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 of 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.
“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
“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.”
