The words struck him so deeply that for a moment he couldn’t reply. Looking deeply into Sorcha’s eyes, he realized that she meant what she said; she had wrapped her sense of self tightly around him. His partner was relying on him to keep her from slipping completely into whatever geist heritage the Wrayth had given her.
Merrick looked back at her and replied as calmly as he could. “What if I am not enough, Sorcha? I’m not as strong as you think I am . . . not like the Wrayth is. It is Ancient, whereas I am . . .”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, her gaze going glassy and distant, but when it returned to him, she shook her head. “You are the Sensitive who traveled to the Otherside, who stood before the leader of the Circle of Stars and retrieved your mother from his grip. You have never really acknowledged your own strength, Merrick.”
He swallowed on that. All that she said was true enough—he was proud of those accomplishments in his own way—but he was not sure any of that had any bearing on this situation. Still, he knew this conversation was best abandoned—at least for now. They had a city to reclaim and not long to do it.
“Very well,” Merrick said, turning toward the door and breaking the gaze with his partner, “I will send word to Raed it is safe to enter the city.” They had not thought it a good idea to bring the Young Pretender into a city occupied with geists. Even if the Rossin had been very quiet in the last few days, they could not risk him running riot among the traumatized survivors.
Sorcha sunk into a chair, as if the strength had suddenly gone out of all her limbs. “Once you have done that, come back here. I have an idea for our next move.”
Merrick did not dare ask her further questions. His partner had been working without sleep for two days, and considering her recent performance, he just wanted her to get an hour’s rest.
The mold was cast, and they were well on the path now. Still, despite her exhaustion, Merrick had one final thing to ask. He had not forgotten the visceral fear of the lad whose head he had ridden in.
“Eriloyn,” he said firmly, “the boy who brought us to this place; he had the gift of a Sensitive in him. I will send Melisande to find him. Many of the survivors have the latent gifts, which make them excellent candidates for us to swell the ranks of our Deacons.”
She nodded. “I was thinking the very same thing.”
“Then I will get those who can test moving among them.” Merrick’s hand was on the door handle, when he turned back. “The Enlightened, Sorcha? The Harbinger? Where did they come from?” She had mentioned nothing of her decisions to rename the Order to him—or to take up a new title.
She stood a little straighter, and against the rising light of dawn coming in through the window her hair seemed as red as fire. “We must be more than the Order, Merrick. Better. We have to share what we know, because ignorance has not helped one citizen of the Empire. Things will be different if we survive all this.”
She did not explain her choice of Harbinger however, and she didn’t need to; the intent was written on her face. As Merrick set off about his tasks, the understanding settled in his belly like a heavy stone. Sorcha was indeed what she had named herself: the herald of things to come.
The Orders throughout history had many schisms and changes, and he just had to hope that Sorcha knew what she was about. History was also littered with the broken remains of Deacons whose reach had far exceeded their grasp.
SIXTEEN
The Lost Prince
From the outskirts of the city, Raed saw the lights in the sky, and deep in his belly he felt the pull of the geists. Aachon, who stood at his side, rested one hand on his shoulder and let out a long sigh.
Raed shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. His first mate—even though they had abandoned the Dominion on a lonely eastern beach, he still thought of him as that—had something on his mind. The Young Pretender knew the signs and wondered what was holding him back from speaking his mind. Usually it was he, not Aachon that tried to keep his thoughts to himself. It had always been Raed that had the problems; always Raed that had been worried, running, afraid.
It hurt a little—even in their current predicament—that Aachon felt he could not unburden himself.
“My friend,” the Young Pretender finally spoke up, finally unable to take the silence between them, “we are surely heading toward a conflict we have little chance of living through. Even Sorcha”—he gestured futilely to where the horizon streamed with green and red light—“realizes this. I know something has been weighing on your mind since we left the citadel. I really need to know exactly what it is.”
Aachon looked at him with dark eyes from under his furrowed brows, and his hands flexed around something that had not been there for some time: a weirstone. “My prince,” he finally spoke after a few heartbeats, and his voice was heavy with guilt, “I fear I must break my oath; the one that I made before your father, so many years ago.”
Raed would have had to be a fool not to hear the pain and effort it took to wrench out those words. “You mean the oath to protect me?”
A muscle flexed in his friend’s jaw. “Yes, that is the very one. It has become obvious that if every man, woman and child with an ounce of ability does not take up the runes, this realm and all that live in it will be lost.”
Deep within Raed the Rossin stirred, listening with real interest, Raed knew, to the next words. “Go on,” the Young Pretender urged.
Aachon held up his hands, looked at them for a long moment and then held them before Raed as if they were sacrificial offerings. “I have that ability, my prince. I am in fact fully trained in its use, so I am asking your permission to join Sorcha’s Deacons.”
Raed blinked at him. Ever since he had known Aachon he had heard nothing but how corrupt and blinkered the Order of the Eye and the Fist was. His friend had even finally revealed why and how he had been turned away from them, for his love of Garil and the weirstone power. Now, here he was standing before him, asking for Raed’s blessing to go back and serve. Things were in a pretty state indeed if it had come to this. The Young Pretender was at a loss as to what to say.
Aachon must have taken it as a slight. He cleared his throat. “You, more than anyone, know what the geists will do if the way to the Otherside is opened. You have faced the Murashev, the Wrayth and Hatipai. The Beast inside you still gnaws at your soul, my prince, I know that.”
Raed raised his hand and shook his head a fraction. “I am sorry, Aachon. Please—my silence is not a judgment on your decision. I am just . . . surprised . . . but you are right. Sorcha will need every person that can wield a rune in the coming days.”
Aachon opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it with a snap. He looked once more over the devastated streets, to where the red and blue lights had now subsided. “I will go to her then, ask to be marked and take my place among them. It is time to forget old grudges.”
Now it was Raed that clapped him on the back. “I feel the geists lifting from the city, but I must wait until they are all clear. Still, go with my blessing.” His eyes drifted to the flaring lights on the horizon. “I don’t know how she did it, but there you are. Perhaps we have some hope after all.”
“Indeed, it is a strange world in which I find hope in the Deacons,” Aachon commented. “I will see you there, my prince . . . and thank you.” They clasped each other’s forearms, and then Aachon began to pick his way down the hillside to the road.
The Young Pretender watched and felt a heaviness descending over him. Aachon had always been there, always watched over him, and now he too must be lost to Raed. Just like Snook. Just like Fraine.
Maybe that was the best way to be; hollow. When the end came, perhaps it would not hurt as much if there were only a shell where Raed had once been. And yet . . .
Raed sighed. “I have been reading far too much poetry,” he whispered to himself. She was still there. Sorcha. As twisted by all these events as he was—he still loved her.
All the rest was burned and floating awa
y on the winds of circumstance, but that remained.
Not much to hang your life on, the Rossin muttered. A Wrayth-Deacon half-breed just clinging onto her sanity.
Raed determined not to listen. The Beast was not to be trusted—least of all in this chaotic time. “Don’t worry,” he replied lightly, “there will be plenty of blood for you to feast on before this is all over.”
The Rossin became ominously silent.
Raed was just about to climb down and make his way in Aachon’s footsteps, when he spotted someone else moving at the edges of the city. Merrick had told them there would be a gathering at the town square—one that no surviving human for miles would be able to resist. However, as Raed watched, a gray-cloaked figure was picking its way through the ramshackle and smoking houses. The way it kept to the shadows, and hurriedly crossed streets made it immediately apparent it did not want to be seen.
A Deacon—but not one of hers.
The Rossin’s vision was laid over his, a new development that he had previously been too worried to tell Sorcha about, but which he was very glad of now. This figure gleamed in the moonlight; the aura around it flickering silver.
The Circle of Stars had shown its hand with the destruction of the Order and the Mother Abbey, but it had not been seen since. Like Sorcha, they made use of weirstone portals to travel about Arkaym and even the more distant continent of Delmaire. Yet now, here was one scuttling around this devastated city.
The Circle had been responsible for twisting his sister’s mind, thinning the barrier between worlds and tipping the Empire into civil war. It was not just the Rossin whose anger had begun to kindle, yet he hesitated for a second to go after this creature. He glanced once more toward the center of the city and thought of her there. Alone.
She is never alone, the Rossin snarled in Raed’s head. She has much to do, and not much use for you. You know that.
The Beast’s barbs were getting sharper and more accurate—as if he was really making an effort. However, there was inescapable truth in the Beast’s words and one fact: they did share a hatred for the Native Order that had caused so much destruction.
Without consulting each other they had reached an accord. Raed started walking down the hill toward the cloaked figure, but within moments he was running. The black smoke that still hung over the city would have made it impossible for any mere human to keep track of this fleeting figure, but he had the Rossin’s sight, smell and other geistlord senses at his disposal.
The thought crossed his mind that if it were not for the horror that the Beast had inflicted on his family, and the blood of countless others it had spilled, then it would have been a useful alliance.
It was meant to be an alliance, but I was tricked. You hate the pain I have caused you, but your family has become a prison for me. You cannot understand all that I am.
Raed would almost have preferred not to hear the curse of the Imperial family speak. His words of late had become confusing and more terrifying than his former blood rages—so that the Young Pretender almost wished he would go back to that. As he stumbled through the wreckage of a city torn apart by geists, he tasted soot and smoke in his mouth, but none of it could distract from the fact that the Rossin was becoming more real to him.
He did not want to feel an ounce of sympathy for the geistlord. He was far more comfortable with the Rossin he had grown up fearing; one mad for blood and with no shred of desire for anything more than that. The changes in the Beast of late had made no sense, and yet he feared if he could figure them out they would not be terrifying.
You let me in.
Another uncomfortable truth. The deal he had made with the Rossin after the incident with Hatipai had been one he’d made for survival’s sake—not his own, but his sister’s. However, he was growing more and more sure it had been a mistake.
Concentrate! the great pard snarled in his head, flooding his body with heat. The Circle of Stars is not to be underestimated. Derodak, the first Emperor, the first Deacon, is the one responsible for you and I.
Raed slid to a stop behind a burned-out building on the intersection of a ravaged street. He peered cautiously around the corner. Not far off, the cloaked figure was striding quickly out of view.
If that was a Sensitive of the Circle of Stars, then he or she was the worst in the Order.
An Active then.
That made even less sense, but Raed knew if he tried to find logic in this damaged Empire he would be a long time looking. As quietly as he could manage, he followed.
At least there were no geists in the area—the Rossin’s senses gave him that much—but there was still a thick stench of death on every street. He choked back bile many times as he followed in the figure’s wake.
Finally, they reached one of the ward towers along the city’s now scarred walls. The Emperor had not only unleashed a storm of geists on the population, he had also dropped fire to complete the job. The walls here were scorched black, but had managed to stay upright—a testament to their builder’s skill.
His prey entered the block tower and without glancing behind, disappeared. Carefully Raed picked his way over the broken road toward the door. This could well be another situation where he would lose his clothing—but history had taught him not to place too much importance on pants. If the Rossin welled up inside him, then there would be bloodshed as well as the destruction of his clothing. He fished around trying to get the Rossin’s answer in his head, but the Beast had subsided into his unconsciousness like a monster into a river of darkness. Yet Raed could not be sure he wouldn’t leap to the surface again.
Still, he could not afford to head back to Sorcha now—whatever the person he was following had planned could be important. While the Deacons were dealing with the town, he would find some way to be useful.
Raed let out a long slow breath, and opened the door the figure had passed through just a fraction. The air inside was even colder than it was outside, but he could make out the sound of voices. They were too far away for him to discern any words, but it sounded like a conversation rather than chanting. In his recent experience, chanting was always a very bad thing.
Perhaps, some small gods were smiling on him, because the door didn’t creak as he nudged it the rest of the way open and slid inside. A set of spiral stairs was the only way forward. He was grateful that it was lit by small yellow fires flickering in sconces, since the Rossin was no longer sharing his senses, for some reason. With his hand on his saber, Raed crept up the stairs, staying as much in the shadows as he could manage.
The voices grew louder as he ascended, but it didn’t seem to be in any of the archaic languages, which was good since he had only learned to read them as a boy, and never had learned to speak them. It was in Imperial common, a man’s voice, and the tone was rather warm . . . until Raed finally made out the words.
“. . . The arrival of the heathen was expected, and you have no need to fear. We protect those who are important to us. With the devices we have given you, there is no fear of discovery by their Sensitives. We have been working hard while the whole world thought us gone. During that time, we learned many things, but one of them was how to remain hidden, and you are now benefitting from that . . .”
Raed felt his mouth grow dry; he knew that voice. He had not heard it a great deal, but the one time he had, it had made quite the impression. Derodak, the apparently immortal leader of the Circle of Stars, had stood in the Mother Abbey and commanded attention.
The Rossin stirred slightly, but did not urge him to stop, and the itch of curiosity gripped Raed. He did not turn back. Derodak had fully shown his ability to escape at a moment’s notice, so this could be his only chance to observe him and learn what he was up to.
Still, the voice sounded strange. “We will protect you as the great chaos begins. When the veil to the Otherside is finally torn down, this place will give you protection. The Circle of Stars will wrap around you, as it was always meant to be.”
He had to ignore those
words and see what was going on in there. Raed climbed higher, glad of the soft boots he’d managed to find only a few days before in the citadel’s stores. Ahead, he saw the stairs finished, and there was a wide landing lit by larger torches. The floor he observed was covered in dust and rocks from the bombardment, but showed signs of very recent and frequent passage of feet.
Derodak’s voice continued, and now it sounded even stranger—as if echoing off a distant mountain. Raed frowned. How could that be? They were in a confined space. Ducking his head, he put one foot on the landing and, keeping himself tight against the wall, slid up next to the open doorway.
“You are the chosen ones, the faithful who have never forgotten your true protectors, and it is you who will reap the rewards.”
Raed, keeping his head low, dared a look around the corner of the door. What he saw made him quite confused for a moment. The small guardroom was full of people, some seated on the floor, others lined up around the walls. He found that he had been wrong; there was not a single Deacon among them. They were cloaked sure enough, but none of them were green, blue—or even gray. These folk looked like normal citizens, from elderly to small children on their mothers’ hips. Certainly there was no chance that any of them were going to notice the Young Pretender stealing a glance, for all of them had their eyes fixed on the device in the middle of the floor.
Derodak had spoken true—it looked as though the Circle of Stars had been most productive during their time out of the sun. The device on the floor was a work of art; brass like an open basket held a weirstone aloft as if it were an egg in its nest, while beneath spun a collection of gears and cogs that snickered to themselves.
The Order of the Eye and the Fist had thought themselves the masters of weirstone power, keeping it from the general population and setting it to work for their Emperor. However, it appeared they were rank amateurs compared to their predecessors.
The image of Derodak was hovering in the air a foot above the machine. It was the very same as he had appeared at the Mother Abbey, but only three feet high, and curiously flat. Raed was reminded of the shadow puppets the people of Irisil loved so much. They used a flat, pale piece of cloth to act out their local legends, and entertain their children. This device of the Circle’s was something far more complex. It didn’t need anywhere to project the image.
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 17
