The circle of this emotional storm was three streets wide, leveling every citizen—even those beyond Silk Road who had not been involved in the lynching. Sorcha draped her cloak over Raed as they found the edge of the effect, lifting the hood to hide his features. Ahead of them Merrick was still striding, not looking over his shoulder, his back ramrod straight.
“Do you know what that was?” Raed whispered, clenching her cool hand in his.
She shook her head, her eyes wide, concerned and still a little red from the sudden tears. “There are many things that Actives do not know, about what Sensitives do,” she muttered, “but I do not think this is taught in any class at the Order.”
“And by the looks of him, now is not the time to ask.” Raed lifted her fingers and kissed them lightly. “But I appreciate the rescue.”
Her smile was bright, sudden, and concealed immediately. “It was not quite as planned.” She did not say it, but Raed could hear her thoughts.
Eventually they passed through another section of narrow alleyways and into the Artisan Quarter. Weavers hung their wares out in front of stores while talking with passersby. It was loud and vibrant, and stood out in stark contrast to the weeping mob they had so narrowly escaped. Merrick flicked aside a tapestry that, ironically, showed the achievements of the native Order, and led them into the depths of one of the shops.
In the basement Raed felt the last of the melancholy lift from his shoulders. “Aachon!” He crossed the short distance and grabbed hold of his first mate before the man could move. The slap on his back was gruff but heartily meant. The Pretender laughed loudly as the rest of his crew crowded around him; not a single one was missing.
Over the tops of their heads, he glanced back and saw the Deacons standing as still as herons by the door. They, Raed realized, had risked a great deal to get him to safety. To extend such loyalty to someone not in the Order was something he had not expected. But the Bond was still there. He might have wanted it gone, but it had saved them all.
Raed cleared his throat. “What now?”
Sorcha’s hands clenched at her sides, and her voice was soft. “There is a ship leaving tomorrow morning, with a captain who asks no questions. He is heading north to Ulrich. You are safe here until then.” She pulled her cloak about her and, with a look at Merrick, jerked her head toward the door.
They slipped out before Raed could say anything, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he would have said, anyway.
TWENTY-FIVE
Comfort in Eschaton
The summons to appear before the Presbyterial Council came before nightfall. Apparently attending a state funeral had not worn out its members—something that Sorcha had counted on as protection at least until the morning.
Rictun sat to the right of the glaring gap in the circle where the Arch Abbot’s chair had been. He was very close to coming to power and Sorcha knew that his position now was merely a formality. In the next week, Rictun would be the new Arch Abbot. For now, though, she was too busy fighting for her place in the Order—hers and Merrick’s—to be concerned by Rictun’s imminent promotion.
When they had slipped out of the ranks of mourning Deacons, they’d both known there would be consequences, but she had made sure that it was she alone who stood before the Council. She had said nothing about what Merrick had done; she didn’t know what it was anyway. All that they knew, all that had been reported to them by those Deacons who witnessed her, was that she had nearly used the runes against civilians—even if those civilians were about to rip her apart.
To cover up his actions, the Council had claimed the wave of sorrow that had followed was the sainted Arch Abbot Hastler intervening so that no violence would be done in his name.
Sorcha knew the beginnings of a martyrdom legend when she saw it. By the end of the week there would be miracles in the tomb and sobbing mothers taking their sick children there to be healed. Her role in this myth-in- the-making, she also suspected.
“The only reason you are still wearing the symbol of the Order”—Rictun stood and looked around at his fellow Presbyters—“is because of what you did in the ossuary.”
“Very glad you still remember,” Sorcha muttered, so far into her rage that even Merrick’s soothing presence through the Bond could not stop her.
“Deacon Faris,” Presbyter of the Young, Melisande Troupe, leaned forward, her white-gold hair cascading around her shoulders. “No one can deny that you saved Vermillion from destruction, nor would anyone have argued against your freeing the Pretender Raed Syndar Rossin, since the Emperor himself was planning to do the same thing. You are here for the use of runes on the general population—something expressly forbidden by the Charter.”
“But I did not—”
“You would have.” Presbyter of Sensitives Yvril Mournling’s gray eyes drilled through her where she stood. “The action would have occurred if it had not been for a turn in the crowd.”
Sorcha frowned. Surely Mournling of all people should know what had gone on, but something in his expression, something subtle, begged for her silence.
Her throat tightened. A wild talent, then, like Garil’s, and if anyone were to discover it . . .
“I admit,” she said, tucking her shaking hands behind her back, “I did act without thought, and in a moment of self-preservation I was tempted to use my gifts on the mob.” She hung her head. “I let my primitive instincts take over, and I stand ready to be punished for it.” Hopefully they would ask no more questions before her dismissal.
When Sorcha glanced up, the look of shock on Rictun’s face made the admission worth it. He cleared his throat. “That is very well, but you have sullied the good you did. The people of Vermillion will not forget—”
Presbyter of the Actives, Zathra Trelaine, raised one scarred and crooked hand, stopping Rictun in midsentence. He stood and walked haltingly to Sorcha. As a Deacon, Trelaine had earned every one of his injuries in service to the Arch Abbot—his pain at the betrayal was deeper than most and she could read it on his face.
He looked Sorcha up and down, and the tremble in her hands worked its way up her arms. “You do not understand, Deacon Faris—control has always been our greatest concern with you. Despite your power, which none even among the Council can match, you still have a tenuous grip on it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it with a snap. She disliked being wrong; it curdled her stomach and brought a thousand excuses to mind, but there it was—the bald truth of it.
“Your service to the Order in the ossuary was exceptional”—Trelaine’s eyes narrowed—“and I was one of the ones in this session that championed your ascension to our ranks.”
Sorcha swallowed hard—a Presbyter . . . They meant to make her . . .
Her superior shook his head. “Naturally, that is now out of the question, and you will have to remain within the Mother Abbey for a good few months until the rumbles of your actions have died down.”
A wave of relief made Sorcha dizzy. “Then . . . then I may remain a Deacon?”
Trelaine crooked an eyebrow. “You are too powerful for anything else, and perhaps with the right partner”—his emphasis on “right” brought a rush of reality to her giddy moment—“you may yet learn something.”
The Presbyter turned and limped back to his chair, apparently washing his hands of any further comment.
“But there must be punishment for such transgression,” Rictun barked. “To even contemplate . . .”
“Yet that was all she did.” Presbyter Mournling folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “And only a day earlier she stood against a Murashev. When you are Arch Abbot, Presbyter Rictun, you will quickly learn that there is no such thing as black or white.”
Behind her back, Sorcha clenched her hands tight on each other. Working with this man was going to be
