Geist (6 page)

“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.

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 smart progress out of the confines of the Abbey, toward the outbuildings. Novices were already in classes but the lay members of the Order were up and about. At this time of the year there was little to do in the gardens, but many were bustling around the stables. Geist activity was not solely limited to manipulating humanity. Locals often brought their livestock in to be freed of unliving influences.

Sorcha was going to ignore him as much as she could. She was colder than the late-autumn day, and the only thing Merrick had to warm himself was his growing anger, so he nurtured it a little.

“Perhaps”—he smiled at her while matching her pace— “perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened outside the gates two days ago? The whole Abbey is rife with rumor.”

Her stride broke for just an instant. “The Abbot will talk about it at Matins when it is appropriate.”

“Ah, but you see, we will be gone before that happens; and besides, now I am your partner . . .”

Sorcha stopped completely and spun about. He observed how she held her body in tight, tense lines. “Are you trying to irritate me? You’re bringing up things I have no control over, and I don’t like having no control. Having no control makes me exceedingly cranky, and when I get cranky, I eat novices for breakfast.”

Merrick found himself enjoying the moment. He could actually vaguely sense her discomfort on the edge of his perception. He liked it. “Fair point,” he replied with a slight twist in his lips, “but I am no longer a novice and therefore not on the menu. I only want to be the best partner possible.” The tinge of humor in his voice was apparent even to himself.

It was also immediately obvious that his gentle dig was not the sort of thing she appreciated. Her mouth opened a couple of times before she finally ground out, “You can do that by being the quietest partner ever.”

He made the universal lip-buttoning gesture with one eyebrow cocked. Sorcha stared at him hard for a minute, before turning away and shaking her head. “Unholy Bones, I need a smoke.”

Merrick followed her meekly into the stables. The idea of pointing out how the infirmary staff had told him that smoking of any sort was injurious to a person’s health popped into his head. However, pushing the point, he sensed, bordered on the dangerous. Many of the Deacons smoked and drank. It was not as if there was any injunction against it, and the life of a Deacon was generally not long.

His would be shorter than most if he crossed his new partner. After what he’d seen as a child, his fear of her wasn’t going to go away. But he might have discovered a way to hide it.

Inside, the lay Brothers had saddled up two of the Abbey horses for them. The Breed was almost as ancient as the Order; jet-black, tough as a mountain pony but as beautiful as any from the Emperor’s stable. If there was one real perk to doing battle with the forces of the Otherside, it was the chance to ride one of the Deacon Breed.

None of the Deacons actually personally owned any of the Breed, since the only objects any of them kept solely for themselves were the tools of their trade, but particular animals became favored by certain Deacons. Sorcha was examining her stallion, running her hands down his legs and over the withers to check his fitness. She was taking more care doing this than she had in forging the Bond with Merrick. Sometimes being a Sensitive was too much to bear.

“Shedryi?” Merrick cocked his head and examined the stallion. “He was shipped over from the old country, wasn’t he? A bit long in the tooth to be relied upon, surely?”

Sorcha glanced up, and her look was pure venom. “And what about me, young Deacon? Would you say I’m a bit long in the tooth as well? Shedryi and I have a real relationship, which is more than can be said for us right now.”

Not being that clued up on his horseflesh and also sensing danger in the air, he decided to concentrate on his own mount. As a novice he’d been trained to ride on a variety of lesser horses, and had sat on one of the Breed only in the last few months of training. He’d not settled on a favorite and was happy enough to accept the stablemaster’s choice.

Melochi was smaller than Sorcha’s stallion, but she seemed well proportioned and more biddable. Her wide dark eye followed him with an expression that might have been resignation, but that was better than the fierce look in Shedryi’s. Merrick made a mental note to keep out of the stallion’s reach. He had a wicked look about him, as if he had understood the man’s aspersions. The pack mule, who he found out was named Horace, was tied to the pommel of Melochi’s saddle and looked resigned to his lot in life; following around the superior breed. Merrick wondered if that was to be his lot as well.

Having completed her check of horses, mules and supplies, Sorcha swung up onto Shedryi. Merrick could have sworn she was still glaring at him. “I take it you are a good enough horse-man to keep up.”

He shrugged. “Winner of the All Novices four-hundred-yard gallop, runner-up in the—”

“A simple yes would suffice,” Sorcha grumbled, her bandaged fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as if she were in pain.

“Well, then . . . I suppose so.”

“Good, because the fastest way north is going to be the road. The currents around Vermillion are treacherous this time of year, and no ships are leaving until next week at the earliest.”

“The Abbot needs us there that urgently?” Merrick had been so long thinking about the ramifications of partnering with Sorcha that he had not really taken much note of their first assignment. “I can catch up on the details when I read the report,” he said as smoothly as possible.

This was obviously immensely cheering to his new companion; she actually chuckled. “I’ll get you up-to-date with the salient points on the way, lad. You won’t have time on the ride to be reading any reports. Keeping your seat on these roads will be enough work.”

And with that, Deacon Faris urged Shedryi out of the stable and onto the open road, leaving her fifth and newest partner to once again rush to catch up.

Raed walked down to the beach with a knot in the pit of his stomach. By the rowboat, five of his crew members waited. Explaining to them the small concession he’d been able to get would be just a taster for explaining to the whole ship.

The title Young Pretender was not one that Raed would have wished on anyone, and yet he had a crew of thirty men and women willing to tie their fates to his. He felt responsible, deeply aware that any decisions he made would affect them. Most followed him in the vague hope that one day he would sit on the Vermillion throne, others because their own families owed allegiance to his. Not one of them wanted him to have the same miserable existence as the Unsung.