The crowd now advancing on them, however, did not look like they shared his misgivings about violence. Among them, Merrick spotted another face. This one did not look angry or distressed. Deacon Garil Reeceson instead looked broken. Merrick wondered if the old Deacon had foreseen all of this coming to pass.
They were all operating without the usual information they got from their Centers and their Sensitivity, and they were all frightened by what had happened. Some of the Deacons facing him had been raised as children within the safety of the Order.
Merrick knew he couldn’t allow himself to be taken. Del Rue would win—and with very little effort.
“I’m sorry,” Merrick whispered, “I am so sorry.”
And then deep within him, beyond the training of the Order, the spark ignited. Somehow, without the strictures and constraints learned in the Mother Abbey, Merrick’s wild talent found him. It was a smoldering ember that had been waiting to be blown upon. With a cry, Merrick let it out. All of his discipline and control was swept away; he had no way of directing or holding it back.
The wildness fanned out among all of the Order gathered in the courtyard, and then spread from there to wrap itself around the Mother Abbey itself. It pierced all of them through, whispered that everything they held dear and believed in was wasted. Then it howled into their deepest souls that these most important things were lost, and they were utterly alone. Nothing remained.
Merrick was the calm center in a storm of broken dreams, but he was as lost as they were. When he opened his eyes, swaying slightly on his feet, he was the only one still standing. Everyone, from high-and-mighty Presbyter, to lowly lay Deacon from the infirmary, was curled up on the pavement, their arms clutching their knees and their eyes wide and staring.
He had done this before, brought low the crowds outside the Imperial prison in Vermillion so that they could escape with Raed. They had been people who were bent on ripping a good man to pieces, and he’d easily turned their despair at the death of the Arch Abbot against them. The wild talent had left them crying in the streets. That was one thing, but this was another altogether.
These were Deacons of the Order, his friends and colleagues, and he had turned them to terrified children.
“What have I become,” he said, running his hand through his hair, and looking around in despair. “There’s no going back from this.”
Yet this outrage would be for nothing if he did not recover Zofiya from the Circle of Stars and stop whatever plan they had set to running within the Empire. He took Kolya under the arm, and helped him to his feet. The application of his touch was enough to shake him free of the talent’s grip.
He looked up at Merrick with undisguised horror. “How…how did you—”
“No time,” the young Deacon barked in return, “we have to get out of here while we can.” Now it was he that was tugging his rescuer along. Together they levered the gates open and stepped over the curled forms of the lay Brothers that guarded it.
Out on the street, everyday folk went about their business, chatting, bartering and completely unaware of the great and momentous events occurring behind the Mother Abbey’s walls. The sudden and dark thought flashed through Merrick that they would know soon enough. When no Order stood between them and the predations of the geists, the citizens of the Empire would feel the bite of the undead once again. They had lived under the protection of the Deacons for years, and had almost forgotten what their lives had been like before their coming.
Soon, they would be reminded.
Merrick’s hand tightened on Kolya’s shoulder. “I hope you had a plan that involved more than us just standing on the doorstep of the Mother Abbey.”
The tall blond man blinked, still shaking off the effects of the talent on him. “I had a few ideas.” He pulled two brown cloaks out from under a nearby cart, and hastily handed one to Merrick, before taking the second for himself. “Follow me, we’re going to the Edge.”
They stripped off their cloaks of the Order, but could not bear to part with them. Instead, when they donned the rough common ones, they tucked the bundled green cloaks under their arms. Pulling up this new and unwelcome hood, the younger man turned to follow Kolya.
It didn’t matter where they went, today’s events would haunt them both forever. No amount of running was going to change that. Merrick could only hope they would be able to find Zofiya and fix everything before it was irreversible.
EIGHTEEN
Strife in the Family
The riser rattled and jerked its way up the shaft interminably slowly. Sorcha stood as tall as she could manage—though her mind was in tumult. She was trying to be calm, as an example to the crew. In truth, she’d never had much to do with tinker’s devices. They were almost as secretive and insular as the Deacons.
Merrick had told her plenty about the Order of the Circle of Stars, and how they had melded weirstone and runes to their own purposes. She could only hope that they wouldn’t add in tinkering to that mix. As if to emphasize her thoughts, Aachon’s weirstone flared, creating an eerie glow that set everyone’s faces into odd masks.
The Deacon shook her head. She was becoming quite fanciful. The disturbing thought followed; had her mother been fanciful? No, no, no! She would not consider that right now. She would not think about going through the Order’s records looking for a Sensitive Deacon called Caoirse, or finding some long-lost relatives she knew nothing of. At least now she was aware of where she came from, and had a hint about her past. What that could mean would be truly something to consider once they got out of here. Merrick would be able to help with that.
Without thinking, Sorcha slid her hand into Raed’s, tightening her fingers around his. The Bond between them strengthened her resolve. She had one of the men she needed in her life, the other she would get soon enough.
Luckily the riser reached the top level with a shuddering lurch before she could think any more distracting thoughts. The crew unsheathed their weapons and primed their pistols. Aachon held the weirstone in one clenched hand, and jerked open the ironwork doorway with the other.
The crew spread out through the corridor in silence—which there was already plenty of. Sorcha swallowed. Raed had accurately described the place: silent as the grave. With a short nod to Aachon, she took her place at the head of the group, and then, closing her eyes, let her Center fly ahead of them. The fortress still vibrated with geist energy, and it was no surprise. The Wrayth must have used their powers to create such a strange and ominous building, because it was stretching every natural law to its utmost. The interior was not something human builders could have imagined or even attempted.
Now that she was within those walls, she could begin to make out the individual parts that made up the Wrayth. Those below her, the peons, only interested in fornication and pleasure, were like a low hum, something that insects might make as they went about their work. Here, higher up, she could make out other, more definitive presences. These were more focused, and even more lacking in humanity than those below. Yet they did not appear solely as geists to her vision. It was a confusing mixture, especially since deciphering the unliving was properly a Sensitive’s role.
She shook her head, and let out a muffled sigh. “This is far more difficult than I thought,” she confided in a whisper to Raed, “and Merrick makes it look far too easy.”
“What about Fraine and Tangyre?” he said. “You could feel them more easily, perhaps?”
Sorcha considered. She had never met Fraine in person, but she had a brief contact with Tangyre Greene. From recollection she was a tall woman, who had seemed friendly enough, though concerned about Raed’s welfare. She was obviously an impressive actress. Bringing the image of the captain into the front of her Center, she levered it wide and concentrated on just finding one normal human in the nest.