—”
Sorcha fell back on her defenses, and sharply cut in, “You wanted the Rossin controlled. He is controlled.”
Raed swore and turned away to glare into the fire. “He may be, for the moment, but if you think he can be used as your weapon, you may find him more wily than you think. I have lived with him inside me . . . I know him better than you.”
His voice was full of such contempt, Sorcha had to try to reach him. “You don’t understand. They manipulated me to do this,” she replied desperately. “I think the whole situation was all about getting you there; the sea monster, the Priory, even the possession of the children.”
“Then why did they try and kill us in the tunnel?”
“I think they hoped it would drive me to make the Bond—and they were right.”
“But the Rossin could have killed you.” Raed looked at her from under drawn brows. “How could they know you would do any such thing?”
Her natural instincts were to hug him, kiss him—but they were long past that point. She stiffened. “They must have studied me.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how else . . .”
“You have no idea what you are dealing with, Little Red,” Garil whispered, “but young Merrick does. He knows, like I do—like all Sensitives do . . .”
This was what Actives whispered about Sensitives. When Actives went off to learn of their runes, they wondered what the Sensitives were learning of theirs. While everyone could see exactly what the ten Active runes were, the Sensitives kept theirs to themselves, never discussing them—even with their partners. Most Actives dismissed whatever their partners could do as merely different versions of their own lesser Sight, but Sorcha had always been curious about the Strop. It was much more seldom used than the Gauntlets. Unlike her gloves, it was dangerous for anyone but another Sensitive to touch a Strop while its user was still alive.
“Do you know why they want us Bonded, Merrick?” she asked quietly.
His jaw clenched and he looked up at her through his brown hair, almost feral for an instant. “Yes.”
Across the Bond she felt nothing but blankness, as if he had slammed a door shut on her. She needed a smoke. She needed a strong drink. What she didn’t need was to find this out just when the Murashev was looming on the horizon.
She wanted to smash something, hurt someone, let some of this building frustration and upset out. Unfortunately, Garil’s retired quarters were only lightly furnished; she kicked the fire grate instead, sending burning wood embers scattering along the length of the fireplace and bouncing logs out of their orderly stack.
“Everything since that damn geist in the mob has been madness.” Her mind suddenly knew that too had been planned, to get Kolya out of the way and make room for Merrick.
“Are you going to finish what you started, or have yourself a temper tantrum on the floor?” Garil asked mildly. “Merrick is no more able to tell you these things than you can tell us how to control the Gauntlets.
“The Arch Abbot,” Raed growled. “It’s about time we went and got some bloody answers—and he must have them if anybody does!”
With a start, Sorcha realized a tremble was growing in her hands. She had known Hastler all her life, traveled with him from Delmaire hot with the fervor of her convictions. To all of the Deacons, he had been a hero, someone ready to lead them to glory and victory. She recalled him serving her hot tea, the calm smile on his face—she’d thought it meant he knew something she did not. She hoped it was not true in the worst sense.
Straightening, she looked at Garil, who was watching her with hooded eyes. “If you cannot tell us what lies ahead, what is the use of your gift?”
His old eyes watered slightly. “I have often asked myself that question. I can only see pathways, Little Red —possibilities. If you get your answers from the Arch Abbot, then I may be able to point you in a direction. However”—he reached out and grabbed her hand—“I can tell you one thing: I am not the only one with these gifts.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, her lips yearning to be clamped around a cigar. “Come on, then . . . We came here for a reason. Let’s go get this whole mess sorted out.” The clench of her innards, however, told her she might not like the answers when they finally came.
Merrick watched Sorcha slide on her Gauntlets, and then shot a glance across at Garil. The older man would not meet his eyes. All Sensitives prepared for the day when their final training might be needed—and every one of them hoped never to use it.
Raed wouldn’t look at anyone either. The Pretender stood glaring into the fire, his fists clenched on the mantel.
“She meant well,” Merrick muttered to the other man. “She meant to protect you from the Rossin.”
Raed grinned, but it was a bleak expression with no comfort in it. “Who knows what she was trying to do, Merrick, but now we are all stuck. Not much else we can do but go on.”
The three of them did, indeed, have no choice. Garil would tell them no more, though Merrick was sure that the elder Sensitive had Seen paths of both success and devastation ahead of them. He had brought them back from the Otherside, and his part for now had apparently been played as he had Seen.
“So, what is the plan?” Raed asked, his hand curling around the hilt of his saber. “Are we just charging in?”
“Hopefully, just walking,” Sorcha replied mildly, though she sang with tension through the Bond. Unlike Merrick, she might not remember the glimpse of the geist realm, but the body and soul did.
“With all these Sensitives around?” the Pretender asked.
Sorcha’s lips twitched. “In the history of the Order, no one has ever breached a Mother Abbey. Those few on watch will have their Sight fixed on the walls.”
“And the others?”
She raised a finger to her lips. “I strongly suggest silence.”
They slipped out into the frosty night air where their cart stood. The donkey was mercifully quiet, his head drooping slightly as he chewed on scruffy lavender that grew against the wall. Avoiding the loud white gravel of the paths, they followed alongside them farther into the complex, toward the Abbey itself.
It had been only a few short weeks since the two Deacons had walked here with all the possession of belonging. Now every tiny noise made Merrick’s heart leap. He could, of course, send his Center out, but then their chances of being detected would be even greater. To any Sensitive, another’s Center would be a bright beacon, and would be bound to invite investigation in the quiet of night.
Instead, they had to rely on soft footsteps and low breath to get them deeper in. They kept to the shadows of the gardens and worked their way toward the side entrances. Above them towered the shape of the Devotional, the tallest building in Vermillion—not even the magnificent Imperial Palace stood as high and proud. The great spire blocked out sections of the stars like some ancient giant; that which had been so comforting to Merrick now seemed to loom over him like a disapproving parent.
The cool feel of the wall cut like ice against his back as they took their bearings before entering.
“Guards within?” Raed’s whisper sounded loud in the still silence.
Sorcha shook her head mutely, unable to meet the Pretender’s eyes. They might have been manipulated into this Bond, but Merrick could feel the strength in it. She had woven the Bond with Raed as casually as she had with Merrick, but it was as deep and as powerful as any he had studied. If he concentrated, he could actually feel the Rossin hidden with Raed, like a coiled darkness waiting to be set loose among them.
For a second, the Beast looked back at him, with ancient eyes that surveyed him as if he were an insect. Merrick broke away with a little gasp.
The Pretender, with no trained senses, was already moving toward the door. Merrick had to hurry to catch up with the other two as they lifted the bar and slipped into the Abbey. It was colder inside than outside. Merrick’s breath fluttered white in front of his eyes.
Hunched low, they ran up the nave toward the rear of the Devotional, where a series of doors led to the living quarters of the Arch Abbot and the Presbyters. Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick saw something twist like a glimpse of ash blowing through the air, and instinct made him grab hold of both his companions. He yanked hard, since yelling would have only echoed down the stone Devotional like a gunshot.
