Perhaps he should have said something like, “It won’t come to that,” or, “You’re not making cannon fodder out of my men,” but one look at her deadly serious face and he knew that more was at stake than she would admit to him. He guessed that it was not just about a dozen possessed children, but something much darker. Anything that could scare a Deacon, let alone this one, was not something he could ignore. If he was honest with himself, he considered this still his kingdom.
“About half are well-seasoned warriors,” he replied. “The others are brave enough but have not trained. We tend to avoid conflict rather than take it on full tilt.”
Her nod was thoughtful, as if she was quietly making the mental calculations of what was stacked against them. Her head jerked up, and those sharp blue eyes met his. “We’d best see what other resources we have available, then.” With that, she turned and strode in the direction of the encampment.
Raed wondered how the citizens of Ulrich would respond to being described in such a way.
It was certainly a good thing that Sorcha was not wearing the immediately recognizable cloak of an Active, because they would probably have been peppered with gunfire before they got within thirty yards of the group. It helped that the citizens were all watching the Priory rather than the approach from the town.
Even if they’d not just come through the empty streets of Ulrich, it would have been apparent that this was nearly the entire population. The crowd included men and women, all carrying makeshift weapons; fishermen with long gaffes, farmers with their scythes and pitchforks, and bakers with their long wooden paddles. Everyone was focused on the grim building that hung over their town. After doing a quick head count, Raed judged there to be more than a hundred people, all waiting for something to happen on the ridge.
He pointed to the middle of a group on the left. “There’s the mayor—see his chain of office?” It was a small insignia, to go with a small town, but he’d caught a glint off it from the noon sun.
Sorcha straightened her Order badge on her left shoulder and indicated he should go first. If she had expected that the Young Pretender would get a better reception here than she would, she was sadly mistaken.
The Mayor turned to Raed and gave him a somewhat withering look; either he recognized him and was not impressed, or he didn’t and was annoyed at the interruption. His face was young but his eyes were hard in their sockets and his face was grim. Raed knew the look. Very well, he judged, a man who appreciates straight talk.
He held out his hand. “I am Captain Raed Rossin, of the ship Dominion. I’ve come to offer my assistance.”
“I am Mayor Erasmus Locke.” The Mayor’s face relaxed slightly, but then his gaze drifted to the woman who stood behind the Pretender. His eyes dropped to the sigil she had replaced on her chest and his mouth flew open in shock. Raed decided quick action was called for, before either the Mayor or, indeed, Sorcha could say anything.
“This is Deacon Faris, whom I myself transported on my ship, and who was sent by the Arch Abbot to aid you against these transgressors.”
The Mayor’s gaze flitted between the two of them. His voice was gruff, almost that of an old man. “We have no need of more Deacons here.”
Raed took hold of Sorcha’s arm, giving it a slight squeeze as he drew her forward. She glared at him, but leapt into the breach he had created. “I can assure you that I am no friend of the woman calling herself Prior—in fact, she is holding my partner prisoner.”
Mayor Locke’s lips twisted. “And now I suppose you want our help to get him back?” The tone of his voice was bitter. The citizens around him shifted, muttering to themselves.
The moment hung on a knife’s edge. Raed wondered if they might not have to make a run for it, but once again Sorcha surprised him. “I have examined your children and I know you have good reason to be angry.” She ducked her head and then glanced up at the Mayor with a grim smile. “However, I am here to set things right.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled with determination through the strands of her copper hair.
The Pretender realized that Sorcha was not beyond using her beauty to manipulate those around her if necessary. It might not be her weapon of preference, but she was aware of it—and Erasmus Locke was not immune. His shoulders relaxed. The people, those who should have been Raed’s people, had learned to trust the Deacons in the last years, and it was easy to fall back into that habit under the steady stare of Sorcha Faris.
“We can’t get in.” A tall woman tightened her grip on a baling spike and shook it in the direction of the locked Priory. “They stood and did nothing while my Lyith suffered.” Her voice cracked. “They actually turned us away.”
Sorcha exchanged a glance with Raed. Her face was flushed with anger, but her eyes were glassy with something that might have been a tear. “We shall make everything as it should be. That is what the Arch Abbot sent us here to do, and when I have my partner back, we can help.”
“How can you do anything against a Priory full of Deacons?” A sharp voice rang out from the huddle of the crowd, and Raed knew it for a very valid question. He was wondering the very same thing.
“There is one thing we have that they cannot stand against.” Raed felt her eyes focus once more on him; her expression was both calculating and sad.
Surely, she was mad. Surely she couldn’t possibly be contemplating what he imagined?
Sorcha made a slight gesture, asking for his silence for a moment. “Mayor Locke, could you send someone down to the Captain’s ship? Ask for Aachon, and get him to send up all those who are ready for a fight.”
A boy was dispatched, and Raed watched from the sidelines as Sorcha conversed with the Mayor and his councilors in a low voice. He didn’t take much notice of what they were saying, because his mind was spinning. He knew what she was going to say, so after a few minutes when she strode toward him, his jaw was clenched and he was ready to argue.
Behind her, the people of Ulrich were newly invigorated, snapping into action and organizing themselves into something resembling forms. Whatever she had said to them had brought positive results.
He glared at Sorcha, feeling every muscle in his body rigid with rage. It was much easier to be angry than to be scared.
“So you’ve guessed,” she began. “The only advantage we have right now is you, and the Rossin.”
“You cannot use the creature as a weapon!”
“Listen,” she hissed, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the townspeople, “they are right; there is no way I can possibly stand up against the dozen other Actives waiting for us in there.”
Raed shook his head. He didn’t want to hear anything, let alone something that might make sense.
“Aside from the fact these people need us”—she stepped closer to him, so close that he could feel her warmth—“we are trapped here, and I am sure that Aulis has a plan of her own. It won’t be good for us. I can tell you that now, for free.”
All of his choices were whittled away. Raed felt as trapped as sheep in a farmer’s pen, ready for the butcher’s knife. He took a slow deep breath; it never hurt to hear what people had to say. “All right—what do you propose? How can you possibly control the Rossin?”
Sorcha smiled, a flash of wry amusement. “Control him? I have no desire to control the Rossin. But I believe I can possibly give him something productive to do.”
The Priory looked as impregnable as any fortress he’d ever seen. He thought about surrendering to the Curse, about how he had feared it since his own mother’s blood had filled his mouth. It seemed unlikely that anything good could come from the Rossin. Then he thought of the children chained in their own homes, his own crew trapped on the ship, and the Deacon whom they’d unknowingly left to his fate.
Raed, the Young Pretender, cleared his throat. “If you think you can stop me from killing the innocent—if you can promise me that—then yes. Do it.”