Geist

books had ever covered what would happen when a Sensitive wearing the Strop stepped out of life—none had ever made one of his kind such a target before. In the calm of his Center, he could feel the bonds of flesh and bone still tying him to something. Could it be the Strop that held him in place?

He heard the Rossin smash through the keep doors, witnessed the mysterious retreat of the geistlord. Then he saw Sorcha, not as blazing as the Pretender Raed, but still gloriously beautiful through the Strop.

The books spoke of detachment at the very edge of death. Yet one thing penetrated his calm: a heat from above. It could not have been purely physical; he was beyond the physical now. Merrick did not want to look up. He did not want to see what was coming; what his blood had helped allow through.

See deep; fear nothing. A voice, light and near, repeated the Sensitives’ mantra, reminding him of his purpose. Even as he was dying he clung to it. It had to be Sorcha. Their Bond, their inconvenient connection, leapt into life.

Through the Runes of Sight, Merrick tilted his vision upward. Cantrips, weirstones, blood and runes; all the power of this world had been turned to one purpose—to reach deep into the Otherside. He did not know which level Aulis had tapped into, but one glance at the huge five-taloned hand ripping itself into the real world told him all he needed to know.

Calmness fled in the face of remembrance. The five deep gouges in ancient stone; he’d traced them with his young hands, memorizing the spot where his father had died. He had never been able to find out what had killed him, no matter how many books he read or how many Deacons he quizzed. And now here it was. He wanted to flee. He wanted to fly to the Otherside and quit life. However, the voice was once more in his head. You are stronger than that. Remember your training. Remember your own power.

The Bond must have been intensified while he wore the Strop. The Strop—of course!

Merrick bent his mind to the rune carved on it, no lesser than those on Sorcha’s Gauntlets. Mennyt, the rune that could take him to the Otherside. It was not the last Rune of Sight, but it was enough. Through it he could see his connection with the real world. The Bond was not the only link. Many things tethered him to this side: hopes, words and dreams. These were the things that made a person’s spirit into a shade. He had complete knowledge of his fate. He wouldn’t allow it.

The being was moving toward reality, pushing its head against the natural boundaries of the world like a nightmare child pressing its face against a shop window. It wasn’t meant for this world, though Merrick could feel its siren song tugging at him, promising him much. A deep part of him wanted to give everything to it; bone, flesh and sinew. His blood pulsed in his temples, drowning out all other sounds.

The weirstones, the cantrips, the blood, Sorcha, Raed and himself; Merrick could feel them like chess pieces in his Sight. Everything was so finely balanced. All it required was one little push. One little nudge and the stack of cards Aulis had so carefully constructed would tumble down.

However, this was not something he could do. As always his role was to See—Sorcha had to take her place in this drama. He reached out to her. The stones, he whispered into her head. Her eyes narrowed and he knew she was Seeing as he did. The Bond was growing stronger; he could feel it like ivy scurrying up a wall, tying them closer and closer.

The weakest point. Her Active thoughts followed his lead. She was like lightning, burning, acting without thought. He admired that—he now relied on it. Pyet. Naturally she chose Pyet. He could have guessed that.

Fire bloomed from her Gauntlets, bright and beautiful. Sorcha’s power smashed out at the weirstone positioned right below the trembling arch of the hall, under the vaulted ceiling. The noise of the marble imploding was like a thousand souls screaming from beyond, calling out in horror and loss. The world burned and swirled with runes, a tangle of power that flared brightly for one moment. It was too much for anything but destruction to follow.

Above, the being from the Otherside howled, wrapped in shreds of white light and anger. However much it bucked and heaved, struggling against the natural order, it could not quite overcome it. The Otherside pulled it back, though it did not go easily. The Priory shuddered right down to its bones, as if it was clawing at itself to be free of the creature’s touch.

Now Merrick knew he was going to die. The real world was peeling back, breaking apart in a tumble of rock, mortar and dust. Something had to be sacrificed, and if it was himself and the Priory—then so be it. This was the end, but at least there would be no intrusion from the Otherside. His blood had caused the rift, and yet he had pointed the way to stop it. He could leave now. Take me. He opened up himself to the world, letting it do with him as it willed.

The ringing in his ears was distracting. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt. The world spun, and then sensation snapped back to him. Someone was holding his face in a viselike grip and calling his name in a very demanding tone. It took a heartbeat for him to realize just who it was.

“Wake up, Merrick. You’re lying down on the job.” It sounded like a cruel collection of words, but he could detect the hint of real concern.

He came around with a smile on his face just as Raed managed to free him from the draining table. He slipped down and Sorcha caught him around the shoulder, holding him up against her. His body felt as though it had been flayed—which, of course, it had. Merrick licked his lips experimentally and then croaked, “Where— where’s Nynnia?”

“Oh, by the Bones,” Sorcha snapped. “Back from the brink of death and you’re still all doe-eyed over that —”

He didn’t let his partner finish the sentence. “She was here; she brought me the Strop.” He realized Sorcha was holding it naked in her hands. He snatched it back in horror and the effort nearly knocked him over his feet. Even she shouldn’t have been able to touch his talisman.

Looking dazedly around, he realized why his partner was so irascible. The Hall was destroyed; not just damaged but reduced to a tumble of stones as if leveled by cannon fire. Only the places where his body had lain and the portion by the west wall where Raed and Sorcha had fought for their lives remained. He could see the bodies of their opponents lying among the stones.

Sorcha was grinning at him. “I don’t know what you did, Merrick, but remind me not to annoy you anytime soon.”

He looked at the back of his hand with horror; it was pink and warm and full of blood. And yet . . . and yet . . . His brain tried to process it. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled. “It was you—your Active power. I just showed you where to attack.”

“Pardon?” He felt his partner stiffen against him. “What do you mean?”

“Through the Bond.” He felt real strength returning to his limbs, but from where, he would not hazard to guess.

Sorcha was looking at him now through wide blue eyes. “I couldn’t feel the Bond, Merrick. Aulis did something to dampen it.” And she was right. He could feel it returning now; warmth and awareness, and a glimpse into her thoughts. She was not lying.

He had not been communing with Sorcha, and if it had not been Sorcha, then it begged the question of who exactly it had been. Managing to get his own feet under him, he looked around, but there was no sign of Nynnia.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “It must have been you . . . You must have just not felt it.” Sometimes Actives were so blind to the reality of things that it was almost reassuring.

SIXTEEN After the Tribulation Comes Realization

Raed watched Sorcha and Merrick together out of the corner of one eye. Deacons were always so damn secretive.

The Pretender let out a long breath, one that felt like he’d been holding it in for hours. His nerves were still twitching erratically with the remnants of the Change—and also with relief. Sorcha had not let him down—his trust in her had not been misplaced. No one had ever been able to control the Rossin before, yet Sorcha had done it