Geist

TWENTY-FIVE Comfort in Eschaton

The summons to appear before the Presbyterial Council came before nightfall. Apparently attending a state funeral had not worn out its members—something that Sorcha had counted on as protection at least until the morning.

Rictun sat to the right of the glaring gap in the circle where the Arch Abbot’s chair had been. He was very close to coming to power and Sorcha knew that his position now was merely a formality. In the next week, Rictun would be the new Arch Abbot. For now, though, she was too busy fighting for her place in the Order—hers and Merrick’s—to be concerned by Rictun’s imminent promotion.

When they had slipped out of the ranks of mourning Deacons, they’d both known there would be consequences, but she had made sure that it was she alone who stood before the Council. She had said nothing about what Merrick had done; she didn’t know what it was anyway. All that they knew, all that had been reported to them by those Deacons who witnessed her, was that she had nearly used the runes against civilians—even if those civilians were about to rip her apart.

To cover up his actions, the Council had claimed the wave of sorrow that had followed was the sainted Arch Abbot Hastler intervening so that no violence would be done in his name.

Sorcha knew the beginnings of a martyrdom legend when she saw it. By the end of the week there would be miracles in the tomb and sobbing mothers taking their sick children there to be healed. Her role in this myth-in-the-making, she also suspected.

“The only reason you are still wearing the symbol of the Order”—Rictun stood and looked around at his fellow Presbyters—“is because of what you did in the ossuary.”

“Very glad you still remember,” Sorcha muttered, so far into her rage that even Merrick’s soothing presence through the Bond could not stop her.

“Deacon Faris,” Presbyter of the Young, Melisande Troupe, leaned forward, her white-gold hair cascading around her shoulders. “No one can deny that you saved Vermillion from destruction, nor would anyone have argued against your freeing the Pretender Raed Syndar Rossin, since the Emperor himself was planning to do the same thing. You are here for the use of runes on the general population—something expressly forbidden by the Charter.”

“But I did not—”

“You would have.” Presbyter of Sensitives Yvril Mournling’s gray eyes drilled through her where she stood. “The action would have occurred if it had not been for a turn in the crowd.”

Sorcha frowned. Surely Mournling of all people should know what had gone on, but something in his expression, something subtle, begged for her silence. How can he know, when even I do not? Merrick’s voice whispered in the back of her head. Even there, his tone was thin and sad.

Her throat tightened. A wild talent, then, like Garil’s, and if anyone were to discover it . . .

“I admit,” she said, tucking her shaking hands behind her back, “I did act without thought, and in a moment of self-preservation I was tempted to use my gifts on the mob.” She hung her head. “I let my primitive instincts take over, and I stand ready to be punished for it.” Hopefully they would ask no more questions before her dismissal.

When Sorcha glanced up, the look of shock on Rictun’s face made the admission worth it. He cleared his throat. “That is very well, but you have sullied the good you did. The people of Vermillion will not forget—”

Presbyter of the Actives, Zathra Trelaine, raised one scarred and crooked hand, stopping Rictun in midsentence. He stood and walked haltingly to Sorcha. As a Deacon, Trelaine had earned every one of his injuries in service to the Arch Abbot—his pain at the betrayal was deeper than most and she could read it on his face.

He looked Sorcha up and down, and the tremble in her hands worked its way up her arms. “You do not understand, Deacon Faris—control has always been our greatest concern with you. Despite your power, which none even among the Council can match, you still have a tenuous grip on it.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it with a snap. She disliked being wrong; it curdled her stomach and brought a thousand excuses to mind, but there it was—the bald truth of it.

“Your service to the Order in the ossuary was exceptional”—Trelaine’s eyes narrowed—“and I was one of the ones in this session that championed your ascension to our ranks.”

Sorcha swallowed hard—a Presbyter . . . They meant to make her . . .

Her superior shook his head. “Naturally, that is now out of the question, and you will have to remain within the Mother Abbey for a good few months until the rumbles of your actions have died down.”

A wave of relief made Sorcha dizzy. “Then . . . then I may remain a Deacon?”

Trelaine crooked an eyebrow. “You are too powerful for anything else, and perhaps with the right partner”—his emphasis on “right” brought a rush of reality to her giddy moment—“you may yet learn something.”

The Presbyter turned and limped back to his chair, apparently washing his hands of any further comment.

“But there must be punishment for such transgression,” Rictun barked. “To even contemplate . . .”

“Yet that was all she did.” Presbyter Mournling folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “And only a day earlier she stood against a Murashev. When you are Arch Abbot, Presbyter Rictun, you will quickly learn that there is no such thing as black or white.”

Behind her back, Sorcha clenched her hands tight on each other. Working with this man was going to be punishment enough. The tension in the air was palpable; Rictun had not made friends in the Council, but he was, unfortunately, the only one of them strong enough to take up both the Gauntlet and the Strop as an Arch Abbot was supposed to do.

He smiled grimly at her. “You may return to your duties, Deacon Faris.”

It should have been a victory, but her heart was no lighter than when she had stepped into the chamber. She gave a bow to each in turn and then turned for the door. Rictun stopped her with words that cut to the core. “The matter of your partner—or rather, partners—will have to be untangled at a later date. It is quite a mess.”

As she left the chamber and headed down to the icy garden where Merrick waited, her heart was racing in her chest. The young man turned, and, despite everything, she smiled at him as if all was just as she wanted it. And suddenly she was sure of one thing: she wanted this brave young man as partner, not Kolya. She might not be able to have everything she wanted with Raed, but this was different—this was a relationship she could fight for.

They left the Mother Abbey; it bustled with life like a disturbed hornets’ nest. Merrick kept his Center open and they circled back through the streets many times before making their way to the Artisan Quarter. In the little weaver’s house they found Raed and his crew at a game of cards. The Pretender smiled at her, making her every nerve ending come alive. He was so much to her, and yet he could be nothing.

Coldly, she held out her hand to him. “It’s time to leave.”

Despite the Council’s assurances that the Emperor would have given Raed safe passage out of Vermillion, Sorcha was still cautious. She led the little group through every alleyway and double-back she knew, until at last they reached the port.

Merrick, without having to be asked, led the crew down toward where the ship waited so that his partner could say her good-byes to the Pretender. “The Captain will take you north, but in case there is ice blocking your route, this should buy you horses or carriage fare.” Slipping out a small pouch of gold, she pressed it into his hand. “Make sure not to gamble it all away.”

Raed’s eyes dropped, and his melancholy across the Bond was an echo of hers, though he tried to conceal it. “I am sure I could double your investment.” The smile was broad, but uncertain.

“You have already repaid me,” Sorcha replied, not letting go of his hand.

His bravado dropped away, and his fingers tightened around hers. “If I could, I would stay—you know that.”

It was a pretty dream, but both were old enough to know this was not the time for dreams. The Emperor’s largesse would not extend to allowing Raed to linger, and Sorcha had an Order to rebuild. He had to go. She had to stay. They both knew these things, and yet she was using every ounce of her control not to let her disappointment show on her face.

“I know, Raed. If wishes were horses—”

“I would never have to walk again.” He laughed, but his smile was bittersweet; he heard her thoughts as well as she could hear his. The Bond was making this so painful that both wanted it to be over, and yet they yearned for it to go on forever. “Indeed, Mistress Deacon, I should be going.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, a sweet memory sweeping over them both for a moment.

When he let go of her, Sorcha realized he had pressed something into her hand in return. It was a captain’s ring, marked with the sigil of his house: the rampant Rossin.

Wrapping her fingers around it, Sorcha smiled up at him. “No promises?”

He brushed her hair away from her cheek, the gloved back of his hand stroking her skin. The Deacon ached to lean into his touch, but managed to hold herself stiff. “Promises, no,” he said, his hazel eyes gleaming with light reflecting off the water. “But plenty of hopes.”

Then he turned and walked away from her. Sorcha watched as the vessel was made ready, and cast off to the ocean. She didn’t move, even when Merrick walked back up the pier to her. She felt her partner’s concern wash over her, but he wisely said nothing as she stood there, watching the tiny vessel sail away, the unreality of the moment giving way to gaping realization. Raed was gone, though she could feel where he was like a tiny lodestone nestled in her head. The Bond surely would weaken with time—which should be a good thing . . . It should be.

“I’ll meet you back at the Abbey.” Merrick’s touch on her arm was strong, a good, hearty squeeze that was unlike the feather touch of his mind on hers.

Her partner, who was more than she had ever expected in one so young, pulled the hood of his emerald cloak up against the wind and left her alone with her thoughts. He was thinking of Nynnia as he went, the pain white-hot in him, though nothing showed on the outside. Whatever the creature had been, he had loved her.

Sorcha’s fingers traced the sigils on her Gauntlets idly. They all had scars and injuries—it came with being an adult, messy and awkward as that could sometimes be. And right now it came from being a Deacon. The chaos that Hastler had made of the Order, the ruin to both its reputation and its ranks, could not be underestimated. Whatever he had done, she knew deep down that he had not done it alone.

Sorcha pulled out the badge she had taken from the traitorous Arch Abbot; two twined snakes in a circle, eating each other’s tails. She had scoured the library, asked Garil and found nothing about it. She flipped it over and looked at the one thing she did recognize—five stars imprinted on the back, the sign of the old Order. It filled her with a dread she could not shake. She tucked the badge into a pocket with Raed’s ring.

Her fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the remaining Ilyrick reserve that Raed had given her. This was as good a time as any to smoke it. It would be a poignant moment to do so, while watching the Pretender sail away from her—yet she stopped. Optimism won out over her natural skepticism. For some reason she dared not examine, she would save the Ilyrick for some other day.

Reaching deeper into another pocket, she found the Fabvre she’d retrieved from her cell at the Mother Abbey. This was a good cigar, not as good as the Ilyrick, but it would do.

She dropped down and seated herself on the edge of the wharf, legs dangling over the water. Slipping on one Gauntlet, she summoned Pyet between her fingertips and gently lit the cigar. The sun was emerging over the horizon, bathing Vermillion in blues and pinks that softened even the city’s darker lanes and alleys. Her mind was unable to stop thinking of Hastler’s last words. The twisted smile on his lips. You do not know it, but you are already caught.

Logic said his threat was meaningless—they had repelled the Murashev—but instinct would not be satisfied. Some part of her wondered if they had really found the depth and width of such well-laid plans.

Yet Raed was gone. One less complication in her life—she should have been grateful for that. Sorcha drew a sensuous cloud into her mouth, letting the taste fill her like memories. Ahead lay her own personal questions of Kolya and Merrick; her marriage—her partnership. But as terrible as things would become there, she was also sure that the Otherside was not done with the Order yet.

For now it was merely a moment to draw breath and appreciate the little things in life. “Keep sailing, Young Pretender,” Sorcha whispered, raising the cigar to her lips. “You know where to find me, have you a need.”