and hobbled away from her.
Sorcha stood staring after him for a minute, knowing that something was bothering the older man. Still, if he had wanted to talk about it, he would have; they were good enough friends for that. Once this foolish mission for the Arch Abbot was over, she’d catch up with Garil and see what was chewing on him.
Inside the infirmary it was thankfully warmer, though it smelled of sage smoke and soap; smells that irritated her senses. The building might be a place of healing, but it always made her uncomfortable—and it was not just the smell. Lay Brothers ruled here, gliding about with silent efficiency in their brown robes. Deacons might know little of healing, but thanks to the library and careful use of sanctioned weirstones, the Abbey’s infirmary was the best in the nation.
So good, in fact, that even royalty came here. Sorcha flinched, but the Grand Duchess Zofiya had surely heard her footsteps. The martial sister of the Emperor, used to commanding troops, missed very little that went on around her. A young male soldier of the Imperial Guard was standing stiffly at attention, holding the royal bags and glowing with pride. The Grand Duchess was looking at her gold fob watch, standing by a neatly made bed she had only recently occupied. On her dark brow was a slight but significant frown. It was a face that might have been called sweetly beautiful, if it had not been for a pair of determined, dark eyes. Sorcha knew in public the Duchess had a smile that could melt hearts, but in private she was rather stern. Snapping shut the watch and tucking it into her dress uniform, she turned.
When Zofiya’s lips hardened into a firm white line, Sorcha knew that the truth of yesterday’s events had reached her—not the tissue of denial the Arch Abbot was selling to the public. The Deacon’s stomach clenched.
The royals might have no direct control over the Order, but they still had plenty of influence. Sorcha was sure that she was about to feel some of it.
“Deacon Faris.” The Grand Duchess’ voice was still deeply marked by the accent of Delmaire. Unlike her brother, she had not taken pains to remove it. Even with her arm in a sling, Zofiya stood ramrod straight as her gaze ran up the length of Sorcha.
The Deacon bristled at being treated like one of the damn Imperial Guard, but she held herself in check. “Your Imperial Highness.” She dipped her head to the appropriate level. “I am glad to see you are fully recovered.”
Zofiya shrugged, the brass of her military jacket gleaming in the wan sunlight. “Viscount Jurlise was lucky.”
Before Sorcha could catch herself, she let out a snort. “Not that lucky—I hear you shot him between the eyes like he was a prize stag!”
Dueling wasn’t common in the Empire, but the Grand Duchess was not one to turn away when her brother was insulted. When the two of them were new to their positions, many had disagreed with their appointment. Back then the Grand Duchess Zofiya had spent a great deal of time shooting at the aristocracy. These days there were few who were stupid enough to slight the Emperor within her hearing. The rumor was that her father had been more than happy to send his difficult youngest daughter off with her brother—before his own dukes and earls were decimated.
Zofiya’s eyebrow rose, but she made no comment. Perhaps she recognized an attempt at distraction when she heard one. “I understand there was some kind of geist attack outside the very gates of the palace. I hope the Deacons are still capable of doing their job.”
The Grand Duchess had seen plenty of evidence that they were. When the Order had sailed with her to this new and troubled land, she and her brother had witnessed plenty of geists being handled. Sorcha bit the inside of her cheek so that observation didn’t pop out. “It was an unusual event, Imperial Highness, but we quickly had the situation under control.”
“My brother and I count on the Order to take care of these things.” She jerked on fine black gloves and shot Sorcha a calculating look. “If there are any issues we should be aware of . . .”
“I should hope so. Citizens being killed by geists at the very gates of the palace is not the image my serene brother wants to convey. People need assurance that we are in control. You can be confident I will be talking to Arch Abbot Hastler further on this matter!”
Sorcha knew there was no retort for that one. The Grand Duchess made her feel like an initiate again, so she merely nodded agreement and stood as still as possible as the other woman strode from the infirmary with her adoring soldier trailing in her wake.
This day was getting worse by the moment. Sorcha sighed, straightened her cloak and tilted her chin up. Facing her husband was going to be easy after a kick in the teeth from both the Arch Abbot and royalty.
Making her way out of the general ward, she paused at the only locked door in the infirmary. Beyond she could just make out the wails of the geist-struck Deacons; locked away lest they wander in their madness. A shudder of deep fear ran through her—she did not envy their caretakers.
Kolya was in the smaller ward, the place where the more critically injured were kept. In here it smelled sharply of vinegar, and there were fewer Brothers. The one at the door was mixing potions and nodded to her as she came in. Sorcha inclined her head, but was also taking the time for a deep breath. The atmosphere in here was even more oppressive and silent. The Brothers moved about on muffled slippers, and the only sounds were the labored breathing of the patients and the odd moan of pain.
Kolya was at the far end of the room, two of the Brothers hovering around him like bees. She might have faced the unliving of all types, but seeing her partner and husband lying there gave her pause. Sorcha found herself on tiptoes as she approached his bed. The healers made room for her to take a seat at her husband’s side. They continued to bustle around the room, and Sorcha sat almost motionless and watched Kolya.
The previous day he had looked better. He’d been gray and pale and bleeding, yet today he was enveloped in bandages and had sandbags up against his sides to hold him steady. He didn’t look anything like her husband, this still form on the bed.
As she sat there watching him, Sorcha waited to be swallowed by a tide of emotions. She knew she should feel devastated. She’d spent enough time in the infirmary to see how wives react at times like this. But nothing came.
Her had shut her out—quite an impressive feat for a Bonded Deacon—and yet he had not always been this way. After the terrible ache of losing three partners in quick succession, Kolya had seemed a safe haven, a smooth harbor in a storm. Only now was she realizing that she needed something more. And yesterday morning she had been nearly ready to speak her mind. Now that chance had been taken away from her. If she believed in Fate, she’d think him cruel indeed.
“He is quite heavily drugged,” Brother Elies, the man charged with Kolya’s care, whispered, making her lurch out of her reverie. “Yet he is showing signs of brief moments of consciousness.”
“Good.” Sorcha nodded, daring another look.
“But there are also signs of unliving canker in him.”
The Otherside was a dangerous realm, and those who suffered its effects often were left with something similar to mortal poisoning. While Kolya’s wounds were life-threatening enough, it was the infection in his blood that would take the longest recovery time.
Carefully she touched the back of his hand; it was swollen and very warm. Kolya stirred. His pale blue eyes roved around the ceiling before finally drifting over to his wife. Yet there was no sign of emotion. His smooth features showed neither distress nor passion, nor anything at all.
“Oh, you know,” came the faint reply. Always so self-contained, even in pain. Her teeth ground together. Absolutely no way to light a cigar in here, nor was there any way that she could continue the argument begun that morning. Like Garil, it was something that would have to wait until she returned, until she could tell him the
