Harbinger

TWO Seeing Through the Veil

It was the nature of all traitors to strike in darkness, and this night—like many others that had come before it—they took that chance.

Sorcha Faris had begun the night sleeping next to her lover, Raed Syndar Rossin, perhaps the second most wanted person in the Empire of Arkaym after herself. They had drifted into sleep after making love and warming the sheets as best they could in the cold northern citadel that had become their refuge. It was a good way to slip off to sleep—even if she was not entirely used to it yet.

The smile on the Deacon’s face was not the kind many from the Mother Abbey would have recognized; Sorcha Faris was not known for her smiles. However, since the Order of the Fist and the Eye was broken, and the Mother Abbey lay in ruins, none of them would have the chance to judge her. That was truly the only good thing about its destruction.

When the first scream sounded, Sorcha jerked awake, and her initial instinct was to reach across to shake her lover out of his sleep. It was a surprise to realize that the howls for help were in her head; however, they also seemed to echo in the stone of the citadel.

Another shock was that her grasping hands found nothing; Raed was not there. His side of their meager bed was chill, and even the smell of his skin was absent. He must have slipped off sometime in the night.

Not that she could really begrudge him any late-night forays. Only hours before, Sorcha had sat in counsel with ten of the strongest remaining Deacons until the citadel’s hearth fires burned low. Afterward, she had very much enjoyed waking up Raed—consequently she had no real remembrance of falling asleep herself.

Raed’s whereabouts were however not the most important thing now, as another muffled yell could be heard, this time coming from above their room. Leaping up from bed naked, she threw on her cloak and belted it around her, along with her saber. Instinctually, her hands reached out for the Gauntlets she’d grown up with, and then stopped suddenly. The Gauntlets had been destroyed. She had to remind herself that every single time, because a near-lifetime of working with them as her foci had not been undone by mere months. She still felt that loss. The intricate workings of the runes on her own flesh did not offer as much comfort as the weight of smooth leather on her hands once had.

So, as clothed as she could manage, Sorcha bolted from the room, and ran toward where the commotion was now, not only in her head, but echoing down the hallway. What could it be this time? One of the Deacon’s dogs had been dismembered last night, while ghostly messages had been burned into stone the previous week. She knew escalation when she saw it; someone wanted them to know they were not alone and to put fear into their very bones.

This Priory citadel was old, falling down in places, but also rather large, a fact Sorcha cursed as she bounded up the stairs two at a time. However, it was not like they’d had their choices of bolt-holes. This northern outpost had long been abandoned by the first Native Order, the Circle of Stars, but was the best they could do. The remnants of the Order of the Eye and the Fist that she’d gathered here had scoured the place for cantrips and physical traps before settling in. She’d thought it safe.

The silvery runes carved into Sorcha’s flesh twisted and flexed, as if they were in fact alive, as she pounded up yet another set of spiraling stairs. They were not as quiescent as they had been when worked into the Gauntlets, a fact that she found disturbing, even while she found the knowledge that they would never be taken from her comforting.

The guttering lamps set into the walls of the stone Priory cast unreliable light, but she did not need to trust that; she had something far better. Another thing they would never take from Sorcha again was her partner Merrick Chambers. Even though she could not see him, she knew when he woke. His presence was a warmth on her back, like an unseen candle that spurred her confidence.

Her Sensitive slept very lightly—a fortunate trait considering their predicament. His Center enveloped her like a comforting embrace, but it was more than that. Apart, they were only themselves, together, they were more than the sum of their powers and parts. When he shared his vision with her, she was a hawk, a lion, and almost a goddess.

Now Sorcha raced up the stairs more surely, her feet striking the stone with confidence. Whoever had come calling at this late hour was about to get more than they could possibly have bargained for—whether they were creatures of this realm or the Otherside.

Up ahead, Sorcha could not only hear people screaming and shouting but also taste their emotions. Fear was running amok up there; lay Brothers tried to bellow over the howls of the terrified camp followers in an attempt to restore some kind of control.

They are dying. Merrick always seemed to deliver news in the calmest of tones. We need to be there now.

She didn’t respond, too busy feeling out the shape of the panic above them. Normal human folk were being driven into blind panic by something not yet identifiable, while the cool, hard Centers of the lay Brother were like anchor stones in the midst of a chaotic storm. They might not have powers, but they had training.

Panting only slightly, Sorcha reached the landing, just as Merrick and Zofiya—once the heir of Arkaym—appeared from another corridor. Their rooms were deeper inside the Priory, closer to the root of the mountain. The Deacon was not entirely sure how she felt about her partner’s attachment to the dark-haired and beautiful Grand Duchess Zofiya, who no matter the situation always looked as imperious as her title. Merrick caught Sorcha’s gaze, and he didn’t need to say anything; she knew now was not the time.

Zofiya was throwing on her bandolier as they ran up the remaining stairs together, but remained thankfully and diplomatically silent. The continuing screams from upstairs were growing louder. Remarkably, she let Merrick and Sorcha precede her.

Perhaps, Sorcha thought sharply, my friend is making improvements on her.

Merrick shot her a warning glance from the corner of one eye. The tattoos of the Runes of Sight carved his young face in eerie shadows that it had not been made to wear. It gave her a twinge to realize that she would never again see him as she had that first time in the Mother Abbey. It had only been a few years ago, and yet so much had changed.

Careful. His thoughts formed in her head as easily as her own did. That too had almost been taken from her. Though she’d railed against the intrusion of Merrick’s thoughts initially, now she welcomed it. It was the bedrock of the Order. Her Order. Whatever that might come to mean in the future.

Rise together or fall alone.

It was the kind of thing that could be carved on a majestic building and had come to her in a rare idle moment. Perhaps it would be a motto someday.

Strange the thoughts that would not be silent in her head, even at moments like this. Merrick’s Sight was giving her much more clarity as he wakened, and they drew closer to the epicenter of the attack.

Yes, attack. That is indeed what it is. Merrick’s voice blended into her own mind. No sinister words in stone or dog carcass this time. A blatant attack.

Their shared Center however was confused all the same. Geists were in the room, or just had been, but as they got to the top stair they could feel no more of them.

Merrick and Sorcha shared a glance, and then with an unspoken agreement she thrust open the door to the Great Hall.

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.

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 with 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.

Sorcha was used to pain; what she was not used to was not knowing what to do. The wari were closing in, but Merrick—still holding her upright—unrolled Kebenar, the Fourth Rune of Sight around them.

Now everything was laid bare to her. The wari were more than just three entities. Sorcha pushed her hair out of her eyes and got her feet under her. Not for the first time she wondered how she had managed without Merrick at her back.

They are a net, sent to take us back. The idea of that was worse than if they had been trying to kill or destroy their souls. To be wrenched through to the Otherside and pulled apart by geists was the most terrible fate imaginable.

A bright memory flashed across the Bond, one from her partner. Floating in a sea of stars, with the indistinct face of Nynnia hovering nearby. Such a feeling of peace and joy filled Sorcha that she began to understand what misery Merrick had been in. No one forgets his first love, and Nynnia, Ancient, sent through time, had been that to Sorcha’s Sensitive.

This time however, it would not be Nynnia bringing them to the Otherside—and the geists would have far less generous ways of handling them. As the wari charged, Sorcha reflexively threw up her left hand and summoned Yevah from her skin.

A gleaming scarlet flaming dome leapt to life between the geists and the Deacons. For a moment the cold lifted slightly. It should have been a deep relief, but Sorcha was still frozen down to her bones.

The hand she was holding the shield rune up with had her full attention. The spiderweb Pattern of the rune on her arms was running flame red, gleaming on her skin like colored fire, but now she saw something else entirely.

The light coming from the crack was illuminating something she had never seen before. Now standing before the shimmering gap into the Otherside, she saw the tendril of the rune gleaming on her flesh, and disappearing into it through the space to the realm of the undead.

It makes sense. Merrick’s whisper into her mind was like a trickle of cold water over her stunned conscience. The runes are powers from the Otherside, and it seems the Order stole them from there.

He was so calm, and yet what he was saying was not in their teachings. In the novitiate they were taught that the runes came from humanity’s own psyche; ripped from their souls in order to fight the geists. It was so relentlessly drummed into them that Sorcha had never thought to question it.

The Sensitives . . . had they known? How could they not know? A little worm of distrust bit her deep down. No, not Merrick. He can’t have known.

Sorcha! His voice battered the inside of her skull as hard as a hammer blow. Her distraction had however been enough.

The three wari were inside the shield. Their long stretched faces charged at the two Deacons while their claws flashed back, ready to strike. Sorcha heard Merrick shout over her right shoulder, but there was nothing to be done, and what could a Sensitive do in any case? She caught a glimpse of the long, sharp faces, the mouths curved open in something that might have been undead delight; macabre joy that surely meant the end for the pair of Deacons.

Sorcha had a moment to contemplate how foolish and weak she had been. Her soul was about to be ripped from her body, and there was nothing at all she could do to prevent it. The three assailants moved. The cold tips of the geists’ fingers touched her, and the pain of those touches penetrating her skin was enough to have broken a normal human. However, the claws did not drive deeper to separate soul from body.

Three sets of empty, dark eyes locked on her, and the words that formed in her mind were like pools of ice. Mistress . . . apologies . . . we did not know . . .

Unbelievably, she was hearing the geists in her mind as clearly as she heard Merrick. Just when she’d thought that the world could not get any more broken and strange.

Merrick was there, though, and louder than the undead could ever hope to be. Shayst! Now!

It was beaten into her to obey her Sensitive when he called. His judgment was not be to questioned. She thrust out her right arm, and the green light of the sixth rune ran widdershins up it. The pain of the wari and the rune combined until it felt like her head was about to turn itself inside out.

The geists were all connected to her; their bodies were inside her, and they had no time to escape the ravages of Shayst as it reached into their very being. They had come from the Otherside to rip her soul free, and instead it was she doing the ripping. Sorcha tore their very substance apart. She did it quickly so that there was no way that they could poison her mind with more terrifying words.

The two Deacons stood there a moment, panting slightly, their minds and Sight tangled together. Sorcha was not sure how much her partner had seen of those moments of chaos, but she hoped he had not caught any of it. She didn’t know what they meant and she didn’t want to hear—at least straight away—what he might think had happened.

Merrick straightened and pulled back his Center. For some reason, this time she felt bereft. Her partner didn’t say anything to her, but strode off the balcony, back into the Great Hall, and began throwing the heavy furniture away from the door. After taking a deep breath, Sorcha went to help him.

The flood of angry and worried Deacons surged into the room. They looked about them, and Sorcha did not need to share Merrick’s Sight to know they were horrified. The scene was a little dramatic; blood, bodies and the dissipating fetid smell of the Otherside.

“It is lucky that we hadn’t decorated the citadel yet,” Sorcha said, motioning to the burned stone and pools of blood drying on the floor.

Then, pushing aside the dark thoughts that had been born in the carnage, she began helping them tidy up. In this new world, they couldn’t afford to merely let the lay Brothers clean up the mess. Now, they all had to pitch in.