Philippa Ballantine - Geist

Nynnia let out a muffled sob, her hand up to her mouth. Merrick put an arm around her, but his other hand still held his Strop ready. Reaching the pulpit where the Prior would have given her daily lesson, Sorcha turned to examine the scene. The front of the hall was relatively undamaged. The hanging above the pulpit was not even singed.

“Whatever happened”—she swallowed hard to regain a measure of her professionalism—“it happened right in the center of the room.” Glancing down, she realized that the Prior’s notes were still on the lectern. “And it happened suddenly.”

Raed, the pirate and the Pretender, obviously thought he knew more than a Deacon. “But the Brother outside, why did he let us in? If they are under attack . . .”

“We were under attack.” A steely voice to the right made them all jump. A neat little woman in the blue cloak of an Active, pinned closed by the grand flourish of a Prior’s insignia, stood watching them with bright green eyes. “But it was not the total devastation you see here.”

“Prior Aulis.” Sorcha gave the appropriate bow to a superior, and felt a little warmth return to her bones. She’d imagined all of the Deacons dead, so the relief made her actually smile.

“Enough of that.” The woman turned and gestured them to follow. “I have no time to spare. We need your help immediately.”

That much was obvious; yet the sight of a living Prior was still a good sign.

As he brushed past her, Raed raised one eyebrow. “This deal about you protecting me . . . I think I got the raw end of the bargain.”

Sorcha resisted the urge to slap him and followed after, moving deeper into the Priory to see what further horrors awaited.

Merrick held tight to Nynnia’s hand, or maybe she was holding tight to his—whichever the case, he was glad of it. He had not pulled his Center back, from the moment they had entered this place. Ahead, Sorcha was a smoldering scarlet ember, the Bond running back to him twisting like living lava, while Raed flickered like hot silver flame. Prior Aulis was also scarlet, but flecked through with blue fire: the mark of a Sensitive.

This confused Merrick. While he knew that Sensitives were usually in high positions in the Order, he had never thought to find one so high in both Active and Sensitive in such a remote outpost. Deacons like the Abbot, with such high ratings in both, warranted positions in larger Priories or Abbeys. To find Aulis tucked away here was rather strange.

These concerns were shoved to one side when she led them into what had to be the infirmary. Merrick immediately yanked his Center back; too much human pain could overload his senses. This, then, was where the remaining Deacons were.

The room reeked of so much sweat, urine and fear that it was like a blow between his eyes. If he had been viewing this with his Center, it would have been unbearable. All four of them stood in the middle of the chaos, while the Prior watched their reactions. Doing a quick head count, Merrick reckoned that pretty much every Deacon and lay Brother was in the infirmary, apart from three or four. After the destruction out in the Hall, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what had happened to them.

Several lay Brothers, also bearing wounds, were trying to hold down a young man wearing the blue of an Active, yet he seemed to have no physical injury. His eyes were bulging from their sockets, and with a start Merrick realized that the Brothers had gagged the struggling man. Froth was starting to leak from the corner of his mouth and stain the leather bit.

“Father!” Nynnia let go of the Deacon’s hand and dashed over to a bulky older man sewing up a gash on a lay Brother’s head. Merrick was relieved that she had not traveled so far only to face grief at the end of her journey. He watched as the old man tenderly pressed his daughter to him and kissed the top of her head. She smiled at him so broadly that it was like the sun had dawned in the small infirmary. “Father, this is Deacon Merrick Chambers—he is responsible for me being able to get back to you—and this is my father, Kyrix Macthcoll.”

The stout man’s hands were covered in blood, so he did not offer a hand for Merrick to shake, but his smile was a smaller reflection of his daughter’s. “Then I thank you, Deacon Chambers—I need my girl home.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Now more than ever.”

Nynnia was rolling up the sleeves on her dress. “Who can still be saved, Father?”

“There are several Brothers in the other room who could use your talents.” He patted her on the shoulder and then gave a slight bow to Merrick. “Excuse our rudeness—but as you can see we are both needed here.”

The Deacon, who was feeling particularly useless, tucked his hands under his cloak. “Please don’t stand on ceremony on my account.”

The girl’s eyes darted to Merrick, soft brown and—he wasn’t imagining it—warm. She turned away with a swirl of her dress.

He hated to leave her, but it was obvious that Prior Aulis needed him, for there was one thing he had noticed: all of the Deacons here were Actives. Not one Sensitive remained; had any been alive, they would have been here watching over their brethren.

Sorcha was voicing the very question that buzzed in his head. “What the hell happened here?” She moderated her tone slightly since they were in a heaving infirmary, but still, the edge of panic was audible.

The short gray haircut that Priors often favored made the older woman look somewhat masculine, Merrick noted as he took in the deep wrinkles on her forehead. This woman’s life had been hard to begin with, and it looked like it hadn’t been any easier in the last few days. “What do you think happened?” she snapped, her tone belying her grandmotherly looks. “We were attacked by the unliving!”

It was the one thing no one wanted to hear. Even with all the evidence out in the main hall, it was not a pleasant thing to have confirmed. An attack on a sacred building of the Order had not happened since the dark ages. Not in Arkaym, not in Delmaire. Powerful runes were carved into Priory and Abbey foundations and walls—kept active by constant reworking by the Deacons. Their protection was immutable, more so than water. A huge chasm opened up in front of Merrick as he realized the training he had so recently completed was not proving as useful as he’d imagined.

“Why is no deal I make ever simple?” Raed muttered grimly.

Prior Aulis’ attention turned swiftly on him. “Who is . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Raed Rossin!”

The Pretender threw his hands up in the air. “Is there no such thing as anonymity anymore?”

“We were also attacked.” Merrick stepped forward in front of their rescuer. “Captain Rossin saved our lives when a possessed sea monster attacked and destroyed our ship. We made a deal with him, or we wouldn’t have been able to get here at all.”

He expected surprise from the Prior, but perhaps her experiences of the last few weeks had softened her attitude to the impossible. “I see,” she said, without any sign of emotion in her tone.

The chaos of the infirmary swirled around them while all three of the Deacons silently contemplated what to do next. Merrick wondered what the point of those years of study had been, if none of the rules held true any longer.

It was Raed who broke the stalemate. “Is there somewhere else we can discuss this?” He jerked his head toward the Deacons around them.

Prior Aulis nodded mutely and led them through the stone corridors deeper into the keep, away from the smells of charred flesh and blood. Her second-story chambers were small and modest, looking out over the windblown courtyard. Without needing to be asked, Merrick opened his Center to see if there was any threat around them.