Geist

NINETEEN The Price of Redemption

It was one thing to return home covertly—it was another altogether to find yourself already a fugitive.

Merrick held the poster up so that she couldn’t avoid it seeing it. His eyes were wide in utter disbelief. “Rogue? Sorcha, what in the Bones have we done?”

Understandable. Certainly, it had to be a shock to be declared a rogue Deacon only two weeks out of the novitiate. He had a right to be upset. She wasn’t feeling that good about it either.

Taking the poster in her hand, she stared at her own features on it with a deep sense of unreality. Both her face and that of her partner were on it, and the headline above screamed, WANTED. Beneath was an account of their “crimes” in Ulrich, which included the slaughter of a peaceful Priory and the summoning of geists to torment the population.

She hastily screwed up the poster and threw it into the shadows. “Obviously we missed one traitor back there, and one weirstone. Once we explain to the Arch Abbot, it will be fine.”

“We better move quickly.” Raed touched her shoulder, making Sorcha jump. “We can’t rely on Captain Revele not to report us once she sees that.”

Merrick’s distress was flooding across the Bond. “The posters are everywhere,” he muttered. “Come daybreak, we’ll be in real trouble.”

“Come, now.” Raed glanced at Aachon, while trying to ignore his dark look. “We’ve all been fugitives for years and managed just fine.”

If only there were time to stop for a cigar in a corner, time to stop and consider how this was all going to fall. Instead, Sorcha had only moments. “You think the Empire has really been trying hard to find you?” She smiled slightly.

“I’m the Young Pretender,” he replied, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “I have a sizable sum on my head.”

“If they really wanted you dead, you would be dead.” The slight droop of his expression might have been amusing in a less dangerous situation. “But a rogue Deacon—let alone two? Now, those get people’s attention.”

Aachon made an unconscious growl in his chest. He knew well enough that was true.

“They will send out a Conclave to hunt us,” Merrick whispered, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice it fully.

The Young Pretender could not have any idea what that meant. Even for him, there had never been a Conclave formed—it was something only Deacons gone mad warranted.

“I say we go straight to the top while we can.” Sorcha felt strength flood into her, despite the situation. This was what a partnership was supposed to be. She remembered it from before Kolya. Trust, belief and a well of power. She’d missed that. “Once we have explained ourselves, finding the Grand Duchess will be much easier.”

“My prince!” Aachon shouldered himself between the Pretender and Sorcha, as if by physicality he could sever the power he thought she had over him. “I gave my word to your father that I would protect you; going to the Mother Abbey is neither sane nor safe. I cannot allow it.”

Raed’s hazel eyes never left Sorcha’s face. “We are in Vermillion, my friend—nothing is safe. The time for caution is past—we must needs be daring.”

Aachon folded his arms and glared at the Pretender without a word. Sorcha wondered how difficult it would be to tie the big man up and leave him in a corner somewhere. Tough, was the conclusion she came to.

“What has running got me, old friend?” Raed said, gesturing around him. “This is my first time in Vermillion—the city that should have been mine. I have been running for years. It is time for something new.”

Sorcha guessed his protective first mate would blame her. Two days locked in their cabin; everyone knew about it. They would think she was some witch who had thrown a spell around their captain. If only they knew that the opposite was much closer to the truth.

That was the Young Pretender’s gift; she’d seen it before but never really appreciated it until this moment. Many tried to manipulate others with lies or pretty stories—Raed, however, offered up the truth so completely that it took people by surprise. An honest man in a dishonest world could be a very powerful thing.

While Raed presented his argument to Aachon, Sorcha contemplated the real problem: how to get inside the Mother Abbey. Phasing and using Voishem would have been her first choice if it had been any other building—but like all Order structures it was well protected against such powers. It would not be easy to use other methods either. Even in winter, with many Deacons settled into outlying Abbeys, there would still be more than a hundred staying within the confines of the complex. Not all of them were of Merrick’s rank, of course, but they would still be Sensitive enough to spot two rogue Deacons clambering over the wall.

Sorcha was slightly distracted by Nynnia whispering to her father. Kyrix had made a miraculous recovery. A prickle in the back of the Deacon’s mind was disturbed by that, but if the two of them were using weirstones or some other proscribed magic, Sorcha did not have the time to investigate it.

Nynnia moved over to Sorcha’s side. “My father and I will wait here while you attempt this madness.”

The Deacon felt a heat kindle in her stomach. “Just what I was about to say. We wouldn’t want you to get in the way.” She arched her eyebrow as a warning that she was prepared to say so much more.

The young woman glared back. “Indeed. If you do not return, we will need to take on the Murashev instead.”

Merrick reached across and squeezed her hand. “We will be fine. It won’t come to that.”

It was quite impressive, really, how completely Nynnia had enamored the young man. That was the problem with the novitiate; too many young people coming out of it with no real world experience.

She glanced at Raed for a second. Whatever they had was different. The level of physical passion was unexpected but not dangerous—what gave her pause were the gentler feelings that she dared not examine right now. The Pretender whispered to Aachon, instructing him to stay with Nynnia. The first mate, whose dark eyes bored into Sorcha’s, nodded as if completely compliant, but she wasn’t fooled. Like Kolya, he was the type to give way and then flow back like water.

The Pretender came over to their little huddle. “Aachon has agreed to take the crew—and you and your father, Nynnia—to a bolt-hole he knows here in Vermillion. A little pub in Dyer’s Lane called the Red Flag. But if we’re not back by morning, I can’t guarantee what he will do.”

“It won’t matter.” Merrick took a deep breath and turned in that subconscious way that all Deacons had, in the direction of the Mother Abbey. “Trying to enter the Abbey as outlaws—if we’re not back by morning, we’re dead anyway.”

Sorcha let out a little laugh. “Entering the Abbey as rogues, indeed. Dead might be the best we can hope for.”

Across the Bond she felt Merrick’s surge of interest. He was fingering his Strop and looking at her with something better than fear and excitement. The boy had an idea, and by the look of it . . . it wasn’t going to be the type she’d enjoy. He hugged Nynnia tight, even dropping a kiss on her lips.

Sorcha grimaced, but said nothing. It was strange for her to feel such dislike and have it tinged with the overflow of his emotions. It was enough to give a person a stomach complaint.

Still, once the little band had left them on the street corner, she was impressed with her partner’s ability to snap back to the matter at hand. When it was just the three of them, she was much more comfortable.

“So, you have an idea, Merrick,” Sorcha whispered. “Some brilliant plan to break into our own damn Abbey—full of Sensitives who will pick us up the moment we set foot in it?”

“You’re really not going to like it at all. I thought of it, and I don’t like it.”

Once he had explained it, she knew that he was, in fact, underestimating how little she would like it. Even Raed turned pale at what Merrick suggested. “I . . . I can’t do that, Sorcha.”

Her partner coughed a little and withdrew around the corner. She touched the Pretender’s face, running her thumb along his lip line. He kissed her fingertips, and the sensation ran down deep inside her. Beautiful man, even in this dire moment, she couldn’t help reacting to him. “You gave your life into my hands, Raed—now I am giving you mine. I trust you too, you know.”

The Pretender pulled her in close and kissed her. “I won’t let you down,” he whispered against her lips.

It was he who found them the donkey and the cart in a quiet knackers’ yard, and liberated the poor creature. The Abbey was in the final deepest curl of the city; only a mile from the gates to the castle, yet a small town to itself. It had no defenses like the Emperor’s residence. It needed none. However, there was still a lay clergy guard. Raed pulled up his hood, smeared mud on his face and hid his saber in the hay on the back of the small cart.

Sorcha and Merrick, meanwhile, prepared themselves. Taking her Gauntlets from her belt, she shoved them inside her shirt and buckled the belt tight around them. Her partner, however, held his Strop in one hand. Light was already flickering in the deeply etched runes.

She knew what he was thinking; not just because her thoughts ran across a similar vein, but because his were actually echoing in her own. I’m afraid. By the Bones.

Her own throat was tight. The white walls that surrounded the Abbey had once been protective, but now they seemed so very similar to those that she had been forced to breach at the Priory. Everyone within had to be considered an enemy, at least until she and Merrick could explain themselves to Hastler.

“Do we really need to do this, Sorcha?” Raed whispered. She understood what remained unsaid. Do you really need me to do this to you?

A knot of tension cramped her neck while her stomach clenched like it had been punched. “Yes . . . When the Conclave begins hunting us, there will be no other choice. We need to see the Arch Abbot—he is the only one with enough influence to sort this mess out.” She looked up into his hazel eyes and let her admission out. “And I need you to help me.” The word “need” was not one she was familiar with.

Raed nodded but his voice was rough. “By the Blood, this feels very, very wrong.”

“This whole thing has been wrong.” She kissed the palm of his hand. “Except for you.”

Merrick coughed. “We better get this done, before I lose my nerve altogether.”

“Of course.” Sorcha nodded and scrambled up into the back of the cart among the straw. Merrick took his place next to her, looking young, vulnerable and frightened—yet he was more than that.

Sorcha looked him full in the face, not letting a single ounce of fear or doubt reflect in hers. “I’m not just trusting Raed, you know.”

“But I have only read about this,” he said quietly, looking at the Strop resting in his hands. “I can’t be sure—”

“Yes, you can be.”

The Bond sang, determination ringing along it from each of them, amplifying and building like an infinity knot. This was the pinnacle of partnership, the type of strength that she had never felt with Kolya. Merrick trusted in her more completely in two weeks than her husband had done in all their years. With a little smile, Sorcha lay back in the straw.

Merrick put on the Strop, tying it around his eyes quickly and summoning up the Rune of Sight. Through the Bond, the world grew more beautiful than she could have ever imagined; the circling wheel of stars directly over Sorcha’s head flared like a thousand multicolored fireworks. The silent street filled with a siren sound of distant bells that at this hour certainly couldn’t be real. The scent, honeysuckle and jasmine, flooded every portion of her brain. It was also the last thing she was aware of.

Merrick claimed his power, and pulled them into the Otherside.

Raed felt the racing of his own heart as the Deacons’ stopped. Merrick had dropped inelegantly, but Sorcha—as she did with everything—had taken control; choosing how she lay, hands resting lightly against her thighs with her head tilted slightly upward toward the sky. Her face was soft and had a gentle smile on it as if she’d fallen asleep in his arms. The Strop over her partner’s eyes had gone dark. Raed took it off gingerly and tucked it into his own pouch, pushing the young man’s eyelids shut. Merrick looked even younger than he had a right to be—almost a child. Raed draped Sorcha’s cloak over the two of them. It was easier to pretend there was something else in the cart that way.

He let a ragged breath escape him. “How very odd—now I get to collect someone else’s bounty.”

As he led the donkey toward the gates of the Mother Abbey, he felt like he was in some weird nightmare; striding toward the institution that not only supported his enemy but housed the husband of his lover. These were two things that should have had him racing in the opposite direction. However, considering he was the living one right now, it would have been worse than rude to walk away.

The guardsman shook himself awake at the sound of hooves approaching. “Who goes there?” The man might be a lay Brother, but he was large enough to have been a bare-fisted boxer and he carried a polearm long enough to skewer twenty Pretenders. The Mother Abbey, despite all her otherworldly protection, still maintained a front of physical dominance as well. A quick glance upward showed that there were plenty more where this one came from. He glimpsed another group of guards patrolling the walls. With the number of Sensitives living within the walls of the complex, it seemed like overkill. Except—the Pretender felt his throat constrict—the guard striding toward him was wearing a green cloak. He was a Sensitive.

The Rossin was buried very deep now; so deep that even Raed could not feel him. As long as the Young Pretender did nothing foolish to arouse the guard’s suspicion and inspire him to look a little closer with a Rune of Sight—this might actually work.

Raed took a breath, summoned up his very best Southern accent and held aloft another of those dreaded posters. “You the one with the reward?”

The guardsman’s brow furrowed. “Not personally, but yes, the Mother Abbey is looking for the two rogue—”

“Then look no damn further.” Raed flung back the dark blue cloak to reveal the still shapes beneath.

When the guardsman swore, the Pretender was reminded of Sorcha’s comments about the Order’s lack of real decorum. It was a good thing that the situation was so serious or he might have laughed; watching the hefty soldier look down at the two cooling forms, he felt anything but jovial.

“Both of them!” The guard’s mouth twisted in an impressed knot. “How’d you manage that?”

“The old favorite.” He shrugged. “Poison. I have an inn on the road south and when I saw the reward”—he sniffed loudly—“I saw a chance to get in before anyone else.”

The guardsman laughed. “Good idea—the reward was posted only this morning, and there’s already been plenty rushing to offer ‘information.’ Still, this could be the quickest bounty in the Order’s history.” He moved to take hold of the donkey’s bridle. “I’ll just get this to the Presbyter of—”

Raed’s chest tightened and he lurched forward. “Now, hold on, there! I ain’t letting those two out of my sight . . . at least not until I have my palm crossed with some honest gold.”

The guardsman glared at him. “Are you saying you can’t trust me, friend?” His voice was laced with nothing like friendliness.

There were times to be affable and there were times to hold firm; this was one of those latter times. Raed had a decent grasp of the character he was meant to be playing—and this man would not let another take his bounty from him . . . not for that amount of coin particularly. “Trust is one thing, ‘friend,’ but when gold is involved I wouldn’t even trust my own brother.”

He held the sharp gaze of the guardsman, as if they were two dogs sizing up just how full of teeth the other was. Finally, it was the guardsman who gave way. With a snort he threw the cloak back on the dead bodies. “Very well.” He waved into the Abbey. “Follow the path until you see the three-story white building with a red roof, on the right. That’s the Presbyter of the Actives’ building; there’ll be a guard outside who’ll get the right person to hand out the reward.”

Raed led the donkey away, feeling his heart thundering in his head like a rapid drumbeat, and walked deeper into enemy territory. He followed the path as directed until he was out of sight of the guard tower. He had only a little time; there was every chance some insomniac Deacon would blunder into him, and then—well, then he guessed he would end up on the cart right next to the other two.

Carefully, praying that the donkey wouldn’t remember its natural heritage and bray or kick up a fuss, Raed turned left to a smaller building than the one he’d been instructed to. In the half-light it was impossible to tell if it was the right building on the left, but Sorcha had given him instructions and there had to be a way in. He just hoped that she’d been right about the Sensitives at the gate being the lower-ranked ones, directing their lesser powers only at those entering the complex.

He also hoped she was right about this small building being occupied by only one other. Leaving the cart, he opened the door cautiously; but he needn’t have. The old man sitting by the fireplace was looking right at him, with not the faintest hint of surprise. He unfolded his tall form awkwardly from the chair and smiled. “Ah, the Young Pretender. You’re late—now, where did you leave Little Red?”

Raed blinked. Deacons always put him at a disadvantage, but this one had literally rocked him back on his heels. “You”—he cleared his throat—“you were expecting me?”

The man, who Sorcha had told him was called Garil, had gray eyes and the sort of face that radiated charm like a favorite uncle or grandfather. The Pretender had known neither of these, but despite all that, he found himself smiling back. “Lucky for you, she is dead, or you’d be in real trouble.”

“Dead, you say?” Garil cocked his head. “Not dead . . . just gone over. Still, a perilous thing to do.” He waved Raed back to the door. “Well, bring them in quickly. The longer they are there, the less likely they are to come back.”

Raed ducked outside and carried first Sorcha, and then Merrick, laying them side by side in front of the fire. The soft light reflected on their still faces. Garil gently touched her cheek. “Good, there is still warmth in them. Give me his Strop.”

The Pretender fished it from his pocket and handed it carefully over to the Deacon. Even dark, the thing made his skin crawl, so he was only too happy to relinquish it.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Raed said as Garil sat once more in the chair, with some difficulty, “how long have you known Sorcha?”

The old man’s head whipped up and he fixed the Pretender with a steely gaze. “Sorcha, now, is it?” His thick eyebrows shot up. “I have known Sorcha ever since she was a child—when her family first brought her to the Order.”

These were the details Raed craved to have. She might have lain in his arms, but she had spoken so little of herself. It might have been their combined breathlessness or it could have been that she didn’t want to say. “How—”

“Quiet now,” Garil snapped. “Sorry to be abrupt, young man, but if I don’t have silence, then there won’t be a Sorcha to be curious about.”

Raed could feel a chill descending into the room and realized that whatever the elderly Deacon was doing, it had already begun. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Hold her down.” Garil was now withdrawing his own Strop. “The return is never easy, but particularly hard for the Actives. She is physically stronger than she looks.”

Raed crouched down over Sorcha, trapping her legs under his, while leaning over to pinion her arms. They were cold, and he found this strangely sexual position very uncomfortable given the situation. The old Deacon seemed to be taking no notice, however. He was busy laying his Strop on top of Merrick’s with some care, matching the edges so that there was no overlap.

“Never thought I would be doing this again,” he muttered under his breath as if to himself. “Here’s hoping there’s enough strength in these old senses to do the job.”

With a sigh he placed both Strops over his eyes and secured them behind his head. The hairs on the back of Raed’s head began to tremble, while the rolling sensation in the pit of his stomach made him regret eating. Otherside power made the air wintry, and the flames in the fireplace spluttered and died low as if there was not enough fuel around them. Raed’s short, sharp gasps of breath were actually coming out white, even though he was only feet from the wavering fire.

Garil’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair convulsively, and his head, burdened with two Strops, flicked backward to connect sharply with the chair’s back. The runes in the topmost leather sparked with blue fire, tracing the shape of the rune—though which one it was, the Pretender could not have said.

The cold was now a scent as well, harsh in his nostrils, as on the morning of a new snowfall, and every breath stung. Then, beneath his hands, Raed felt Sorcha’s body move. It felt nothing at all like the feeling of her body under him early today. It felt . . . inhuman. Her body rippled as if something was stirring. It elicited no desire in Raed—in fact, he wanted to leap up and flee the room. But when he looked across at Garil, he realized that he had the least of their problems.

Sweat was running down from under the Strops, and the old man’s mouth was set in a mask of agony, the like of which even the battle-experienced Pretender had not seen before. Whatever power the Deacon was drawing was taking a lot from him. Merrick moved, but lethargically, as if waking from a relaxing nap. He turned his head and let out a long, soft breath.

Beneath Raed, Sorcha was not so lucky. Abruptly she began jerking violently, almost catching the Pretender unaware. Her back arched and she twisted in his grip like a wild creature. He had to bend all of his strength to her, and give no heed to bruises he might inflict.

“Hold her, tight,” the old Deacon by the fire nearly screamed, his fingers turning red where they were buried into the arm of the chair. “By the Bones, hold her tight.”

It was like trying to restrain a thrashing snake of the Western Wilds. Sorcha’s skin was slick with sweat despite the fact that she was as cold as ice. Raed howled, determined to keep her from harm, leaning down as hard as he could, every muscle in his body straining against hers.

Sorcha’s eyes flicked open, and they were no longer blue—they no longer had a color at all. Beyond those pits he could see the Otherside: a sucking maelstrom in which forms could be seen moving; the ultimate end for the spirit, and the most dangerous of realms. This was what Merrick and Sorcha had cast themselves into to avoid detection. That made them either heroes or fools. This close to the realm of its birth, the Rossin within him shifted, uncoiling to sniff the air.

That would have been the ultimate nightmare. “Come back,” Raed screamed. “By the Blood—come back, Sorcha.”

He didn’t know if his voice made any difference, but for a moment all was still. He was looking straight through into the Otherside and it was looking right back at him. Over there were spirits, geists and the geistlords—the ultimate answer to everything he had ever wondered. Raed had never been so frightened in his life, and yet he could not look away.

And then . . . and then the cold blew away and Sorcha’s eyes reverted to blue, like a shade being pulled down on an awful scene. He scanned her face, desperate to see if any trace of the geist world remained, but when she smiled he knew it was her—undoubtedly, unequivocally, Deacon Sorcha Faris.

“I’d love to have the time to enjoy this”—she laughed weakly—“but . . .” At her raised eyebrow, he let out a relieved laugh of his own, and got off her. At her side, Merrick was stretching. The look he shot Raed was confused, angry almost—but the Pretender couldn’t fathom why he would be deserving of that. He had done his job pretty damn well, as far as he could tell.

“How was it?” Raed asked as he helped Sorcha to her feet.

She looked at him askance. “How did it look?” Her voice was rough, as if she’d been screaming, even though he had heard no noise at all from her.

“Bad.”

“Then enough said.” Sorcha took Merrick’s arm and helped him up. Behind her, Garil was slowly removing the Strops, with the kind of care Raed had only seen a sapper use when handling gunpowder. He handed Merrick back his Strop and let out a long breath.

Then the old Deacon smiled at Sorcha with real warmth, and they hugged tightly. When he pulled away after a lingering hug and looked straight into her eyes, his expression had changed. “Why did you come back, Little Red? Why, when there is only death here for you?” It was hardly the greeting Raed had expected, and the words stung him.