Rift (27 page)

“There’s no shame in it, Ember,” he said. “You did well. Killing a striga on your own is better than most initiates ever could hope to do.”

Ember returned his smile, sorry that she should be so repulsed by his touch. She would have to make an effort not to shy away from him if she wanted to mend their friendship.

“Thank you, Alistair . . . perhaps you can assist me to the barracks?” It was a first step toward making things right between them.

Alistair hesitated but then offered his arm, which Ember took, letting some of her weight lean into him. Barrow, who had silently made his way to stand beside her, cast a wary glance at Alistair but didn’t voice an objection. As Alistair led her forward, Barrow stayed at her shoulder, following like a shadow.

The rest of their group bustled ahead of them. Stable hands were already seeing to the horses while Lukasz and Sorcha gave orders. Kael stayed close to the sorcerer, who watched the flurry of action with a bemused smile even as Kael jostled him into motion.

Ember’s eyes moved over the prisoner, who was being led by Lukasz a few steps ahead of them. The sorcerer walked proudly, back straight—a ridiculously dignified pose for someone whose clothes resembled badly deteriorated burial cloths. He was also calm for his predicament, acting more like an honored guest than a captive. Was he simply that proud? Or did he think showing fear before the Guard would only worsen his position?

“Stop!”

Lukasz raised his hand and all activity ceased. A woman was running across the courtyard, waving her arms and shouting at them. It took Ember a moment to recognize her. Eira was dressed in a silk gown dyed a deep blue that rivaled the night sky; its skirt dragged through the muddy ground as she ran. Her hair was piled atop her head in a carefully arranged mass of tiny braids and ringlets currently favored by noblewomen.

When she reached them, she spoke breathlessly. “You must take Lady Morrow and prepare her.”

It was Barrow who stepped forward. The tall knight’s body partially shielded her from Eira’s view.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“The abbot is here and demands an audience with her,” Eira told him. “He arrived an hour ago. Without announcement.”

A ripple of tension swept over the Guard. Beside Ember, Alistair cursed under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Ember asked, but Alistair shook his head to silence her.

Lukasz frowned, glancing at the prisoner and lowering his voice. “But he was just here.”

“I know,” Eira said. The look she gave him was weary. “He received a letter from her father.”

“Lord Morrow?” Lukasz shook his head. “He’s interfering. He should know better.”

“Apparently he doesn’t.” Eira searched the group until her eyes rested on Sorcha. “You know what to do. I’ve had the necessary items sent over to her room. Gather the servants you need and bring her back to the manor as soon as you can.”

Sorcha nodded and grasped Ember’s hand. “Come with me.”

“She’s injured.” Barrow frowned at Eira. “Can’t it wait? She must be seen by the healers.”

Eira shook her head. “If the abbot has to see her in a sickbed, it will only make things worse. She’ll have to bear the pain until he’s satisfied.”

Sorcha’s grip on Ember’s arm tightened. “We’ll place a salve on the wound. It should give us a bit more time.”

“But—” Ember’s feet skidded on the ground as Sorcha began to drag her away from the group.

“Please don’t argue,” Sorcha hissed. “He can’t see you like this.”

“Who?” Ember said as Sorcha tugged her along, leaving the others behind. “The abbot?”

“Of course the abbot,” Sorcha said. “We’re lucky he insists on a large meal in the manor when he arrives. If he were in the courtyard to meet us, I don’t know how we’d explain ourselves.”

They entered the barracks and Sorcha began shouting orders to servants, who scurried to obey. Ember struggled to keep up as Sorcha took the stairs two at time. Waiting outside Ember’s cell, Sorcha flung open the door and cursed under her breath as Ember stumbled inside. Even with the awkward, slow pace she’d taken to reach the barracks, her back and shoulders burned with renewed pain. She was trying to catch her breath when she noticed her room wasn’t as she’d left it. Colors were strewn over her usually drab pallet—silk gowns in jewel tones had been laid out along with slippers and gem-encrusted hair combs.

“Hurry!”

Ember asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

Sorcha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ember, I know this must be confusing. Time is against us. Once the abbot’s belly is filled, he’ll seek you out. You must be ready. Get out of those clothes!”

When Ember stood for a moment, staring at the other woman, Sorcha threw up her hands and then began roughly tugging Ember’s tabard over her head. Forced to lift her arms, Ember swayed as a wave of nausea layered atop the searing ache of her wounds. Though questions battered her mind, Ember pushed them aside and let Sorcha strip her clothes away. Ember stood shivering in her kirtle when two women appeared bearing a copper tub.

“We didn’t have time to heat it, milady,” one of them said.

“It can’t be helped,” Sorcha said. “Scrub her down. Mind the wounds.”

Resigned to whatever fate awaited her, Ember didn’t fuss when the servants helped her out of her kirtle. They swiftly unwound the cloths that flattened her breasts tight against her chest.

Sorcha turned away to inspect the gowns. “Do you have a color preference?”

Ember glanced at the dresses: gold, pale blue, and rose were her options. She was about to answer when a wet, icy cloth against her back made her screech.

“Hush!” Sorcha chastened. “I’m sorry for the cold, but you must keep quiet.”

Ember clenched her fists as the two women scrubbed her skin clean with the frigid water from the tub. She was grateful when they took care to gently rinse the torn flesh of her shoulders. While one of the servants continued washing her limbs, the other opened a glass jar and smoothed a pungent concoction over her wounds. She flinched even at the woman’s light touch, but as the mixture went to work, her pain was replaced by a cool tingling, then numbness.

The other servant had done a thorough job of ridding Ember of grime. Her body was shiny and pink from their efforts after a few minutes. No evidence of her wrestling in the mud of the German forest floor remained. She could no longer complain of pain in her shoulders, but she was so cold she was shaking.

“Here.” Sorcha gestured for Ember to raise her arms. A clean, finely stitched kirtle descended over her head, followed by the gold gown. Sorcha straightened the gown on Ember’s shoulders and then one of the servants tightened its laces. Ember’s breasts, which had been hidden all day, now swelled against the press of the fabric. She blushed at the transformation, much preferring the androgyny of the Guard’s tabard to this gown, which accentuated her womanly attributes.

Sorcha pulled the chair away from the small table and guided Ember to it.

“I have to ready myself,” she said. “But Mary and Joanna will see to your hair.”

The two servants got to work before Sorcha was out of the room. Ember held her breath so she wouldn’t cry out as the women wrenched her hair free of its tight braid and began to comb out its length. She knew they weren’t trying to be cruel, but their focus on speed made their hands rough. It took focus and will for Ember to stay quietly in the chair as her hair was divided into sections, half of it twisted atop her head and held in place by carefully positioned combs. The rest was left free, tumbling down her back like a crimson cloak.

“Oh, good.” Sorcha reappeared in the doorway. Ember couldn’t believe how quickly she’d transformed herself. No longer in her warrior’s gear, Sorcha had donned a deep gray gown with an embroidered bodice. Her braid had been replaced by dark waves that tumbled over one shoulder. Taking in Ember’s startled expression, the other woman laughed.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” She smiled. “And I cheated. The skin you can see may be free of grime, but if you looked beneath my kirtle, you’d think I took a bath in pig slop.”

Ember laughed, grateful for a moment of levity after the rush of anxious preparation.

Sorcha stretched out her hands. “Come, Lady Morrow. It’s time we present you to Abbot Crichton so he’s assured all is well within Tearmunn.”

When Ember rose, the two servants curtsied. She murmured her thanks and followed Sorcha into the hall. She wanted to squirm in her gown, which was odd given that she’d worn such clothing all her life and hadn’t been bothered by it before today. The dress compared unfavorably to the freedom and protection offered by the warrior’s garb she’d become accustomed to wearing. But something else scratched at her consciousness that was much more irksome than the gown. Walking behind Sorcha, she felt transfigured by this change in wardrobe, as if she’d been snatched back by the life she’d left behind.

Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. “I apologize for the costume, but we’re forced to disguise ourselves any time the abbot visits.”

“Why?” Ember asked as they descended the stairs. “I thought Father Michael fulfilled the office of the Church here.”

The other woman tensed. “Father Michael lives with us and ministers to our souls as well as serving the village chapel. He is sympathetic to the demands of our mission and a true shepherd to his flock. But he’s simply a priest—a good and humble man. Not the sort who rises to power. And as we are beholden to him, he is beholden to others.”

They exited the barracks and crossed the courtyard. The sudden movement caused Ember’s shoulders to seize up with pain, making her fully aware that the relief offered by the healer’s mixture was only a temporary reprieve from her injuries, but she gritted her teeth and managed to keep up with Sorcha’s determined pace.

“Abbot Crichton is Father Michael’s superior and he controls the coffers of Tearmunn.” Sorcha kept her voice low. “This keep—in the eyes of the Church—is actually an abbey, though obviously our order is nothing like those to which monks or nuns belong. Abbot Crichton is the head of this abbey, but he prefers the comforts of his own estate and doesn’t make his home here. Father Michael was appointed to reside with us and see to the day-to-day spiritual matters of Conatus. The abbot visits us on occasion to be sure we’re still submitting to the Church’s authority.”

“I don’t understand,” Ember whispered. “Abbot Crichton doesn’t trust Father Michael?”

Sorcha laughed coarsely. “Trust has nothing to do with it. Tearmunn is hidden in this glen because it keeps us out of the world of men—for the most part. We have a few ties with the village on the loch. The clan lords of this region visit us, but only rarely. Abbot Crichton is the only one who makes himself a nuisance.”

When they’d reached the manor, Sorcha paused. “You must take care with each word you speak to the abbot. He has as many nobles in his pocket as he can afford. His visits have nothing to do with ensuring we’re upholding our vows and everything to do with keeping his pockets full.”

“You bribe the abbot?” Ember gasped. She knew of priests who skimmed from a parish’s alms or those who kept mistresses or even had children, but having spoken with Father Michael, she found it difficult to imagine that anyone who knew the truth about Conatus would abuse that privilege.

Sorcha nodded. “We have no choice.” She took Ember’s chin in a light grasp, forcing the girl to look directly into her eyes.

“Listen to me, Ember.” She spoke softly but with intensity. “The abbot left Tearmunn the day you arrived. For him to have returned this quickly, asking to see
you,
means something has gone very wrong.”

“My father—” Ember began, remembering Lukasz’s words.
He should know better.
She shuddered. What had he done? Would he threaten Conatus to the point that they’d send her away?

“If he’s bribed the abbot, I don’t know what will happen,” Sorcha said. “But if he’s only complained and has yet to pay for Crichton’s assistance, we may salvage this wreck.”

Numbed by fear, Ember simply nodded.

“The battle you face now is as important as when you faced the striga.” Sorcha’s fingers brushed her cheek. “Courage.”

“What do I say?” Ember asked.

“The abbot holds a limited view of what a woman’s role in Conatus should be,” Sorcha told her. “He tolerates Eira and Cian’s presence on the Circle but wouldn’t be so accepting of our calling to the Guard.”

“He doesn’t know?” If Abbot Crichton wielded as much control over Conatus as Sorcha claimed, it was hard to believe he could be so ignorant of their practices.

“If he does, he’s elected to turn a blind eye to it,” Sorcha said. “And we should be thankful he cares more about maintaining his own manor than interfering with ours.”

“But if my father’s written to him . . .” Ember’s stomach twisted.

Sorcha nodded, confirming what Ember had left unsaid. “What you must do now is to convince the abbot that your father speaks lies to poison the Church against us. You cannot reveal anything about your calling, about the Guard.”

“What will Eira have told him?”

“Even with Eira and Cian on the Circle we still know it is a risk to bring women into the Guard,” Sorcha said. “Plans were already in place to counter a problem like this. There are many roles women can take in Conatus that could garner no objection from the abbot. Eira will have told him that you’re training to become a healer and a midwife.”

Ember gazed at Sorcha, letting her words sink in. She would have to lie to the abbot. And lie well. The only positive effect of how frightened she felt was that that her anxiety temporarily overpowered the pain of her wounds—a pain that had been mostly numbed by the salve but flared up if she moved too suddenly or without care.

Sorcha took her arm. “Keep breathing. It will do us no good if you faint before we reach the abbot.”

Ember hadn’t noticed she’d been holding her breath, but at Sorcha’s urging she gulped air, which made her head spin. She let Sorcha lead her into the manor, through the long hall gleaming with candlelight. The heavy layers of their skirts rustled along the stone floor, filling up the silence between them in place of conversation. Sorcha guided her past the great hall and the door beneath the stairs that had taken her into the cellar. They turned a corner, heading into another corridor, and for a moment Ember thought they were going to the chapel or Father Michael’s quarters. But Sorcha stopped in front of a door opposite the chapel entrance. The warrior woman bowed her head and closed her eyes. Ember wondered if Sorcha had paused to offer a brief prayer. Drawing a quick breath, Sorcha lifted her head and rapped on the door.