“The favor I owe you…” Sorcha croaked out, already concerned about what the geistlord would ask of her.
The coyote in man’s clothing waved his hand. “Let’s not be mercenary about it. The time will come when I will ask for your help.” He looked her up and down with hardly concealed dismay. “However that time is definitely not right now. You have some way to go before you are of any use to anyone.”
He stood. “And a little piece of advice,” he said leaning in, so that once again she could feel the heat of his coyote breath on her face, “I wouldn’t try any of your Deacon tricks on me…you are far too weak to take on a poltern let alone a geistlord.”
Sorcha blinked at him, feeling her anger rise to the occasion, but also realizing that he was completely right. Banishing the Fensena would just have to wait for another time, when she had her Sensitive with her and was feeling stronger. She smiled slightly. Perhaps that would even be the favor she did him.
Taking her smile for completely the wrong thing, the man stepped back. “Good then, we get off this airship and go our own ways. You go to save the world from your own nefarious kind—and I will set off to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.” He made for the door and then, pausing, turned back. “I do hope my confidence in you is not misplaced, Mistress Deacon.”
Then with that he was gone. Sorcha slumped back on her cot. Unused arms and sheer determination had only just held out long enough not to make a fool of her in front of a very dangerous beast. Now she could concentrate on doing what needed to be done: find Raed, stop the Order of the Circle of Stars, and then get back to the Mother Abbey.
After working her jaw a little, she began to gather the strength to summon Aachon to her side. She couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face.
TWELVE
For Services Rendered
Merrick’s dreams were a confused tumble. He held Nynnia in his arms, but she crumbled to dust, and he could not hold her together. She sifted through his fingers and was lost.
Zofiya danced away from him covered in blood and cradling the Emperor’s severed head in her arms. The dead Arch Abbot, Rictun’s predecessor, Hastler wrapped himself around Merrick, whispering of conspiracies and murders still unfolding. The flames of war covered the Empire and Merrick was carrying a water bucket with a hole in it. Finally, he heard Sorcha call his name, but found his mouth stitched shut so he could not call back to her.
Yes, Sorcha was calling him.
Merrick lurched upright in the magnificent bed of the Grand Duchess Zofiya and for a moment had no clue where he was. Looking around he realized morning light flooded the bedroom and sparkled on all the treasures of an Imperial sibling. Calming his breathing, he closed his eyes and put aside the residual panic of the nightmare. Then the Deacon opened his Center and felt along the Bond.
She was there. His partner, Deacon Sorcha Faris was distant, and growing more distant by the moment, but he could feel her once more as a presence. Wherever she was, his Active had gotten free of the affliction that she had suffered from ever since Orinthal. Just how she had been healed when all the best minds of the Mother Abbey’s infirmary had been left baffled remained unclear.
Merrick let out a long, slow sigh of relief, and closed his eyes. It was true, he still felt guilty for not being there, and he was sure Sorcha was annoyed he was not, but at least he knew she lived. However, if she lived, she would find her way back to him. Deacon Faris was many things, but helpless was not one of them.
The young Deacon pushed aside the fluttering sails of the canopy, and opened his eyes for the second time. He was ill equipped to be meeting this very important day, being both sleep deprived, and uncertain how the Grand Duchess would treat him.
As it turned out, he did not have to worry that Zofiya would treat him as a plaything or a marriage prospect, because she simply wasn’t there. Merrick laid his hand on the spot where she had collapsed after their exertions of the previous night: it was cold.
As a Grand Duchess she undoubtedly had many duties to attend: with the Imperial Guard, and her brother. Yet, he could not help being a little disappointed that she had not lingered. It would have been very pleasant to wake to her touch, and steal a few more kisses before the serious business of the day began.
As Merrick opened his Center once again, and sent it questing through the corridors for Zofiya, he found something else interesting. A large group of Imperial Guards was striding down the halls. They were accompanied by the Emperor himself, so something was surely afoot. It was not his concern, but it would be something that his new lover should be aware of.
With effortless ease, Merrick opened his Center wider and let it travel the length of the palace to find her. It dived down to the dungeons and the kitchens where people toiled. It scampered through the rooms of the powerful and aristocratic where they lay recovering from a surplus of wine. It twined through the ballrooms and card rooms that were being tidied by tired servants. Every man, woman and beast in the palace of Vermillion was accounted for.
About the time that a frown creased Merrick’s brow, at the exact moment he realized he could not sense the Grand Duchess anywhere in the palace, that was when the group of armed Imperial Guards burst through the privy chamber and charged into the bedroom itself. At their head was indeed the Emperor Kaleva of Arkaym himself. Unlike many who he had entertained the previous night, there was not a hair out of place on his dark head. He was dressed in the white uniform and sash that he wore when at state occasions—though why, was impossible to say. The other thing he wore was a very angry face.
Merrick was not at all used to the situation. He was more adept at helping rid the world of geists than at being caught in a young woman’s bedroom by her very angry brother. However why the Emperor would be so furious was inexplicable—no one could think the Grand Duchess a virgin; she’d taken other lovers in the Court before.
However, any more ruminations on exactly what was happening were cut short when the Emperor pointed at Merrick. “Seize this traitor!”
The Deacon forgot to breathe. Perhaps he was still enmeshed in those extraordinarily strange dreams? No Emperor or King could possibly ever call one of the Order a traitor. Rictun’s mad laughter as he summoned the Murashev was not a recollection he wanted to have at this moment. Yet that was the only example he could think of.
Merrick didn’t know how to react—however he was sure of one thing—he did not want to face his Emperor with not a stitch on. Quickly, before the Imperial Guards could reach him, the Deacon slipped into his trousers. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he began, but got no further.
“Bind his tongue,” the Emperor barked, “and then bring me his Strop!”
Two burly guards grabbed hold of Merrick and pinned him facedown on the bed before he could protest further. Another man appeared and what he carried made the young Deacon begin to struggle. In the old days, when a Deacon went mad and his brethren felt he might harm the innocent, a device called a brank was used. It was a large metal mask, with eyeholes cut out, and a strap underneath to prevent its removal. However its worst feature was a curving line of metal that was meant to run from each side of the prisoner’s mouth and hold their tongue still. Rows of spikes meant that any who attempted to talk paid a bloody price for it. To make it extra secure for the containment of a Deacon, a circle of weirstones was embedded around the crown.
They must have had to bring that from the palace dungeons, because he had not seen one except in a history book. He’d never thought to see one, and now that he had, the Deacon wished it very much gone.
It might not have been very dignified, but Merrick was not going to have his chance to talk to his Emperor before being taken away. Twisting, he managed to land a blow between the legs of the guard to his left, and then
