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  This was the room where only hours before Sorcha had sat in counsel with the other Deacons—those strongest of the survivors—to try and find a path for whatever was left. Now it looked quite different. The tables they had so recently occupied were overturned, and the fire in the hearth was blazing like a bonfire. It had been guttering out to scarlet embers when last Sorcha had seen it, warming those without powers who had come to them for protection.

  We failed them.

  The Great Hall was where many of the lay Brothers and camp followers had settled down for the night, since most of the habitable rooms were taken by couples and Deacons. It was also, she could observe, where the geists had stepped through into the human world. Consequently, it was not a pretty sight.

  The rules, such as the inability of the undead to directly hurt the living, that Sorcha had grown up with as a member of the Order’s novitiate were nothing more than distant memories; now the undead were more than capable of hurting the living. In fact, they appeared to relish it.

  Blood was splattered against walls and on the table she had sat at only hours before. Bodies were strewn about from corner to corner and wall to wall like so much chaff. Through the Center she shared with Merrick, the scent of fear and death in the room was overwhelming. If she had not had so much exposure to similar scenes in her time as a Deacon, Sorcha might have thrown up, or run mad in the opposite direction.

  “Stay back, Zofiya,” Merrick muttered to the Grand Duchess. “This is not over with.”

  He was right, and luckily the Imperial sister knew it too. She frowned, her grip tightening on her sword, but she remained where she was.

  The stench of the Otherside was still all around them—even those without any abilities could smell it. The survivors who were struggling to their feet gagged on it as they hastened to leave the room. Zofiya guided many over to her and helped them stagger out the door.

  Merrick and Sorcha shared another look. The Active flexed her fingers—almost as though they were still encased in tooled leather—and stepped into the room, hands outstretched, and runes ready.

  Dimly, she could feel other Actives and Sensitives racing up the stairs toward them, but she would not rely on their ability to arrive in time.

  Someone wants us here. Her Sensitive whispered into the quiet parts of her mind, apart from her racing thoughts.

  Instinctively, she knew that he was right; she and Merrick were the ones meant to hear the screams of the injured and dying.

  This attack on the Order they were building was very purposeful. They had gathered more converts in the months of travel since the breaking of the Mother Abbey, but they could not afford to lose any. If someone wanted to get the attention of Sorcha Faris and Merrick Chambers, then this was the way to do it.

  “The rest of you, get out now!” Merrick waited a few feet behind her, effortlessly holding the Center steady for her, and yet still managing to instruct a last knot of followers who were still huddled in the far shadows of the Great Hall. They stared at him, obviously deeply shocked by what they had seen, but then a thin-faced woman with blood trickling down from her hairline led the way to whatever safety the door offered.

  Sorcha waited, keeping her breathing even by force of will, and trying to hold on to the confidence she had only recently regained. She hoped it was not too evident how fresh it was. Along the Bond she shared, she whispered her intentions to her partner.

  Merrick didn’t question her. Once the injured were beyond the threshold, he gestured to Zofiya. “Bar the door.”

  That the Grand Duchess, the sister to the Emperor of Arkaym, would take orders from a mere Sensitive Deacon would have been a joke only a year ago. It was further evidence that the world was turned on its ear.

  Sorcha heard the thick wooden door slab slam shut, and then moments later the somewhat reassuring thump of the bar being dropped. It wouldn’t be much to stop the undead, but it was symbolic to those huddled outside.

  It didn’t need to be said that they had also effectively cut themselves off from the rapidly approaching assistance of the other Deacons. Sorcha frowned as she stepped over the remains of a broken and charred table. She wouldn’t let any more of her fellows be killed—not for her sake.

  Merrick stepped closer to her, pushing back the hood of his cloak, and pressing the tips of two fingers to the stylized Third Eye now tattooed directly above his nose between his eyebrows. His Strop, the thick leather strap engraved with the runes that had been the Sensitive’s focus, had been destroyed like the Gauntlets when the Order of the Eye and the Fist had been broken. The loss of that Pattern had necessitated they create a new one, but had also meant that the Sensitives had been forced to put the Third Eye on their skin. Usually only used with the more powerful of the Runes of Sight, its constant presence on them had made their adjustment much harder 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.

&nb
sp; 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 bound together in a partnership that had few secrets, but there were ways to hide some little things from one another. Sorcha was not yet prepared to share her darker, creeping fears with Merrick.

  First, they had to survive this. Through her partner’s Center she could sense more Deacons nearing their position. Once they reached Merrick and herself, they could form a Conclave and then they would have the superior strength.

  However, a Conclave relied on physical proximity.

  No sooner had that thought escaped Sorcha, than a cold, stinging wind blew fiercely off the chasm. It raced around both she and Merrick. Its scream was nothing that a normal gale could have produced, and it was full of teeth and bitterness. It swirled around them, blowing their capes around them like shrouds, before racing into the Great Hall.

  Sorcha heard the sounds of the heavy wooden shutters slamming shut, and if that was not enough to assure the Deacons that this was deliberate, it was soon accompanied by the racket of furniture suddenly being thrown up against the doors. Heavy wooden tables, chairs and their packs acted as most effective barricades against Sorcha and Merrick leaving, or anyone else reaching them.

  The rune Voishem that would have allowed the Deacons to shift and phase through the walls had not yet been mastered by the recently tattooed of their colleges. They would hesitate to use it. No one wanted to be stranded half in and half out of an object. Instead, the sounds of shoulders being applied to doors could be vaguely discerned.

  “So that’s the way it shall be,” Sorcha muttered through ice-cold lips, and her words froze in the air. She turned back to the now foot-wide gap and rolled up her sleeves as high as they would go.

  Merrick took a step nearer to her, so that he stood in her shadow, which streamed backward into the Great Hall. The light coming from the gap in reality was that bright.

  Everything was absolutely still for a moment; even the roar of the waterfall seemed distant. Their shared Center was tightly focused on the long thin figure that was pushing its way through the gap in the world. It slipped free with a sucking pop—but its place was immediately taken by another that was its exact replica.

  They were not geistlords, which was an immediate relief, but neither Deacon had a chance to enjoy that, because they identified what had escaped instead.

  Wari were greater than the average geist, and known for appearing just before geistlords. Some called them the “heralds,” but they carried more than trumpets and banners. A wari could rip a soul from a human body like a man might tear a bone from well-cooked chicken. They were incredibly uncommon, and yet now a third was squeezing its way through the gap.

  One would not have been a problem, but as the knife-sharp shapes began to circle toward them, Sorcha raised her hands. Confidence was what she was trained to project, but along the Bond she shared her worries w
ith Merrick. The runes on her flesh did not feel as comfortable as when they had been on her now-destroyed Gauntlets. They were as slippery as fish, and so she hesitated to act.

  Through the shared Center the wari gleamed like silver scintillating clouds. Their long arms were formed into claws perfectly shaped for their purpose.

  Sorcha. For a moment she didn’t realize it was Merrick’s voice in her head. Sorcha, he repeated. They are flanking us. We have to move before they do.

  The Active felt a little annoyed at his goad—but damned if he wasn’t right. She was moving as slow as an old man first thing in the morning. The warm shapes of the other Deacons beyond the door wouldn’t get in quickly enough. She and Merrick would be soulless shells before then.

  Sorcha wrapped her mind around Pyet, the Fifth Rune of Dominion. It felt like it wriggled to elude her, but she bore down on it. The experience of summoning a rune from her flesh rather than from tanned leather was excruciating. Something about the Gauntlet had stood between her and the raw power. Now it felt as though her skin were being flayed as Pyet illuminated and ran down the patterns carved there. It was a stream of molten metal that she had to release.

  With a howl of frustration and rage, Sorcha spread her fingers wide on her left hand, braced it with her right, and let the flame boil out of her. Her control was not what it had been, and Merrick had to duck wildly out of the way as fire roared from his partner and scattered all over the Great Hall. He tackled her around the middle, holding her up where she might have fallen. Her eyelids were heavy, and rather than the usual euphoria that enveloped her when channeling the runes, she felt as if she might be blown away on the swirling winds.

  “Let it go,” Merrick screamed in her ear. “You can’t hold it steady and the wari aren’t even there.”

  With his mind and body for support Sorcha was able to close the rune. The wari had been scared off for only a moment. They dropped down from the ceiling to the floor and advanced once more. The heat of Pyet was soon forgotten as the geists’ freezing presence enveloped them.