which mostly hid their faces and turned them into a rank of strangers. Except for one. Deacon Garil Reeceson stood to the rear of the crowd by the gate. His face was serious, but not angry. They shared more than just the Order and a history with Sorcha. Maybe he had come to make sure Merrick would not use his wild talent on the Deacons, or maybe he was there merely to give support. Merrick was not afforded the opportunity to find out.
“Take him to the Silence Room,” Mournling ordered once the gate was fastened. “Remove the brank once he is there.”
He stood before Merrick and looked at him; an odd mixture of compassion and distaste in his gray eyes. “The Presbyterial Council is in urgent session, and then Rictun will attend the Emperor. For now, this is the best I can do for you.”
Then his hand clamped down on Merrick’s shoulder as he repeated the mantra of the Sensitive, “See deep, fear nothing.” It was almost cruel to say such a thing, since both were impossible right now.
His fellow Deacons were however not unkind to him as they took him into the Devotional. The soaring walls, great vaulted ceilings and awe-inspiring stained glass windows had never felt anything but beautiful to him before this. Now, he feared where his colleagues were taking him.
Once, during his time in the novitiate, he and his class had been brought to the Silence Room. It had partly been to shatter any rumors and partly to serve as a warning. It was the Deacon equivalent of a geist horror story, since Deacons were not encouraged to fear the undead. Merrick had come late to the Order, but it had still frightened him.
All but two pairs of his escorts left him at the simple wooden door in the asp of the Devotional. One of the Actives removed a silver key etched with unfamiliar runes from her robe, and unlocked the door. When she turned and glanced at Merrick he was finally able to recognize her.
“Ofrior,” Merrick gasped out, before the brank reminded him he was not yet free of it. The pain had subsided to a dull burn, yet ranking his tongue against the spikes brought fresh waves of it back.
His friend from the novitiate winced, and held up her hand to the other Deacons about them. She glanced down into the darkness behind the open door and shook her head, then pulled him aside a little. While she dabbed gingerly at the fresh blood with her cloak sleeve, Ofrior Karli whispered to him. “Be strong, Merrick. The Abbey is in an uproar, but I heard old Mournling talking with Troupe just before we left. They said they have to be sure—it is their duty to keep the Emperor safe.”
“Ofrior!” Vermon, her Sensitive, gestured toward the door. “Now is not the time to disobey the Council.” He shot a slightly ashamed look in Merrick’s direction. “Sorry.”
The young Deacon couldn’t really say anything in reply, but he just nodded and gently pushed Ofrior’s hands away from his mouth. That she had used the sleeve of her own cloak to do it was enough kindness to get him through this.
However she would not go away. Her green eyes were wide, and she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him tight. “He also said something about the Pattern. I don’t know what that means Merrick, but he sounded…he sounded scared.” The two friends stared at each other for a moment.
The Pattern was a phrase he had never heard before, though he suspected he’d soon have ample time to mull it over.
Then he found himself whirled around. Vermon had lit a lantern and led the way down the spiral stairs down into the earth. Ofrior kept her hand on Merrick’s shoulder, which was just as well; with the brank still clamped around his face it was impossible for him to tilt his head down to see the steps. He would have stumbled and fallen several times without her assistance.
When they reached the bottom there were the rows of cells; four in all and every one empty. For the moment. They looked similar to any cell that might be found at the palace or in the office of the sheriff, except for one thing, the lining of the walls. Tiny slivers of weirstones were embedded in the stone of the walls, gleaming blue and beautiful. It was an expensive thing to do to control a Deacon—however the cell would be far more pleasant than the Emperor’s barbaric methods.
As carefully as they could Ofrior and Vermon took the brank off him. Merrick’s tongue was swollen and bleeding, and the corners of his mouth were not much better. Aside from the physical pain, he was still reeling from shock. He had no Strop. He was for all intents and purposes a normal citizen of the Empire—at least for his time down here.
“It won’t be long,” Ofrior said, as she guided him forward into the cell. That was the best she could offer as she first slid the bars shut and then pressed her hands against the weirstones.
That was when Merrick howled. He’d thought the brank was terrible, but in fact the room was worse. Instead of containing his powers, it flowed over them and ripped them from him. It was as if every nerve ending was set aflame, burning and cutting him to the bone. He lay on the floor, twitching and wide-eyed for a long time. Long after the other Deacons had left the room.
It took many hours for him to become used to the sensation of quiet that was buried in him. Eventually, he levered himself off the floor and made it to the hard bed of stone, covered with a thin blanket. Merrick sat there shivering, and tried to hold on to his sanity. The Bond was gone, the ever-present drone of life around him was gone, and most of all his awareness of self was badly bruised.
However, with all that extra noise gone, Merrick became aware of something else. A whisper in the corner of his mind, one that he’d been too busy to ever really notice.
And as he became slowly aware of it, the Deacon came to the horrifying conclusion that del Rue had been right. Beneath the Priory in Ulrich, on his first mission with Sorcha, he had taken a darkling into his soul. It had been a decision made in a desperate moment, and it had been instrumental in uncovering the rot in the town, but it had also exposed him to a little sliver of the undead.
Now, all alone in the Silence Room, she could be heard. A thin whisper of a life lost to conspiracy and treachery. One who had been taken by the machinations of the Order of the Circle of Stars.
He longed for his other partner. His living one.
“Sorcha,” he whispered into the silence, “I need you.”
THIRTEEN
Dropping from the Clouds
Sorcha wished she could have recorded in some way the expression on Aachon’s face when he entered the cabin to find her sitting up—albeit shakily—on her bed. He could not have looked more surprised if he had walked in to find Raed there.
Calling his name had quite taken all Sorcha’s strength, and she had to make several urgent gestures for water, before the first mate came back to himself enough to understand. He had plenty of questions, but she decided that despite his loyalty to her lover, he had also participated in kidnapping her from the Mother Abbey, and that meant he needn’t be privy to everything that had happened. So she kept quiet about the geistlord who had removed the cloak. Instead she made up a tale about how getting away from the Mother Abbey had revived her. Aachon was no great lover of the Order and swallowed the lie easily. It was a performance worthy of a Sensitive, and one she did not think the Fensena would interfere with.
In fact, the next morning after her revival, it was found that Serigala had disappeared. Even though the
The next few days were spent trying to get used to walking again. In a normal patient, such as she had seen many times in the infirmary, this process would have meant months of gradually easing herself back to normality. However, her limbs had not atrophied at all, though she had lost some weight and had to double her belt around her waist to keep her pants up.
Captain Quent Lepzig took time from his duties where he could, and helped Sorcha circumnavigate the airship holding on to his arm. Aachon, despite using the Deacon’s abilities to direct their course, seemed unwilling to spend
