When the crooked figure of a young man hobbled to the portcullis, she let out a long breath. Wearing the brown of a lay Brother, he was at least a sign of normality. He looked at them through the bars with unveiled caution, and her ire started rising to replace her concern.
Handing Shedryi’s bridle to Raed, she walked forward to confront the man, her hand on her cloak, the badge of the Order standing out bright silver. Even though he glanced at it, he didn’t rush to raise the barrier.
“Who are you?” He spoke slowly through malformed lips.
“Deacons Sorcha Faris and Merrick Chambers. The Abbot should have weirstoned the Prior that we were coming.”
The answer that the young Brother gave made her start. “Our Priory stone was destroyed four nights ago.”
The wrongness of this place was now impossible to ignore. “Quickly, then . . . We must speak to your Prior.”
“She’s busy, and I’m not allowed to admit anyone.”
Her anger was about to boil over, and her fingers itched to be in the Gauntlets and blasting the damn portcullis out of its footings. Once again, it was Merrick who found the right words.
Standing next to her, he took out the long, decorated leather Strop and held it before him. “Do you know what this is?”
The young Brother’s eyes lit up. “The Strop of the Sensitives.”
“Good.” Merrick pointed to the Gauntlets tucked into Sorcha’s belt. “And those?”
“Gauntlets of the Active.”
“And you know only Deacons can wear them?”
“Yes.” The Brother nodded so hard it seemed his head might fly off.
“Then you can let us in. Your Prior wouldn’t want you to keep out Deacons.”
After a moment’s deep contemplation, the Brother finally scampered off to turn the wheel and raise the portcullis. Once they ventured inside he seemed incredibly excited, capering around them and barraging them with questions. Eventually Sorcha gave Shedryi and Melochi into his care just to get him out from under their feet. He grew quite solemn with the responsibility, and led the horses off toward the far corner of the courtyard.
“Prior Aulis is over there.” He jerked his head toward the main doors of the keep, before turning back to the horses and the stable.
The large yard was the place in which Felstaad’s knights would have assembled in olden times, but it made a very poor showing in the current one. Sorcha had read the file before it had been lost with their first ship; Ulrich Priory had only a compliment of a dozen Deacons and twice that of lay Brothers. This place could have housed a hundred times more.
Abruptly, she remembered something. “You live here?”
Nynnia nodded mutely.
“Then, is it usually like this?” Sorcha gestured to the quiet stone expanse that looked as deserted as a grave.
The girl shook her head, foolish brown eyes wide like those of a spooked deer.
Sorcha gritted her teeth and then took a deep breath. “So where does your father practice his craft, then?”
“In there.” Nynnia pointed timidly toward the main keep.
The Deacon realized there was not going to be much sense coming from that particular quarter.
“You know”—Raed still hadn’t let go of his cutlass—“this has the feeling of a trap.”
“Here?” Merrick’s brown eyes were still scanning the area, and his voice had a note of real concern. He didn’t want to believe that such a thing was possible in a house of the Order, but some deeper instinct was kicking in.
Bunched up together, they climbed the short flight of stairs and opened the doors. Immediately, the smell of charcoal and smoke forced Sorcha back a step. Glancing to her left, she got a little shake of the head from Merrick, and she went in.
Sorcha found herself wishing very hard that there might be some rules that still remained sacrosanct. A week of strangeness—geists crossing water, geists laying traps and geists summoning sea monsters—was still nothing to this. The inside of the keep’s great hall had been laid out to mimic the form of an Abbey, as all Priories were, yet it was burnt to a cinder. The white stone was charred and, when she cautiously laid a finger to it, she realized that it had actually melted on the surface. Remains of wooden pews were scattered about, some disintegrated into ash, while others lay discarded at the edges of the room as if flung there by fleeing Deacons. Debris crackled under their boots as they cautiously moved up what had once been the central aisle, but Sorcha did not bend to examine it.
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.
NINE
The Thunder of Destruction
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.