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.
Raed Syndar Rossin, as displaced heir to the Empire of Arkaym, had been given an extensive education by many of the greatest minds to be found anywhere, yet he had never seen or read of such a thing. However, much had been lost since the time of the Ancients—the ones that Merrick now called the Ehtia, after his little sojourn into the past.
Emboldened by the fact that the leader of the Native Order was not physically present, and that there were no other Deacons, Raed crept closer while Derodak rattled on, edging his way into the group as the person he had followed here had obviously done.
This was the kind of information that Sorcha had not been able to discover. No matter how her Sensitive Deacons had searched and searched, they had been unable to use any of the Runes of Sight to spy on what the Circle of Stars had been doing. How they had been able to conceal themselves was a real mystery.
The idea that he might be able to find out some things that none of Sorcha’s colleagues had been able to excited Raed. He would put whatever he could find out before her and finally feel better about being with them. He’d be back to being a useful member of the community his lover was constructing.
He had already learned many interesting things, but perhaps this was the greatest one: the Circle of Stars was trying to build a base of adoring public. They had learned from history; when they had fallen it was because they had been toppled by angry and fearful citizens.
“Sar,” a grizzled old man said, raising his hand as if he were still in school, “the Heretic who calls herself the Harbinger has taken the town hall, and her Sensitives are already spreading through the city . . .” The man paused, and stared down at his feet.
Even as a projection, Derodak demanded respect and could instill fear over distance. “Do you think we do not know that? Do you think we would abandon you?”
Though he offered no violence, the target of his outrage dropped to one knee and bent his head. “No, Sar. We know you keep your lambs safe over all comers.”
Derodak turned in midair, his image flickering only slightly. “You will come to us, and join the rest of our beloved followers.” He raised his hand and pointed. The people who had been standing against the wall in the spot he was gesturing to scattered like fish when an eagle dived. When he saw what was revealed, Raed’s heart raced. He recognized the circle of cantrips and runes; the portal device that Sorcha was the mistress of—the only one of her Deacons that could use them. Even Merrick, when he had tried, had been baffled by it.
The space described by the circle flickered and changed; now it was a corridor, and where exactly it was, no one said. It could be anywhere in Arkaym, or even Delmaire. That was what made the Circle of Stars so very dangerous.
The people in the room—including Raed—got to their feet and began to line up to pass through the
