Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER)

by Philippa Ballantine

  The Emperor leaned over the gunwales of the ship and watched like an entranced child. The water droplets looked so innocent, and he imagined all those citizens below glancing irritably up at the sky at this unexpected scattering shower.

  Except it wasn’t rain. The machine had no reservoir of water; this liquid it made all by itself. Vashill stepped away from his creation for a moment to take his place—albeit a little hesitantly—at his ruler’s side. With a wave of his hand, he placed it directly underneath the nearest spout, and then pulled it back.

  It still amazed the Emperor; the small puddle of liquid that Vashill held in the palm of his hand was different grades of gray; spilling to inky black in the deepest parts.

  “It is as I demonstrated previously,” Vashill said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “The weirstone liquid is completely harmless at this stage, it is only when it comes into contact with geist-infested areas that its power is released.”

  The inventor held his hand over the edge and tipped the contents free, as if he were loath to waste even the smallest drop.

  “Kaleva!” Ezefia moaned, twisting her arms against her bonds. “You cannot do this! Releasing geists on your own people when you spent years working with the Deacons to stop this sort of thing!”

  The Emperor stared at her, and for the shortest spell her words made sense—like sunlight penetrating fog. He remembered his first footstep on this continent; how happy he had been to begin his great work with his sister, Zofiya, at his side and the Arch Abbot at his back. It had been a glorious time. The Emperor’s mouth lifted slightly.

  Then however, the mist enveloped him again. It was worse because he had remembered; their treachery was more diabolical when compared to that recollection.

  The Emperor held out his hand. “Spyglass,” he snapped. One of the Imperial Guards slapped a long brass form into his palm.

  He raised it to his eye and trained it on the city beneath. The rain was falling steadily as the airship tracked across the sky, while the relentless hammering of the machine went on and on—almost as constant as Ezefia’s struggles.

  Through the polished glass, Kaleva watched the folk scamper about. They were moving faster under the unexpected rain. Few looked up, but if they saw the airship it didn’t matter. The only one with the airship technology was the Imperial Fleet, so there was no danger of retribution; there was only death for those below.

  As the Emperor watched he could feel his impatience rising within him like he’d eaten something bitter. He shifted restlessly, jerking the spyglass from side to side. The only results seemed to be inconvenience for the population.

  “Vashill,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t engage your services so you could make my enemies wet.” He jerked the spyglass from his eye and rounded on the tinker. “You promised vengeance from the sky and all we have done is perhaps wreck any picnic plans they might have.”

  Ezefia, still tied to the chair, was not doing a very good job of concealing her delight. The Imperial Guards around were all very studiously avoiding looking in his direction; their eyes were fixed on distant points.

  Vashill should have blanched, stammered and definitely feared for his life; instead he straightened and looked the Emperor full in the face with his clear gray eyes. “Imperial Majesty, if you would just raise your spyglass one more time, I believe you will begin to see the liquid’s effect.”

  Kaleva paused, contemplating if he should just have the man’s head removed, but curiosity got the better of him. He pressed the glass to his eye and scanned Sousah again.

  The machine had finally ground to a halt, and all was silent about the Winter Kite, but down below something was happening. The citizens were no longer looking up.

  With mounting excitement, Kaleva saw a flickering in the streets; a shimmer of color blinking off in one spot and then appearing in another. It started off slowly, but then the gleams of blue color and light began to flash on and off throughout the city. The Emperor found he was holding his breath.

  Vashill stood at his side, pressing closer than propriety and custom really allowed. Kaleva did not correct him.

  “You see Your Imperial Majesty,” the inventor whispered into his ear. “The weirstone energy is now breaking through to the Otherside. Those tiny openings that are like an invitation to those that wait beyond. It won’t be long.”

  The Emperor did not reply. He pressed the spyglass so tightly against his face that his skin ached, but he did not remove it. Finally, his patience was rewarded. He could have sworn that he heard a scream—even from all the way up here.

  People were moving on the streets. Doors were being flung open and the citizens were running out of their homes. Soon the roads were filling with people milling about. Now Kaleva could imagine their terrified faces, as nightmares that they had thought conquered were returning in full force.

  The Emperor felt as though he was really smiling for the first time in months—for the first time since the ball they had held in Vermillion, back when he thought all was well in his Empire.

  No one remained to protect the people of Sousah—there was no Order to stand between the citizens and the undead. They were sheep in the presence of wolves, and the best of it was their Prince had no way to stop the invasion of geists into his city. Sousah would be a fine lesson to all those that thought to oppose him.

  “Tell me,” Kaleva spoke, finally removing the spyglass from his eye. “Tell me, Vashill, what is happening down there?” He knew, but he wanted to hear another say it.

  Vashill’s lips pressed together, and he shot a glance at the wide-eyed and silent Empress. “The power of the dark weirstones has been released. The gap between the Otherside and our world has been punctured, and the geists have come seeking bodies and terror.”

  The Emperor leaned on the gunwales and thought about that. “Shades, ghasts, darklings, and spectyrs will come out to play. No one will be safe.”

  “Oh, Kaleva,” Ezefia whispered, her beautiful face once again marred by tracks of tears, “you have done a terrible thing. There is no going back from here.”

  He was sick of women telling him what to do. Looking down at the Empress he could have sworn he saw the shape of his sister looking back at him. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Kaleva gestured to the nearest Imperial Guards, and they hurried to remove the Empress back to the stateroom.

  Once she was out of sight the Emperor felt much better, much more in control. He turned to Vashill, letting his eyes wander with great satisfaction over the machine that now stood silent on the deck. Kaleva clapped his hand on the thin man’s back. “You have earned your fee this day, Master Vashill, but tell me, how many of these machines can you make in the next month? I have many airships and many cities that need to feel the hand of the Emperor around their throat.”

  The inventor looked up at him, his eyes alight with the prospect. “Your Imperial Majesty, if you give me the workers, I think you will find I can work wonders for you in no time at all.”

  “Excellent.” Kaleva only barely refrained from hugging the man. “You shall have whatever you require once we have taught a few more cities the meaning of terror. Together we shall bring the Empire back to its rightful form.”

  Then Emperor and inventor stood at the gunwales of the Winter Kite and watched the destruction of Sousah. To Kaleva it was a macabre dance solely for his entertainment. After this no Prince would dare to even think of treason.

  SIX

  Under the Green Cloak

  The Council of five tired Deacons sat somewhat uncomfortably in the Great Hall. It had been cleaned and washed by the lay Brothers, but the smell of death still lingered in the corners. Like all the other Sensitives, Merrick could observe the hovering shapes of the recently slain, hanging over the occasion like multiple shrouds. None of those gathered had slept very much since the attack—Merrick had got none at all.

  This room was a difficult one for the Council to be in, but there was
no other place where they could not be overheard by lay Brothers and followers.

  Melisande Troupe, the sweet-faced blonde woman who had been the Presbyter of the Young in the previous Order, cleared her throat and spread her hands flat on the table as if to balance herself. “We cannot put this off any longer. After last night we must come up with more of a plan than just hiding in this citadel.” She shot a glance across to her right where Sorcha leaned back in her chair, her eyes cast up at the ceiling.

  The Council of the Order of the Eye and the Fist had been comprised of five Presbyters elected from among their ranks, and who had contemplated the pressing matters of the Mother Abbey. This gathering had none of that gravitas, and there were no elections; instead it was a thrown together collection of the strongest Deacons that remained.

  Merrick and Sorcha had no Council experience, and neither did Deacons Radhi and Elevi. This last man was tall and balding, as well as a surprisingly strong Sensitive. However, his gaze darted nervously around the room, and Merrick didn’t need to use his Center to know that he was unhappy being on the Council at all.

  The only one with any useful experience sat at the head of the scarred table. Troupe was also one of three Presbyters in the old Council who had survived the destruction of the Mother Abbey; however, she was the only one of that group fit enough to join this new Council.

  Yvril Mournling, the former Presbyter of the Sensitives, was far too old and frail to offer much in the way of strength. He was being looked after by lay Brothers and getting weaker with every portal they passed through. Merrick had visited him the previous day and knew that death was not far away from taking him from them.

  Thorine Belzark was young, but had told them there was no way she wanted to be on any kind of Council again. Merrick didn’t think that was any great loss since she had mostly been a puppet of Arch Abbot Rictun.

  As for Troupe, the gathering of lines on her pretty face and the circles under her brown eyes told anyone who had sense in their head that this position was not as easy as her previous one. Still, at least she had bothered to turn up, and she did still retain some of the aura of command that she’d had in the Council chamber in the Mother Abbey.

  Merrick stared at Sorcha, willing her to say anything, but although his intentions spun along the Bond, she was steadfastly ignoring him. He straightened slightly in his chair. “We are not hiding—what we are doing is gathering ourselves. Every day we’re using weirstones to communicate with our scattered Brothers. All we need to do is find a place to gather, and we can—”

  “Do what?” Deacon Radhi, a stocky woman with jet-black hair and flashing eyes, shook her head. “We left Vermillion in such a rush that we never took time to think about what the next move was!”

  Troupe nodded and waved her hand toward where the blood had been washed from the stone. “Last night proved that we don’t have the luxury of time to sit here and regroup slowly. We must act now and find a place to strive decisively against Derodak, or we will be the Order who dithered while the world was torn apart.”

  “There is no Order. Not anymore.” Sorcha pulled from her pocket one of her cigarillos and rolled it in her fingertips. It was unlit, because she had only two left. Merrick knew when she did finally smoke it things would be very, very bad indeed.

  “There won’t be much of anything else either.” Troupe leaned back in her chair and pressed one hand to her forehead. “What just happened has shown that we cannot afford to wait, and that the Otherside is coming close to breaking through in ways we have never before seen.”

  “I agree, and you are right; we have to move, and quickly.” Sorcha placed the cigarillo down carefully. “No proper Order has ever put itself above the good of the realm. We must risk our own destruction and do what must be done.”

  The rest of the Council sat silent for a moment, absorbing this sudden pronouncement. Merrick felt as though his own heart had grown just as quiet.

  “And what is that exactly? Do we even have a clue?” Elevi rumbled from the other side of the table.

  Merrick’s own faith was shaken as he watched the Council members look at one another. He’d been raised in the confines of the Order and become used to the infallibility of the Presbyters; it had been a much simpler life than this situation.

  “We must redouble our efforts to locate the rest of our brethren,” he said calmly. “All the weirstones must be put to this purpose.”

  Sorcha’s eyes caught his. They were a bright blue and more familiar to him than even his own lover’s. When he looked at his Active, he felt his pulse slow, and the clamor of fears die down a little. This Bond was—as always—the rock to which they both tied their strength.

  “I have another suggestion,” Sorcha said calmly, resting her fingertips on the edge of the table and moving them in a calming rhythm. “The Patternmaker.”

  All eyes darted up to the ceiling, to the one floor that was above the Great Hall, and Merrick noticed the looks were nervous—as well they should be. The Patternmaker was still an unknown quantity, but the first impression had not been altered much. He might have given them back their runes, but they still did not like dealing with him.

  The Deacons had found him, dirty, unkempt, and practically gibbering in the cellar of an abandoned house. Derodak had him stashed away there, for a purpose that they had yet to decipher. In those mad hours surrounding the breaking of the foci and the destruction of the Mother Abbey, the survivors had taken whatever chances they could find. A madman that claimed to know how to reinstate the runes to them had seemed the only one available. They had taken a chance.

  The Patternmaker had indeed proved able to do all he claimed—but that did not make him reliable. He was now tucked away in the dark attic chambers of the citadel, and everyone who could manage it, kept away from him.

  “Our Patternmaker?” Radhi whispered.

  “No,” Sorcha replied, leaning on her elbows and locking her gaze with his, “the Native Order. They must have one too.”

  Merrick smiled slowly, even as the others joined him in realization.

  “That makes sense,” Elevi was nodding. “They wouldn’t risk losing their own runes—not at this moment.”

  “That means they have a vulnerability.” Troupe pushed her hair back out of her eyes, and for a moment looked like the lovely woman she had been only months before. “The burning question is how do we find their Patternmaker though . . .”

  “We must use Masa and Kebenar,” Sorcha said softly and looked straight at her partner.

  He swallowed hard but nodded. “If we form a Conclave of the best Sensitives, we can indeed try and see what the truth of it is.” He was thinking about the last time he had tried to control a Conclave during the destruction of the Mother Abbey. That had not ended well. Still, he had to get over failure and quickly. Perhaps it would be easier with a group of Sensitives rather than managing Actives as well. He could only hope.

  Sorcha got to her feet, walked to the window and ran her fingers over the broken edges of the stone frame. “We also need to know where to strike and how quickly it can be done. Every moment will mean more and more geists are coming through, and every one is a danger to the citizens of the Empire.”

  “Then we must be as ready as we can.” Radhi steepled her fingers, and paused for a moment as if gathering her bravery. “So I repeat the question I asked you last week: Deacon Faris, when will you take up the mantle of Arch Abbot? Our Brothers and Sisters look to you for advice and leadership.”

  Merrick twisted around in his seat, so better to judge Sorcha’s reaction.

  Perhaps she had never mentioned it, or thought about it recently, but he knew that at one stage Sorcha had wondered why she’d been overlooked as a Presbyter. She was certainly the most powerful Active in the Order. Merrick knew the answer; the Presbyter of the Sensitives had feared she lacked real control of her power.

  Sorcha traced the filigree of cracks that the geists and she had carved into the stonework of the window with
fire and conflict. “I know we must be as strong as we can possibly be to manage what is coming.”

  Even if it is a waste. Merrick managed not to jump as the bitter thought invaded his mind. He surreptitiously checked out the dark corners of the room. They were alone, and he was positive that the thought was from neither Sorcha nor from any of the other Deacons in the room; the texture of it was quite different.

  He swallowed hard. Another disturbing mystery that he didn’t dare examine right at this moment.

  Sorcha turned around and leaned on the stonework. In the morning light it was much easier to see how much weight she had lost—just as everyone else had. The difference was she had been thin already after a long confinement in bed.

  She’d taken them through the Wrayth gates several times, often making fresh ones herself. Now Merrick wondered what the toll of that had been on her.

  Sorcha sighed, a long deep breath that seemed to come from somewhere farther away than her body, then she spoke. “I will take the role of leader, if that is what you want, but we are making something else here, something that will be different from what has come before.” She pulled her blue eyes away from the middle distance and fixed her gaze on their small gathering. “I don’t think we should bear the names of those that have died or given up the fight. The naming of things is nothing to be taken lightly—we all know that. We are no longer what we were. We are no longer the Order of the Eye and the Fist.”

  The other Deacons jerked back as if she had slapped them, but Merrick understood immediately both what Sorcha was suggesting, and why the others were shocked. The Order had been everything for all of them; they had eaten there, slept there, and fought side by side with others of the Order. Many had died for the Order. Of all the things that the refugees had gone through . . . this could be the worst.

  Though not a Sensitive, Sorcha nevertheless could read the mood in the room. She placed her palms on the table and leaned toward them. “I feel it too. I loved the Order, but we cannot go forward holding on to the tattered remains of it, like a cloak.” In a symbolic gesture, Sorcha removed the pin with the Eye and Fist and slapped it down on the table, letting her cloak drop to the floor.