Philippa Ballantine - Spectyr

As he contemplated that, Merrick had been left behind by Sorcha and Kolya, who were striding along at great speed. Deacon Petav’s soft voice was hard to make out over the rumble of carriages passing them—Sorcha’s was not.

“—don’t try to sell me that, Kolya! I know the Otherside ebbs and flows, but this is not part of that natural cycle. And if Hastler—” Sorcha stopped, catching herself using the dead Arch Abbot’s name rather than that of his successor. She growled in irritation and walked even faster up the hill.

Kolya shrugged at Merrick as if they were part of some club of Sensitives confused by Sorcha. The older Deacon cultivated an aura of passive acceptance, but Merrick knew he could turn that around suddenly, making it seem as though it was the other person in the wrong. It was quite a talent.

Luckily they reached the Abbey, and never had he been so grateful to see the high, white walls that surrounded it. They went in the postern gate, past the lay Brother guards, and into the courtyard. To the right: the infirmary, the gardens, and the stables. To the left: the dormitory, the refectory, and the novitiate house. Ahead were the lines of cloisters with Deacons strolling through them, talking or just quietly contemplating.

As Sorcha lowered her head and made her way there, Deacon Petav stopped and called her name. She completely ignored him, pulled her cloak around her shoulders and stalked off. Now it was Kolya who caught at Merrick’s arm. “She has to talk to me!” He appeared genuinely bemused by his nearly former wife.

The other Sensitive stopped and stared at him. “You must know she is resolute in her decision, Deacon Petav, so tell me, why do you persist?”

His tall form bent then, just a fraction. “This is all that remains.” He spoke the words quietly before walking away toward the dormitory. Merrick watched him, wondering at the man who had let Sorcha go without complaint yet now regretted it so bitterly.

However, Deacon Petev had made his own bed—his inaction had consequences that he must now deal with. Merrick turned and ran to catch up with Sorcha, who he suddenly realized was making her way through the cloisters ditly toward the receiving chambers of the Arch Abbot. Going toe-to-toe with Rictun was in no one’s best interests. Merrick called her name. It echoed in the ceiling of the cloisters, and several of their fellow Deacons glanced up. Surprisingly, she did stop.

“Not there—please, Sorcha!” He didn’t care who heard, because they were already the talk of the Abbey.

Their eyes locked, and it was she who flinched. Her hands clenched the edge of her cloak. Instead, she stalked into the Devotional. Before the arrival of the geists this had been a church—a place to worship the gods. Now it hosted gatherings, meetings and training to fight the unliving. Still, as they entered the heart of the Abbey, the great soaring ceiling, the beautiful stained glass windows, even the statues of the Deacons of the Old Order stirred Merrick’s heart. He loved the services they had here, the words of wisdom passed on by others of the Order, stories of the past—all those things. It gave him peace, and he hoped it did the same for his partner.

It was a sign of Sorcha’s bewilderment that she let herself be hauled into one of the chapels that ran the length of the great vaulted space that was the Devotional. Merrick could read her confusion in the tight line of her jaw and the way she would not meet his eyes.

“I saw him die.” She whispered, so that the vast space would not catch her words. Sorcha looked up at him then, her blue eyes uncertain—frightened, perhaps, of her partner’s response.

“I saw it too!” Merrick touched her shoulder, and for a second she did not move.

Then, sliding away from his touch, she leaned against the gray stone wall and looked through the stained glass window at the lay Brothers. Out in the garden they were bustling to harvest late-summer crops. “But I suppose you think it means nothing?”

“Actually”—Merrick leaned on the wall opposite and tucked his hands inside his cloak—“I believe it would be foolish to ignore this message.”

She looked at him askance. “It was Nynnia who delivered it.”

Merrick shook his head, terrified and hopeful. “I don’t know if that is even possible—we still don’t understand what she was.”

“But what if it is true?” Sorcha returned. “What if Nynnia is on the Otherside, and she wants us to stop Raed’s murder?”

Outside, the bells began to ring, summoning the Initiates to their classes. Merrick had very recently been among their number, and yet now he was preparing to go against all those years of training. Again. Still, he too was bound to Raed and knew him for a good man.

So, pushing off from the wall, he smiled at his partner. “Then let us do just that.”

The brightness of Sorcha’s smile could have melted winter ice.

Merrick held up his hand. “On one condition—we do not go haring off without preparing properly.”

Sorcha’s lips twitched, but she sketched a bow in front of him. “Whatever you say, my lord Chambers.”

That one gesture brought up long-forgotten memories, which he struggled to stuff down. With a cough he turned away. “Let’s adjourn to my cell and see if we can find out what that message of yours really meant.”

The dormitory was quiet at this time of day, with most Deacons being on duty, but a few retired to their cells to study or mediate with the talisears of trof their art. Sorcha had moved from a large cell shared with Deacon Petav to a smaller one next to Merrick’s. It was a significant sign that he knew had caused the birth of many rumors.

Despite being serious people dedicated to protecting the world, Deacons were just as prone to foibles as the rest of humanity, and gossip could be as rampant in the dormitory as at any boarding school. Though Merrick had gotten over his fear of his partner, he was not going to reach out to her in that intimate way. They already had enough complications in their lives.

His cell was just like every other one in the dormitory: whitewashed, narrow, containing a bed and a set of camphor wood drawers. A Deacon was only supposed to have enough possessions that could be carried in saddlebags—a throwback to their history of wandering the land serving the people. It was all very different from his childhood as a young aristocrat.

Merrick rolled the meditation rug out on the floor. It was a fine piece of tapestry with the Ten Runes of Dominion and the Seven Runes of Sight on it. It was woven by the lay Brothers with fine Frigyian wool and was the only splash of color to be found in the room. The runes themselves, unlike cantrips, held no particular power—only when carved on the Gauntlets or Strop by a Deacon were they given potency—but they did serve the purpose to concentrate a Deacon’s mind. In the days before the Break of the Otherside, the ancient days when the Order had been a religious one, it would have been called a prayer rug.

Sorcha knelt on it, her fingertips brushing the Runes of Dominion, while Merrick took up a mirror place next to those of Sight. He did not need to work hard to find the rune Sielu, the First. Activating this old friend did not require the Strop over his eyes.

“Think of the spectyr,” he said in a soft undertone. “Think of what it showed you.”

Sorcha sighed, sounding exasperated, as if she would rather be running to the stable for their horses. The Bond suggested that was exactly her immediate instincts.

“Sorcha,” Merrick snapped, closing his eyes, “concentrate!”

Sinking back on her heels, he was surprised when she didn’t reply. Against his eyes the images she had been fed by the spectyr danced. They were quick, like a flicker of cards in the hands of a master player.