“No one doubts your courage,” the Fensena broke in, his golden eyes gleaming with the not-so-distant lightning, “but this is the way of things. We will either stop the Maker of Ways, or the rest will be flames.”
Merrick might have wanted the coyote to couch it in better terms, but it was true. The Empress did not attempt to deny it.
The Summer Hawk dropped lower and lower and everything began to come into dreadful focus. They could now see the blood on the cobblestones, and make out every little tragedy as it played out below.
The broken bodies below them were now visible as not only soldiers, but also Deacons of the Circle of Stars. Merrick recognized the spectacular damage immediately; the Rossin had been here before them. He could not decide if that thought cheered him or not.
Regardless, they had to go down there. Quickly, Merrick wrapped his mind around the prepared Conclave. He had arranged his ragtag group of Deacons into groups of twenty, with one foci holding them together into Conclaves. It was the best way to shore up their forces, which were not all that experienced or well trained. This way, those that were could use their strength without losing control of the situation.
Merrick took a deep breath and led the way down the ladder off the airship. The naked human form of the Fensena scrambled down after him and took back his coyote shape as soon as his feet touched the ground. On his heels, the rest of the Deacons scrambled down. Among them were Aachon who led one of the Conclaves, and even the boy Eriloyn from Waikein who had insisted on using his new runes to fight. Most of them still wore their cloaks, though the newcomers’ ones were patchwork, or leather.
It was strange to feel the closeness of the Conclave without the presence of Sorcha in it as well. He felt for the first time really like the First Presbyter. Merrick could only hope it would not be the last time he experienced this sensation.
Just as the people disembarked, shots rang out. Two Deacons in Merrick’s Conclave fell, their places in the Conclave becoming sucking maws, but he reorganized the pattern of the Conclaves quickly. Terrible as it was, he’d expected it.
Somewhere up in the towers a few Imperial Guards still held on, and they were shooting at whatever cloaked figures they could, mistaking them for Derodak’s Deacons. As bullets zipped around them, Merrick shouted for his colleagues to get to cover, while above them riflemen on the Summer Hawk returned fire.
Merrick was holding his portion of the Conclave together, moving his remaining people in a cohesive group into shelter, while he stood still, concentrating very hard. That was until a huge bulk of a man threw himself on him, knocking him to the ground. For an instant he didn’t know what had just happened. The next thing he realized, it was Aachon that had barreled into him, and that there was blood everywhere.
Quickly, Merrick ascertained it was not his blood. Aachon lay atop him, and it took three Deacons to lift him up. They dragged him into one of the hallways of the palace, as bullets zipped around them, and used the big man’s cloak to staunch the blood as best they could.
The tall man grinned at those carrying him. “I’ve had worse.” Merrick checked him over quickly and saw that the wound had passed through his shoulder cleanly. “But I can’t hold my portion of the Conclave, you’ll have to take it.”
“Of course,” the Presbyter said, getting to his feet, glad at least the big man was not dead. He’d been gruff with anyone not Raed, but he had a powerful spirit.
Merrick felt Aachon’s blood on his skin, warm and vital. His anger flared suddenly that a good man—one of his own—had been targeted by those who couldn’t tell the difference between Deacons. His Center sped toward the group in the tower, and he felt their heartbeats like fluttering moths in his hands. So many things he could have done to them, but instead of the runes, that wild talent of his chose this moment to rise up. It was a lucky thing too; he did not want to kill anyone who might be saved.
Instead, Merrick hit the survivors with the hammer of regret. He made them fall to their knees weeping for what they had done, clawing at their faces in horror. None of them could lift a weapon or shoot another Deacon, so there would be no more mistakes.
“Go,” Aachon said, taking the compress and holding it there himself, “I’ll wait here and see how things go. Strange . . . I always thought I would take a bullet for Raed Syndar Rossin. Life is a funny thing.”
Merrick clasped his hand. “Then hold tight to it, we’ll be right back.”
Five lay Brothers were helping the wounded and, under the circumstances, that was the best that could be done. The Conclaves had lost seven Deacons, but the groups had a flexible pattern, though they did lose strength with each member gone.
Merrick now realized that he needed more power to finish the task at hand. The solution meant treading on ground that he had warned Sorcha off only weeks before—and that had not ended well—but there was little choice. Everything rested on these moments. As First Presbyter he would burn all of his Order, all of the new recruits to keep the world from suffering another Break.
Wrapping his silver fur cloak about him, Merrick opened his Center as wide as he could, taking the leaders of the other Conclaves into his own control. He was the spider at the center of the web. The master puppeteer. The heady sensation of so many minds, so much power, almost pulled him apart. It had to be the largest Conclave in Order history.
Now their true enemies could be seen. The Native Order had always been excellent at hiding itself, but they could no longer do that—not with the beam of the grand Conclave on them.
They too were knitted in groups, but something had passed through them and weakened them considerably.
The Rossin. The smell of him and the tang of his passing were now visible on every surface. Much blood had been spilled, but there were still many of Derodak’s children in the palace, and they were drawing together with every moment.
Heat enveloped Merrick, rage such that he had never really let out before. Sensitives were taught to be calm, controlled—but now all of that was washed away. He saw again his father murdered on the steps of his childhood home by a geist. Experienced once more the piles of dead he and Sorcha had uncovered on the way to Ulrich. And finally he saw Derodak stealing his mother into the tunnels under Orinthal. It was too much.
With the silver fur cape flowing around him, Merrick set off. His own personality felt very fragile as he held it before him, like a dim light that he could drop at any instant. The chatter of so many voices in his head, even as they tried to remain quiet, was still nearly overwhelming.
The Native Order had regrouped farther into the corridors of the palace, and they came at him again; the Runes of Dominion turned on them in floods of green, blue and red. Flames poured out of the corridors toward the advancing Enlightened, and Derodak’s children appeared out of the walls, with swords and spears.
The palace became a heaving battleground in an instant. Battle was joined, and it was Merrick who stood in the center of it all. Blood trickled and ran from the corners of his eyes and his nose as the pressure of holding the Conclave together took its toll. He couldn’t move to defend himself, but he was not without a protector. The Fensena was there, apart from the Conclave, snarling and ripping out unsuspecting throats in the corridors and rooms.
Merrick began to use the parts of the Conclave like a body. His arms flashed out, defending with the shield of fire, while the limbs of others called Chityre into being in the corridors. Shayst, the green fire, took power where it could, while Deiyant threw furniture to block oncoming advances. He saw all and killed all.