“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.
Through that double vision, he let his perception stretch out as wide as it would go. The three people in the room with him, the mad scramble in the infirmary, the damaged silhouette of the lay Brother with the horses out in the stable, even the chickens in the yard, all became immediately obvious to him—but no taint of the unliving. He was becoming less and less sure of his own abilities, but his search did confirm that one disturbing fact he had already guessed.
“You really don’t have any Sensitives left within the Priory.”
Aulis folded her hands, the tension apparent in the set of her shoulders. “They were the very first target of this attack.”
“Start from the beginning.” Sorcha stood next to Merrick at the window, almost as if she was lending him some sort of support.
“At first, there were only small attacks,” the Prior said, rubbing one hand wearily over her mouth before continuing. “Shades seen in the graveyard, farm animals shocked out of milking.”
“All low-grade incidents.” Merrick nodded, feeling like he should at least be taking notes, but Sorcha kept her arms folded and he couldn’t write properly while using his Center. He knew which was more important at this moment.
“They increased, more and more, until we were drowning in them; that was when we sent word to the Mother Abbey for help.” She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Read some of the reports if you like.”
Sorcha made no move toward them, instead dipping into her pocket and removing a cigar. She was polite enough not to light it, but seemed to gain some calmness merely from rolling it in her fingertips. “I think what happened after you sent that weirstone message is more important.”
The Prior’s lips tightened, and her frown deepened.
“The townspeople lost faith in you.” Raed took a seat and shot Sorcha a sharp look. “After all, they must have been disappointed when their protectors weren’t up to the task.”
Aulis half rose out of her chair, her face glowing red under her cap of gray hair. “They did more than lose faith—they turned on us! Why do you think we have the gates barred? That isn’t against anything unliving!”
Merrick narrowed his Center on the Prior, feeling her rage flare up to strangely high levels. Aulis cleared her throat, regaining her composure slightly before taking her seat once more. Many of the Order were a little arrogant; the sad fact was that it often came with power.
The cigar in Sorcha’s fingertips stilled as she too concentrated on the riled Prior. “And what happened after that?” she asked softly. Along the Bond, Merrick felt her own Center reach out to him. It was a strangely comforting, and yet frightening, gesture. She trusted him enough to give it to him, but felt in enough danger that she thought it might be needed. The situation felt as desperate to her as it did to him.
“Morning Matins.” Aulis’ hands were clenched tight on each other, her eyes unable to meet anyone else’s. “It came for us at morning Matins.”
“In what form?” Sorcha’s voice was flat and expressionless, but Merrick felt her tension in the Bond, and observed the way her fingers unconsciously arched toward where her Gauntlets lay at her side.
“None I know of.”
Merrick felt his mouth go dry. The geist by the roadside, the one summoned from the bodies of the Tinkers; that too had been a new form. He licked his lips. “Could the Sensitives identify it—”
“They had no time,” Aulis replied shortly. “They were the first to burn. You saw what was left of them in the center of the Hall.”
“Sensitives being attacked, unliving forms we’ve never seen before . . .” Sorcha took a long, slow breath.
“And don’t forget, ones that can travel over water,” Raed offered, his jaw tightening under his narrow beard. “I take it, Prior, that you have a plan to survive all this?”
Her eyes flitted to Merrick and Sorcha seated in the stone window. The glance was almost embarrassed.
“Oh, now I know you are joking!” Raed kicked the chair away and jerked to his feet. “Those two? I had to pull them out of the sea myself.”
Merrick clamped his arm down hard on his partner’s shoulder, fearing she would beat ten kinds of revenge into the Pretender. But, strangely, she attempted no such thing. Her body was tense, but she was not even looking at Raed.
Out in the courtyard, the crippled lay Brother was running toward the sound of a bell once more at the gate. Through his Center Merrick could sense nothing unliving, but something very human and very angry.
All three members of the Order leapt to their feet, sensing a conflagration of rage from beyond the walls. Together they bolted for the door, Raed shouting after them, “What? What is it?”
Neither of the women was going to enlighten him, so Merrick barked what they’d all sensed. “The locals are at the gate, and they are very unhappy.”
As he raced down the stairs, Merrick heard Sorcha ask the Prior how many of her lay Brothers and Actives were ready to defend the Priory. Another first for the Order, he thought miserably.
“We have five Actives uninjured, and maybe seven lay Brothers, all in the infirmary.”
“No time for that.” Sorcha ran ahead of them and he noticed that her Gauntlets were already in her hand. Merrick had to remind himself that she was an experienced Deacon, with years of dealing with people in a crowd situation, thanks to her time seconded to the Imperial Guard—at least, that was what he hoped.
He and Raed followed the Prior and Sorcha. The terrified lay Brother was racing back to them, his hair flying loose about his shoulders, and his eyes were wide circles in a pale face. “Prior, Prior!” A thin trail of spit ran down his cheek. The poor man was probably used to a very quiet life in this remote corner of the world; the shock looked like it might kill him. “I shut the gate as you told me to . . . I did . . . but they want to talk to you. They’re shouting so loud!”
Indeed they were, jumbled words and threats that made for an animalistic roar. The lay Brother had managed to get the huge oak gates and the thick iron bar down, so most likely the portcullis was still secure.
“Quickly.” The Prior gathered her habit around her knees and scrambled most inelegantly up the walls to the parapets. Night was drawing on and, as they reached the top of the walls, the raw air wrapped itself tight around them. Snow could not be far off, but the cold had done nothing to cool the anger of the crowd below.
It seemed every citizen of the town had climbed the hill. Many were carrying lit torches and shouting up to the Prior. The crowd’s words were mostly blended together into a primitive growl, but he heard many of them screaming for Aulis to come down to them. She stood there staring, her lips pursed in real anger, and looked ill moved to do so.
“I’ve never seen a person pulled apart by a crowd.” Raed put one foot on the parapet and tilted his head down. “Exactly how many of them have died thanks to your inability to protect what you are supposed to?”
Merrick could understand that the Pretender had no love for those who worked for the Emperor, but he found himself defending the old Prior. “We’ve all been surprised by the events of the last week or so. It’s unprecedented—the Prior Aulis can’t be held responsible for that.”
“Watch out!” Sorcha slammed into Merrick just as he was getting into full diplomatic flow. Together they smashed into the stone of the parapet and tumbled away, just as fire burst right where he’d been standing.
He dimly heard Raed’s shocked oath, while Sorcha helped him to his feet. A portion of the parapet was now a puddle of flame, almost like a geist attack of some sort . . . yet he had sensed nothing.
Raed was shielding Prior Aulis. “Felstaad fire.” She darted closer to the Deacons. “The local alcohol is deadly stuff. It makes for excellent missiles.”
They heard the clatter of other incendiaries smashing and burning against the wall. Obviously the first had been the best aimed. Cautiously, Merrick dared a glance over the edge. The locals did look very well armed, and in the flickering light of the torches they could be seen lighting rag wicks on small pottery jars. Most of these they hurled at the gate, but they also sent a fair number flying in toward where they’d last seen the Prior.
“Let them see how they like Chityre,” Aulis growled, yanking her Gauntlets out of her belt.
“What do you mean?” Sorcha actually grabbed hold of her superior, stopping her before she could put them on. “You cannot use the runes against civilians!”
Turning the power of the Order on the locals could ruin all the work the Mother Abbey had done. In the falling dark, the Deacon and the Prior stayed locked in a tableau of tension. Merrick knew what his partner meant; the powers were never to be used against people, only against the unliving. Aulis must have been half-maddened by her terrible situation to even contemplate it. Sorcha’s fingers stayed locked around the Prior’s wrists.
Shots rang out now. Wealthier townspeople often had guns, for hunting and protection. Merrick, for one, had hoped Ulrich was a poor town. The snaps of bullets reported off the stone, while Aulis and Sorcha went through their silent battle of wills. If either of them managed to get her hands on her Gauntlets, bullets would be the least of anyone’s worries.
If it came down to it, Merrick realized with surprising calm, he would give his Center to Sorcha. Then they would be battling a Prior in her own jurisdiction. Another first for the Order, one that would rock its very foundations. Merrick held his breath.
“Venerable Aulis,” Sorcha hissed in a voice that had not an ounce of deference in it, “let me deal with this.” A long moment passed, and Merrick was not sure which he was more afraid of: the two women or the mob screaming for blood outside.
Finally, Aulis let out a ragged sigh and gave a short nod to the tense Deacon. Sorcha rose cautiously to her feet and slid on her Gauntlets.
Still crouched on the parapet, Merrick touched her leg, afraid of the sudden expressionless glaze over his partner’s features. “Sorcha?” It was a personal address that he hoped might snap her back.
She looked down at him, and he recognized the gleam of something in those vivid blue eyes; he’d seen it on the stairs in his father’s castle, just before everything had gone mad.
“Trust me,” Sorcha said through a grim smile. “You have to trust me.”
Slowly, Merrick let his hand slide away from her. Despite everything—or maybe because of it—at this moment, he did.
Thrusting on her Gauntlets, Sorcha opened a tiny pinprick to the Otherside and summoned Chityre. Her hands lit up like popping fireworks in the half-light, flashing and burning like embers snapping from a brilliant fire. Stepping to the very edge of the parapet, Sorcha held up her hands as they writhed with power. Against the dying sun, her form was dark with only her Gauntlets burning. Glancing to his right, Merrick saw Raed’s face outlined by the light. He could tell by expression alone that the Pretender had not seen an unveiled Active up close like this. The air prickled with heat, as if a storm was coming. In a way, one was.
With a jerk of her hands, Sorcha let a surge of power break from Chityre into the sky. It ripped through the air like the boom of a cannon, accompanied by a flurry of bright fire. It was a display that would not have been out of place at one of the Imperial celebrations, and it had the desired effect.
Below, the crowd was suddenly silent. Merrick wanted to stand up and see the expressions on their faces, but he made do with reaching out with his Center. The waves of anger washing off the mob were fluctuating, replaced with eddies of fear.
Sorcha let another explosion flow through her Gauntlets; this one was louder and seemed to rock the wall. Merrick’s ears rang and through his Center it was like a pulse of light that momentarily blinded him. When he recovered, he feverishly checked; still no sign of the unliving.
“I hope you get my point!” Sorcha yelled from the parapet, her Gauntlets still pulsing with Chityre.
The crowd below muttered, but at least they weren’t screaming.
“You may have a couple of guns,” Sorcha continued, the air around her warm and smelling faintly of almonds, “but you are attacking a Priory full of Active Deacons. How many different ways do you think we have of killing you?” She gestured with one burning Gauntlet.
The night sizzled, warm now despite the wintry chill only minutes before. And just as suddenly, the mood of the crowd also changed, its rage dissipating into the night. A mob, Merrick considered, was an ethereal thing that could turn on a heartbeat, and the unveiled power that Sorcha was displaying was enough of a catalyst.