swung around, wriggling free of the other.
He only managed another “Your Imperial Majesty” before reinforcement guards surged forward and brought him crashing to the floor. Primitive instincts kicked in, and the Deacon still tried his best to get free, despite the pummeling he took for it.
It was a game he couldn’t win, and eventually with a great deal of swearing and hair yanking from the guards, they managed to manhandle the brank around Merrick’s head. They jammed it on with such force that it cracked the corners of his mouth and raked his tongue. The Deacon gagged on his own blood, while struggling to retain his consciousness. He could see only the carpet in front of him and a lined mass of Imperial Guardsmen feet. This was one terrible nightmare. This had to be what this was.
One more kick to his side rather destroyed that hope. No, it was real, and he was bound. Alone. Cut off from that which mattered most to him.
Out of the corner of one straining eye, he spotted a guard gingerly rifling through his bag lying on one of Zofiya’s velvet chairs. The investigator was clever enough not to pick up the Strop directly when he found it. Instead, using a pair of long-handled pliers, the guard pulled out the thick strip of leather, decorated with Merrick’s sigil and the Runes of Sight, and placed it in a silver tin. This too was studded with weirstones.
They had certainly come prepared. He had been anything but. Merrick could have kicked himself for underestimating del Rue, but surely the Mother Abbey would sort this out. Bedding a Grand Duchess was against no Imperial ruling or Order stricture. He had done nothing wrong.
The guards, now assured that he was neutralized, bound his hands behind his back, and hauled him to his feet. The Emperor still looked furious. “Where is she?”
Merrick shook his head to clear it, but stripped of his Sight and his voice, he was befuddled. How did the Emperor expect him to answer with the brank on? This was utter madness.
Then the enormity of what the Emperor had asked settled over him, and he was able to connect it with the discovery he had made just as they burst into the bedchamber. Zofiya was missing.
Now this situation became more than just a ridiculous reaction to his bedding a Grand Duchess. It became something far more sinister. Despite the pain it caused him he managed a muffled, “I don’t know!” Then gulped back the mouthful of blood that was the result.
The Emperor’s hands balled into fists. Merrick had never seen this side of his ruler before. It was frightening to see him so unhinged. “We all saw one of you damned Deacons with her, phasing through the wall. You took her, and by the time my torturers—”
“Your Imperial Majesty, I am here as requested.” Yvril Mournling, Presbyter of the Sensitives, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his hands folded into the sleeves of his green cloak. His face was as serene as if he were having tea with Kaleva rather than interrupting him threatening one of his fellow Brothers.
Mournling’s gray eyes flicked over the brank and the wide-eyed Merrick trapped within it, but he did not flinch.
“I most certainly did not request your presence,” the Emperor growled. “This man is involved in the disappearance of my royal sister, and I will have answers.”
“This Deacon,” Mournling emphasized, not moving an inch, “looks currently unable to answer any questions. Also, the Mother Abbey is the only one equipped to deal with his interrogation.”
“And how,” Kaleva said, his eyes darting around the room, “did you come to arrive here so quickly since no one sent for you?”
The Presbyter remained unmoved by the tone of his Emperor’s voice. “We are Sensitives, Your Imperial Majesty. He is our brother and our responsibility—as when we first set out with you from Delmaire.” It was so close to a slap in the face that Merrick could scarcely believe it. The Order of the Eye and the Fist swore an oath to the Emperor himself, and it was generally accepted they were part of his government. Deacons could requisition airships, command troops and enter and leave the palace as they saw fit.
After the Native Order was thought to have been destroyed, the geists came back. Everyone knew that without the new Order, Arkaym would have been overrun with the unliving and impossible for the Emperor or anyone else to rule effectively. Before their arrival with Kaleva the once-unified continent had devolved into petty principalities on the verge of losing control. Trade had dried up, and that had been what forced Princes to send for a new leader from Delmaire.
Stunned and injured as he was, Merrick suddenly saw how precarious a thing the relationship between the Emperor and his Order was. It looked vulnerable as it never had before, and as he swallowed blood he thought of the man that called himself del Rue whispering into Kaleva’s ear for all that time. He began to realize the damage that could be done with words—far more than if the Order of the Circle of Stars had stormed the Abbey with Gauntlets blazing.
Perhaps Zofiya’s disappearance was the kind of punctuation mark del Rue needed with the Emperor.
Both men waited as still as statues: the representative of an Order that had brought Arkaym back from chaos, and the Emperor who had been called from Delmaire to rule it.
A tiny muscle twitched in the Emperor’s jaw, but finally he spat out, “Very well, take him before your Council—for now—but my Guards will escort you back to your Abbey. I will expect your Arch Abbot to appear before me before midday.”
Merrick found himself yanked to his feet and bundled from the room. Mournling led the way, his hands still tucked in his sleeves. The Emperor could be heard behind them, yelling at the remains of his Guard. Despite Zofiya’s voiced concerns that her brother had been pulling away from her recently, he sounded quite unhinged.
Still the fact was the Grand Duchess was gone, and if the Emperor had him killed, Merrick would never be able to find her and get her back. He’d lost far too many women in his young life. He certainly was not going to lose another one. First things first; he had to get out of this dangerous situation.
The young Deacon was still in the brank, and Mournling was not making any attempt to have it removed. Merrick kept his head bowed, and tried to hold his tongue flat enough that it didn’t hurt.
They passed through the hallways, which were lined with members of the Court. He didn’t need his Sensitivity to tell him what they were thinking. Their pale faces, and the way they wouldn’t look directly at him said quite enough. Maybe it was a good thing Sorcha was gone.
They filed out of the palace, and through the courtyard, standing in two silent rows, were twenty pairs of Deacons. The line of grim hooded figures awaiting him made Merrick more fearful than he had been back before the Emperor. The Order was not without punishments of its own.
The Imperial Guards handed the young Deacon over to his brethren, and just as quietly they turned and took him from the palace grounds. Presbyter Mournling was at his side, and now apparently felt free to talk. “The brank,” he spoke softly to Merrick, not turning his head to address him, “is an unfortunate device, but we dare not remove it until we reach the Mother Abbey. You should be lucky that the Emperor’s Sensitive was watching the ether so closely last night. For now, please try your best not to talk, Deacon Chambers.”
They marched on farther downhill from the palace and the short distance back to the home of their Order. Merrick felt as if he were in the middle of an armed escort, though none of his fellow Deacons were actually carrying any weapons. It was a most odd sensation. As they approached the gates, he glanced up and noticed that for the first time ever there were hooded shapes also lining the walls.
The Mother Abbey was built within a great wall which had a portcullis and gates, but it was only manned at the entry—well, it had been. It looked like things had changed since he had left last night. Usually, even at the gate it was lay Brothers that took sentry duty. However those above were not in the gray. It looked like there would be no Feeding of the Poor today. That kindly ritual would have to wait. This all had to be on his account.
Merrick’s heart sank at seeing that, and he began to see the scope of what had happened in such a short time. He should perhaps have gone after Sorcha after all. Perhaps del Rue would not have moved so quickly if he hadn’t been there. Perhaps if a Deacon had not been in the Grand Duchess’ bed he would have taken more time to reveal his plan.
“You are beginning to see,” Mournling continued, “the consequences of what you have done, but you cannot possibly imagine them all. The Emperor has sent his Deacons back to us. For the first time since setting foot in Arkaym, Kaleva is without our protection.”
Worse and worse. Merrick couldn’t believe it was only half a day since he’d left the Mother Abbey. As he entered it again the angry stares and whispered comments followed him. At that moment he was almost glad not to be able to see into the minds of his fellow Deacons, or taste their contempt. All of them wore their hoods up,
