Harbinger

SIX Under the Green Cloak

The Council of five tired Deacons sat somewhat uncomfortably in the Great Hall. It had been cleaned and washed by the lay Brothers, but the smell of death still lingered in the corners. Like all the other Sensitives, Merrick could observe the hovering shapes of the recently slain, hanging over the occasion like multiple shrouds. None of those gathered had slept very much since the attack—Merrick had got none at all.

This room was a difficult one for the Council to be in, but there was no other place where they could not be overheard by lay Brothers and followers.

Melisande Troupe, the sweet-faced blonde woman who had been the Presbyter of the Young in the previous Order, cleared her throat and spread her hands flat on the table as if to balance herself. “We cannot put this off any longer. After last night we must come up with more of a plan than just hiding in this citadel.” She shot a glance across to her right where Sorcha leaned back in her chair, her eyes cast up at the ceiling.

The Council of the Order of the Eye and the Fist had been comprised of five Presbyters elected from among their ranks, and who had contemplated the pressing matters of the Mother Abbey. This gathering had none of that gravitas, and there were no elections; instead it was a thrown together collection of the strongest Deacons that remained.

Merrick and Sorcha had no Council experience, and neither did Deacons Radhi and Elevi. This last man was tall and balding, as well as a surprisingly strong Sensitive. However, his gaze darted nervously around the room, and Merrick didn’t need to use his Center to know that he was unhappy being on the Council at all.

The only one with any useful experience sat at the head of the scarred table. Troupe was also one of three Presbyters in the old Council who had survived the destruction of the Mother Abbey; however, she was the only one of that group fit enough to join this new Council.

Yvril Mournling, the former Presbyter of the Sensitives, was far too old and frail to offer much in the way of strength. He was being looked after by lay Brothers and getting weaker with every portal they passed through. Merrick had visited him the previous day and knew that death was not far away from taking him from them.

Thorine Belzark was young, but had told them there was no way she wanted to be on any kind of Council again. Merrick didn’t think that was any great loss since she had mostly been a puppet of Arch Abbot Rictun.

As for Troupe, the gathering of lines on her pretty face and the circles under her brown eyes told anyone who had sense in their head that this position was not as easy as her previous one. Still, at least she had bothered to turn up, and she did still retain some of the aura of command that she’d had in the Council chamber in the Mother Abbey.

Merrick stared at Sorcha, willing her to say anything, but although his intentions spun along the Bond, she was steadfastly ignoring him. He straightened slightly in his chair. “We are not hiding—what we are doing is gathering ourselves. Every day we’re using weirstones to communicate with our scattered Brothers. All we need to do is find a place to gather, and we can—”

“Do what?” Deacon Radhi, a stocky woman with jet-black hair and flashing eyes, shook her head. “We left Vermillion in such a rush that we never took time to think about what the next move was!”

Troupe nodded and waved her hand toward where the blood had been washed from the stone. “Last night proved that we don’t have the luxury of time to sit here and regroup slowly. We must act now and find a place to strive decisively against Derodak, or we will be the Order who dithered while the world was torn apart.”

“There is no Order. Not anymore.” Sorcha pulled from her pocket one of her cigarillos and rolled it in her fingertips. It was unlit, because she had only two left. Merrick knew when she did finally smoke it things would be very, very bad indeed.

“There won’t be much of anything else either.” Troupe leaned back in her chair and pressed one hand to her forehead. “What just happened has shown that we cannot afford to wait, and that the Otherside is coming close to breaking through in ways we have never before seen.”

“I agree, and you are right; we have to move, and quickly.” Sorcha placed the cigarillo down carefully. “No proper Order has ever put itself above the good of the realm. We must risk our own destruction and do what must be done.”

The rest of the Council sat silent for a moment, absorbing this sudden pronouncement. Merrick felt as though his own heart had grown just as quiet.

“And what is that exactly? Do we even have a clue?” Elevi rumbled from the other side of the table.

Merrick’s own faith was shaken as he watched the Council members look at one another. He’d been raised in the confines of the Order and become used to the infallibility of the Presbyters; it had been a much simpler life than this situation.

“We must redouble our efforts to locate the rest of our brethren,” he said calmly. “All the weirstones must be put to this purpose.”

Sorcha’s eyes caught his. They were a bright blue and more familiar to him than even his own lover’s. When he looked at his Active, he felt his pulse slow, and the clamor of fears die down a little. This Bond was—as always—the rock to which they both tied their strength.

“I have another suggestion,” Sorcha said calmly, resting her fingertips on the edge of the table and moving them in a calming rhythm. “The Patternmaker.”

All eyes darted up to the ceiling, to the one floor that was above the Great Hall, and Merrick noticed the looks were nervous—as well they should be. The Patternmaker was still an unknown quantity, but the first impression had not been altered much. He might have given them back their runes, but they still did not like dealing with him.

The Deacons had found him, dirty, unkempt, and practically gibbering in the cellar of an abandoned house. Derodak had him stashed away there, for a purpose that they had yet to decipher. In those mad hours surrounding the breaking of the foci and the destruction of the Mother Abbey, the survivors had taken whatever chances they could find. A madman that claimed to know how to reinstate the runes to them had seemed the only one available. They had taken a chance.

The Patternmaker had indeed proved able to do all he claimed—but that did not make him reliable. He was now tucked away in the dark attic chambers of the citadel, and everyone who could manage it, kept away from him.

“Our Patternmaker?” Radhi whispered.

“No,” Sorcha replied, leaning on her elbows and locking her gaze with his, “the Native Order. They must have one too.”

Merrick smiled slowly, even as the others joined him in realization.

“That makes sense,” Elevi was nodding. “They wouldn’t risk losing their own runes—not at this moment.”

“That means they have a vulnerability.” Troupe pushed her hair back out of her eyes, and for a moment looked like the lovely woman she had been only months before. “The burning question is how do we find their Patternmaker though . . .”

“We must use Masa and Kebenar,” Sorcha said softly and looked straight at her partner.

He swallowed hard but nodded. “If we form a Conclave of the best Sensitives, we can indeed try and see what the truth of it is.” He was thinking about the last time he had tried to control a Conclave during the destruction of the Mother Abbey. That had not ended well. Still, he had to get over failure and quickly. Perhaps it would be easier with a group of Sensitives rather than managing Actives as well. He could only hope.

Sorcha got to her feet, walked to the window and ran her fingers over the broken edges of the stone frame. “We also need to know where to strike and how quickly it can be done. Every moment will mean more and more geists are coming through, and every one is a danger to the citizens of the Empire.”

“Then we must be as ready as we can.” Radhi steepled her fingers, and paused for a moment as if gathering her bravery. “So I repeat the question I asked you last week: Deacon Faris, when will you take up the mantle of Arch Abbot? Our Brothers and Sisters look to you for advice and leadership.”

Merrick twisted around in his seat, so better to judge Sorcha’s reaction.

Perhaps she had never mentioned it, or thought about it recently, but he knew that at one stage Sorcha had wondered why she’d been overlooked as a Presbyter. She was certainly the most powerful Active in the Order. Merrick knew the answer; the Presbyter of the Sensitives had feared she lacked real control of her power.

Sorcha traced the filigree of cracks that the geists and she had carved into the stonework of the window with fire and conflict. “I know we must be as strong as we can possibly be to manage what is coming.”

Even if it is a waste. Merrick managed not to jump as the bitter thought invaded his mind. He surreptitiously checked out the dark corners of the room. They were alone, and he was positive that the thought was from neither Sorcha nor from any of the other Deacons in the room; the texture of it was quite different.

He swallowed hard. Another disturbing mystery that he didn’t dare examine right at this moment.

Sorcha turned around and leaned on the stonework. In the morning light it was much easier to see how much weight she had lost—just as everyone else had. The difference was she had been thin already after a long confinement in bed.

She’d taken them through the Wrayth gates several times, often making fresh ones herself. Now Merrick wondered what the toll of that had been on her.

Sorcha sighed, a long deep breath that seemed to come from somewhere farther away than her body, then she spoke. “I will take the role of leader, if that is what you want, but we are making something else here, something that will be different from what has come before.” She pulled her blue eyes away from the middle distance and fixed her gaze on their small gathering. “I don’t think we should bear the names of those that have died or given up the fight. The naming of things is nothing to be taken lightly—we all know that. We are no longer what we were. We are no longer the Order of the Eye and the Fist.”

The other Deacons jerked back as if she had slapped them, but Merrick understood immediately both what Sorcha was suggesting, and why the others were shocked. The Order had been everything for all of them; they had eaten there, slept there, and fought side by side with others of the Order. Many had died for the Order. Of all the things that the refugees had gone through . . . this could be the worst.

Though not a Sensitive, Sorcha nevertheless could read the mood in the room. She placed her palms on the table and leaned toward them. “I feel it too. I loved the Order, but we cannot go forward holding on to the tattered remains of it, like a cloak.” In a symbolic gesture, Sorcha removed the pin with the Eye and Fist and slapped it down on the table, letting her cloak drop to the floor.

To see her standing there without cloak or insignia was disturbing and exhilarating; Merrick felt as though his partner was on the edge of something. Perhaps it had only been meant to be a gesture, but he felt like it might be somewhat more.

The chair scraped on the stone floor as he slid it back and got to his feet. He took off the green cloak that signified that he was a Sensitive. He unhooked the pin and laid it on the table. Holding his cloak in his hand, he thought briefly about how hard he had worked to earn it, then, he folded it up and placed it on the back of the chair.

Troupe, Elevi, and Radhi looked at them, and the expression was not quite terrified, but Merrick sensed immediately that they were not ready yet to abandon their own cloaks.

Sorcha nodded and glanced at him with a slight smile. Then she touched Troupe’s shoulder, a curiously sweet gesture from a Deacon known for her sharp tongue and no-nonsense attitude. “Each of us needs to come to this realization. I suggest we let the Sensitives examine the next step in our Conclave.”

Then just like that, Sorcha ended the meeting. She left her cloak and insignia where they had fallen and walked from the room. The other Deacons watched her like a flock of curious crows. Merrick smiled slightly, as they inevitably trailed after her; he was sure there would be much gossip among the Deacons.

Merrick looked down at his own abandoned golden and gleaming insignia. His fingers hovered a little above it for a moment. It was hard to give up something after so many years of wanting it.

No, he pulled his hand back. It was just a piece of metal, and the cloak a scrap of cloth that had seen too many adventures. Even the name of the Order did not contain what it was really about. Sorcha was right.

Deliberately, Merrick turned away and opened his Center. In the citadel spread below him, he could have picked out and counted the remaining Sensitives and Actives—but he didn’t because that would have been direly depressing. Instead he opened his mind to the members of the Conclave.

They were six of the strongest Sensitives that remained; Akiline, Heroon, Khandir, Yituna, Daschiel and Suseli. They had been only passing acquaintances before the destruction of the Mother Abbey, but he had been cobbling them together into a Conclave for the last few weeks. In fact, Akiline and Yituna were far older than he, and had been among his instructors back at the Mother Abbey. Three others he had known only by sight. Daschiel alone had been in his novitiate class.

Now, however, all six were locked in a tangled web that none of them had ever imagined. It was time to take the Conclave out and find out what it could do. Merrick knew that it was their best chance to avoid what had happened to the previous Order they had belonged to. He sent the signal, then felt the Sensitives respond and prepare themselves.

While he waited for them to be ready, Merrick sat himself down at the table, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. It was just a moment.

“You know you will have to do it.” The voice was not in his head, and he was no longer in the citadel. Used to visions and seeing the unseen, Merrick did not jerk upright. Instead he slid his Center open and glanced to where the voice addressed him; it was one that he recognized immediately.

Merrick looked up. Nynnia stood before him. Her dark hair blew in unseen winds, and he could see the trees and forest behind her through her body. She was younger than the last time he had seen her, but that was only to be expected. He had traveled back in time to when she’d been alive; before her people had fled to the Otherside. They had wanted to save the world with their sacrifice. It was a pity that they had failed.

“Has the gap between our worlds become so narrow?” he asked, blinking in the light that seemed to have traveled with her.

She nodded, her eyes dropping away from his. “Everything is much closer now. It is all in flux. I needed to see you again, but do not think it was easy of me to send my image to you.” Her brow was furrowed, and he noticed her form was flickering slightly.

“I am glad you did,” he muttered softly, unsure what to say to the woman he had loved, and still did in a very real way.

Nynnia took a hesitant step forward. “It was not for our sake, Merrick. I had to. The Native Order has worked tirelessly to thin the barrier between our worlds.”

“Why would they do that?”

She reached out for him but then stopped herself. Nynnia was as she was, and she had no body to clothe herself with. Merrick flinched inwardly. Despite his love for Zofiya, Nynnia would always be his first, and it would have been good to feel her touch. She took a deep breath, and glanced away to her right. Merrick realized she was examining something in the distance that he could not see. Whatever it was, she did not seem pleased by it.

A breath of chill wind brushed over his skin.

“They think . . .” she paused and locked her gaze with Merrick’s. “He thinks he can use and control the power from the geists and the Otherside for his own purposes. He is very, very wrong.”

“Derodak?” Merrick frowned. “You mean Derodak.” Now she looked away, and he saw a stain of guilt in her gaze.

His people had called Nynnia’s the Ancients; lost in the mist of time, builders of fantastical machines, and masters of the weirstone. Merrick had cast them as heroes when he was a child. He had only later learned that through their actions in trying to use weirstones they had drawn the attention of the geistlords. They had paid that price however, when they had chosen to flee to the Otherside rather than sacrifice this world to the geists.

Merrick could not use his Sight in this vision Nynnia had conjured, but he could still observe, and what he was seeing from his former lover was indeed something verging on guilt. He suspected he knew why.

She hung her head. “I was not the first of my people to be reborn into the human world. Derodak was. The first Emperor, the first Deacon, and the grandest traitor is indeed one of the Ehtia.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Sorcha and I fought him in the ruins of the Mother Abbey. I used Aiemm, the Rune of the Past on him. I saw. We all saw.” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice.

If he had not been so consumed with sadness, he might have felt some satisfaction that he had surprised the Ehtia—that seldom happened.

“He is our greatest shame, among many great shames.” Nynnia glanced away to her right again—but this time her expression was pained. “At least we brought the geists here with our ignorance. Unfortunately, Derodak is all of our own making. By the time we found out his true nature, it was too late. He found a way back into the world that had born us.” She leaned toward the Deacon. “You shall have to be careful now, Merrick. You showed him his humanity, again, something that he does not wish to be reminded of. He will not like that. He will seek you out to punish you for that.”

Merrick could feel a pull in his brain, the tug of the Conclave drawing nearer to completion. This dreaming that Nynnia had conjured could not last much longer. She must have brought him here for something.

“You can do something. You can tell us how we can beat him,” he demanded. He knew that Nynnia and the Otherside was beyond time, so perhaps she could see and understand more than he could—even with the Conclave.

She looked at him, her head tilted, dark hair blowing in a wind he could only feel intermittently. When she spoke again, Nynnia had to scream for him to hear her over the howl of it, “It is not Derodak you have to fear—you already have the tools to overcome him. It is her that you must fear. Sorcha!”

Now the Sensitive could actually discern the voices of his peers coming up to join him, and the pull of the real world was now becoming more and more insistent. Nynnia was making no sense at all. Derodak was the problem—not Sorcha who had worked so valiantly to save them all.

“You can’t mean that,” Merrick found himself yelling back, as the wind grew louder and louder.

Nynnia was having a hard time standing in front of him as the gale increased. Her hair was whipped about her, and eventually she dropped to the ground to grab hold of it with her fingers. It was an act of pure will for her to remain.

“I do,” she howled into the chaos. “Sorcha could rip everything apart. She is the Harbinger of the end of everything. You know what you will have to do . . .”

“Not the Last Rune. Not that.” Merrick jerked himself upright in an effort to reach her—but it was too late. The real world grabbed hold of him and pulled.

“Deacon Chambers?”

His eyelids flicked open. For a moment his mind was lost somewhere between reality and dream. The person standing over him was Heroon; the younger man, only just out of the novitiate, had his hand on Merrick’s shoulder.

Merrick shook his head, wiped his eyes, trying to separate the real world and the one that Nynnia had taken him to. Once under the palace of Orinthal the Ehtia had managed to take his whole body to the Otherside, but this time it had just been his Center. He swallowed, and reminded himself of the task that still lay ahead.

“I am fine, Deacon Heroon,” he replied quietly. “I am just tired is all.”

He pulled himself to his feet, feeling his skin prickle with exhaustion, and tried to size up the six other Sensitives. They did not appear to have caught the strange visitation. Merrick was pleased; he did not want to stain their already fragile trust in him any further. What Nynnia had communicated was something to be digested, alone, and with his senses dedicated to it. The Council—or whatever it was—had asked him to do this, to look ahead and find the weaknesses in the armor of the Native Order.

To step into the future was not a journey to be taken lightly. He gestured to the seats. “Let’s set ourselves together, and see what we can find. There is a way forward, and like many times before, the Sensitives shall find it.”

The others looked less than impressed with his little speech, but it was all he had to give at this point. Nynnia had left him feeling fractured and disorientated. Her words about Sorcha would haunt him, but he could not let them distract him. For the first time in his life, he did not want to believe what he had been told by Nynnia and pushed what she had told him to the back of his mind. He had more than enough to occupy his time and thoughts with.

Sorcha was his partner, and there was no other reality he wanted to contemplate.