“Everything is changing, Harbinger.” The Patternmaker’s voice wrapped itself around her, giving voice to her own terrors. “You are part of it, more deeply than any other person in this realm. You are woven into its warp and weft like a sharp Wrayth-made little thread.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened as she watched the patterns shift and dance. “What do I need to do?”
His voice hissed from the shadows and was echoed by those now bouncing around in her head. “The Harbinger makes the changes. Only you can decide what those are—that is the joy and the horror of your creation.”
That was when the Deacon froze. In her mind she heard again the mother she could not remember but had experienced in the Wrayth’s lair. They had been breeding the Deacons they had caught down there. Sorcha had so completely turned her mind away from the horror of that, she had neglected to consider what their goal had been.
In the depths the Patternmaker, Ratimana, laughed. “They made you, but they were not expecting you. They wanted a way to work the runes of the Deacons, without any of that pesky human will getting in the way.”
“How do you know all this? What are you?” Sorcha held her arms before her and stumbled forward like a blind person. She had to have those answers even if it meant tearing them from the twisted man with her bare hands.
Her fingers brushed against skin as soft and giving as boiled flesh. Despite her training, she flinched back. The runes on her own flesh sparked to light, casting an eerie glow on the face of the Patternmaker. He looked up at her, a broken and frail old man, but in the light of the runes his eyes burned. They flashed as the Rossin’s did.
Sorcha held her trembling arms, burning with light close to him, and realized the truth of it. The Patternmaker was a geistlord—as much as the Rossin was, as much as she was.
His unnerving grin flashed across his lips, exposing teeth that were now far too large. “I am like you, Wrayth. Another portion created as a scout, in the time of the Break, sent into this world to find flesh and home.”
Sorcha froze in place. She did not want to howl or move or show any form of weakness in front of this creature. Still her eyes wandered down to her own arm, which now felt like it belonged to someone else; an alien thing that shouldn’t have been attached to her body. The runes on it gleamed and twisted.
Sorcha’s breath jammed in her chest, as her thoughts bubbled up. She had brought the other Deacons to this place. They had carved the runes into themselves in the exact same way she had, because she had showed them the way and they had been desperate. Instead, she’d contaminated them. She’d made them like she was; filthy with Wrayth powers.
“What did you find?” Sorcha choked out, unable to voice the real questions crowded in her mind.
“I found freedom. I found I did not want to be part of any hive mind. I wanted to be myself and not part of them.”
Sorcha needed Merrick, but she was too ashamed to call for him. Without his better-trained Center she was struggling, but she knew he would have been able to get to the truth.
“This is the truth,” Ratimana went on. “The truth you have been trying to hide from. You and I are the same creatures. We are survivors.”
The sound of him coming closer was like a snake moving on stone, it made her skin crawl. “You hear them, just like I do—but the difference is . . . they will come for you. They still want you.”
Sorcha stared down into his inhuman eyes and was lost for words. She had come here for reassurance and instead had found horror. Her jaw tightened as she looked at the Patternmaker. If she couldn’t find her bravery soon, then she would just have to fake it. “Not if I find them first,” she replied, clenching her hand, burning with light, tightly closed.
NINE
An Old Love
A Conclave was a tricky thing; it was easy to lose oneself in the soft morass of the group-mind. A hundred worries, dreams, feelings and sensations wrapped themselves around Merrick. Suseli’s fears from last night’s horrific dream screamed in his ear, while Heroon’s idle thoughts about whether his lover was really the one he wanted were distracting. The tangle of so many muttering voices was a trap for the inexperienced Sensitive, and Merrick had not been that long out of the novitiate—in reality it was only a year and a half since he had left the security of training. However, anyone working with Sorcha got more experience than they had bargained for.
Now, Merrick put that experience to use. He imagined the strands of the different people in the Conclave threading between his fingers, like brightly colored tendrils of wool. He held them apart from each other and more importantly from his own self. He used his will to sort the tangle out, and was surprised by his own dexterity. The Presbyter of the Sensitives, Yvril Mournling, who had trained Merrick in the novitiate, would have been impressed—if he’d been able to move from his deathbed that was. Few remained with the skill to hold a Conclave together, and so there was no one around to pat Merrick on the back. He sorely missed the community of Sensitives he had taken for granted in the Mother Abbey.
With this sad little thought, Merrick began to weave the threads back together. He took the powers of the Sensitives and formed them into a pattern. Their Centers bloomed around him, and he was awash with that combined power. Now he could see so much more than even his powerful Center could bring him.
His Sight soared over the citadel, out over the gravel-strewn valley, and washed farther away into the mountains. He could pick out scattered people and animals with the accuracy that even a great eagle could not have.
It was a heady, deadly situation. Sensitives liked to imagine that it was Actives that were full of hubris and overconfidence; but they were just as susceptible. If Merrick looked too long into the sun of the Conclave mind, it would have the same effect, and then all would be lost.
He turned his Center away from the endless possibilities of this power, and dove forward into the unknown. Masa, the Third Rune of Sight, was slippery. He’d been taught in the first classes as a young boy that it was not to be relied on. Looking forward into the future was somewhat of an art—compared to the other runes that could be mastered with training.
Sorcha was asking a great deal of him sending him in this direction, and it was a measure of her desperation that she even asked. Merrick knew how she felt, because he felt it too. They had to find a path and quickly or else be exposed as frauds. If they could not change what was happening to Arkaym, then they might as well have never had the runes carved on their skin.
So, holding on to the skeins of the Conclave, Merrick opened himself up to the future. It was a moment of abandon, and reckless exposure to this world and the Otherside. The sensation of rushing scared the Sensitive; it was as if he were speeding away from his body—so fast he felt as though he might crash into something.
Luckily, it stopped just as suddenly, as quickly, as it had started. Merrick opened the eyes of his Center and found that he was standing in a long corridor. It stretched away before him with no sign of ending, and off it were an uncountable number of doors.
Silence was sucking on his senses, and he understood behind each one was a possible future. As he had feared, he was finding it impossible to read. A quick glance behind him, and he realized the corridor was disappearing into shadow—the strands of the Conclave were swallowed up by it as well.
After taking a long, slow breath Merrick had to remind himself that this was all a construction of his trained mind; a way to deal with the confusing power of Masa. It could do him no harm, and really all he had to lose was his ignorance. Later, when back in his body and away from the rune, he could examine what he had found.
Strengthened, Merrick reached out and pushed open the door before him. Almost immediately he flinched back. She was there, the creature wreathed in scarlet flame that had given him nightmares; the Murashev, who had stepped through into the world from the Otherside under the city of Vermillion. He, Sorcha and Raed had been melded by the Rossin into a creature of pure rune magic, so his recollection o
f the geistlord was warped by that, yet she still blazed in his memory.
Something about the slight, snarling figure aroused him in this half-dream state. “Don’t you see?” she said with a magnificent smile. “The change is coming.”
The room was full of flame and suddenly Merrick couldn’t breathe. He staggered back into the corridor and slammed the door shut. As he pulled his hand back from the handle, he stared down at his scalded fingertips. They hurt.
Shaking his hand absentmindedly, he moved on to the next door. This one he opened more cautiously.
Behind it was the geistlord he had been expecting: Hatipai. She was the scourge of Orinthal, and the creature that had set herself up as a goddess in that southern principality. She was also the false goddess that Zofiya had worshipped for years.
Merrick knew that the revelation of her deception had cut the Grand Duchess very deeply. He had never seen the goddess persona of the geistlord, but the smooth lovely face was unmistakably hers. “You cannot stand against the geists alone,” she said with a smile. “You do not have what you need.” She opened her arms and stepped toward him.
Merrick had the feeling if she touched him he would not want to return to the real world. He tripped over himself to get out of the room, and threw the door shut behind him.
A chill concern was beginning to build inside him. He was in his own Center, and Merrick should have not been so drawn to something that was essentially built from his own mind.
Now he glanced with real trepidation at the next door; however, the Order had never trained a coward in its entire history. Merrick stepped up and this time, in defiance of his building concern, kicked open the door with a snap of his leg.
Sorcha turned to look back at him. Many, many Sorchas who were crowded in the space that represented the future. Some were smiling, others frowning, but all locked him where he stood with their stern blue-eyed gaze. Merrick tilted his head and contemplated what this would mean.
The Murashev and Hatipai had been enemies manipulated by the Native Order to bring destruction to the world. As far as he knew Sorcha had never been a danger to him. Was the rune he’d followed here beginning to unravel?
The Sorchas all stepped toward him and now their mouths began to part. Wider and wider they opened, until they became nothing but flashing jaws full of terrible fangs. Improbably they began to speak, and the words they uttered were the ones etched on Merrick’s soul.
I promise to protect and shelter Imperial citizens from all attacks of the unliving—even to the end of my mind, body and soul. I shall never lie down before the geists and give up a mortal while I have soul or breath.
It was the oath all Deacons made when they left the novitiate, but the way that these creatures were reciting it was not serious and dedicated—it was mocking.
Merrick knew Masa was an untrustworthy thing, but he did not like the way it was getting away from him, nor did he understand what was going on. Sorcha. As he backed away into the corridor once more, he saw what was etched over the lintel.
See deep, fear nothing. The words engraved above the door were the code of the Sensitive. The trouble was Merrick was seeing deep, but he was afraid of what he found.
“Where is your shelter now?” the Sorchas cried, though their voices were now not hers. They were something else. “How can you protect anyone, when you can’t protect yourself?”
They charged at him, and he fled the room completely. He raced up the hallway, letting Masa run out of his fingers, and abandoned his Center.
Merrick knew immediately that he had to find the answers somewhere else. He couldn’t tell anyone about what he had found—least of all his partner. No, he would say that he had failed to see anything at all. That would be better than the truth.
TEN
On the Hunt
Sorcha sought out Merrick as the evening began to pull in, and even though they shared a connection, he was remarkably hard to find. Along the Bond she could feel his bitter frustrations and disappointments, which only magnified her own. She returned to the Great Hall and found him sitting alone in the chair by the window. He was wrapped in a luxurious fur cloak on which tiny beads of water from the falls had gathered like a scattering of diamonds. It had to be from the storerooms of the citadel; the lay Brothers were still finding all sorts of interesting items down there. The roar of the waterfall was slightly muffled by the stonework, but it still sounded like oncoming thunder.
Merrick’s face was set in still lines, and his eyes locked on the magnificent view, yet Sorcha could read him well enough to know that he was seeing none of it. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence.
“Merrick?” She finally had to speak and then again. “Merrick?”
He actually jumped a little.
“Is everything all right?” The words sounded ridiculous coming out of her mouth. They’d been attacked in their own halls and had a madman living over their heads—yet what Sorcha meant wasn’t any of that. She cleared her throat. “I mean are you all right?”
“I am . . .” He licked his lips and stared down at his folded hands on his lap. “I am here.”
Somehow Sorcha got the feeling that wasn’t completely true. “Did you examine the cantrips at all?” She didn’t add “as I asked,” since things were far too precarious right now for her to start throwing her metaphorical weight around.
He shook his head. “No, sorry. I was too deep in the future. The Conclave has only just gone downstairs for some sleep.”
The strains of Masa were not something Sorcha could comprehend, but she could see the exhaustion written in every move of her partner. She took hold of his elbow and pulled him to his feet. “And that is where you should be too.”
He made a weak gesture, attempting to stave her off. “We have to reach out with the weirstones every day, Sorcha. We have to search the future for a place to strike at Derodak. Choosing the wrong one could be disastrous.”
“Indeed it could,” she said, smoothly sliding her hand under Merrick’s elbow, “but you won’t be able to do that if you burn out like a candle.”
Giving in to the inevitable, he finally allowed himself to be led back down the stairs. With her hands on the soft fur cloak, his partner helped him to his room. Sorcha tucked him into bed and wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm. She’d been expecting some kind of further resistance, but as soon as his head touched the pillow Merrick’s eyes closed. For a moment she stood looking down at him, strangely maternal feelings welling up inside her.
Her partner was not quite young enough to be her child, but the emotions they shared veered everywhere. The relationship of Sensitive to Active was a complicated and unusual one. However, there was one thing Sorcha knew for certain: Merrick would strive until his body and mind broke. He had changed a great deal since their first meeting. His nerves back then had shown in the humor he tried to force. Now he barely had the energy for words of any kind.
“That lad looks like death warmed up,” a voice commented out of the half light of the corridor.
Sorcha turned to see Raed stepping out of the darkness and nodded her agreement. “He’s been pushing himself too hard.”
“I think Merrick would say there is nothing that’s too hard, love.” Raed took her hand in his, and his skin against hers was a comfort. “You didn’t come to bed last night, and the night before that you fought off a geist attack. You need your sleep. I hope you’re not tiring of me already, are you?”
She wanted to blurt out some of what the Patternmaker had said, but she was still digesting it herself. Additionally, she didn’t want him to know one more disturbing fact about herself: she was needing less and less sleep. She’d spent the night on the battlements of the citadel thinking hard on her time inside her mother’s head. Those thoughts that they’d shared might contain some way for her to defeat her heritage. Nothing however had come. All she’d done was recall the one who had birthed her, and the fear and desperation that had driven her right to the edge. Sorcha ended u
p worrying if she was coming close to that place herself.
“Don’t be foolish. I was just busy.” It was much easier to lie to Raed than it was to Merrick. The Bond between the Young Pretender and herself was strong, but did not communicate stray thoughts.
“But I am glad you are here,” she said, tugging him out of the room and quietly shutting the door behind them. “I need your help with something.”
He straightened slightly. “You just have to ask, you know that.”
She was playing on one of Raed’s principle concerns: not being of use. Her request might also serve to distract him a little, just in case he saw panic in his lover’s eyes. Sorcha knew what she had learned from the Patternmaker was nothing she could fix. She’d been born as part of the Wrayth, and if they came for her then she would have to deal with that. Right now however, there was something far more important.
“We have to find how the geists got inside the citadel’s cantrips and runes,” Sorcha said as she led him away from Merrick’s room and down the steps deeper into the bones of the building. “Even with this weakening of the veil, they should have provided some protection. The citadel is hundreds and hundreds of years old, and has been layered with barriers by every generation of Deacons. I asked Merrick to look into it but . . .” She shrugged.
“How can I help with that?” he asked. “I’m no Merrick that can—”
“You have him.” Sorcha cut him short and pressed her hand against his chest. “You have the Rossin, the master of breaching barriers, and . . .” She smiled.” . . . I could do with your company, plus I have something that I want to talk to you about.”
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 10
