Philippa Ballantine: Harbinger

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.