them like a statue wrapped in the emerald cloak of the Sensitive. Previously his wife had ignored him, but Merrick wondered if this time, after recent revelations, she would be so restrained. Deacon Chambers feared a scene— something the Order could well do without these days. As Sorcha finished her discussion with the widow, Merrick scrambled to try to prevent that possibility.
“Deacon Petav”—he dared to put a hand under his fellow Sensitive’s elbow—“we have dealt with the geist, so there is no real call for you to be here.” He thought his voice was both deferential and low.
Kolya looked down at Merrick, the only sign of any emotion being a slight hardening around his eyes. “Are you trying to hurry me along?” He might not have said the word “boy,” but it was implied. “I have the same right to be here as you.”
Merrick could feel himself beginning to bristle and remembered Sorcha’s description of why her marriage had died.
“But Sorcha . . . ” he hissed to Kolya.
“Sorcha is confused,” his fellow Sensitive replied mildly. “She imagines life is a fairy story. When she realizes that it’s not, she’ll come round.”
This was so contrary to what Merrick knew of his partner that he stood there for a moment, completely unable to come up with an answer.
Kolya took his silence for something it was not. “She is such a child—sneaking out of the Abbey to avoid me.”
Now Merrick could feel his awkwardness turning into anger. He was searching for words that would not communicate that when Sorcha turned.
Merrick knew her natural inclination was to rage, but even Deacon Faris realized how precarious the public’s faith in the Order was at the moment. Her brow darkened like a storm front, and her mouth opened to let something fly. Then, in a display of control, her jaw snapped shut. So as the Merchant Quarter continued on its business, she stalked away past the two Sensitives—not acknowledging either of their presences.
Unfortunately for her, Kolya was taller and easily kept pace. “You should keep me informed when you go out like this, Sorcha.” His voice remained low, and it was not tinged with anything like accusation. He said it as conversationally as if he were asking her to pass the salt.
Merrick had already been caught in the middle of several of these “discussions,” and now, as then, he felt as useful as . . .
“Tits on a bull?” Sorcha shot a grim look at him over her shoulder, before turning back to her original partner. “Can’t you see you’re not wanted here, Kolya? Be a man, and let it go.”
Her old partner shrugged. “Arch Abbot Rictun has not decided what will happen in our . . . unique position. I have primacy over Deacon Chambers, after all.”
Sorcha’s back stiffened. Rictun was an old adversary of hers—though Merrick was not certain of the reason for it. If the younger Deacon had been given a choice, he would have picked a partner without these issues, but in his own way he was just as stubborn as Kolya. The Bond and the history between Merrick and Sorcha were strong, and he would struggle for them as his partner did.
“This is not the place,” Sorcha hissed, “but I can tell you that I only wish you had fought for our marriage as you are fighting for our partnership.”
With an outraged snort, Sorcha set a cracking pace through the city and soon got them out of the Quarter. Merrick trailed behind as they climbed over the gleaming Bridge of Gilt, which as its name suggested had been gilded by a rich trader seeking favor. It was the most impressive and, Merrick thought, most ridiculous of Vermillion’s many bridges. Tall gold cupids cavorted on a series of plinths along its length, and even the oak boards under their feet were decorated with insets of brass. The broad deck was also lined with many small shops that stood cheek by jowl right up to the very end where it landed on the Imperial Island. By law there was no trade in this part of the city, but the merchants played it as close as they could. The three passed through the granite gates and into the gleaming center of the Empire, walking briskly past the homes of the aristocracy, up the hill toward the Mother Abbey. Only the Imperial Palace stood higher on the man-made mount in the middle of the lagoon. Merrick’s wide-eyed view of the beauty of the place had changed—he now knew that not everything was as it seemed. He loved the Order, believed in the good work it did, but Arch Abbot Hastler’s failed attempt to bring the Murashev into the world had revealed a hidden side to it that he had never imagined.
As he contemplated that, Merrick had been left behind by Sorcha and Kolya, who were striding along at great speed. Deacon Petav’s soft voice was hard to make out over the rumble of carriages passing them—Sorcha’s was not.
“—don’t try to sell me that, Kolya! I know the Otherside ebbs and flows, but this is
Kolya shrugged at Merrick as if they were part of some club of Sensitives confused by Sorcha. The older Deacon cultivated an aura of passive acceptance, but Merrick knew he could turn that around suddenly, making it seem as though it was the other person in the wrong. It was quite a talent.
Luckily they reached the Abbey, and never had he been so grateful to see the high, white walls that surrounded it. They went in the postern gate, past the lay Brother guards, and into the courtyard. To the right: the infirmary, the gardens, and the stables. To the left: the dormitory, the refectory, and the novitiate house. Ahead were the lines of cloisters with Deacons strolling through them, talking or just quietly contemplating.
As Sorcha lowered her head and made her way there, Deacon Petav stopped and called her name. She completely ignored him, pulled her cloak around her shoulders and stalked off. Now it was Kolya who caught at Merrick’s arm. “She has to talk to me!” He appeared genuinely bemused by his nearly former wife.
The other Sensitive stopped and stared at him. “You must know she is resolute in her decision, Deacon Petav, so tell me, why do you persist?”
His tall form bent then, just a fraction. “This is all that remains.” He spoke the words quietly before walking away toward the dormitory. Merrick watched him, wondering at the man who had let Sorcha go without complaint yet now regretted it so bitterly.
However, Deacon Petev had made his own bed—his inaction had consequences that he must now deal with. Merrick turned and ran to catch up with Sorcha, who he suddenly realized was making her way through the cloisters ditly toward the receiving chambers of the Arch Abbot. Going toe-to-toe with Rictun was in no one’s best interests. Merrick called her name. It echoed in the ceiling of the cloisters, and several of their fellow Deacons glanced up. Surprisingly, she did stop.
“Not there—please, Sorcha!” He didn’t care who heard, because they were already the talk of the Abbey.
Their eyes locked, and it was she who flinched. Her hands clenched the edge of her cloak. Instead, she stalked into the Devotional. Before the arrival of the geists this had been a church—a place to worship the gods. Now it hosted gatherings, meetings and training to fight the unliving. Still, as they entered the heart of the Abbey, the great soaring ceiling, the beautiful stained glass windows, even the statues of the Deacons of the Old Order stirred Merrick’s heart. He loved the services they had here, the words of wisdom passed on by others of the Order, stories of the past—all those things. It gave him peace, and he hoped it did the same for his partner.
It was a sign of Sorcha’s bewilderment that she let herself be hauled into one of the chapels that ran the length of the great vaulted space that was the Devotional. Merrick could read her confusion in the tight line of her jaw and the way she would not meet his eyes.
“I saw him die.” She whispered, so that the vast space would not catch her words. Sorcha looked up at him then, her blue eyes uncertain—frightened, perhaps, of her partner’s response.
“I saw it too!” Merrick touched her shoulder, and for a second she did not move.
Then, sliding away from his touch, she leaned against the gray stone wall and looked through the stained glass window at the lay Brothers. Out in the garden they were bustling to harvest late-summer crops. “But I suppose you think it means nothing?”
“Actually”—Merrick leaned on the wall opposite and tucked his hands inside his cloak—“I believe it would be foolish to ignore this message.”
She looked at him askance. “It was Nynnia who delivered it.”
