Geist

The Arch Abbot and Yvril Mournling, Presbyter of Sensitives, were waiting for Merrick in the Chapter House.

Merrick had seen little of the Arch Abbot himself during his training, but he’d spent many hours under the stern gray eyes of Presbyter Mournling. Though the older man was a member of the Presbyterial Council, he still made time to teach the advanced classes to the Sensitives. The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles when he saw the young Deacon—the newest member of the Order. Arch Abbot Hastler held a long wooden box in one wizened hand. Actives had their Gauntlets, but the Sensitives were not without their toys either. Hastler opened the container.

“Name them and control them.” He spoke the words of the final test.

Merrick swallowed hard, though he had repeated the Litany of Sight hundreds and hundreds of times. He held his hand over the box and its contents.

Sielu, I see through another’s eyes.

Aiemm, the past is real.

Masa, the future is a puzzle.

Kebenar, I am open to the truth of all things.

Kolar, this soul has wings.

Mennyt, no path is locked, even to the Otherside.

Ticat, the name unspoken, the purpose in shadow.

Merrick glanced up. That last rune would never be spoken of in the presence of anyone but a Sensitive, and his mouth still stumbled on that final phrase.

But Presbyter Mournling merely nodded and then spoke the words every Sensitive hoped to live by: “See deep, fear nothing.” His smile was cheery, but somehow did not reach his gray eyes.

With a deep bow Merrick took the contents of the box. Made of thick brown leather—the Strop might have at first been mistaken for a wide belt; it did indeed have a pierced length on one end and a buckle on the other. However, on closer examination the Strop was tooled with the seven Runes of Sight. The only other decoration was his personal sigil that he’d carved laboriously from obsidian, set on a brass loop and which would sit, once the Strop was in place, between his eyes, and above his nose. This rock-and-metal setting could also be slid up by virtue of the loop to rest higher, against the third eye. Though it held all the Runes of Sight, wearing the Strop was necessary only to invoke the final two. The Strop blinded the Sensitive to the real world but heightened his exposure to the unliving. Thus, it had to be used with more caution than the Active’s Gauntlets. Its hidden purpose, the one only Sensitives knew about, made it more powerful than the dazzling gloves.

After receiving the blessing of both of his superiors, Merrick got to his feet. The Arch Abbot’s hands shook as he closed the box, but his eyes were still sharp. “Don’t let Deacon Faris see your nerves, young Deacon. Remember, we wouldn’t be sending you if you were not equal to the task.”

This would have been comforting had Merrick not known more about her than Hastler possibly could imagine. He merely smiled at his superiors and nodded.

Deacon Sorcha Faris was waiting for him in the rectory. She had her back to him when he entered, making a good display that she didn’t care. Merrick made no effort to conceal his entrance, so her pretense was obvious. She was wearing the dark blue cloak of the Active, and when she turned around in an almost lazy fashion, her Gauntlets were clearly visible tucked into her belt. It wasn’t the norm for them to be kept there within the bounds of the Abbey, but then, this, too, was probably for his benefit.

She was of average height, but that was the only thing average about her. The bright auburn curls, which she usually kept tied up, lay on her shoulders and down her back. Perhaps she had heard he was younger than she and was trying to look a similar age. Her face was deceptively soft and beautiful, but when she spoke, the strength of her personality changed that perception. It was another weapon in her arsenal and Merrick was sure she knew how to use it.

Among the novices, Sorcha Faris was something of a regular conversation starter. She’d been one of the youngest Deacons to gain full rank, yet had been among the last to receive Teisyat. Hours were whiled away trying to decide why that might be. Merrick, more than most, had a good idea.

What he’d heard, and what he believed was actually true, was that she had power in full measure, but that her control was sometimes in question. It was just the ultimate irony that he was being partnered up with the one Deacon who gave him nightmares.

And now she was looking him up and down. He didn’t need to be a Sensitive to know what she was thinking. Unholy Bones, they’ve teamed me up with a child!

It was his dark curly hair and maybe the touch of Ancient blood in him that did it. Everyone always assumed he was only a teenager, when in fact he’d seen twenty-three years his last birthday. Sorcha might be in her late thirties, but he still bridled at the assumptions she’d obviously made about him in the first thirty seconds. Age had nothing to do with competence as far as Merrick was concerned.

“Haven’t we met?” she said, eyebrows knitting together in an expression that wasn’t totally related to memory recall.

For a second he froze, and only Deacon training kept shock off his face. Then he realized what she must mean. “You taught a basic class in structure of the Gauntlet in my second year.”

She grinned in a somewhat feral way. “You asked a question about Teisyat, didn’t you?”

At the time, Merrick recalled experiencing the same sick feeling that was building up in his stomach now, but he had indeed asked the question. He couldn’t be sure that she remembered what it was, but he did. How much control does the tenth Active Rune require?

She hadn’t answered, just glared. It had been innocently asked, though, for at that moment he’d had no idea she was having problems with that very same issue. Now he decided just to shrug and take refuge in the “I’m just a Sensitive” act.

“Well,” Sorcha sighed, “we better get this over and done with.”

Merrick’s heart leapt, racing like a jackrabbit’s, but he held his hands palm up to her. The bustle of Deacons and lay Brothers at the door suddenly seemed like it was calling to him. If he just darted out into the corridor, he could join them and get away from this moment.

He took a quick, nervous glance down at his hands; mercifully, they were still dry.

Placing her palms down against his own, she locked eyes with him. Hers were the darkest blue he’d ever seen, with an almost-black circle right round the iris. For an instant nothing seemed to be happening, and then came the tug.

It was his first partnership; he knew it was her fifth. She was not gentle, but then, he’d not expected her to be. The wrenching pull broke him free of the real world. He was plunged down into Sorcha Faris, spiraling into her eyes and consciousness in a way that actually hurt. He could feel the bright gateway within her, that place through which the Actives drew power from the Otherside. Inside her head, it burned hot and white and large, and it seemed ready to consume all that he was.

With a stifled yelp, Merrick returned to his own body. The Bond was formed, fragile and not at all comfortable, but definitely there. It would take some time for him to adjust to the awareness of Sorcha in the periphery of his senses.

“Good, then.” She snatched back her hands and for a moment almost looked like she might wipe them on her trousers. “I see you have your Strop. Is the rest of your kit packed?”

He nodded. “I got it down to the stables last night. I understand the Abbot wants us to leave immediately.”

“That’s what I heard.” And then she turned and strode out of the room, utterly confident that he would follow after.

Fear and anger did a brief battle inside Merrick’s head. She might only be of average height, but she moved as quickly as a person twice as tall. He found himself at a near trot to keep up with her. In this way they made