Harbinger

by Philippa Ballantine

  “A few.” The soldier’s lips twisted. “Most of the Princes left immediately following the fall of the Mother Abbey, but many lesser aristocrats came to the palace for shelter, since they could not get passage on the Imperial Airships and other travel is so dangerous.”

  Zofiya nodded and bit her lip. “Tell me, do you know if Japhne del Torne and her son are still here?”

  Gunnine’s face darkened. “I was going to bring this to your attention anyway. I think you need to see the situation, Your Imperial Highness.”

  Captain Revele’s mouth twitched, but the young woman managed to keep her tongue.

  “Very well, Major,” the Grand Duchess said with a slight smile, “but while I do, my captain here will ascertain the state of the palace defenses—a fresh eye on the situation may yield much.”

  It was an insult to the old guardian, but she took it with good graces. While Revele snapped off a salute, Zofiya followed Gunnine through the corridors. The Grand Duchess was surprised, but a little cheered that as they went doors popped open and the residents of the palace appeared. All looked worse for wear; eyes with dark circles under them and haunted gray expressions. However, when they saw her striding down the length of the palace, a spark of hope seemed to catch in them. A few times she had to stop and shake a hand or pat a back. Not one of them questioned what she was doing—and none of them mentioned her brother.

  “Imperial Highness?” Gunnine had stopped at the stairs leading to one of the round towers. They were in the oldest part of the palace now—the section where in fact she had found the liar Hatipai—the section where she had made her greatest mistake. It made Zofiya very uncomfortable, even though they were on the second floor, and nowhere near the underground caves that had been the prison for the geistlord.

  “Is this the place you wanted me to see?”

  “He’s been waiting for you.” Gunnine gestured up the staircase. “He said you would come.”

  Zofiya raised one eyebrow, and her hand went instinctively to the hilt of her saber. However, the major was not talking about the Emperor, because Revele had confirmed he was with the fleet. She reminded herself of that a few times before she set foot on the first step. If Gunnine wanted her dead, she could have shot her right outside the palace.

  So, the Grand Duchess climbed the stairs with determination and knocked on the door that was at the top.

  It opened, and she was staring into the face of an old man. For a second she didn’t recognize him, because he was most certainly not whom she had been expecting, but then her mind processed his creased face and piercing gray eyes. He was a Deacon—or had been. Her gaze flickered over the cloak he still wore, the same color as his eyes. A lay Brother then—a retired one. She had seen him at the Mother Abbey, but she could not put a name to his face.

  “Empress,” he said, and gestured her inside.

  Zofiya’s skin crawled at the title he used, and it felt as though ice-cold water had been poured down her back. Her reaction to that abrupt fear was just as suddenly anger. She shoved the door open and pushed her way past him. “You must be a madman if you think you can call me—”

  Her words died in her throat. Japhne del Torne was standing by the window wrapped in a fine purple dress with a sturdy baby wriggling in her arms. Zofiya had never really noticed how much her lover looked like his mother. He had inherited her thick dark hair and the line of her jaw. They were a handsome family.

  Japhne made a very proper curtsey, all while balancing her son on her hip. “You Imperial Highness, it is so very good to see you again.”

  In truth, Zofiya had imagined that she would have to tell Merrick the sad reality of his mother’s and brother’s deaths. After all, how could a woman and a baby survive in so much chaos, surrounded by geists and tumult? The Grand Duchess felt a soft smile curl her lips. Perhaps, if this could happen, then all was not lost.

  It was not her usual way, but she rushed over and hugged Japhne tight. The baby wailed while waving his tiny fists at her, and she observed how his eyes were now the same brown as his half-brother’s. Zofiya kissed one of the hands wriggled in her direction and laughed. It felt like the first laugh in a very long time.

  When Japhne had first come to the palace, she had been a stranger, but after so many nights sitting up with her, Zofiya dared to count her a friend. She wondered how to broach the subject of her love affair with her grown son . . .

  “Joyful reunions will have to wait,” the Deacon rumbled as he shut the door behind the Grand Duchess. “There is much to do and not much time left.” She noted that he had a saber readily at hand by the bookcase, and despite his age, looked as though he could handle it. He too sketched a bow, but his was considerably less practiced and less deferential.

  Zofiya tucked her arm around Japhne’s waist, and narrowed her eyes on the man. “I have only just arrived here, and—”

  “It does not matter how tired you may be, daughter of Delmaire, people of your Empire are dying as we speak.”

  That he dared interrupt her, Zofiya did not mind—she had her fair share of that from Sorcha in these last few months—but that he did not even introduce himself was quite unacceptable.

  Japhne slipped free of her and stepped over to the old man. “Please don’t mind Garil Reeceson, Imperial Highness. We have been many months here waiting for your return. In that time, confinement and a baby’s fussing have robbed him of his manners.”

  The old man stared at the woman for a moment, but it was impossible to become angry with Japhne del Torne. His shoulders slumped as if all the energy suddenly drained out of him, and he allowed himself to be led to a nearby chair. Japhne put her young son on his lap, and a smile sprang to the old man’s mouth. Yes indeed, his roommate did know how to handle him.

  “Forgive me, Imperial Majesty,” Reeceson said, slumping back in the chair as the baby pawed at his face. “Prescience is a difficult burden to bear, especially in these times.”

  Zofiya swallowed back his continued impertinent and far too presumptuous use of the wrong title; instead she tucked her hands behind her back and waited. Prescience was something many claimed to have—both geistlords and various Deacons. You could also apparently find it in wizened women at fairground attractions—Zofiya gave all of them the same amount of credence.

  Behind her, a chill wind from the garden whipped in through the open window and ruffled her hair playfully. She was in no mood.

  Reeceson glanced up, smiled and shook his head. “Yes, that is the look most folk give me, but the wild talents are not appreciated as they once were—before the Break.”

  “Tell me what you see, and I will be the judge of how much I appreciate it,” she snapped back.

  “The cataclysm is coming,” the Deacon replied bluntly, dandling the baby on his knee as if he were merely speaking of the weather. “The Circle of Stars have found a way to weaken the barrier between our realm and the Otherside. Soon enough they mean to destroy it entirely.”

  Merrick had told her as much before she left, but she was surprised to hear it from this old Deacon. He had no markings, nor his Strop—so how could he possibly know such things?

  She swallowed hard. “And what do you think I can do about that, old man? I am the sister to the Emperor, not your Sorcha Faris. I look after the Empire, Deacons look to the Otherside.”

  He flinched slightly. “I have a message to send to her, that is for certain, but it will be your task to become what you were always meant to be . . . the Empress.”

  “That will do!” Zofiya snarled. “I am no Empress. I am merely regent until my brother returns and takes his place again!”

  Reeceson tilted his head, his eyes closing for an instant. “I can see you are not ready for my words yet, so perhaps I will offer something more certain.” He handed the child back to Japhne and levered himself out of the chair.

  He was older than he looked, the Grand Duchess guessed, just by the way he moved. When he gestured to the carpet in the middle of the stone floor, Zo
fiya helped him roll it back. A door in the floor was revealed with an elaborate series of carvings in it. They were not runes but cantrips.

  Reeceson smiled to himself. “Do you know that cantrips are actually far older than the runes? They are examples of the earliest form of reaching for power in this realm. It was only with the arrival of the geists that they came into their own. Now we consider them lesser . . .”

  “For a man determined to hurry up you really are taking your time about it.” Zofiya could feel her patience waning with every breath. The palace at Vermillion had many secrets, and a protected entrance into the depths of the oldest tower in it was certainly a juicy one.

  Reeceson laughed and leaned down. He touched his finger to where a lock form was etched on the red stone. He whispered a word to it, and a sharp crack echoed in the chamber.

  “Impressive,” Zofiya muttered despite her best intentions to remain unfazed.

  The once-Deacon shrugged. “We have been in this tower for quite a while. I have had a great deal of time to work on it.” A set of hinges had emerged from the stone, slicing upward along with a circle of metal that had to be a handle. Together he and the Grand Duchess pulled.

  When finally the hatch gave up and swung open, it was without noise.

  Reeceson gripped her arm. “What you are about to see you can never reveal to your brother. He would use it to cause even more destruction to the people of this Empire.”

  Zofiya had no idea what he was talking about, until she spun on her heel and peered down into the pit they had opened. She needed no light to make out what was in there, because the weirstones were stacked high and gave off their own eerie glow.

  “With these,” Reeceson whispered at her shoulder, “you can start to save lives, and stop your brother taking any more.”

  Her mind raced over the possibilities. She thought of Deacon Petav and those he must be gathering. She would have to tread very carefully or fall into the dangerous trap her brother had. Too much power could be a heady thing, and she felt she was teetering on the very edge.

  Still it was a start. Her luck was still holding. She turned and smiled uncertainly at Garil Reeceson. “I will do my very best.”

  THIRTEEN

  Girding the Order

  Sorcha felt as though she’d been drifting along a gentle forest creek that had suddenly and abruptly turned into a tumultuous white-water ride. In the beginning she’d been so busy fleeing the Circle of Stars that she hadn’t thought of turning to fight. Now it felt as if she was being shoved that way. It was useless to dig in her toes now—better to dive in and go with it.

  Merrick’s visions, the thinning of the barrier, and now the revelation of the traitor told them all that they could no longer afford to hide. Before the deaths in the citadel, all of the Brothers had been merely scattered survivors hanging on to their scars and memories. The revelation of an infiltrator among them had given the Order something to rally around. Now they had a mission and that seemed to make all the difference.

  Without Zofiya, Sorcha worried that her partner would never sleep again. While Sorcha felt stronger than ever, she could see the toll it was taking on Merrick. It was not just the lack of sleep—it was what he was doing.

  Two days after the exposure of the reason the cantrips had failed, he had locked himself away with his Conclave and the rune Mesa. That was all the time Sorcha had felt comfortable giving him. When his partner caught a rare sight of him, she observed his pale look and deep shadows lingering around his face. However, she did not chivvy him about it, knowing full well that all of them were under strain, and all close to breaking.

  Sorcha and Raed busied themselves by stepping up the search for lost brethren. While Merrick and his Conclave worked in a small room off the Great Hall, Sorcha found herself on the battlements, freezing cold, with a contingent of Brothers skilled in the art of weirstone.

  “How does it go?” Raed asked as he carried up the last of the weirstone supply. He’d committed himself to splitting his time acting as general dogsbody for the searchers, and working to get the infirmary and its patients ready to move. Given the choice Sorcha knew which task she would have preferred. The infirmary was at least warm and not lashed by the chill winds that howled regularly down the valley.

  She gestured to the line of Brothers, sitting cross-legged, with their various cloaks wrapped around them, clutching weirstones. “As you can see, hard at work, but it is a strain to keep searching. I have to make sure the Brothers don’t fall at their posts from exhaustion.”

  Raed cocked an eyebrow at her. “Not using the weirstones yourself?”

  “Believe it or not, there is a skill to it,” she shot back, knowing full well he’d heard her complain about the stones before. “Besides, I have another mission.”

  Leading him away from the line of concentrating Deacons, she took him around the corner where Deacon Troupe sat at her work. Raed’s eyes took in the swirling weirstone at her lap and widened slightly. Troupe was too deep in study to notice either of them.

  “What is she doing?” he asked Sorcha in a whisper.

  “Tracking the portals,” she replied. “I finally managed to key a weirstone to their power, and Melisande and I have been watching where they are going. It should give us some warning if Derodak tries to make a portal to the citadel. Even though we’ve repaired the cantrip on the foundations, they could still appear in the valley somewhere.”

  “Good idea,” Raed said, shooting her a sideways look. “I’m sorry, I heard Mournling passed away last night.”

  Sorcha looked down at her world-weary boots. “He was a good man and a good Presbyter. He tried to hold on to see us through our task, but perhaps it is better he didn’t.” Mournling had been in the Order longer than she could remember. His passing was rather like losing an aloof grandfather. “He lived long enough to pass the torch to Merrick as the strongest Sensitive, and he will feel his passing most strongly.”

  Raed opened his mouth to say something, but just at that moment Melisande jerked backward and dropped the weirstone onto her lap as if it were burning hot. She looked around and for a moment her eyes weren’t focused on them. The Young Pretender offered her his hand, and clasping the weirstone she rose to her feet.

  “How are things, Presbyter?” Sorcha said, wondering at the other woman’s wide eyes.

  Her pretty pink mouth twisted. “Nothing coming our way, but I detected a lot of activity to the west of Vermillion. I could feel people moving to and from there. I couldn’t tell if any of them were Derodak or the Circle of Stars.”

  Sorcha’s mind raced. Could it be that there was some kind of assault on Vermillion planned? Or perhaps it was Derodak’s base? He must be working from someplace.

  Just as that was all sinking in, the door to the inside of the citadel opened, and Merrick stepped through—though a more apt description might have been staggered. However, there was such a look of triumph on his face that Sorcha held back on admonishing him for driving himself too hard.

  “I know the place!” Merrick said, his voice cracking as he stood there trembling in the cold air. He pulled the thick fur cloak tighter about himself, and the Bond between he and Sorcha fairly sizzled with delight.

  Along it, she saw a devastated wreck of a town. Waikein, Merrick’s voice whispered. One of the first places attacked by the Emperor, overrun with geists. That is where we should go.

  “You have a target?” Raed asked, glancing at the Deacons. Once again he was excluded from their sharing.

  “Waikein,” Merrick spoke for his benefit. “All the paths of the future start there, and it is where we must strike our first blow if we are to have any chance.”

  Melisande’s white blonde hair was tossed by the wind as she whispered, “A town to the west of Vermillion. Within a short distance.” She shared a questioning look with Sorcha as if wondering how much she was willing to bet on Merrick’s sight.

  The answer was of course, everything.

  “I will send w
ord then,” Sorcha said, already turning toward the line of weirstone wielders. “All Deacons who can manage it will meet us in Waikein at the full moon. It’s only a week away, but . . .” She paused and turned on Merrick. “How much do we know about this place?”

  His smile was victorious. “I can tell you a great deal about Waikein. You see, I have a friend on the inside.”

  Her smile broadened. “That’s why I love you, Merrick. You make friends wherever you go, and many places you have not.”

  FOURTEEN

  A Waking Dream

  The Emperor had come in his airships and nothing was the same. Eriloyn stood in the shadow of the building where he had once apprenticed a blacksmith. The roof, along with the blacksmith, had been destroyed the day of the attack. Coincidentally, that had also been the last time Eriloyn had seen food.

  He’d always been a tall, strong boy, but since the destruction of Waikein he’d been whittled away to painful thinness. His stomach had ceased to bother him, but his brain had been enveloped in a fog that was just as dangerous. In this state, he knew he could easily make mistakes, but he was desperate. Only the day before he’d been drinking from a dirty puddle of water in the street, mad for some kind of moisture, and had nearly been run over by a carriage.

  Some small instinct of self-preservation had jerked him back out of the way, and the dark shape had rattled and bounced past him. He’d only caught a glimpse of the crest on the door; the mayor of Waikein’s pair of crows holding a massive yellow wedge of cheese. It seemed cruel with the current state of affairs.

  Even now, Eriloyn’s mouth watered at the recollection, his tongue circling around the cavity that felt as dry as wool. The image of his mother knitting by the fire drifted up from his memory, and along with it the recollection of the warm milk and honey bread she brought to him when he was ill. It was a cruel jab from his own treacherous brain, because it drove his stomach, which had been silent for so long, into a knot of wrenching hunger. That was why he had followed the carriage and now stood huddled in the gently falling rain, looking toward the town hall across the square. The mayor had to have food.