“You could be nicer to Merrick,” Nynnia said at her side, and her voice seemed stronger somehow. “He is trying very hard to be a good partner.”
“Oh, really?” Sorcha gave her a wicked grin. “And how can he do that, pray tell, when he is also trying very hard to please you? Or have you not noticed his attentions?”
The girl turned bright red for an instant, and then straightened up, tucking her shawl around her and trying to look calm. “You, Deacon Faris, are a very uncomfortable person to spend time with.”
She gave a short laugh, thinking of partners past and present. “That’s what they say.”
Merrick and the Captain returned in short order. Raed looked very pleased with himself. He stood at the end of the gangplank. “Everything is arranged. Let’s start unloading.”
The tension seemed to go immediately out of the crew.
“All passengers”—Aachon’s stress on that word was hardly friendly—“should now disembark.”
It felt good to be on dry land. Merrick stood at her side while the Breed were carefully led out of the hold and onto the quay. Shedryi and Melochi looked as well-groomed as they would have been back at the Abbey, but they would need rest and care to recover their strength. The mare seemed to have fared better than the stallion. Shedryi would bear scars on his fine black hide for the rest of his life. Even if there had been saddles available, Sorcha would not have advised they be ridden.
Merrick had taken Melochi from the quay worker, and was talking in a low voice to Nynnia on the other side of the horse. He was not that far away, yet he was using some Sensitive trick to conceal his words. Feeling along the Bond brought Sorcha a sensation like a slap. That boy was getting decidedly uppity, considering how long they had known each other. One rescue and suddenly he was in charge. She clenched her teeth on a growl of displeasure.
“We should get to the Priory,” Sorcha snapped, taking hold of the stallion’s bridle and patting his tall, arched neck. Raed was standing a few feet away, shouting directions up to his crew as they bustled about like ants. “That means you too, Your Highness.”
A muscle twitched under the narrow strip of his short beard. “I have duties to attend.”
“Certainly. But we need to report in,” she replied sweetly. “And as such, your geist protection will be out of range. Is that all right with you?”
She found something very satisfying in the angry look he shot her. However, there was nothing he could do; either resist and be open to the unliving, or follow along like the horses.
Sorcha turned Shedryi’s head up the hill toward the impressive Priory and led the way through the town, ignoring the Pretender’s glare. Merrick hung back, still jawing away with Nynnia. Apart from the looming castle above, it was an unimpressive place. Little gray stone buildings low to the ground indicated that in winter this was a dire town. Nets were strung everywhere, and presumably the fishing fleet was out today, which explained the lack of other ships in the harbor. A few citizens were about, wrapped up tightly in wool or, in some cases, oilskin.
Their cloaks and the Breed horses marked Sorcha and Merrick out as Deacons, so eyes did follow them, but there was something very strange about that. She’d been to towns with plagues of unliving, and in every single one of them the Order was greeted like delivering heroes. Naturally, people rejoiced in the arrival of Deacons to clear up their pesky unliving problems.
Not the residents of Ulrich, however—they actually seemed to flinch away. No one ran up to the Deacons and thrust a squalling child at them, begging for them to protect it. Not a single person clutched at their cloaks howling for salvation. One old man, sitting in front of his house mending a net, actually frowned at Sorcha, dropped his needle and hurried inside.
“I’m beginning to feel we are not the most popular new arrivals,” Sorcha whispered back to her partner. “Do you See anything?”
Merrick caught up with her, so that the horses were between them and prying eyes. He was impressive; even she was not able to tell just by looking at him when he was using his Center.
“Nothing,” he whispered back after a moment. “Nothing unliving, that is. This place reeks of anger, not fear. And it is directed at us.”
“Ungrateful idiots,” Sorcha muttered.
“And I thought Deacons were usually greeted with more fanfare.” The Pretender had pressed his way to the front, and the smug note in his voice made Sorcha even less happy with the situation. Walking between them, he actually threw an arm over each of their shoulders as if they were comrades. “Whatever have you folk of the Order been up to?”
Sorcha tried to shrug his arm off, rather unsuccessfully, as Shedryi had recovered some vigor and was prancing about. The touch of his arm only increased her sensitivity to that strange geist charisma that infected him. “They are probably just annoyed that their local Deacons haven’t been able to help. Once we sort this situation out, they’ll give us a parade.”
Raed glanced around with a skeptical tilt to his eyebrow. “That, I wouldn’t bet on.” He cleared his throat, as if pleased with his own wit. “Or don’t Deacons gamble?”
Sorcha glanced at him, feeling his immovable damn arm tickling her neck. “Deacons gamble. Deacons can do anything they want to; drink, whore around, smoke. We gave up those inhibitions centuries ago, along with religion.”
“Oh, really?” Raed’s grin widened. “Decided the gods don’t exist, then?”
Sorcha really wasn’t up to giving a history lesson. “There are plenty of religious orders back in Delmaire. Ours chose to refocus on protecting the world from the unliving.” She flicked his hand off her shoulder, and her glare indicated that he’d better not replace it. “I notice your native pantheon of gods didn’t exactly help you out.”
A full-blown argument was brewing, and Merrick, like all Sensitives, tried to act as peacemaker. “We’re nearly at the Priory.” He pointed to where the town faded away and the raw rock slope led up to the looming castle. It was certainly impressive.
The first thing that Sorcha noticed as they climbed the hill was that the Priory had a portcullis and it was lowered. The place was presenting formidable defenses, as if it was expecting an army rather than ragtag travelers. She idly fingered the edges of her Gauntlets and glanced over her shoulder. The stares of the townspeople suddenly felt more ominous.
“Keep an eye out.” She nudged Merrick.
“Already doing so,” he replied. “Want me to share?” Recalling his blinding strength, she shook her head. “No, just give me a warning if something is about to happen.”
“Nothing, so far . . .” But his voice held a waver of concern. She couldn’t blame him; after the week they’d had, pretty much anything was possible.
The Pretender at their side drew his breath in over his teeth. Raed, that blazing silver fire in the ether, had his hand on his cutlass, as if he too could sense the malice in the air.
This was just a Priory. It was perhaps not as safe as an Abbey, but it was still a place of the Order. Sorcha kept telling herself that as the four humans and two horses approached the gatehouse to stand before the gate and the lowered portcullis.
“This isn’t right,” Nynnia whispered to Merrick. “The portcullis is never lowered like this.”
“It’ll be all right,” he replied to her, the assurance not tripping easily off his tongue. “The Arch Abbot must have sent word by weirstone that we were coming,” he hissed to Sorcha.
The sharp edge of his concern felt through the Bond only added to Sorcha’s own worry. At her side, Shedryi gave a sharp whinny and pranced as if jabbed by something. Yet nothing appeared from the air, and Merrick was silent.
Finally, after a few inexplicably tense moments, Sorcha managed to move her hand from the Gauntlets to the rope hanging by the gate. The clanking of the bell in such silence made them all even edgier. She was so tense that her grip on Shedryi’s bridle actually hurt. Merrick shifted closer to Nynnia, and Raed’s breathing went up a notch. She was well aware that her own was doing similar.