Harbinger

than what the Actives had to suffer through.

Merrick, though, as always excelled and was very much ahead of his peers. He was in many ways a better Deacon than Sorcha could ever hope to be. Perhaps that was why she had taken an instant dislike to him when they had first been partnered.

I thought it was because I was younger and better looking than you. His voice in her mind was deceptively light.

Despite the dire nature of their situation, Sorcha couldn’t help smiling just a fraction. As far as I know you still are . . . unless I have aged you . . .

Her partner tugged on one curl of his dark brown hair, as if to demonstrate some imaginary grays. If stress caused gray hair, by the time this was all done they would all be silver.

All levity was abandoned when Merrick’s Center caught just a whiff of something undead; the odor of rotting flesh rising above the sharp tang of blood and fear. It was among the first things both of them had learned in the novitiate: smell nearly always preceded an appearance.

A less clever or attuned Sensitive might have summoned the rune Aiemm to see what had occurred here. A braver one might have called forth Masa to peer into the future, but Merrick knew as well as Sorcha that they didn’t have much time. The blood around them told all they needed to know about the past, and the future was as reliable as smoke. Instead, Merrick called on Mennyt and looked into the Otherside.

Many times both of them had shared a vision of the undead; glimpses of souls passed, or geists trembling on the edge of this realm ready to come forth. Never, however, had they seen what Mennyt showed them now.

Ranks upon ranks of geists were lined up like soldiers ready to breach castle walls, and every single one of them overflowed with purpose and hatred. It was a sight that took both Deacons’ breath away, and froze them for an instant in place.

They waited there; all kinds of dire creatures of death. Some were the wounded souls of the dead from this world, now twisted and lost in the Otherside. Others were geists who dwelled there always, desiring the pain of the living. Finally, there were the geistlords who were possessed of terrible intelligence.

So many. By the Bones, so many.

Neither Deacon could have said whose words those were, but it was the sentiment they shared.

Sorcha’s eyes watered as she watched through Merrick. Only the strongest of the undead usually were able to find cracks through into the human world. Now as she scanned the room, she realized it was full of the undead lining up to step forward. The veil between their world and hers had never seemed so paper-thin and ridiculous.

Was it the destruction of the Order that had done this, she wondered, or had this always been going to happen?

The Order is not the only one in the world, Merrick reminded her, his words filling her mind with reassurance. Many other Orders have fallen and blown away in the past, but there have always been new ones to take their place. This . . . this is very different.

Her partner was the most resolute person Sorcha had ever known—yet she felt the fear in him like vinegar on her tongue. Line upon line of geists waiting silently for entrance to the world would do that to even the bravest Deacon.

Yet there was no pathway large enough for them—not at the moment.

Teisyat, the final rune, the one that every Active learned as their last test, was that what had brought them here? Perhaps all it would take was one Deacon to raise their hand, and . . .

Don’t even think of it. Merrick’s fingers locked on her shoulder. The close physical contact jolted her back to reality. If someone had used Teisyat here, then they would all be through, and we would all be dead.

No, someone had indeed opened a rune, but it was not the Seventh. Tryrei then . . . just a crack—enough to let a single more controllable geist through.

Kebenar washed over her, the Rune of Sight that showed the true nature of things. Now the images of the waiting geists dimmed, and a filigree of faint cracks ran over her vision. This in a way was worse.

So many, Merrick muttered, following her deeper into the Hall. It was like an egg that has been struck against a bowl and just like that egg, any one of these cracks could give. Several had, but the geists had slipped back into the Otherside. Such cleverness was not their usual stock-in– trade.

The citadel was old, had once been a Priory, and there were many dusty corners in it. Suddenly, Sorcha did not trust the place. Even though they had examined it closely, it had been made by the Native Order, the Circle of Stars—the very one that had brought about the destruction of the Eye and the Fist. They were known for their crafty nature. However, the Priory was also the last place the Circle of Stars would have looked for them and was surrounded by water on all sides. Once, that would have guaranteed no geist would enter it.

Sorcha was heartily sick of knowing that all the rules had been broken in the last few years.

Outside, Merrick whispered to her. Look outside.

She stepped boldly out onto the stone balcony and was greeted by the sound of plummeting water. The blunt profile of the citadel pushed out from the center of the Avalanche Falls, which plunged off granite cliffs, hundreds of feet down to the lake below. It was a treacherous place, but not nearly as dangerous as the streaming gap into the realm of geists, geistlords and everything malevolent that the Order stood against. Corenee was a small principality largely comprised of stern dukes and the goat herders they ruled over. Far into the southwest of Arkaym, it made a perfect principality in which to hide. Or at least, it had.

Her face was suddenly covered in the swirling, freezing water droplets. Sorcha waited for a moment, her eyes unfocused on the real world but tightly concentrated on the one Merrick was showing her. The long files of geists were watching her just as intently. It felt as though they were merely a few inches away through flimsy gauze, and if she just reached out her hand she might touch one of them.

Such dangerous thoughts were interrupted when Merrick called her name—both into her head and out into the night. One of the cracks was spreading. Whatever was strongest was coming through.

Twice before, Sorcha had faced a geistlord; the Murashev and Hatipai. The first time they had relied on the strength of the Rossin to give them a chance. The second, without Merrick at her side, Sorcha had won, but had been thrown into the terrible living death of a coma. Now, they stood alone, on the balcony.

Where is Raed? Sorcha thought to herself in an off– hand sort of way. Her lover had still not made an appearance, and she could not feel him in the citadel. She felt along the Bond that tangled her, Merrick and the Young Pretender together. The connection was still there, but nothing else. It was as if the awareness of Raed was wreathed in dark smoke.

She glanced across at Merrick. Under the tattoos of the runes, his brown eyes were troubled. His words, when they entered her mind, confirmed that. I can’t see him.

Few words could have chilled her more than those. Merrick was not just her Sensitive—he was the best she had ever worked with. The Bond they shared the strongest. If he could not see the Rossin, then she had real cause to worry.

However, now was not the appropriate time. Thinking of her missing lover while the world was splitting before them would have been beyond foolish. It was almost suicidal.

Concentrating on survival meant concentrating on what was before her. Blinding red cracks were now growing bigger, signaling that whatever was ready to come through was near the end of its journey. The similarity to watching a chicken hatch only went so far. This was going to be much more than a giant angry rooster.

Such a stray, comical thought at this moment was not something Sorcha was used to. Discipline and training had been hammered into her, ever since she was a child, and as she had recently found out, she was also the daughter of a powerful Sensitive.

And the daughter of something else too, a small voice whispered in the back of her head.

Sorcha’s gaze jerked away from the spreading gaps in reality, toward Merrick. He however was concentrating on seeing more of the situation. He had not spoken into her mind.

Just as Merrick turned his own head toward her, Sorcha had straightened. With careful and precise determination she managed to shift her thoughts away from the momentary terror and concern of what exactly that voice had been, and once more onto the horror that was coming. Sensitive and Active Deacons were tightly