Geist (44 page)

At his side, Sorcha was curled in on herself, a strangled sound of utmost despair clawing its way out of her throat. Through his tears, Raed was able to see that the crowd—descending on them angrily only a second before—was also wracked with despair. They huddled on the street, sobbing and clutching at one another, in the throes of the emotional storm; a wash of misery that had been leveled upon them far more easily than anything Sorcha could have done.

Raed was only just able to nail that observation down before the waves of his own emotions crashed over him once more. The rawness of despair ran through his body, the depth of melancholy impossible to resist. That was, until Merrick’s hand touched his shoulder. “Raed.” His voice cut through the grief and pain, removing it as swiftly as it had come.

The Pretender climbed to his feet, noticing that Sorcha had also been pulled free of whatever had happened to them. She was brusquely wiping away her tears, turned slightly away; embarrassment burned along the Bond.

Merrick’s Strop dangled from his fingertips, tucked behind his back as if he were ashamed of it. A flicker of rainbow light played across its surface and was gone. Raed had studied the ways of the Order, and he had never heard of any Sensitive doing any such thing. Yet there it was; Merrick had leveled a lynch mob by reaching in and twisting their emotions—hard.

The three of them stared at one another, and then Deacon Chambers folded his Strop and tucked it inside his shirt. His expression was as flinty as his partner’s had been when she had faced the mob. “It won’t last long.” He flicked his reversed cloak around his shoulders and began picking his way through the still-weeping crowd.

Sorcha and Raed followed after. They had to be careful; people were rolling around sobbing, crying the names of dead relatives, and merely howling incoherently. No one paid the three of them any mind.

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.
Consequences be damned.

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.

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.
How can he know, when even I do not?
Merrick’s voice whispered in the back of her head. Even there, his tone was thin and sad.

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 punishment enough. The tension in the air was palpable; Rictun had not made friends in the Council, but he was, unfortunately, the only one of them strong enough to take up both the Gauntlet and the Strop as an Arch Abbot was supposed to do.

He smiled grimly at her. “You may return to your duties, Deacon Faris.”

It should have been a victory, but her heart was no lighter than when she had stepped into the chamber. She gave a bow to each in turn and then turned for the door. Rictun stopped her with words that cut to the core. “The matter of your partner—or rather, partners—will have to be untangled at a later date. It is quite a mess.”

As she left the chamber and headed down to the icy garden where Merrick waited, her heart was racing in her chest. The young man turned, and, despite everything, she smiled at him as if all was just as she wanted it. And suddenly she was sure of one thing: she wanted this brave young man as partner, not Kolya. She might not be able to have everything she wanted with Raed, but this was different—this was a relationship she could fight for.

They left the Mother Abbey; it bustled with life like a disturbed hornets’ nest. Merrick kept his Center open and they circled back through the streets many times before making their way to the Artisan Quarter. In the little weaver’s house they found Raed and his crew at a game of cards. The Pretender smiled at her, making her every nerve ending come alive. He was so much to her, and yet he could be nothing.

Coldly, she held out her hand to him. “It’s time to leave.”

Despite the Council’s assurances that the Emperor would have given Raed safe passage out of Vermillion, Sorcha was still cautious. She led the little group through every alleyway and double-back she knew, until at last they reached the port.

Merrick, without having to be asked, led the crew down toward where the ship waited so that his partner could say her good-byes to the Pretender. “The Captain will take you north, but in case there is ice blocking your route, this should buy you horses or carriage fare.” Slipping out a small pouch of gold, she pressed it into his hand. “Make sure not to gamble it all away.”

Raed’s eyes dropped, and his melancholy across the Bond was an echo of hers, though he tried to conceal it. “I am sure I could double your investment.” The smile was broad, but uncertain.

“You have already repaid me,” Sorcha replied, not letting go of his hand.

His bravado dropped away, and his fingers tightened around hers. “If I could, I would stay—you know that.”

It was a pretty dream, but both were old enough to know this was not the time for dreams. The Emperor’s largesse would not extend to allowing Raed to linger, and Sorcha had an Order to rebuild. He had to go. She had to stay. They both knew these things, and yet she was using every ounce of her control not to let her disappointment show on her face.

“I know, Raed. If wishes were horses—”

“I would never have to walk again.” He laughed, but his smile was bittersweet; he heard her thoughts as well as she could hear his. The Bond was making this so painful that both wanted it to be over, and yet they yearned for it to go on forever. “Indeed, Mistress Deacon, I should be going.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, a sweet memory sweeping over them both for a moment.

When he let go of her, Sorcha realized he had pressed something into her hand in return. It was a captain’s ring, marked with the sigil of his house: the rampant Rossin.

Wrapping her fingers around it, Sorcha smiled up at him. “No promises?”

He brushed her hair away from her cheek, the gloved back of his hand stroking her skin. The Deacon ached to lean into his touch, but managed to hold herself stiff. “Promises, no,” he said, his hazel eyes gleaming with light reflecting off the water. “But plenty of hopes.”

Then he turned and walked away from her. Sorcha watched as the vessel was made ready, and cast off to the ocean. She didn’t move, even when Merrick walked back up the pier to her. She felt her partner’s concern wash over her, but he wisely said nothing as she stood there, watching the tiny vessel sail away, the unreality of the moment giving way to gaping realization. Raed was gone, though she could feel where he was like a tiny lodestone nestled in her head. The Bond surely would weaken with time—which should be a good thing . . . It should be.