Harbinger

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.