening boom of thunder that filled the tiny space and knocked Sorcha and Merrick off their feet. For a moment everything was white.
When it finally cleared enough for her to see again, she turned to see Abbot Yohari propped up on the street behind them, his Gauntleted hand raised with the remains of Chityre still dancing on it. His dark, handsome face was twisted in pain and rage for a heartbeat before it was quickly smoothed away in a wash of trained discipline.
One glance back to where the tumbled remains of the building stood told Sorcha that no one was climbing out of that wreckage. Still, she looked to Merrick. His shake of the head was the final confirmationidtv>
Standing over the Abbot, she released her breath slowly before pointing out to him, “They were retreating.”
His expression would have suited a statue. “They strayed from the path,” was his only reply.
Sorcha couldn’t decide what to make of this implacability. The Order had plenty of rules that she was sure she didn’t care to know about.
Yohari stripped off his gloves, tucked them under his belt and then imperiously held out a hand to Sorcha. Their gazes locked, and for the longest moment Sorcha didn’t move. Finally it was Merrick, faithful, dependable Merrick, who darted forward and helped the injured Abbot to his feet.
Every muscle that Sorcha owned, as if on cue, began to ache—but it was highly unlikely that she would have time for a soak in a hot bath. Not for a very long time. Despite the pain, she did not remove her Gauntlets.
“Take me to the Prince.” The Abbot leaned against Merrick and glared at Sorcha. “We must get to the Prince.”
She would have loved an excuse to leave Yohari—but somehow the Bonds of loyalty still held her to the path of the Order—and she couldn’t let Merrick shoulder all of this burden. Taking her place under the Abbot’s right arm, smelling the tang of blood and incense, Sorcha found herself agreeing with him.
“To the Prince, then—and by the Bones, it had better be a short, uneventful walk.”
