Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

The old man sighed, and levered himself out of the chair. That was when Merrick went far beyond the boundaries of propriety and possibly into the realms of illegality. He opened the First Rune of Sight, Sielu, and attempted to see through Garil’s eyes. It was a bold move that should have outraged the old man.

Instead he laughed—not in a mocking way, but gently as if he had caught a child out at a silly prank. “Don’t bother trying that on me, Deacon Chambers. I may be elderly, but I am not without my faculties.”

“But apparently quite without your loyalty,” Merrick snapped back, at a loss with what he should do. “Sorcha trusted you, loved you as a father—and you let her die.”

Garil’s eyes dropped away. “I did what was best.”

Suddenly Merrick was reminded of the one other thing he knew of Deacon Reeceson—the other thing, apart from Sorcha that they had in common. A wild talent. A secret gift that was quite outside the Order, the runes and the rules. Now both Sensitives shared a hard look. Deacon Reeceson’s talent was for prescience. The ability to see into the long future—something even the rune Masa did not allow a member of the Order.

“What have you done with her?” Merrick asked in a whisper filled with dread.

“She is gone to a distant Priory, one that can deal with her particular illness. One that might be able to heal her.”

His words were clearly spoken, but through his Center Merrick could feel a murkiness to their meaning. “She is still my partner,” he countered. “I should have been informed—gone with her.”

When Garil shook his head, the young Sensitive’s heart sank. “That can be quickly fixed in Presbyterial Council—you are far too great a talent to be lost to the Order. They will find you—”

“Enough!” Merrick could take no more of it. His eyes burned as if he might shed angry tears, and he did not want to do that in front of Garil. “You are a retired Deacon—no longer fighting geists, no longer a real Brother. I will speak to the Arch Abbot himself on this matter.” Then before the old man could stop him, Merrick darted out of the room, and blundered out of the infirmary. He caught glimpses of the concerned faces of lay Brothers, and a few scattered visitors, but none of these things registered.

His brain was too full of concern for Sorcha and outrage that anyone would ask him to sever the Bond with her. It was unlike any other he had ever read of, and when it had been in the fullness of its power, before Sorcha had been stricken, they had worked as a seamless pair. It had been beautiful.

They would not take the chance of its restoration from him. They would not. He charged through the silent Devotional building. Bereft as it was of Deacons, he could not help glancing up at the carved images of the Native Deacons that occupied its soaring ceiling space. They had been hacked about their stone faces, destroyed in an act of mindless vandalism generations ago. It gave them an eerie appearance, and it took very little imagination to think that they were glowering at him, or perhaps laughing. Many years had passed since the last of that old Order had died. The Order of the Eye and the Fist had come only recently to take on the geists in Arkaym, but before them there had been others. Others who had been thought extinct.

That was until Merrick had had that assumption crushed. Beneath the Chiomese palace, he had run into living, breathing examples of that old and corrupt Order. They had made their intentions perfectly clear—to use geists, rather than to fight them. To take the power they thought they deserved. Even the remembrance of it made his stomach clench like he’d been punched there.

The young Deacon paused for a second under the defaced and hacked final statue. The angry populace had left it one piercing eye under a stern brow. It reminded him of the nameless leader of the Order of the Circle of Stars—which had to be impossible. And yet—Merrick swallowed—many impossible things had been proven since he had left the novitiate, and been Bonded with Sorcha.

As he stood beneath that frightening gaze, he recalled how his report on the Chiomese affair had still not been dealt with by the Presbyterial Council. They had taken it, had assured him it would be given the greatest weight, and then…nothing.

Clenching his teeth, he spared one final glare for the one-eyed stone harbinger, and then ran on to the back of the Devotional to where the Presbyters and the Arch Abbot slept. No guard stood at the door, since this was the heart of the Mother Abbey, and so he passed on, unchallenged.

The Arch Abbot was unlikely to be asleep, but Merrick knew that his receiving hours were well over. Still he banged on the door. The tiny sparrow of a woman named Drale who served as his secretary answered Merrick’s rabid banging on the door. She was a lay Sister of the Order—one who had gone through the trials and yet proven not powerful enough to be trained with the runes. Still, she was due some respect. Her eyes were bleary, as she undid the door and peered out.

“Deacon Chambers?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. She was well aware, like most of the Mother Abbey, that Arch Abbot Rictun was no friend of Sorcha’s, and that, by association Merrick was also tarred the same. Still, he and Drale had spent a lot of time in the Abbey library together, and had become, if not friends, at least friendly.

“The Arch Abbot has retired,” she said, narrowing the gap in the door. “His chambers will be open just after lunch tomorrow. He has—”

“I must speak to him now ,” Merrick said, pushing forward, his knee pressing against the smooth, ancient wood of the door. “I cannot wait until morning!”

“Deacon!” Drale hissed, not quite pushing back, but looking horrified as the young, quiet Deacon she knew turned into something far more like his partner. “You will make no friends on this course. Please, go back to the infirmary!”

“You think I care,” Merrick shot back, his voice rising. “Deacon Sorcha Faris is missing—and as far as I am aware she is still one of our Order. We do still take care of our own don’t we?”

“Do you doubt the morality of the Mother Abbey?” Rictun finally pushed open the door and stood facing his younger colleague. The Arch Abbot was a young man to have reached such lofty heights, about the same age as Sorcha. He had golden hair, and the kind of handsomeness that would have brought women flocking to him had he had another occupation. He still could have married, because there was no injunction against it by the Order, but he had the kind of personality that tended to repel most on long acquaintance. Still he was the strongest Presbyter in both Active and Sensitive powers, and amid the chaos of the previous Arch Abbot being killed and revealed as a traitor, he had been the best choice at the time.

Now, Merrick was beginning to think it had been a very wrong decision, because there was a set to Rictun’s mouth that suggested he was not surprised to see him at his door.

“Do not worry, Drale.” Rictun stepped back and gestured to his audience chamber. “I am always open to all members of the Order, day and night.”

The frightened secretary scampered to her own tiny bed in the corner of the entrance chamber, all too happy to get out of the way. Merrick stormed after Rictun, not feeling an ounce of his rage dissipate. Sorcha was still gone.

Rictun slipped into his chair behind his desk, but Merrick did not sit. Instead, he began to pace, trying to compose his thoughts, while a hundred angry words clamored to get out of his mouth. The small audience chamber was lit by flickering candlelight, and the way it danced over the ancient stained glass disturbed him. This place must have been the home of the Arch Abbot of the Order of Stars. Perhaps a part of those that had gone before still lingered here.