situation awkward”—Kolya stepped forward into her field of vision—“but this has never happened before—and I think—”
“Having both you and Deacon Petav in the same place is rather disturbing,” Presbyter Troupe broke in. The corners of her beautiful lips lifted. “Especially to my charges.” She directed her brown eyes on their very new Arch Abbot. “At the moment we all need stability. Time to heal.”
Sorcha could swear that her breath was choking her throat. Presbyters were nominated for their skills but elected by all of the Order. The Arch Abbot was chosen by the Presbyterial Council—but people in that position had been unceremoniously removed before. Rictun was still very green and undoubtedly anxious not to be the shortest reigning Arch Abbot in the history of the Order of the Eye and the Fist.
A little muscle in his jaw began to twitch. “Very well, perhaps a small break from this tension will be good for everyone in the Mother Abbey.”
Kolya’s shoulders slumped a little, but he dared not challenge the Arch Abbot—that would have been supremely out of character. He glanced over at Sorcha, his look pleading, but any power he had to move her had been washed away through years of disappointment. She would not show an ounce of sympathy for him; she knew how he turned that always to his advantage.
“I have just the role for Deacons Faris and Chambers.” Yvril Mournling’s eyes fixed Sorcha to the spot. She recalled how he had covered up the wild talent Merrick had used to save Raed. It was still uncertain why exactly he had done that. The Presbyter flicked his cloak aside with his great sinewy hands. “The delegation from Chioma needs two Deacons as escort home.”
Presbyter Bolzak was looking nervously between her colleagues, feeling the tension but not knowing what to do about it. She shifted in her carved wooden chair uncomfortably. “You mean the delegation dealing with the Emperor’s marriage negotiations?”
It was the talk of Vermillion and had been for weeks. The Principality of Chioma was far to the south, a kingdom that had stuck firmly to its traditions. Yet it was also rich with gold, spices and gems. The delegation had come to negotiate for one of its princesses to marry the Emperor.
Rictun’s smile was thin, and Sorcha could almost hear him thinking. Chioma in summer would be hot, dusty and damn uncomfortable. The Arch Abbot nodded. “Indeed—a fine idea, Presbyter Mournling. The journey will give Deacon Faris here time to think and decide if this is what she truly wants.”
“And carry messages to the Hive City,” the Presbyter of the Sensitives agreed.
“The . . . Hive City?” Sorcha dared a question.
Mournling nodded, his eyes drifting to a point somehow past her. “The city of Orinthal is made of the mud of the land, baked hard, like the homes certain insects of that place build.”
Deacon Faris had to swallow hard while the image of a tall earthen building, made of ocher earth, rose against a flawless blue sky. It was the city the spectyr had shown her. Risking a glance at the Presbyter, she caught a flicker of something that might have been the slightest inclination of the head. Mournling was among the greatest Sensitives of his age—and she shouldn’t have been surprised he had gleaned something from her thoughts.
Presbyter Trelaine leaned back in his chair. “I concur; let us have some more time and send our best Active to guard the Ambassador. It seems a good choice to me, and it will please the Emperor.”
Rictun waved Sorcha away. “Go, make your arrangements. The Presbyter Secondo will give you details later.”
Sorcha tried not to show her joy as she left. Despite everything, she did not want to rub Kolya’s face in her little victories. She had no idea what Mournling was doing—why he was helping them—but one thing was sure: she had more allies than she ever guessed.
The Hive City of Orinthal awaited, as did Raed Rossin, the one man
“Having both you and Deacon Petav in the same place is rather disturbing,” Presbyter Troupe broke in. The corners of her beautiful lips lifted. “Especially to my charges.” She directed her brown eyes on their very new Arch Abbot. “At the moment we all need stability. Time to heal.”
Sorcha could swear that her breath was choking her throat. Presbyters were nominated for their skills but elected by all of the Order. The Arch Abbot was chosen by the Presbyterial Council—but people in that position had been unceremoniously removed before. Rictun was still very green and undoubtedly anxious not to be the shortest reigning Arch Abbot in the history of the Order of the Eye and the Fist.
A little muscle in his jaw began to twitch. “Very well, perhaps a small break from this tension will be good for everyone in the Mother Abbey.”
Kolya’s shoulders slumped a little, but he dared not challenge the Arch Abbot—that would have been supremely out of character. He glanced over at Sorcha, his look pleading, but any power he had to move her had been washed away through years of disappointment. She would not show an ounce of sympathy for him; she knew how he turned that always to his advantage.
“I have just the role for Deacons Faris and Chambers.” Yvril Mournling’s eyes fixed Sorcha to the spot. She recalled how he had covered up the wild talent Merrick had used to save Raed. It was still uncertain why exactly he had done that. The Presbyter flicked his cloak aside with his great sinewy hands. “The delegation from Chioma needs two Deacons as escort home.”
Presbyter Bolzak was looking nervously between her colleagues, feeling the tension but not knowing what to do about it. She shifted in her carved wooden chair uncomfortably. “You mean the delegation dealing with the Emperor’s marriage negotiations?”
It was the talk of Vermillion and had been for weeks. The Principality of Chioma was far to the south, a kingdom that had stuck firmly to its traditions. Yet it was also rich with gold, spices and gems. The delegation had come to negotiate for one of its princesses to marry the Emperor.
Rictun’s smile was thin, and Sorcha could almost hear him thinking. Chioma in summer would be hot, dusty and damn uncomfortable. The Arch Abbot nodded. “Indeed—a fine idea, Presbyter Mournling. The journey will give Deacon Faris here time to think and decide if this is what she truly wants.”
“And carry messages to the Hive City,” the Presbyter of the Sensitives agreed.
“The . . . Hive City?” Sorcha dared a question.
Mournling nodded, his eyes drifting to a point somehow past her. “The city of Orinthal is made of the mud of the land, baked hard, like the homes certain insects of that place build.”
Deacon Faris had to swallow hard while the image of a tall earthen building, made of ocher earth, rose against a flawless blue sky. It was the city the spectyr had shown her. Risking a glance at the Presbyter, she caught a flicker of something that might have been the slightest inclination of the head. Mournling was among the greatest Sensitives of his age—and she shouldn’t have been surprised he had gleaned something from her thoughts.
Presbyter Trelaine leaned back in his chair. “I concur; let us have some more time and send our best Active to guard the Ambassador. It seems a good choice to me, and it will please the Emperor.”
Rictun waved Sorcha away. “Go, make your arrangements. The Presbyter Secondo will give you details later.”
Sorcha tried not to show her joy as she left. Despite everything, she did not want to rub Kolya’s face in her little victories. She had no idea what Mournling was doing—why he was helping them—but one thing was sure: she had more allies than she ever guessed.
The Hive City of Orinthal awaited, as did Raed Rossin, the one man
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