“This is Deacon Faris, whom I myself transported on my ship, and who was sent by the Arch Abbot to aid you against these transgressors.”
The Mayor’s gaze flitted between the two of them. His voice was gruff, almost that of an old man. “We have no need of more Deacons here.”
Raed took hold of Sorcha’s arm, giving it a slight squeeze as he drew her forward. She glared at him, but leapt into the breach he had created. “I can assure you that I am no friend of the woman calling herself Prior—in fact, she is holding my partner prisoner.”
Mayor Locke’s lips twisted. “And now I suppose you want our help to get him back?” The tone of his voice was bitter. The citizens around him shifted, muttering to themselves.
The moment hung on a knife’s edge. Raed wondered if they might not have to make a run for it, but once again Sorcha surprised him. “I have examined your children and I know you have good reason to be angry.” She ducked her head and then glanced up at the Mayor with a grim smile. “However, I am here to set things right.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled with determination through the strands of her copper hair.
The Pretender realized that Sorcha was not beyond using her beauty to manipulate those around her if necessary. It might not be her weapon of preference, but she was aware of it—and Erasmus Locke was not immune. His shoulders relaxed. The people, those who should have been Raed’s people, had learned to trust the Deacons in the last years, and it was easy to fall back into that habit under the steady stare of Sorcha Faris.
“We can’t get in.” A tall woman tightened her grip on a baling spike and shook it in the direction of the locked Priory. “They stood and did nothing while my Lyith suffered.” Her voice cracked. “They actually turned us away.”
Sorcha exchanged a glance with Raed. Her face was flushed with anger, but her eyes were glassy with something that might have been a tear. “We shall make everything as it should be. That is what the Arch Abbot sent us here to do, and when I have my partner back, we can help.”
“How can you do anything against a Priory full of Deacons?” A sharp voice rang out from the huddle of the crowd, and Raed knew it for a very valid question. He was wondering the very same thing.
“There is one thing we have that they cannot stand against.” Raed felt her eyes focus once more on him; her expression was both calculating and sad.
Surely, she was mad. Surely she couldn’t possibly be contemplating what he imagined?
Sorcha made a slight gesture, asking for his silence for a moment. “Mayor Locke, could you send someone down to the Captain’s ship? Ask for Aachon, and get him to send up all those who are ready for a fight.”
A boy was dispatched, and Raed watched from the sidelines as Sorcha conversed with the Mayor and his councilors in a low voice. He didn’t take much notice of what they were saying, because his mind was spinning. He knew what she was going to say, so after a few minutes when she strode toward him, his jaw was clenched and he was ready to argue.
Behind her, the people of Ulrich were newly invigorated, snapping into action and organizing themselves into something resembling forms. Whatever she had said to them had brought positive results.
He glared at Sorcha, feeling every muscle in his body rigid with rage. It was much easier to be angry than to be scared.
“So you’ve guessed,” she began. “The only advantage we have right now is you, and the Rossin.”
“You cannot use the creature as a weapon!”
“Listen,” she hissed, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the townspeople, “they are right; there is no way I can possibly stand up against the dozen other Actives waiting for us in there.”
Raed shook his head. He didn’t want to hear anything, let alone something that might make sense.
“Aside from the fact these people need us”—she stepped closer to him, so close that he could feel her warmth—“we are trapped here, and I am sure that Aulis has a plan of her own. It won’t be good for us. I can tell you that now, for free.”
All of his choices were whittled away. Raed felt as trapped as sheep in a farmer’s pen, ready for the butcher’s knife. He took a slow deep breath; it never hurt to hear what people had to say. “All right—what do you propose? How can you possibly control the Rossin?”
Sorcha smiled, a flash of wry amusement. “Control him? I have no desire to control the Rossin. But I believe I can possibly give him something productive to do.”
The Priory looked as impregnable as any fortress he’d ever seen. He thought about surrendering to the Curse, about how he had feared it since his own mother’s blood had filled his mouth. It seemed unlikely that anything good could come from the Rossin. Then he thought of the children chained in their own homes, his own crew trapped on the ship, and the Deacon whom they’d unknowingly left to his fate.
Raed, the Young Pretender, cleared his throat. “If you think you can stop me from killing the innocent—if you can promise me that—then yes. Do it.”
Sorcha’s hands wrapped around his; soft, warm and strong, while her vivid blue eyes remained steady with his. “Trust me, Raed. I won’t let the Beast have you for any longer than necessary, or let you slay anyone needlessly.”
Aachon would have tried to talk him out of it, but something in Raed felt her honesty and strength. “There is no other way,” he found himself replying steadily, “and I trust you to do as you promise.”
“Good, then.” Sorcha held his hands a little longer than strictly necessary. “Because I make none I cannot keep.”
FOURTEEN
A Use for Blood and Bone
Aulis’ voice penetrated the fog that Merrick had fallen into—exhaustion and near death could do that to a person. He levered his eyes open. The woman who so falsely called herself Prior was again staring down at him as if he were a piece of meat, head on one side. He wondered what she was seeing with her obviously limited Sight. Trapped, he longed to be able to stretch forth his Center, but he’d learned from his earlier attempt. It would have to be reserved for the final moment of desperation.
“He’s ready. Bring him.” She gestured to the Actives lurking in the shadows. One of them brought forth a set of keys and unlocked the shackles around his wrists. Merrick left himself limp until they had unshackled all his limbs; then with a surge of energy he went at them. Unfortunately, after getting strangled into unconsciousness and spending many hours lying on the cold, damp floor, he was not in the best condition. Still, he surged up at them, swinging his arms, trying to remember all that he had been taught as a novice. He managed to get a few punches in, but his body felt sodden, wrung out. He was moving too slowly.
The Actives laughed, their voices grating on ears that felt raw. Merrick shook his head and swayed while they yanked his arms behind his back and tied them firmly. As they pushed him ahead of them, he tried one last time to reach Aulis.
“Think of your vows.” His voice sounded slurred even to his own ears, his tongue too large for his mouth. Yet he had to try. “Think of all the Order stands for!”
Her graying eyebrows drew together in a sharp line. “Oh, but I am thinking of it, young fool. You should have studied history more closely.”
The Actives dragged him upstairs, and he realized he had no chance of calling on their compassion. Yet, he tried.
The one to the right, with deep-set eyes, looked as though he must have been with the Order a long time. “You can still stop this,” Merrick managed to whisper out of the corner of his mouth, though his lips had gone slightly slack. He could only hope it was some effect of lying under those cantrips for hours and not some kind of palsy.
The man snorted his derision.
“Surely your partner who died—surely they . . .” Merrick called on the one thing that all Deacons shared.
“There are no Bonds that mean anything between us and the Sensitives,” the younger-looking Active to his left growled. “They are sheep and we are wolves.”
