They took Sorcha and Raed to the infirmary, but Merrick they left alone in the mortuary to lay Nynnia out. He straightened her limbs, cleaned her face and carefully cut away her dress. It was burnt to her skin in many places, but he was able to remove enough to put her in a decent replacement.
He heard Presbyter Rictun come in, but did not acknowledge his superior until he was done. Turning around, he locked eyes with the man who was now, effectively, one of the heads of the Order in the Empire. With Hastler dead, the five Presbyters would speak for the Mother Abbey; and yet Merrick didn’t know if they were as corrupt as the Arch Abbot had been.
It took the young Deacon a moment to recognize at the Presbyter’s back were five others from the Order—a quickly assembled Conclave. Their linked minds were probing his, weighing every word for truth. Well, they were not the only ones who could do that.
Merrick’s eyes narrowed. The woman he had been growing to love had died, the world had teetered on the edge of doom, and the man they had all trusted to lead them had proven false. Before they could stop him, Merrick thrust with his Sensitive power, which had never failed him in the ossuary, even for a moment. Indeed, it seemed to have grown stronger, and he slipped easily within the Presbyter’s mind.
It was not a place he wanted to be, cool and perhaps cruel—but Merrick had his answer. Inside, the Presbyter was shocked and disgusted with Hastler, concerned with what this would mean for the Order, and cautious about what Sorcha, Raed and Merrick had seen in the White Palace. That was all.
The Conclave’s attention swelled and he was unceremoniously ejected from the Presbyter’s mind. One of the Conclave members muttered under his breath, no doubt displeased with the young Deacon’s presumption.
Rictun’s eyes widened slightly as he realized how easily Merrick had plucked his concerns from his mind, but surprise soon turned to anger. “So it was Hastler? You saw him consorting with the Murashev?”
The mental fingers of the Conclave pressed harder into Merrick’s mind, holding him rigid like a bug as he said the words condemning their beloved leader. “Yes, it was Arch Abbot Hastler. He planned the death of Grand Duchess Zofiya to bring the Murashev into Vermillion. Why, I cannot say with certainty.”
Rictun cleared his throat. “A full inquiry is being assembled for two days’ time. There we will examine your partner’s experience, but it has already been decided: the Arch Abbot’s part in this will not be revealed to the public. The only person outside the Order to know of it will, of course, be the Emperor.”
Merrick felt his jaw tighten, and his mind opened to Sorcha.
It must have been enough for even the Active Rictun to feel, because he raised his hand. “Think for a moment about this, Deacon Chambers. Think what would happen to the Order if we disclosed everything. Do you really want to go back to the bad old days before we came here?”
Merrick glared at him. “The truth is not an option; it is a necessity.” His words echoed in the emptiness of the mortuary.
“Really?” Rictun grinned bleakly. “Think about it: none of the great unwashed would ever believe that the Order is not corrupt. They would never trust us again. They would never turn to us when the geists break through.”
Merrick glanced down at his feet, thinking of his first taste of what geists could do to the unprepared. The bodies of the slain Tinkers haunted his nightmares.
“They would understand, if we explained properly.” Even his own ears could discern the edge of uncertainty in his voice.
Rictun strode over and looked down at what remained of Nynnia, and then he delivered the ultimate blow. “You don’t believe that, Chambers, and you know this woman’s sacrifice will be for nothing if the people lose faith in us. We are the only defense they have against the geists.”
Merrick felt his throat go tight, and he had the sudden awful feeling that if he spoke now, he might cry. Light from the one stained glass window was casting a soft rainbow glow over Nynnia’s body, concealing her terrible wounds. His fingers drifted back to touch her now-cold hand.
He opened himself to Sorcha again, and felt reassured that despite her anger she had come to the same conclusion. Clearing his throat, he turned to face his superior. “A lie is a terrible thing, but what I have seen in the last few weeks is also terrible. One day, the truth will come out.” Pausing, he squeezed Nynnia’s hand as if she could still feel it.
Rictun’s eyes narrowed. “But not today?”
“No, not today.”
The Presbyter nodded. “A wise choice, Deacon.” His concerns assuaged, his tone softened. “You and Deacon Faris will submit yourselves to the inquiry by day’s end. There is much to be decided, if the Order is to survive.”
“Naturally.” Then Sorcha’s concerns flooded over him. “Presbyter Rictun,” he called. His superior paused at the door. “What of Raed Syndar Rossin? He was a great help to us. He even saved the life of the Grand Duchess.”
It was impossible to read Rictun’s expression. “He is also the Pretender to the throne, and one of our Emperor’s greatest enemies. He will be locked in one of the civic prisons until his fate can be decided.” He sighed. “But I believe our liege will be inclined to leniency, given the circumstances.”
“Are you certain, or just confident?” Merrick asked, feeling Sorcha’s rush of rage clog his throat.
Rictun gave him a stern look. “Today no one can be sure of anything, but I will certainly take the results of the inquiry to the Emperor and plead his case.”
Merrick felt something else in Sorcha then, something that she only barely acknowledged herself: guilt.
Her partner asked where she could not. “And Deacon Kolya Petav, Presbyter? Will he be at the inquiry?”
The answer plunged Sorcha deeper into remorse. “No, he will not. He is still in a healing coma in the infirmary. The mess the Arch”—Rictun broke off with a glower—“Hastler made of your Bond will have to wait until more pressing matters have been dealt with.”
It was enough for now. The Presbyter left Merrick to his mourning, and even his partner pulled back her consciousness. He was left alone with the ashes of his love and hope.
The Pretender slept fitfully in the comfort of the Emperor’s prison, but it was not that his host was exceptionally harsh. The cell was clean and tidy, and surprisingly it contained a very comfortable mattress over the slotted wood cot. Nor was it his jailors, who seemed uninterested in torturing him. They fed him through the bars with simple but tolerable fare.
No, it was the chattering of the Deacons in his head that Raed could not stand. He turned over on the bed with many a sigh and tried to block out the whispers of the inquiry he was forced to share with Sorcha and Merrick.
It was impossible. Whatever floodgate they had opened in the ossuary, it refused to close.
Eventually exhaustion won out over the drone of Deacons, and the Pretender managed to get a few hours’ sleep. The noise of a crowd outside woke him. It was not the cheering noise from the day before, but the shuffle of somber feet and subdued whispering. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Raed stood on his bed and peered out the window.
The jail was on Silk Road, one of the main thoroughfares of Vermillion, and when he peered out into the early-morning light he could see it was already crowded with people. No flags were in evidence this day and everyone was dressed in shades of gray. Raed could, in fact, make out weeping.
Outside his cell, one of his jailors was about to slide a morning meal between the bars, so the Pretender ventured a question whose answer he feared: “What’s happening outside?”
The man’s lip curled, and his brows knitted together in an expression that he had not worn the previous day. “It’s the funeral procession for the Arch Abbot.”
Raed swallowed hard as dread built in every nerve ending. “A state funeral for a traitor?”
The jailor threw the tin tray containing Raed’s breakfast against the bars. Some of it splattered onto him. That was a shock, but the sudden boiling rage on the man’s face was too. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he bellowed. “You’re not fit to lick that sainted man’s boots.”
