Vashill stood at his side, pressing closer than propriety and custom really allowed. Kaleva did not correct him.
“You see Your Imperial Majesty,” the inventor whispered into his ear. “The weirstone energy is now breaking through to the Otherside. Those tiny openings that are like an invitation to those that wait beyond. It won’t be long.”
The Emperor did not reply. He pressed the spyglass so tightly against his face that his skin ached, but he did not remove it. Finally, his patience was rewarded. He could have sworn that he heard a scream—even from all the way up here.
People were moving on the streets. Doors were being flung open and the citizens were running out of their homes. Soon the roads were filling with people milling about. Now Kaleva could imagine their terrified faces, as nightmares that they had thought conquered were returning in full force.
The Emperor felt as though he was really smiling for the first time in months—for the first time since the ball they had held in Vermillion, back when he thought all was well in his Empire.
No one remained to protect the people of Sousah—there was no Order to stand between the citizens and the undead. They were sheep in the presence of wolves, and the best of it was their Prince had no way to stop the invasion of geists into his city. Sousah would be a fine lesson to all those that thought to oppose him.
“Tell me,” Kaleva spoke, finally removing the spyglass from his eye. “Tell me, Vashill, what is happening down there?” He knew, but he wanted to hear another say it.
Vashill’s lips pressed together, and he shot a glance at the wide-eyed and silent Empress. “The power of the dark weirstones has been released. The gap between the Otherside and our world has been punctured, and the geists have come seeking bodies and terror.”
The Emperor leaned on the gunwales and thought about that. “Shades, ghasts, darklings, and spectyrs will come out to play. No one will be safe.”
“Oh, Kaleva,” Ezefia whispered, her beautiful face once again marred by tracks of tears, “you have done a terrible thing. There is no going back from here.”
He was sick of women telling him what to do. Looking down at the Empress he could have sworn he saw the shape of his sister looking back at him. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
Kaleva gestured to the nearest Imperial Guards, and they hurried to remove the Empress back to the stateroom.
Once she was out of sight the Emperor felt much better, much more in control. He turned to Vashill, letting his eyes wander with great satisfaction over the machine that now stood silent on the deck. Kaleva clapped his hand on the thin man’s back. “You have earned your fee this day, Master Vashill, but tell me, how many of these machines can you make in the next month? I have many airships and many cities that need to feel the hand of the Emperor around their throat.”
The inventor looked up at him, his eyes alight with the prospect. “Your Imperial Majesty, if you give me the workers, I think you will find I can work wonders for you in no time at all.”
“Excellent.” Kaleva only barely refrained from hugging the man. “You shall have whatever you require once we have taught a few more cities the meaning of terror. Together we shall bring the Empire back to its rightful form.”
Then Emperor and inventor stood at the gunwales of the Winter Kite and watched the destruction of Sousah. To Kaleva it was a macabre dance solely for his entertainment. After this no Prince would dare to even think of treason.
SIX
Under the Green Cloak
The Council of five tired Deacons sat somewhat uncomfortably in the Great Hall. It had been cleaned and washed by the lay Brothers, but the smell of death still lingered in the corners. Like all the other Sensitives, Merrick could observe the hovering shapes of the recently slain, hanging over the occasion like multiple shrouds. None of those gathered had slept very much since the attack—Merrick had got none at all.
This room was a difficult one for the Council to be in, but there was no other place where they could not be overheard by lay Brothers and followers.
Melisande Troupe, the sweet-faced blonde woman who had been the Presbyter of the Young in the previous Order, cleared her throat and spread her hands flat on the table as if to balance herself. “We cannot put this off any longer. After last night we must come up with more of a plan than just hiding in this citadel.” She shot a glance across to her right where Sorcha leaned back in her chair, her eyes cast up at the ceiling.
The Council of the Order of the Eye and the Fist had been comprised of five Presbyters elected from among their ranks, and who had contemplated the pressing matters of the Mother Abbey. This gathering had none of that gravitas, and there were no elections; instead it was a thrown together collection of the strongest Deacons that remained.
Merrick and Sorcha had no Council experience, and neither did Deacons Radhi and Elevi. This last man was tall and balding, as well as a surprisingly strong Sensitive. However, his gaze darted nervously around the room, and Merrick didn’t need to use his Center to know that he was unhappy being on the Council at all.
The only one with any useful experience sat at the head of the scarred table. Troupe was also one of three Presbyters in the old Council who had survived the destruction of the Mother Abbey; however, she was the only one of that group fit enough to join this new Council.
Yvril Mournling, the former Presbyter of the Sensitives, was far too old and frail to offer much in the way of strength. He was being looked after by lay Brothers and getting weaker with every portal they passed through. Merrick had visited him the previous day and knew that death was not far away from taking him from them.
Thorine Belzark was young, but had told them there was no way she wanted to be on any kind of Council again. Merrick didn’t think that was any great loss since she had mostly been a puppet of Arch Abbot Rictun.
As for Troupe, the gathering of lines on her pretty face and the circles under her brown eyes told anyone who had sense in their head that this position was not as easy as her previous one. Still, at least she had bothered to turn up, and she did still retain some of the aura of command that she’d had in the Council chamber in the Mother Abbey.
Merrick stared at Sorcha, willing her to say anything, but although his intentions spun along the Bond, she was steadfastly ignoring him. He straightened slightly in his chair. “We are not hiding—what we are doing is gathering ourselves. Every day we’re using weirstones to communicate with our scattered Brothers. All we need to do is find a place to gather, and we can—”
“Do what?” Deacon Radhi, a stocky woman with jet-black hair and flashing eyes, shook her head. “We left Vermillion in such a rush that we never took time to think about what the next move was!”
Troupe nodded and waved her hand toward where the blood had been washed from the stone. “Last night proved that we don’t have the luxury of time to sit here and regroup slowly. We must act now and find a place to strive decisively against Derodak, or we will be the Order who dithered while the world was torn apart.”
“There is no Order. Not anymore.” Sorcha pulled from her pocket one of her cigarillos and rolled it in her fingertips. It was unlit, because she had only two left. Merrick knew when she did finally smoke it things would be very, very bad indeed.
“There won’t be much of anything else either.” Troupe leaned back in her chair and pressed one hand to her forehead. “What just happened has shown that we cannot afford to wait, and that the Otherside is coming close to breaking through in ways we have never before seen.”