“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 Summer Hawk dropped lower and lower and everything began to come into dreadful focus. They could now see the blood on the cobblestones, and make out every little tragedy as it played out below.
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 Summer Hawk returned fire.
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 choice. Everything rested on these moments. As First Presbyter he would burn all of his Order, all of the new recruits to keep the world from suffering another Break.
Wrapping his silver fur cloak about him, Merrick opened his Center as wide as he could, taking the leaders of the other Conclaves into his own control. He was the spider at the center of the web. The master puppeteer. The heady sensation of so many minds, so much power, almost pulled him apart. It had to be the largest Conclave in Order history.
Now their true enemies could be seen. The Native Order had always been excellent at hiding itself, but they could no longer do that—not with the beam of the grand Conclave on them.
They too were knitted in groups, but something had passed through them and weakened them considerably.
The Rossin. The smell of him and the tang of his passing were now visible on every surface. Much blood had been spilled, but there were still many of Derodak’s children in the palace, and they were
drawing together with every moment.
Heat enveloped Merrick, rage such that he had never really let out before. Sensitives were taught to be calm, controlled—but now all of that was washed away. He saw again his father murdered on the steps of his childhood home by a geist. Experienced once more the piles of dead he and Sorcha had uncovered on the way to Ulrich. And finally he saw Derodak stealing his mother into the tunnels under Orinthal. It was too much.
With the silver fur cape flowing around him, Merrick set off. His own personality felt very fragile as he held it before him, like a dim light that he could drop at any instant. The chatter of so many voices in his head, even as they tried to remain quiet, was still nearly overwhelming.
The Native Order had regrouped farther into the corridors of the palace, and they came at him again; the Runes of Dominion turned on them in floods of green, blue and red. Flames poured out of the corridors toward the advancing Enlightened, and Derodak’s children appeared out of the walls, with swords and spears.
The palace became a heaving battleground in an instant. Battle was joined, and it was Merrick who stood in the center of it all. Blood trickled and ran from the corners of his eyes and his nose as the pressure of holding the Conclave together took its toll. He couldn’t move to defend himself, but he was not without a protector. The Fensena was there, apart from the Conclave, snarling and ripping out unsuspecting throats in the corridors and rooms.
Merrick began to use the parts of the Conclave like a body. His arms flashed out, defending with the shield of fire, while the limbs of others called Chityre into being in the corridors. Shayst, the green fire, took power where it could, while Deiyant threw furniture to block oncoming advances. He saw all and killed all.
Soon enough Merrick realized that he had the upper hand and why. Derodak was not in the Native Order Conclaves. He was not present to hold them together in a grand cohesive union, as Merrick was doing.
And they were frightened. In the whirl of moving his people, the Sensitive had not much energy to use his Center to see beyond the current fight. Yet, now as the grand Conclave felt more seamless, he could sense their opponents’ fear. The Rossin had run among them, and their runes had no effect on the Beast. He had torn them down and left them in ruins, yet their leader was not here.
Derodak was below. He was making the ground shake, and anyone with ears could hear it, and anyone with humanity could feel the presence of the breach. However, Merrick could not reach Derodak, the Rossin or even Sorcha. They were sealed off in a bubble created by the widening breach.
You have to end this. You have to be there. Nynnia’s breath was on his neck, cool in the heat of battle. It was an instant of clarity in the tumult, and he knew what he had to do.
The talent he carried came from the Ehtia. It was how they had been able to work the weirstones and ruled the world for generations. The Order he had been raised in had hated and feared them because they were not measured and controlled. They were wild and unpredictable.
Merrick needed chaotic and unpredictable right now, so he opened the conduit. His body disappeared. It was not just the wild magic of his heritage—it was everything he had ever learned. He let it all flow out into the Conclave.
You are wrong, the talent bellowed at the Native Deacons. You are bad, evil and wrong. Look what you are doing!
No one ever thinks of themselves as evil, but Merrick’s wild talent made them see what they really were. They had been used and twisted. Their Arch Abbot had no care for them. They were fodder for his madness and had been bred as such. They were nothing more than sheep farmed for his use.
It was too much, too much for his targets and too much for the Conclave. The voices of the Native Order in Merrick’s head screamed in horror at what he had done and what he had shown them.
When he came back to himself, he was standing in a room full of bodies. Some were dead, some were howling and crying. The part of him that he’d lost in the Conclave would have felt something about this, guilt he supposed. In this moment he had nothing but emptiness.
Merrick wrapped the cloak about him, stepped over the bodies and strode to the main staircase. The sound of claws on stone was the only thing that made him turn.
The Fensena was trotting in his wake, blood staining his muzzle black, and his gold eyes gleaming above the filth. It was the kind of image that could have come from the dark times when the Break had happened: a wild animal intent on death in the halls of humanity.
It seemed fitting to have such a creature as an escort. With the Fensena following, Merrick went down into the depths of Vermillion to find his partner.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Where All Things Must Come
Sorcha felt everything—not just her own physical distress. The pain of her blood pouring out onto the sand that was apparently welcomed by the Otherside. The thousands of voices and concerns of the humans everywhere in the human realm rattled in her head endlessly. She was just a tiny mote in the middle of it. Bleeding out on the very doorstep of the Otherside appeared to be her fate, and even she found it difficult to care.
Hovering over everything was the Maker of Ways. The red eyes sweeping over it all, his shoulder pressed against the edge of existence, and his great tentacles sliding forward out of the Otherside. Already thin geists, rei and mist witches were wriggling their way past him into the world. When he entered completely, there would be nothing but death and servitude to follow.
Sorcha’s mother had not birthed her for this, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was alone and the void around her roared.
At least until she heard the roar of the Rossin. It was loud enough to rise above the screaming sound of the Otherside. Once that roar had caused fear in her heart, but now she felt her tiny mote of reality flare at it.
Derodak was still above her, still letting the blood flow, still forcing her to hold on to all of humanity. Dimly she saw his gaze flick away from her. He called on the shield of fire to hold the Beast off. As it burned, he screamed at the Rossin, “You cannot harm me, Beast. We made the pact, my blood is your blood. You cannot enter.”
The Way is open! Arise Ehtia! A familiar voice called. Sorcha had the fleeting impression of a sweet face pressed against hers, cool and calming.
Then Nynnia and a thousand ethereal forms darted past the Maker. Derodak howled and swore as they collided with him, but he was forced off his perch on Sorcha.
The Ehtia had no bodies, but they had some little power still. They pressed the Arch Abbot against the far wall of the cavern opposite from where the raging Rossin snarled and roared. Their ancestral voices were like dead leaves rustling on cobblestones, but she could make out nothing of their words. It must have meant something to Derodak because he was howling. She was glad of it. Wanted more of it.
The shield of fire dropped away.
Sorcha levered herself up on her elbows, feeling the blood running from many cuts on her arms and body. Her vision dipped in and out. The Maker of Ways was screaming his song of destruction and moving forward. He had no need of her power or blood now; he was nearly done with his task. All was chaos and pain, but standing in the doorway, she finally saw them, and understood.
Merrick, pale and calm was beside the Rossin. He had his hands buried in the fur of the Beast’s mane. They could have been a statue dedicated to wild beauty. Both of them were looking directly at Sorcha, ignoring everything around them. There was nothing else.
Three bodies, four minds in agreement. Sorcha smiled slowly. No, not four minds. Hundreds of minds. She still held humanity inside her, while Merrick held the grand Conclave lightly in his mind, as if he were a child with a string toy in one hand. Sorcha cradled the tiny sparks of the rest of humanity in her. As it had been in the ossuary, one of them was dying.
Gasping, choking on her own blood, Sorcha held out her hand. “Come.”
The minds enveloped her, the flesh followed, and once more they fell into the Merge.
* * *
The Bea
st made of everything was flayed into existence on the very doorstep of the Otherside, but it was not the same Beast as had been born in the White Palace. It had grown huge on so much power. Its tawny hide shifted and moved to the eddies of the runes and power within it. It was the lost children of Waikein. It was the desperate Deacons of the Enlightened. It was the hopeless Empress defending her people above. Each hurt and barb of the living made up its essence.
Sorcha, Raed, Merrick and even the mighty Rossin were merely tiny parts of this great creation. They might have caused it to come into existence, but they could never grasp what it was.
When it opened its eyes, they flared every color.
If there was to be a god in Arkaym, it would be the Living Beast, and it would be brief and glorious. Unlike the creature four souls had made in the darkness of the ossuary, this one was not proud. It was something else entirely; it was the beauty of life. And life was brief, but powerful.
The Maker of Ways still towered above it, the scion of the undead. Its tentacles had pushed aside the breach, and one of its clawed feet was already on the sand. It could not be allowed to enter.
The Living Beast sprang forward, but the sound that issued from its throat was not a roar—it was almost music. It struck the Maker with all the force of everything that made it: the life of the human realm. Its claws pierced the hide of the Beast, and the geistlord howled. Its tentacles tore at the Beast, but he could not pierce to the core of its being. Human realm and Otherside wrestled for control of the breach.
Runes flexed on the Living Beast’s hide as it drove the Maker of Ways backward, biting and clawing at it with all the determination of life trying to overcome death. It had only a moment to exist and triumph. It only had one purpose.
As its feet gouged deeply in the earth, it gained strength from the blood there. It pushed harder.
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