“Shut up, Falkirk,” the other snapped. “Let’s just get him upstairs as ordered.”
Merrick was not capable of any more questions anyway; shock had driven him to silence. The Bond between partners was the most sacred thing to any Deacon. It was not to be mocked and used so callously. Even if Actives and Sensitives did rib each other in the confines of the Abbey, they would never say such terrible things as had just issued from the mouths of these men.
Whatever this place called itself, it was not a Priory. They might wear cloaks the same color as Deacons, but they were not of the Order.
Any further contemplation was cut short when they reached the ground level of the keep. The numbness in Merrick’s body turned suddenly to ice. They were once more in the main Hall. It had, however, been cleansed. The charcoal patch was scrubbed clean; the benches were pushed to the outer edges, and when he managed to turn his eyes upward he also saw that they had somehow repaired the scorches in the ceiling. The Rossin was there, glaring down at him.
The Beast was not just some fanciful myth Raed’s family had decided to use for their family crest. It was tied to the land here; a geist of the highest order, around which legends had been built. It had never truly been tamed; its submission had been the result of a negotiation between it and the greatest Deacon in the mythology of the Order. Myrilian, who had been able to use his Active and Sensitive powers jointly—a feat never since achieved. It was this Deacon who was Raed’s ancestor.
All these thoughts ran through Merrick’s fevered head as he was dragged on his heels to the front of the Hall. They’d given up all pretense of interest in him. Merrick scrambled weakly, unable to find any power in his own legs.
A stone had been set in the spot where the lectern had once stood. Merrick shook his head groggily as he suddenly recognized the device from books—a draining board. They shoved him back roughly against it, the lines of razors slicing into his back. He lurched forward with a howl, but the two men were already lashing him against the device with merciless efficiency.
His mind scurried to make sense of it, trying to call on his memory and his training. Blood, bone and flesh made any summoning stronger. The blood of a Deacon already steeped in the midst of the Otherside would be best of all: it would be not only his power that could be drawn, but that of his partner, as well. Sorcha Faris, the strongest of the Actives.
To his right, Aulis appeared once more. She had discarded the blue cloak of an Active and was dressed in bright red robes. He’d never seen or heard of the like among the Order. The sleeves were embroidered with symbols and cantrips. “You see, young Deacon? All your training, all your talent—they shall not go to waste.”
Merrick turned his head away with a sick realization burning in his head. They had weakened him enough to enter his mind; normally, of course, a Sensitive was too powerful to be broken into in such a way.
Aulis leaned in close to him, so that he could smell sage and a whiff of smoke in her hair. “Thank you for your donation to our cause.”
The sharp little knives dug deeper into his body with every breath. The blood slid down the channels into the brass bowl the woman bent and placed at the base of the rock. They were draining him of life, as if he were an especially ripe fruit.
At Aulis’ gesture, the two Actives who had brought him in loomed into view. “We are nearly ready. Go and get the royal. He is right outside the gates.” She glanced upward once at the image of the Rossin on the ceiling, and her smile was dreadful and happy.
Merrick’s vision was darkening around the edges, shadows creeping in from around the lit torches to feast on his fear; shades and memory. The only mercy was that he felt so little pain, but he was sure that this was not a deliberate kindness. The Otherside was pulling at him—he knew the symptoms. Aulis and her Actives needed his blood for something, and he would probably never live to see it.
“Sorcha?” he whispered, shaking his head, trying to clear it. Reaching desperately for the Bond, he tried to open his mind to his partner.
And then he felt soft fingertips on his forehead. He had to be dreaming, for now he heard Nynnia’s whisper. “I can’t get these shackles off.” The tiniest tug on them awakened coils of pain through his back. Merrick managed not to moan.
He licked his lips, desperate for moisture to make his mouth work. “Don’t . . . They’ll hear.”
At the far end of the Hall, they were still waiting for his blood to drain out of him, chatting among themselves as calmly as if this were a marketplace. He surely couldn’t be far from passing out. “Have you got it, Nynnia?”
His own heartbeat was slowing in his ears. The room began to waver. She had to be careful handling the Strop.
“Yes.” Her voice was muffled and distant, but he felt the smooth warmth of the talisman glide over his eyes. Suddenly everything was clear, and Merrick Chambers slipped into the Otherside.
The pain in Sorcha’s head was not going away—a hollow space in her mind where awareness of Merrick should have been. Her protective instincts told her to race up the hill back to the Priory, blast the doors off with Chityre and demand her partner back. However, she had not reached seniority in the Order by giving in to pure impulse.
Sorcha could feel Aachon’s glare like a knife in her back. She didn’t turn about until she had explained the last of her plan to the Mayor and the citizens of Ulrich. She kept it simple; the fewer people running about with complicated instructions, the better.
“As soon as you see the light, retreat back as quickly as you can. Aachon will do the rest.” Only when the crowd had nodded and shuffled away with something that looked like hope in their eyes did she turn around to face the wrath of the first mate.
Raed was enjoying this moment; he had a grin that threatened to split his face. If he was afraid of her plan, there was no sign of it.
Sorcha gave him a glare, but wasn’t about to get into a fight. Over the Pretender’s shoulder, the sun was sinking into the sea. The days here were incredibly short and they had little time to pull this off.
Taking out her Gauntlets, she thrust them onto her hands in a couple of short gestures. “Aachon, you understand how important timing is? You must choose your moment and wait until the Actives are on the wall—all of them.”
The man’s brow furrowed and he glanced down into his right hand, tightly clenched around the weirstone. “It feels wrong . . .”
“That’s because it
Perhaps those had not been the right words, for he actually flinched as if struck. The native Order had fallen apart under the weight of the politics of so many fractured kingdoms. That they had rejected a man with such excellent Sensitive potential was only a symptom of that internal rot.
“Old friend,” Raed broke the stalemate, “we are all risking much here, but I know this is the right thing. I cannot always be hiding, and this is what a proper prince would do for his people.”
Aachon glanced down at the brilliant blue orb in his hand, staring into its depths as if the answer could be found there. Finally when he spoke, his deep voice vibrated with emotion. “I was given care of you by the Unsung, but you are my leader, my prince. I know you are also a good man, and if you say this is the way—then this is the way.”
With that, he took his place among the crew and waited for the sun to finish sinking. Sorcha led Raed away, far enough so that they could choose their moment, concealed among the rubble of rock to the right of the road. A quick glance at the Pretender brought her some reassurance; despite their plan hinging on releasing his inner beast,
His hazel eyes were green in the torchlight when they turned on her. “A lot of people are counting on you
