Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER)

by Philippa Ballantine

  The Rossin had dived deep, but left him the memories of what the Beast had done—for once it was something that he was glad of. He did not regret the blood spilled. That treacherous Deacon had caused the deaths of many good people two nights earlier. He clasped Sorcha’s hands and got to his feet.

  Pulling her close seemed like the most natural and most important thing to do. A deep shiver ran through the Young Pretender’s body. He loved her so much, and yet he also knew that a dark path lay ahead. For a second he just concentrated on the feeling of her arms around him, and his around hers. Then he kissed her. Not the urgent, demanding kiss they had shared that first time in Ulrich, but one that lingered. He was trying to remind her that she had him—if nothing else.

  Sorcha squeezed her hands around his neck, and then slowly, reluctantly pulled back from him. She pressed her forehead against his, making just enough space between them for the wind to enter.

  Finally, he spoke. “The Circle of Stars knows we’ve discovered them. Since I—I mean the Rossin—killed their informant here, we have to move before they do.”

  She sighed, but nodded. “I guess it had to come. I had hoped to stay here just a fraction longer, but you are right; we must move if we want to live.”

  And despite it all he did want to live; to be with her and to fight.

  TWELVE

  Returning on Wings

  It felt very strange indeed to be at the head of a force of armed men walking with all speed back to the palace of her brother. The Grand Duchess Zofiya’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword, and she dimly felt the weight of her new rifle bang against her back. These things had given her confidence in the past, but now they felt rather hollow.

  She knew luck was with her—for the moment at least. The airship nearest the Priory had been the Summer Hawk with the redoubtable Captain Revele in command. It so easily could have been another—probably one who would have shot the Grand Duchess on sight.

  What was even luckier was that they made Vermillion city in five days. Revele burned every weirstone she had in the airship’s engines to make that happen. It was a risky course of action, because with no replacements the captain was entirely throwing the fate of herself, her crew and her ship in with that of the Grand Duchess.

  Zofiya knew it and accepted that loyalty gratefully.

  Even now, walking through the damaged streets of the capital, she was still not sure what she had done to warrant it though. She was a little afraid to ask. They passed over the Bridge of Whispers to the south of the ruined Mother Abbey of the Order. She did not want to see that broken edifice, nor did she want to draw too close to the new geists that surely must have been created there after the destruction Derodak and her brother had wrought.

  The city was revealing her injuries gradually to Zofiya like a wounded animal. The smell was of death and smoke, but there was also a strange tang to the air—something sharp and hot. She had become reacquainted with it after months spent with the remains of the Order; geists left a peculiar scent behind them. It was impossible for a normal human to detect only one being but many could leave a residue like this.

  Shooting a gaze out of the corner of her eye, she observed that she was not the only one affected. Revele’s eyes were wide with shock, and Zofiya suddenly felt very old—though she could only be ten years older than the captain.

  “You don’t remember,” the Grand Duchess found herself speaking more to give herself something to do as they moved through the streets. “You weren’t in the corps when my brother and I arrived in Arkaym. The same smell hit us in the face as we landed for the first time.”

  “I was there,” Petav ventured from behind her right shoulder, “and I hoped to never see it again.” She had almost forgotten about the Deacon. It made her feel almost normal to have one with her.

  Zofiya was lost in the memory for a moment. “When the Arch Abbot led the charge, he was at the head of the largest Conclave ever assembled by any Order. It was magnificent.” Her throat strangely choked for a second. After a moment she went on. “And now that Order is broken, and we have only a small chance of recovering any of their number. With so few remaining, I do not know how any of us will survive this.”

  The Deacon at her back did not comment, only shifted slightly and hugged the irreplaceable tube, which contained the Pattern of his Order. As a Sensitive he was probably already searching for his lost fellows—yet he did not share what he was finding. That was not a good sign.

  Finally, Zofiya called a brief stop, drew Deacon Petav to one side and addressed him in an undertone. “Reverend Brother—a word if you will.”

  He followed her obediently.

  “What may I do, Imperial Highness?” Petav asked, his gaze narrowing on her face.

  Zofiya looked him up and down. “Now we are here, I must ask you to take on a dangerous mission.”

  The Deacon made no comment, so apparently the training of the Order held better than their Mother Abbey had.

  The Grand Duchess still felt like it was a very fragile thing to hang her hopes on, but she understood it was all she had at this moment. “I want you to immediately head out and begin searching for your fellow Deacons. I need you to get them organized and their powers restored as quickly as possible.” She spared a look over her shoulder at the smoke-wreathed city. “I cannot guarantee your safety—since I may well be arrested and executed when we reach the palace—but your task is the more important.”

  The Deacon tilted his head as if she had asked him to bring her a glass of water. “I understand Imperial Highness, the people must be protected at all costs. The Order has always put themselves in harm’s way.” With that he folded his cloak around him, gave her a faint bow and then strode away down the street. It did not take long for him to be swallowed by the smoke and debris.

  Just the idea of not having the Deacons to protect the people from the undead made Zofiya very angry. Being very angry helped. It helped keep off the thoughts that what she was about to do was very, very wrong. She held it before her like a shield. Zofiya turned back to the task at hand and gestured the troops to follow her once more.

  As they passed people on the street, she noticed that they did one of two things: they either cheered faintly, or fled back into their houses. Whatever protection moving water had once offered the citizens of Vermillion was long gone—as had been forewarned at that very first attack Sorcha had stymied right outside the palace. It felt like ages had passed, but it had only been two years ago.

  Still the palace had to be taken—and this time by Zofiya—if she was to have any chance of setting herself up as regent until her brother could be brought back to his senses. Unconsciously, Zofiya lengthened her stride as they began to climb the hill.

  The vast sprawl of the red palace was coming into view, and she found she was holding her breath, when Captain Revele spoke, “Your Imperial Highness, look!”

  The airship captain pointed to the west side of the battlements; it was as if a great fist had been brought down on the wall. It lay in tumbled pieces.

  The Grand Duchess’ thoughts raced to the map Captain Revele had shown her back on the Summer Hawk. A swathe of cities down the center of the Empire had been struck out; ugly gray crosses over their names. To the east, sweeping out from Vermillion was a mess of colored markers—red, green and yellow. The colors she recognized as those of the many Princes of Arkaym. Now looking down, she could see the palace had not escaped damage either.

  The captain leaned across to her. “It is as you said, your brother has gone mad, turned on his own people. No one will deny that you are the next legitimate ruler of Arkaym now.”

  Zofiya gritted her teeth; her concerns suddenly going from how she was going to take the palace, to if there would be anyone left inside to put up a fight.

  “Kal, what have you done?” she muttered softly to herself. It might have been Derodak that had turned her brother’s mind, but if he had been stronger . . .

  “Follow me,” she snapped
.

  The cobbled square around the palace was very wide, but there were plenty of homes and shops around the perimeter. All looked sadly empty, but she had spotted a public house with a low stone wall around a small garden. It had fine lines of sight and an excellent view of the main entrance to the palace. Zofiya and her motley collection of airmen, marines and soldiers gathered there.

  The Grand Duchess clenched her jaw and tried to imagine this was like any other tactical situation—and not the place that had been her home in Delmaire for so long. She had to quickly size up what was going on here and decide the best course of action.

  Despite the condition of the rest of the defenses, the gate was manned. It should have made her fearful, but instead the Grand Duchess actually found she was pleased. If they could mount some kind of defense of the gate, then there had to be someone in charge. Still, despite all that, she did not want to simply lead her own group within rifle shot of them—not without knowing how they would react.

  Zofiya yanked down on the edge of her borrowed uniform and gestured to the soldier standing nearby. “Spyglass!”

  His cap was missing and the insignia on his shoulder torn off; he looked like a war victim rather than the supply sergeant of the Imperial docks. He gazed at her for a moment, and she could actually observe the clouds roll back from his eyes. He’d joined them at the airship port along with a few others, but the majority of their troops were marines from the Summer Hawk.

  Recovering himself, he slapped a brass spyglass into her open palm; she trained it on the soldiers manning the defenses, running her eye over the squadron. Their uniforms were tidy enough looking, but through the glass she could see that they were hollow eyed. Some part of her was proud that the men she had trained had stayed at their posts, despite what her brother was doing.

  Many of the aristocrats had probably fled to the Imperial Palace when geists started appearing once again. However, she had to consider that the palace housed many artifacts collected over its long history. She could only hope none of her brother’s men knew how to use them.

  “The cannons, Your Imperial Highness.” Captain Revele drew Zofiya’s attention away from the men, to where short, snub-nosed cannons had been pulled up on the battlements. “Should we not conceal ourselves?”

  Zofiya drew her eyebrows together in a hawklike stare. This was a new addition to the battlements. In the early days of her brother’s reign, there had been artillery on the walls, but Kal had ordered them rolled away once it was obvious the population welcomed him. What could have happened here to make him bring them back? Again, she had to remind herself that the last time she had seen her Imperial brother he had been frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.

  She took a deep breath before speaking, “Captain, these are my men. I trained them. They know me, and I want them to see me.”

  With the aide of the spyglass she determined there were no gunners nearby, so they were probably safe for the moment. Still, she did not want to show any hint of fear. If Zofiya were to pull off what some might call a coup, she would need the appearance of knowing what she was doing.

  She could call in the remaining airships to the city and bombard the walls—but that would be what her brother in his current state would do. No, she had to not only take the palace and the city, she also had to secure the goodwill of the citizens. Without that, she would be simply another Pretender to the throne—no better than Raed Syndar Rossin.

  Zofiya gestured to one of the aircorp sailors who had joined them from the Summer Hawk. “Do you know my bugle call?” She had noted earlier that he had the standard– issue instrument hanging from his belt. On airships and in other branches of the military different calls were played for various activities and events.

  The young man’s eyes widened at being addressed by the Grand Duchess of Arkaym; they were coincidentally the same deep brown as Merrick’s. “Yes, Imperial Highness,” he stammered out. “I know all the regulation calls.”

  Her gaze tightened on him. “Then I need you play it, as loud and clear as you can make it.”

  The young man swallowed hard and raised the trumpet to his lips. His first notes were halting, but after a few moments he grew a little more confident. Her call blasted out across the square and directly at the palace that not that long ago she had lived in.

  The soldier kept shooting a look out of the corner of his eye, until she eventually gave the signal for him to cease. The final notes of the horn fluttered off and died among the rubble. It was not long until results were in evidence.

  The first was a shot that ricocheted off the pavement directly in front of the Grand Duchess. She did not flinch, though most of those on each side of her ducked back behind a low stone wall that surrounded the shop.

  “A fine shot,” she commented to Revele who had jerked a little but remained upright. “At least one of the Imperial Guard snipers is alive.” She trained the spyglass in the direction of the shot, and caught a glimpse of ginger hair and a long rifle barrel pulling back behind the battlements. Schling—that was the only sniper she knew that could make that shot and had hair that color.

  If he was still alive, then there was still some order within the palace. He was a stickler for protocol and needed a leader he could believe in. If not, he would not act. The Grand Duchess’ mind raced over the possibilities of who could have been left in charge of the palace. It had to be Mertle or Gunnine.

  Quickly, Zofiya began stripping off her weapons, dumping both her saber and her pistols at Revele’s feet. The captain looked at her in horror. “Your Imperial Highness, I hope you are not—”

  “We have no other choice,” Zofiya replied, retying her belt around her waist. “I will not kill any Imperial Guards, but I must have the palace and the throne under my control. You have seen what my brother is doing . . . I can’t let him . . .” She stopped, steeled herself and looked the airship captain in the eye. “In the end, I don’t matter. None of us do, but the Empire and her people do. We must see them through, even if the Emperor no longer can.”

  The captain stared for a moment—perhaps weighing if she believed Zofiya or not—and then nodded shortly. “The ‘Call to Talk’ then?”

  “If you please.” The Grand Duchess adjusted her uniform as best she could, and then waited.

  The bugler now had a thin line of sweat running down his face, though it was still chilly. Zofiya could imagine that he was terrified of being the soldier that sent the Imperial sister to her death. However, he raised his instrument to his lips and blew out the solemn notes of “Call to Talk.”

  Zofiya stepped around the stone wall, and walked toward the guard tower with her arms outspread. She kept her face impassive, but her heart was racing in her chest, and now she was sweating as much as the young soldier.

  The line that the sniper had on her—she could feel it like it was a bee stinging her between the eyes. As Zofiya approached the wall, her steps sped up. The sound of the bugle went on, and it was a dull funerary drone to her footsteps. Finally, she looked up and saw there was another uniformed figure leaving from the walls of the palace, keeping the same pace she did.

  Zofiya was excited to see that she did in fact recognize the narrow tall form of Gunnine approaching. The major had been the protector of the Imperial Palace for as long as Kaleva had been Emperor—and in fact before then. She had been the caretaker of the palace when it had been empty, making sure to keep looters and fortune hunters from it in those dark years between the disposal of the Rossin family and the arrival of Kaleva and Zofiya. Her scarred and Ancient face made the Grand Duchess feel a little more secure. Now if she could only convince the major of her good intentions toward Vermillion and the Empire itself.

  They reached the middle ground between the edge of the square and the palace walls. Gunnine snapped off a salute that was as sharp as any by a solider half her age. Her keen gaze flickered over the Grand Duchess’ uniform and presentation, and the Imperial sister was suddenly glad that she had taken some care
with it. Such things mattered to the older soldier.

  “Nice to see you are alive,” Gunnine said, raising one of her eyebrows. “Your Imperial brother has however put a price on your head.”

  Zofiya had expected it, but nevertheless, her heart sank. “I am sorry to hear it, Major, but my purpose for coming here is not to give a bounty hunter an easy payday. It is to save the Empire.”

  The old soldier frowned and glanced once over her shoulder. “The palace still stands, the throne is still there, and so are we.” She paused. “Your Imperial Highness should know, though, that we remain loyal to the Emperor.”

  Zofiya would not have expected any less. “I understand that, Major. However, I think you will agree that there are exceptional circumstances to be taken into account.”

  Gunnine tilted her head, the skin around her gray eyes crinkling as she narrowed her gaze on Zofiya. “It is not for a soldier to judge the merits of the leader that she serves. It is not our job to do so. If we had to stop and think about the value of every order that is given, we could not operate.”

  It was the usual argument given by any soldier, marine or airman in service, but Zofiya could not simply accept that. “I understand your position, truly I do, but I think that you will agree recent events have changed things for all of Arkaym.” She shuffled her feet, looking down at them for a minute and considering how much to reveal she knew. Eventually she decided that she needed to release all the cannons. If Zofiya could not gain entry to the palace, and the trust of its final guardians, then there was no chance to be had.

  “You have heard of the bombardments, I take it?” she went on. “The cities in the west have all suffered from them . . . and some of them not very far away.”

  “Indeed,” Gunnine murmured, her voice low and stained with distress, “we are not that cut off that we would miss them.”