Merrick, Zofiya and her army, on board the
When they first saw the city, Merrick rushed forward and saw immediately the damage that had been inflicted on the great city. The streets were full of panicked people, and the palace was burning with a flickering light, the like of which he had never seen before. Screams and prayers to little gods wafted up from below borne on smoke.
He took his place with the Empress, the Fensena and Aachon on the prow of the airship and none of them spoke. Zofiya had told him the state that she had found the capital city in and that had been enough to shock him —this was something else.
The coyote pressed against the Sensitive. “Look with your real eyes, youngster.”
He was almost too afraid of what he would see to try, but Merrick finally opened his Center and spread it over the city. What he saw sickened him. The lovely capital full of life and commerce was a fractured and injured animal. Robbed of peace, it was descending into anarchy. The air was stained with the terror of her people for not all of them were dead. That would happen when the barrier to the Otherside was gone and they became fodder for the geists.
“Look toward the palace,” the Fensena’s remarkably calm words intruded on Merrick’s contemplation.
At first he thought the center of the city was on fire, but then he realized it was something else. Indigo colors stained the sky over the palace, while tumultuous clouds flickered with barely contained lightning. “The breach is opening,” Merrick whispered under his breath. He had read about it over and over again in his studies, but he had never thought he would live to see it happen again.
Behind him he could feel the rest of the Sensitives—his Sensitives—reacting with horror as their knowledge brought the reality of the situation home.
He turned to Zofiya. “We need to get down there, now . . . we can’t go to the port. We must go there.” He pointed down toward the palace itself, though he wished to point only to the horizon and demand to flee.
“And then?” the Empress asked him. “What shall we do?”
They were hidden from the people behind them. He slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. He would much rather have taken her in his arms and kissed her.
“I will take the Conclave into the palace,” he replied. “It will be Deacon on Deacon fighting in there. You must do what you can to help your people.”
Her eyebrows drew together in an expression he recognized immediately, but he had no time for her demands. “I should be fighting at your side—that is my palace—”
“Darling,” he whispered to her, so that only the Fensena could have heard him, “if this does not work, you must be free to lead the people in whatever way you can against the geists.”
His brown eyes locked with hers, and her expression softened even in this dire moment. Since she was Empress, it was her choice to throw her arms around him and kiss him then and there. As always Zofiya made him breathless, but this time he most especially did not want to let her go. The taste of her in his mouth was like life itself, and death was not that far away.
When they moved apart, Merrick glanced over Zofiya’s shoulder, but none of the Deacons or soldiers at their back were looking at them.
“I will do as you ask,” Zofiya said clearly, “but only for my people.”
“No one doubts your courage,” the Fensena broke in, his golden eyes gleaming with the not-so-distant lightning, “but this is the way of things. We will either stop the Maker of Ways, or the rest will be flames.”
Merrick might have wanted the coyote to couch it in better terms, but it was true. The Empress did not attempt to deny it.
The
The broken bodies below them were now visible as not only soldiers, but also Deacons of the Circle of Stars. Merrick recognized the spectacular damage immediately; the Rossin had been here before them. He could not decide if that thought cheered him or not.
Regardless, they had to go down there. Quickly, Merrick wrapped his mind around the prepared Conclave. He had arranged his ragtag group of Deacons into groups of twenty, with one foci holding them together into Conclaves. It was the best way to shore up their forces, which were not all that experienced or well trained. This way, those that were could use their strength without losing control of the situation.
Merrick took a deep breath and led the way down the ladder off the airship. The naked human form of the Fensena scrambled down after him and took back his coyote shape as soon as his feet touched the ground. On his heels, the rest of the Deacons scrambled down. Among them were Aachon who led one of the Conclaves, and even the boy Eriloyn from Waikein who had insisted on using his new runes to fight. Most of them still wore their cloaks, though the newcomers’ ones were patchwork, or leather.
It was strange to feel the closeness of the Conclave without the presence of Sorcha in it as well. He felt for the first time really like the First Presbyter. Merrick could only hope it would not be the last time he experienced this sensation.
Just as the people disembarked, shots rang out. Two Deacons in Merrick’s Conclave fell, their places in the Conclave becoming sucking maws, but he reorganized the pattern of the Conclaves quickly. Terrible as it was, he’d expected it.
Somewhere up in the towers a few Imperial Guards still held on, and they were shooting at whatever cloaked figures they could, mistaking them for Derodak’s Deacons. As bullets zipped around them, Merrick shouted for his colleagues to get to cover, while above them riflemen on the
Merrick was holding his portion of the Conclave together, moving his remaining people in a cohesive group into shelter, while he stood still, concentrating very hard. That was until a huge bulk of a man threw himself on him, knocking him to the ground. For an instant he didn’t know what had just happened. The next thing he realized, it was Aachon that had barreled into him, and that there was blood everywhere.
Quickly, Merrick ascertained it was not his blood. Aachon lay atop him, and it took three Deacons to lift him up. They dragged him into one of the hallways of the palace, as bullets zipped around them, and used the big man’s cloak to staunch the blood as best they could.
The tall man grinned at those carrying him. “I’ve had worse.” Merrick checked him over quickly and saw that the wound had passed through his shoulder cleanly. “But I can’t hold my portion of the Conclave, you’ll have to take it.”
“Of course,” the Presbyter said, getting to his feet, glad at least the big man was not dead. He’d been gruff with anyone not Raed, but he had a powerful spirit.
Merrick felt Aachon’s blood on his skin, warm and vital. His anger flared suddenly that a good man—one of his own—had been targeted by those who couldn’t tell the difference between Deacons. His Center sped toward the group in the tower, and he felt their heartbeats like fluttering moths in his hands. So many things he could have done to them, but instead of the runes, that wild talent of his chose this moment to rise up. It was a lucky thing too; he did not want to kill anyone who might be saved.
Instead, Merrick hit the survivors with the hammer of regret. He made them fall to their knees weeping for what they had done, clawing at their faces in horror. None of them could lift a weapon or shoot another Deacon, so there would be no more mistakes.
“Go,” Aachon said, taking the compress and holding it there himself, “I’ll wait here and see how things go. Strange . . . I always thought I would take a bullet for Raed Syndar Rossin. Life is a funny thing.”
Merrick clasped his hand. “Then hold tight to it, we’ll be right back.”
Five lay Brothers were helping the wounded and, under the circumstances, that was the best that could be done. The Conclaves had lost seven Deacons, but the groups had a flexible pattern, though they did lose strength with each member gone.
Merrick now realized that he needed more power to finish the task at hand. The solution meant treading on ground that he had warned Sorcha off only weeks before—and that had not ended well—but there was little
