“Obviously.”
“For its size, it should have been immediately apparent, but it took Kolya and I together to sense it.”
“Such things are not unknown.”
“But it read our Bond, Reverend Father. It read my thoughts, and then it turned on Kolya almost as if it could make conscious decisions. That is supposed to be beyond anything from the Otherside!”
The Arch Abbot sighed and leaned back in his chair, and this time it was Sorcha who waited for him to speak. Outside, birds could be heard chirping in the orchard, along with the low murmur of novices filing off to their classes and chores. Finally he turned back, his face furrowed with worry. “This, too, is not without precedent.”
The fragile bowl in Sorcha’s hand rattled as she tried to set it carefully down. She cleared her throat. “I know I am not privy to all the information you receive, Reverend Father, but I would think that such information would be valuable to the Deacons working in the field.”
He did not reply immediately, but got to his feet and crossed to his desk. Placing a long dispatch box in Sorcha’s hands, he took his seat once more. Looking down, she saw the gold-embossed sigil of the hand grasping many ribbons, the symbol of the Emperor.
“This was delivered before dawn this morning. Don’t read it now; the details can wait for you to ponder over, but the essence is that there is a major surge in unliving attacks to the northeast.”
“Then the Abbey rides to . . .”
“No.”
The bald reply confused Sorcha beyond measure. The Order had spent the first two years of the Emperor’s reign darting from hot spot to hot spot. With this continent’s own Priories having long fallen into ruin, the land had been overrun with the unliving. The Deacons who had come over with the Emperor had been pushed hard to keep up, but it had been their primary mandate. Yet now, here was the Arch Abbot saying that they would not be venturing out to take care of the matter. For a moment Sorcha was completely lost for words.
When the Arch Abbot spoke again, he didn’t add to her understanding. “I am sending you to the focus of the attacks to investigate: a little town called Ulrich. His Imperial Majesty and I both agree that this is the best course of action.”
Sorcha blinked. Deacons received their missions from the Presbyter Secondo; to take direction from the Arch Abbot directly was highly unusual. An honor to be sure—but not one that Sorcha felt she should welcome.
She now wished that she had asked for something a little stronger than sweet tea. “But Kolya could take weeks, maybe even months to be fit for duty,” was the best she could manage through a suddenly dry throat.
“That’s why I am assigning you a new partner before you go.”
Sorcha slumped back, nearly embarrassing herself before recovering her balance on the embroidered stool. “A new partner? But no one ever gets a new partner unless their Bond is broken, or . . .” Or if their partner was dead.
“There is precedent for this, too.” The Arch Abbot was acting as calm as ever, which was more distressing to her than anything. “And the situation will only be for this assignment. By then Kolya should be recovered.”
Arguing with the Head of her Order would be a foolish move, yet Sorcha could feel a tightness inside her stomach and a taste of bile bubbling inside her throat. Her bandaged hands began to ache. Forget that sending an untested team into a hot zone verged on the insane. Never mind that partners trained for months to get perfectly in tune with each other. The Arch Abbot was dropping her into a situation he seemed unwilling to explain.
Hastler was an evenhanded man, one who inspired trust among his Deacons. He was respected by them and by the Emperor. As one of the top-ranked partnerships in the Order, Kolya and Sorcha had always felt in the Arch Abbot’s confidence. Yet as she sat across from him, she could see he was physically tight-lipped. What this could mean, she didn’t know. She ached for a cigar at this point but decided not to argue. Her husband would have been very surprised.
Still she kept her voice calm as she went on, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Perhaps if we were allowed to take one of the Imperial Fleet dirigibles, we could accomplish this so much—”
“The Order’s ability to demand that one of the Emperor’s valuable new contraptions change its route is limited.” Hastler’s eyes flicked from friendly to flinty in a heartbeat, reminding Sorcha that while he might look like a kindly grandfather, he was far from it. “Only in extreme circumstances would I suggest such a thing.”
Sorcha cleared her throat, and glanced longingly down at the empty cup next to her. Her mouth had gone suddenly bone-dry. “I would like to be able to wait until Kolya is conscious at least, if that is allowed, Reverend Father?”
Hastler nodded and tidied the bowls and pot on the tray. At this point, Sorcha didn’t have the strength to ponder what exactly could be causing his unusual behavior.
“Go, sit with your husband.” The Arch Abbot kept his back turned, staring out the window at the last few stubborn leaves of late autumn as they fell. “Read the report, as well. I’ll arrange a meeting with your new partner for first thing tomorrow.”
“And the Episcopal inquiry?” she asked.
“There will be none. The matter is being dealt with in a more private manner. Another thing, Deacon Faris.” His tone grew distant. “I would prefer it if you and your husband did not speak of the . . . unusual nature of your encounter.”
Compared to the strange things she had heard in this room, that was the very least. The calm of the previous day seemed a very long way off. Her only problems then had been an argument with her husband and the overeager Gent.
At the door she paused and turned back for a moment. “Am I permitted to perhaps know the name of my new partner?”
The Abbot’s voice contained something she might have interpreted as sadness. “Deacon Merrick Chambers. A bright young man and a highly ranked Sensitive.”
She didn’t know the name, but if he had been recently elevated from novitiate, then she wouldn’t. Sorcha itched for something to smoke or drink, but duty as always took higher priority.
As she left, she passed three other Deacons seated in the antechamber ready to see the Arch Abbot—so many audiences so early was enough to pique her interest. Sorcha recognized Durnis Huntro and gave him a quick smile. The somber man looked even less likely to smile back today, and she wondered what his business was with the head of the Order. However, her own issues were more pressing, and she did not stop to ask.
Stepping out into the corridor, she discovered she still had one more audience to pass. Presbyter Rictun, wrapped in his blue cloak, was lurking in the shadows, waiting for her. If Hastler was the kindly center of the Order, then his second in command was the enforcer. It was he who usually gave out the assignments to those Deacons on duty, and his glance down at the dispatch box in her hand was sharp enough for even an Active to interpret. He didn’t like it—not one little bit. He was a young man for the role; there were only five Deacons of Presbyter rank in the Order, and yet he was not much older than Sorcha herself. How he had managed to attain such giddy height was a mystery to her.
It could have been his golden hair and good looks; it was most certainly not his charm. “Off on assignment so soon, Faris? You really know how to go through those partners of yours. I would have thought you might be a little kinder to this one, since you married him.”
Four partners was indeed above average, but one retirement, one death and one gone mad could not be all put on her doorstep. Sorcha smiled thinly, the lack of sleep and the shock of the Arch Abbot’s audience leaving her with very little endurance for the Presbyter’s mocking ways. “Kolya will be all right in time.”
Rictun raised one eyebrow. “Terrible to get caught in a riot like that.”
His fishing was always pretty blatant but this time it was just a little too far for Sorcha. Holding up her orders, she glared at the Presbyter. “Would you like to have a look, is that it?”
His eyes locked with hers, and she remembered all the other times they had argued. Rictun rubbed her the wrong way at the best of times. Perhaps he saw the impatience in her, as his gray eyes flicked away over her shoulder toward Hastler’s rooms. “No, you’d better obey the Arch Abbot. But when you get back . . .”
“I’ll report straight in,” Sorcha snapped, turned on her heel, and indulged in a little tooth grinding as she strode away down the corridor.
This Chambers, whoever he was, had better have a thick skin, because right now she needed someone to
