smart progress out of the confines of the Abbey, toward the outbuildings. Novices were already in classes but the lay members of the Order were up and about. At this time of the year there was little to do in the gardens, but many were bustling around the stables. Geist activity was not solely limited to manipulating humanity. Locals often brought their livestock in to be freed of unliving influences.
Sorcha was going to ignore him as much as she could. She was colder than the late-autumn day, and the only thing Merrick had to warm himself was his growing anger, so he nurtured it a little.
“Perhaps”—he smiled at her while matching her pace— “perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened outside the gates two days ago? The whole Abbey is rife with rumor.”
Her stride broke for just an instant. “The Abbot will talk about it at Matins when it is appropriate.”
“Ah, but you see, we will be gone before that happens; and besides, now I am your partner . . .”
Sorcha stopped completely and spun about. He observed how she held her body in tight, tense lines. “Are you trying to irritate me? You’re bringing up things I have no control over, and I don’t like having no control. Having no control makes me exceedingly cranky, and when I get cranky, I eat novices for breakfast.”
Merrick found himself enjoying the moment. He could actually vaguely sense her discomfort on the edge of his perception. He liked it. “Fair point,” he replied with a slight twist in his lips, “but I am no longer a novice and therefore not on the menu. I only want to be the best partner possible.” The tinge of humor in his voice was apparent even to himself.
It was also immediately obvious that his gentle dig was not the sort of thing she appreciated. Her mouth opened a couple of times before she finally ground out, “You can do that by being the quietest partner ever.”
He made the universal lip-buttoning gesture with one eyebrow cocked. Sorcha stared at him hard for a minute, before turning away and shaking her head. “Unholy Bones, I need a smoke.”
Merrick followed her meekly into the stables. The idea of pointing out how the infirmary staff had told him that smoking of any sort was injurious to a person’s health popped into his head. However, pushing the point, he sensed, bordered on the dangerous. Many of the Deacons smoked and drank. It was not as if there was any injunction against it, and the life of a Deacon was generally not long.
His would be shorter than most if he crossed his new partner. After what he’d seen as a child, his fear of her wasn’t going to go away. But he might have discovered a way to hide it.
Inside, the lay Brothers had saddled up two of the Abbey horses for them. The Breed was almost as ancient as the Order; jet-black, tough as a mountain pony but as beautiful as any from the Emperor’s stable. If there was one real perk to doing battle with the forces of the Otherside, it was the chance to ride one of the Deacon Breed.
None of the Deacons actually personally owned any of the Breed, since the only objects any of them kept solely for themselves were the tools of their trade, but particular animals became favored by certain Deacons. Sorcha was examining her stallion, running her hands down his legs and over the withers to check his fitness. She was taking more care doing this than she had in forging the Bond with Merrick. Sometimes being a Sensitive was too much to bear.
“Shedryi?” Merrick cocked his head and examined the stallion. “He was shipped over from the old country, wasn’t he? A bit long in the tooth to be relied upon, surely?”
Sorcha glanced up, and her look was pure venom. “And what about me, young Deacon? Would you say I’m a bit long in the tooth as well? Shedryi and I have a real relationship, which is more than can be said for us right now.”
Not being that clued up on his horseflesh and also sensing danger in the air, he decided to concentrate on his own mount. As a novice he’d been trained to ride on a variety of lesser horses, and had sat on one of the Breed only in the last few months of training. He’d not settled on a favorite and was happy enough to accept the stablemaster’s choice.
Melochi was smaller than Sorcha’s stallion, but she seemed well proportioned and more biddable. Her wide dark eye followed him with an expression that might have been resignation, but that was better than the fierce look in Shedryi’s. Merrick made a mental note to keep out of the stallion’s reach. He had a wicked look about him, as if he had understood the man’s aspersions. The pack mule, who he found out was named Horace, was tied to the pommel of Melochi’s saddle and looked resigned to his lot in life; following around the superior breed. Merrick wondered if that was to be his lot as well.
Having completed her check of horses, mules and supplies, Sorcha swung up onto Shedryi. Merrick could have sworn she was still glaring at him. “I take it you are a good enough horse-man to keep up.”
He shrugged. “Winner of the All Novices four-hundred-yard gallop, runner-up in the—”
“A simple yes would suffice,” Sorcha grumbled, her bandaged fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as if she were in pain.
“Well, then . . . I suppose so.”
“Good, because the fastest way north is going to be the road. The currents around Vermillion are treacherous this time of year, and no ships are leaving until next week at the earliest.”
“The Abbot needs us there that urgently?” Merrick had been so long thinking about the ramifications of partnering with Sorcha that he had not really taken much note of their first assignment. “I can catch up on the details when I read the report,” he said as smoothly as possible.
This was obviously immensely cheering to his new companion; she actually chuckled. “I’ll get you up-to-date with the salient points on the way, lad. You won’t have time on the ride to be reading any reports. Keeping your seat on these roads will be enough work.”
And with that, Deacon Faris urged Shedryi out of the stable and onto the open road, leaving her fifth and newest partner to once again rush to catch up.
FOUR
No Place for Sanctuary
Raed walked down to the beach with a knot in the pit of his stomach. By the rowboat, five of his crew members waited. Explaining to them the small concession he’d been able to get would be just a taster for explaining to the whole ship.
The title Young Pretender was not one that Raed would have wished on anyone, and yet he had a crew of thirty men and women willing to tie their fates to his. He felt responsible, deeply aware that any decisions he made would affect them. Most followed him in the vague hope that one day he would sit on the Vermillion throne, others because their own families owed allegiance to his. Not one of them wanted him to have the same miserable existence as the Unsung.
So now they traveled the coast, trading and stealing where necessary. Some might call it piracy, yet it was essential for them to keep moving. Even being this long on dry land made Raed a little nervous. He found himself down the cliff path to get to his crew, despite knowing that he bore bad news.
Aachon, his first mate, was watching him with the eagle intensity the older man gave to everything. His clothes were as ragtag as everyone else’s, but somehow he pulled it off better than even Raed did. His olive complexion and dark hair could have made rags seem noble. Aachon had been looking after Raed for years, given the care of the Pretender by his father the Unsung. It was a duty that he took incredibly seriously.
“How was your request received, my prince?”
Raed had tried getting Aachon to call him by his given name; the request, or even the order, never seemed to stick for very long. He felt his stomach tense but he tried not to let any of it appear in his stance. “We have been given permission to berth in Ulrich.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Byrd, the youngest member of the rowboat crew, had none of his elder’s respect for the name and supposed title. Raed was often glad of it.
Aachon’s head, however, jerked in his direction. Byrd took the hint and was silent. “Ulrich, my lord,” the first mate whispered under his breath, his expression dark. “Such a place is a deliberate insult.”
The rest of the crew looked away, probably as embarrassed at Aachon’s feeling of dishonor as Raed was. Sometimes he felt his first mate should have been born the Pretender. He could certainly recite the whole family tree of the Rossin and name all the major battles in their history.
