Wrayth

TWENTY-FIVE An Unholy Enterprise

Merrick, with his Conclave at his back, walked down the corridors that seemed now very unfamiliar. Though he led the way, his heart was racing. His own body felt lighter and more insubstantial than even the Bond with Sorcha. The emotions of so many people in his head distracted him. The strands of the Bonds he had crisscrossed and tangled within him, and he felt as though if he let any of them slip he would be lost.

He had made a Conclave. Something only the Presbyters did, and yet he had gone and done it. Now he held the lives of seven other people in his hands. One wrong move and they could all forget to breathe.

Sorcha’s confusion and disappointment hammered away in the corner that he had shoved his primary Bond. A Conclave was a serious matter, and few of the Actives knew that it was Sensitives that formed them. He was, from recollection, right now acting as the nexus of the Conclave. He would be the only one to retain complete memory of proceedings during the event. It was one of the many secrets the Sensitives kept to themselves…that and the nature of the final rune of Sight.

By the Bones, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use that as well tonight.

Merrick, through effort of will, pulled together his scattering thoughts.

It was a short walk from the Arch Abbot’s rooms to the Devotional, but it felt like an eternity to get there; so many feet, so many breaths and so many thoughts to filter and make as one. He was suddenly given a great appreciation of what Actives went through every time they used their runes. His skin burned and his eyes watered, but he was giddy with the feeling. It was like walking a tightrope with a deadly fall on each side.

As they reached the end of the corridor to the Devotional, he paused at the great ironbound oak door. The sound of voices was coming from the other side, but not as many as he would have thought, and he could tell that the flame of del Rue’s attention was now directed at them. He’d naturally been aware when the Conclave was formed; there was no other rune activity within the whole of the Abbey after all. So because of that, they burned like a signal fire on a moonless night.

We can’t allow him time to respond. All we have is surprise, Merrick sent along the Bond. We have to move now!

Sorcha’s blue eyes fixed on him with total trust. She nodded, and he opened the door to lead them into the Devotional.

Merrick had never seen the whole congregation of the Mother Abbey assembled anywhere before. The great vaulted space of the Devotional was full to the brim with his colleagues. Hundreds of Deacons, a virtual sea of brown, blue and green cloaks lay before him. Every wooden pew was filled, and they had taken up the aisles as well. If it had been a theater production it would have been a grand night indeed, Merrick thought, somewhat strangely.

Then he noticed the rest of the gathering was not just Deacons. Taking up the apse section at the front of the Devotional was a good number of armed Imperial Guards, and in their middle stood the Emperor, his sister and a smiling del Rue. Before them in turn, disturbingly on their knees, was the entire Presbyterial Council, from the Arch Abbot to the ancient Presbyter Mournling. All were bent in supplication—some to greater degrees than others. Merrick’s spiraling thoughts alighted on how another Order had once been slain for not showing the correct level of penitence to some horde-leading warlord. Was this what was going on?

“There they are, the traitors!” Del Rue’s voice echoed in the vast space of the Devotional and all heads turned as one to them.

Merrick’s mind was occupied with holding the Conclave together, and he felt as though he was trapped in amber. Sorcha was luckily not so encumbered. She smiled and stepped down the nave as if she were out for a stroll. “I think you are not familiar with our way of doing things here. The Devotional is for our Order, not yours. I believe you gave it up when the people of Arkaym had enough of your cruel endeavors, and the Emperor outlawed you all.”

The Emperor did not flinch, but a wave of whispers ran through those assembled. The Imperial Guards had not yet raised their rifles, but they looked ready to at a moment’s notice.

Merrick finally had enough of a hold on the Conclave that he was able to study Zofiya. She stood, silent at her brother’s side, but her eyes did not meet his. Through his Center he could see she was not the woman he had shared a bed with a little over a week ago. Del Rue had broken her—something that he would have never thought possible. Through his Center, the Sensitive could see a gleam of gold on the bright scarlet of her soul. It was a stain that had not been there before, and it sickened him. How had del Rue managed to tame the determined royal so quickly? Merrick liked knowing about his opponents, their strengths and weaknesses—or at least being able to research them. By hiding and destroying all information on the Circle of Stars, Raed’s grandfather had done them all a great disservice.

Del Rue ignored Sorcha’s barb, instead pointing to Raed standing behind her. “Look, she has brought the Young Pretender with her, Imperial Majesty. Proof that the Order is conspiring against you as I said.”

Kaleva spun around, his face contorted with rage. Merrick knew then what the golden stain was. The strain of del Rue’s influence on him was subtler than in the Grand Duchess, but it ran far deeper—and he had no time to work on it now.

“If you recall, Your Imperial Majesty,” Raed said to the man who occupied the place he might have occupied, “last year, I risked my own life to save your sister. This, I hope, means you will let me speak before you shoot me dead in this place of sanctuary.”

Merrick held his breath. Killing people in the precepts of the Mother Abbey was forbidden, because it was highly likely to create a geist—not that he expected the Circle of Stars to care much about that. Del Rue’s eyes narrowed on the Young Pretender, but perhaps the threat of the Rossin stayed him from doing anything rash. Meanwhile, the Imperial Guard shifted in their ready position—not enough for a normal eye to tell but the Deacons saw it. These guards, even if they had not been there, still knew what the Order had done for the Empire. He could only hope that would give them a moment’s pause.

Given this brief moment, Merrick considered using his wild talent on the room, but there were too many conflicting emotions between the fear of the Deacons, the Emperor’s burning rage and the confusion of the guards. If he picked the wrong one to amplify then he could trigger a massacre.

“This man calling himself del Rue is no friend to the Empire.” Raed’s eyes flicked over the Imperial Guard and the Deacons, trying to hold their attention.

While he did so, Merrick began examining the Grand Duchess. Zofiya had a great strength of mind—very similar to a Deacon in fact. If he could just find a way to free it a little, she would do the rest for herself. Dimly he felt Sorcha’s frustration begin to bubble up. The idea of guards in the Devotional was an abomination to her, and he couldn’t hold her in check forever.

“He’s a traitor, a conspirator and the one actually responsible for your sister’s abduction.” Raed gestured at the Grand Duchess in an overly dramatic fashion. “In fact he is one of the Order of the Circle of Stars, the very Order that my grandfather’s father cast down for trying to overthrow the Empire once before.” He pointed up into the massive vaulted ceiling, making all of the assembled look up to where the hacked-off faces on the statues, even now, hung above them. Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick saw an unsettling smile light on del Rue’s lips. He had not looked up nor did he make any protestations that it was not true. He was very confident.

The Presbyters, forgetting they were powerless, rose to their feet in shock. Most looked horrified, but Mournling had the appearance of one who had dreaded such a day and was now seeing it come to fruition. Arch Abbot Rictun opened his mouth a few times, as if he wished he could find the words, but nothing came out.

Sorcha, we will need to move quickly and soon. Merrick blasted the image of what he wanted to do along the Bond. She flinched slightly, but then gave him the tiniest of nods in response. Underneath the sleeves of her cloak her hands clenched.

“And I am to take your word against the word of a member of my aristocracy?” Kaleva threw back his head, filling the Devotional with cracked and mocking laughter. “You are the Pretender to my throne, and now you think to claim it. Guards, take this man into custody immediately!”

His soldiers looked relieved to have something to do that was not a move against the Deacons. Raed was the sole enemy they easily recognized among those who had so recently been allies.

Now!

At Merrick’s command all the Conclave of Deacons stepped out wide from behind him, spreading between the pews in a disciplined move that even the most practiced military men could not have emulated. The Actives raised their hands and Yevah, the Rune of Fire burned on their skin. In the Conclave so much pain was only compounded—they all shared it, but it did not stop them. The rune was burning through every muscle and sinew—or so it felt. The temporary designs the Patternmaker had created barely held together, and they had to concentrate twice as hard to keep Yevah in place. Yet they did. Merrick felt triumphant, for without a Conclave, this would be impossible. He also knew, without Sorcha there would be no strength in the rune. Merrick felt her like an iron rod in the group; a core they could all grasp onto.

Despite the difficulties, a sheet of summoned flame erupted between the mass of Deacons and the Imperial Guard. The soldiers flinched back from the unholy fire, and their shock was perfectly understandable. No one had ever used runes on humans. Not in all the history of the Order of the Eye and the Fist. However it was a time of change and chaos. All the rules were gone now, and his small band of Deacons was making its own. For a brief moment Merrick reveled in that freedom.

The Deacons, those still without powers, rose to their feet turning to those who held the rune before them. A few smiled broadly and cheered to see that at least some of their colleagues had regained power. Others hid their faces in shame. At the front, the whole Presbyterial Council looked up as the wide length of flaming shield reflected in the stained glass windows in shameless beauty. Merrick caught a glimpse of another face in the crowd, the weather-beaten visage of Deacon Garil Reeceson. He merely nodded to Merrick, not exactly happy with what he was seeing, but not surprised either.

“This meeting is a sham. He gathered you all here to kill you!” By some trick of the moment and acoustics of the building, Sorcha’s voice boomed down the whole length of the Devotional. “Get out to the stables, my brothers! Leave Vermillion while we still can! We shall find each other after!”

Merrick felt his partner’s plan like a hard pebble in his mind, but there was no time to examine it. It was enough she had some idea of how they could survive this. The Presbyterial Council members, who had all looked so powerful to Merrick, now appeared fragile creatures, but several of them did in fact turn to do as Sorcha suggested. Melisande Troupe had her arm around the elderly Trelaine. Her eyes locked with Merrick’s for just an instant.

Not everyone heeded Sorcha’s warning. Some brave Deacons stayed to fight even though the Order had no weapons on them, while others just looked confused and stricken by indecision. Those who did turn and flee from the Devotional kept to their training and did not panic. Even as they ran, they reached out and helped one another. Merrick’s pride in his fellow Deacons surged, and he set his jaw, determined to give those who could escape the best chance possible. They would have to hold the attention of the Emperor and his guards for some time for that to work.

As confusion began to take hold, del Rue finally showed his true colors. With a shake of his head that made him look like an angry bull, he raised his hands. They were covered by the thin calfskin gloves that Merrick had observed previously. When he whispered something to them however, the runes on them became visible. Such fragile objects should not have been able to contain and control even one rune.

One man with no Sensitive? Sorcha’s heady delight in violence rushed through the Bond. Let’s end this while we can.

Merrick, struggling to hold the Conclave together, would have urged caution, but by then it was too late. Sorcha drew her sword—actually drew her sword—and strode forward.

In response, del Rue summoned Shayst. The green flame of the rune was impossibly fluid as it wrapped around their shield and dispersed the power like a child blowing out a candle flame. He didn’t need a Sensitive. He was like the Arch Abbot—a wielder of both Active and Sensitive powers. No wonder he was so sure of himself. He was everything he required!

Each Deacon had in him the seeds of both Active and Sensitive, but to find one with equal strengths was incredibly rare. Merrick should have been able to see that immediately—that he hadn’t, made the young Sensitive wonder just what this conspirator was. Only an Arch Abbot should have that ability, but this enemy was more than that. While his butterfly thoughts chased that particular fear, del Rue flexed his fingers in his far-too-thin gloves.

Kaleva’s eyes bulged and he staggered away from the man who had just revealed himself as a Deacon. The conspirator’s weeks of work began to tangle around and trip him, because the Emperor was now horrified by any kind of Deacon power. Del Rue didn’t notice at all. He was lost in the mad delight of wielding power. His face was set in a mask of joy as he summoned Chityre to him. Lightning bloomed in the highest reaches of the Devotional, dancing from pillar to pillar and illuminating those powerless Deacons still fleeing the building. The whole building rang with the sound of thunder.

Tighon had the distressing thought, which filtered across the Bond as stones groaned, that all the Order’s work to repair this beautiful building was about to be undone. It was so hard for Merrick to keep a clear mind in Conclave with all these new chaotic thoughts darting about.

Deiyant! Sorcha’s voice was like a shout in his head, rising above the rumble of the yammering of the others. She called for the rune that wielded air, often called the push rune, but he didn’t have a moment to think. He acted. The Conclave raised its hands as one above their heads, and the amber glow of the rune flashed out around them. The pews around them flew up, wrenched from their places and thrown up, just barely above their heads.

This all happened in one long heartbeat, just as the lightning came down among them. The Devotional keened again, like a ship caught in a storm, and in fact did seem to list. Then one of the two front pillars of the asp cracked and toppled, bringing down a portion of the ceiling.

Like a mast, Merrick thought dimly to himself, as the Conclave buzzed in his head. Something impacted him in the chaos, but it really didn’t seem to matter. For a time, his world was entirely comprised of stone, dust and rubble.

Reflexively, Merrick held on to the Conclave. When finally he could make sense of the world, he found himself lying at the edge of a pile of stones, coughing up dust, with his ears ringing.

Sorcha was lying sprawled across him, but she was miraculously alive, though bleeding from a wound to her head. Staunching the blood with one hand, she yanked Merrick to his feet with the other.

His ears were still useless, but he heard along the Bond. Tighon is dead. She really didn’t need to tell him that—he could feel it in the Conclave. One had fallen away, and with him Natylda his Sensitive. Merrick glanced to his left and saw her screaming and trying to dig him out of the rubble, even though all in the Conclave could feel his loss. Thanks to Sorcha there were not as many Deacons buried beneath the stones than there would have been otherwise, but they could still all feel them; injured, broken, dying. Even as Merrick’s Center flooded him with information, he felt in that moment a man’s life go out.

The Devotional was now groaning and creaking, still shuddering with the terrible wounds it had taken. The sheer weight of bricks and stone could not hold forever.

Some distance off, Merrick spied del Rue pulling himself out of the dust. He was completely unharmed, but the young Deacon spotted his one chance. Del Rue was concentrating so hard on finding a way to destroy the Conclave, that for a moment his mind was vulnerable and unprotected. Merrick wrapped his mind around the rune Aiemm and cast it at him like a javelin.

The Rune of the Past consumed the young Deacon as he saw through del Rue’s eyes. No, not del Rue: Horris, Cristin, Melloir, Hjan. Hundreds of names, places and memories rolled over Merrick, until only one remained. Pulled back from the ocean of the past—Derodak. Merrick plunged down desperately after that name.

The world was new, and he was an Ehtia; a creator of magic and machines. Like Nynnia, he had fled with his people to the Otherside so that the world might not be destroyed by the geists that hunted the Ehtia after the Break. However, also like Merrick’s lost love, he had chosen to be born back into this world with many of his powers stripped away—but not for the fine and good reasons that had motivated Nynnia.

A world he felt had failed him. A world he now wanted to control. He had lived too long, been too many people: first Deacon, Emperor, saint, rebel and destroyer.

“Derodak,” Merrick whispered to himself. It literally meant “the first” in Ancient. The Conclave was forming around him again, seeing what he now saw, the real person behind the mask that was del Rue.

However, they were not alone. Kaleva and his remaining guards could now be seen through the clearing dust. The ceiling high above still held, and the stones had only wounded a few of them, yet the Emperor’s rage was reaching apoplectic proportions. The calm leader Merrick had been introduced to was long gone. His etheric presence was pulsing, indicating he’d passed the point where sanity had any hold on him. All the bonds that held him, his sister, his love of the Empire, his determination to be a good ruler, were blown away under the assault of so much chaos. Derodak had done his work well and had now pulled the trigger.

“Demons are trying to kill me!” he screamed. “Kill them all! Whatever it takes.” The Imperial Guard needed no urging to take action. They’d been witness to many unleashed powers this day, come close to death themselves, and were now ready to unleash some of their own.

Merrick, scrambling to hold all the straining powers of the Conclave together, saw their rifles come up, and called again for Aydien. The blue fire ran widdershins around the Conclave, dancing off flesh and lancing out. Bullets zinged around them, even as the power of the rune pushed back against the guards, sending them flying like chaff in all directions. Still some of their aim held true, and Leonteh and Quannik crashed to the ground, choking on their own blood. Horror and disbelief flooded the Bond, and the rest of the Conclave threads began to unravel between them. He only held Lujia and Sibuse with himself and Sorcha now. It was barely enough to be called a Conclave now.

The Imperial Guard kept firing, but underneath Merrick heard the sound that he had been fearing: the growl of the Rossin. In all of this, they had forgotten Raed. He had stood with them, but apart, and now whatever control the Young Pretender held over the beast disappeared. Merrick had known it would happen eventually. Perhaps, if he was honest, it was the reason they had brought him with them. The Rossin was always the wild card in the deck.

Raed shared a look with Merrick and Sorcha, his hazel eyes already turning to gold, but he had no time to remove his clothes or spare them a word.

The great cat leapt into existence, snarling, and ready to do what his nature dictated. He glanced once at Derodak, shook his head and then sprang among the guards. The sound of their screams was painful for Merrick to hear, but they had opened fire on the Order.

However once he had cleared the Devotional of soldiers firing at them, the Rossin did not turn back. A rear guard of soldiers tried to keep firing to cover their Emperor’s escape, but the Rossin pursued. The scattered remains of the Conclave could do nothing to stop him.

Keeping his head down, Merrick saw with great disappointment that Derodak was untouched. He rose from among the bullets and debris, still with that damnable smile on his lips, and held out his hand to the Grand Duchess, who took it. She looked no more than a piece of furniture, still Merrick felt relief wash over him.

Del Rue took no notice of her however, instead focusing on the Deacons. “How very unexpected of you, Faris and Chambers! Looks like you’ve managed to cobble together something akin to a Pattern—so you must have found him then?” His brow furrowed. “How did you do that though, I wonder?” His eyes drifted to Sorcha, piercing her through with Sight. “Something we did not count on then…” He did not appear afraid, but rather intrigued; as if Sorcha were merely a piece he had to fit into his game board.

Being examined so, did not improve Sorcha’s mood. Merrick felt her raise her hand, but even in the Conclave he could not hold her back; she was far too strong for that.

She plucked Pyet from the ether, screaming in rage and pouring fire down upon Derodak like some mythical dragon. The heat was so intense in the confined space that Merrick, Lujia and Sibuse staggered back, falling to their knees. Merrick thrust his face into the crook of his arm so that he might have a chance to breathe. It felt as though every hair on his head was going to catch fire. They were all going to die. Against the flame, all he could make out was the outline of Sorcha. Her skin was wreathed in blue flickering lights that wrote out the runes on her flesh. High above them, the stained glass succumbed to the heat, and then it was raining red-hot molten drops—blues, greens and reds—down on them all.

Merrick was going to have to use Ticat on her, the last-resort rune held by the Sensitives. By the Bones, he didn’t want to, but if she didn’t stop he would have to.

Sorcha! Come back!

It was a near thing, but somehow she pulled herself back. The flames died away under her command. What was left behind was a scarred and pitted Devotional that would never be the same again. The smell of burned wood and stone filled the survivors’ nostrils.

Sorcha herself was sobbing, shaking and staggering on her feet. Yet out of it all, emerged Derodak, only the hem of his cloak singed, with one arm still around the pale and staring Zofiya.

He glanced once to his right, and smiled bleakly seeing the Imperial Guard fleeing before the Rossin, taking the Emperor with them.

“Kaleva was always the weakest of the siblings, but luckily I don’t need him anyway”—Derodak shrugged—“I have his sister.” With that, he grabbed Zofiya by the arm and pulled her in the opposite direction her brother had run. Merrick realized none of them could use Voishem, because of the protective cantrips worked into the walls of all the Abbey buildings to prevent geist infiltration.

What exactly his plan was, Merrick couldn’t fathom, but Sorcha spun on her heel, her eyes wild with rage. “We can’t let him get away or we might never find him. By the Bones, come on!” And then not waiting for his reply, she vaulted over the tumbled rock and chased after him.

Lujia and Sibuse were bleeding, injured, still capable of movement but not much else. The Conclave was broken. Merrick fixed them with a sad gaze, realizing they could well be the only members of the Order still capable of using their runes. He wasn’t sure how much that mattered now, but there was the faint chance it did. “Get out of here, and go back to Widow Vashill’s. You’ve done all you can here.” Then he turned his back on them and followed his partner into the dust and confusion of the end of the Order.