“Father!” Nynnia let go of the Deacon’s hand and dashed over to a bulky older man sewing up a gash on a lay Brother’s head. Merrick was relieved that she had not traveled so far only to face grief at the end of her journey. He watched as the old man tenderly pressed his daughter to him and kissed the top of her head. She smiled at him so broadly that it was like the sun had dawned in the small infirmary. “Father, this is Deacon Merrick Chambers—he is responsible for me being able to get back to you—and this is my father, Kyrix Macthcoll.”
The stout man’s hands were covered in blood, so he did not offer a hand for Merrick to shake, but his smile was a smaller reflection of his daughter’s. “Then I thank you, Deacon Chambers—I need my girl home.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Now more than ever.”
Nynnia was rolling up the sleeves on her dress. “Who can still be saved, Father?”
“There are several Brothers in the other room who could use your talents.” He patted her on the shoulder and then gave a slight bow to Merrick. “Excuse our rudeness—but as you can see we are both needed here.”
The Deacon, who was feeling particularly useless, tucked his hands under his cloak. “Please don’t stand on ceremony on my account.”
The girl’s eyes darted to Merrick, soft brown and—he wasn’t imagining it—warm. She turned away with a swirl of her dress.
He hated to leave her, but it was obvious that Prior Aulis needed him, for there was one thing he had noticed: all of the Deacons here were Actives. Not one Sensitive remained; had any been alive, they would have been here watching over their brethren.
Sorcha was voicing the very question that buzzed in his head. “What the hell happened here?” She moderated her tone slightly since they were in a heaving infirmary, but still, the edge of panic was audible.
The short gray haircut that Priors often favored made the older woman look somewhat masculine, Merrick noted as he took in the deep wrinkles on her forehead. This woman’s life had been hard to begin with, and it looked like it hadn’t been any easier in the last few days. “What do you think happened?” she snapped, her tone belying her grandmotherly looks. “We were attacked by the unliving!”
It was the one thing no one wanted to hear. Even with all the evidence out in the main hall, it was not a pleasant thing to have confirmed. An attack on a sacred building of the Order had not happened since the dark ages. Not in Arkaym, not in Delmaire. Powerful runes were carved into Priory and Abbey foundations and walls—kept active by constant reworking by the Deacons. Their protection was immutable, more so than water. A huge chasm opened up in front of Merrick as he realized the training he had so recently completed was not proving as useful as he’d imagined.
“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.