Deep within Raed, the Rossin finally stirred. The Beast was uncurling and unfurling, enraged by the presence of Derodak as he had not been by anything else for a very long time. Blood summoned him from the torpor that their enemy had put him in.
Surging upright, Raed dealt an uppercut to the surprised Derodak. Something about the bloodletting had given the Young Pretender a tiny advantage, and he had to take it. Everything slowed, and even Raed’s heartbeat felt labored.
Unlike Sorcha’s Deacons, he had no access to cantrips or runes—but there were the stones. While Derodak was momentarily distracted, Raed ran forward and slammed his injured hands against the weirstone windows. He had no idea if it would do any good, but he was rewarded when the clear blue stone flared bright enough to burn eyes.
“Fool!” was the only word his captor had time to voice, before the Rossin flooded upward.
He took Raed over in an instant, but they shared the blood this time. Raed had called on him, and there was nothing else to be done. His mind was locked with the Beast’s, and he had no chance of escaping the events that would unfurl after that. Actually, Raed found that he didn’t want to miss a moment of this.
The Rossin ripped clothing as he molded flesh into his cat shape, but it was only a momentary change. The pard struck the weirstones that the first Emperor had molded with all the impact of a charging warhorse—and something else. It was always about blood, and blood powered something deeper. The weirstone took the geistlord’s rage and magnified it.
The stone screamed and shattered around him. The ocean roared like another, even greater beast, and thrust itself through the breaks; finding the weakest points unerringly and pushing the Rossin-shaped hole even bigger. The ocean thrust itself deep and invaded Derodak’s kingdom easily. If the Rossin was lucky, the water would carry the infestation of the Circle of Stars away altogether.
The abrupt change to water made necessary another transformation. The Rossin bent the flesh once more, pressing it into one more of his forms: the mer-lion. It was the shape he wore in his depictions on all the Rossin flags that had once flown so proudly over the palace at Vermillion.
The back legs of the pard merged and formed a thick powerful tail, while webbing sprang into being between the toes on his front paws. He still had the claws within though. Now the cold water that entered his body was expelled through gills on the side of his neck, which had also become thicker and more muscular.
He swam with as much ease as he had once leapt—though his roar was now silent in the murky depths. The water around the Rossin brought him information, just as the air did in his favored form.
They were not that far from shore; the ocean here tasted of river water and dirt. It was a taste he knew well; the Vermillion estuary that ebbed and flowed through the capital was not far off.
The ocean here was very deep though. Below, he could not see any rocks, only the untouched blackness of an endless trench. Derodak had made his foul lair on an underwater cliff that dropped away very suddenly. Moving water had helped keep him hidden from the Order of the Eye and the Fist, as well as protecting him from interference from the Otherside.
The Rossin swam with ease, but did not go too close to the room he had burst from. He had enough experience with the first Emperor to know that even in the direst circumstances, he could still be trusted to pull off some daring escape. Only when his head was removed from his body would the Rossin believe he was dead.
The truth was uncomfortable: Derodak still had enough power to overcome the Rossin. The pact they had made together all those hundreds of years before still held. It stung to admit that, and Raed, floating somewhere near the conscious world, was horrified.
In response, the Rossin circled angrily, scaring off a group of gray sharks that had come down to investigate what was going on. Much as it irked him, he knew that the Deacons were the answer to Derodak. Combined they might have the power to stand a chance, but then there was the Circle of Stars to consider.
The geistlord’s baleful eye fixed on the cliff face. He could sense them in there . . . the children of Derodak’s depravity. Each one of them touched by his blood, and each one of them looking up to him like he was a god. They fed Derodak, much like the Wrayth’s various human additions did. Maybe he had even gotten the idea from that vile geistlord.
Just as the Rossin was readying to swim to the surface and see which shore he had been flung to, he felt something stirring below him. His sensitive skin tingled as pressure reached it, pressure that indicated something was rising from below.
Images of the last monster from the deep Raed had encountered flashed across the gap to the Rossin. His host had seen a whole ship destroyed by it; summoned by Derodak to kill Nynnia. It was a blunt weapon, but Derodak had never had much finesse with these things.
Peering down into the darkness, even the Rossin’s sharp eyes could not quite make out what was rising toward him. His geistlord’s pride wouldn’t allow him to flee without at least seeing what he was facing, even though Raed was howling at him to get moving. It was an odd turnabout indeed.
The darkness at the bottom of the trench twisted, and tendrils of shadows clutched at the rock walls. Water was now rushing past the Rossin’s streamlined form. Bubbles and fleeing fish raced by him as he struggled to remain upright and not be swept away by this unnatural current.
A sound made its way through the water, a keening, high-pitched noise that struck him almost like a blade. Baleful eyes suddenly appeared in the gloom, slitted and gleaming orange. Now the tendrils of shadows were not merely shadows . . . they were tentacles, pulling and wrapping around the stonework, as the massive body they were attached to rose nearer and nearer.
For a brief moment the Rossin was struck motionless; thinking this was it, the arrival of the Maker of Ways. The realm would be torn and geists of all shapes and kinds would come pouring in. Then, however, he could finally make out the body. It was long and tubular, and had a waving frill around the edges that might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so huge. The tentacles were far thicker than the geistlord’s body, and they were reaching out to him.
Now he understood fear. It did not matter if he were geistlord or Young Pretender, this thing had been brought out of the depths for the specific purpose of hunting both of them. Derodak had certainly developed an inflated dramatic flair over the centuries. The Rossin wondered if he should be flattered.
The sea beast was not fast, but then it did not have to be. The tentacles shot out for him—and there were many of them.
With a flex of his tail, the geistlord darted away, weaving this way and that as a forest of them descended in his direction. Up close he observed there were large and small ones, and it was the thinner ones that were harder to get away from. They flung themselves at him like a series of slimy pink nets. As a few touched him along his back, his flesh burned with sharp stings.
Pain was not a sensation that the Rossin had much time for, but he was getting a full taste of it now. He roared—though the ocean swallowed much of the effect—and batted at them. Many he cut free, but the water around him was beginning to turn into a veritable soup of them. The geistlord twisted and twisted on himself, trying to cut a way free.
However, the tentacles, large and small, were guiding him closer to the dark center of the monster. Now he caught a glimpse of the beak of the thing: curved and pale, it was three times longer than his body. Tentacles curled and flung around him, cutting off escape routes and shepherding him toward doom. That beak would snap him like a twig.
Raed Syndar Rossin and he would share the same broken fate. The line would die with him, and he would even miss the Maker of Ways. His last thought was how bitter it was that Derodak had won.
TWENTY
The Blood Will Out
Sorcha dreamed that her mother was holding her. She cradled her daughter, pressing her head in tight against her shoulder. Sorcha felt warm, safe and happy. Her nostrils were full of her mother’s scent; roses and strengt
h. She planted the lightest of kisses on her daughter’s head and whispered, “Remember who you are.”
Sorcha held tight to that gentle admonishment.
“Mother,” she murmured into the thick dark hair, “why did you leave me?”
It was a foolish question, but it came right from the heart of the little girl lost in the Order, whose sole loved one had been the Presbyter of the Young. She’d only been able to give Sorcha so much attention and care. In the lonely times in the Abbey’s garden, before she’d been taken into the novitiate for training, she had whiled away long afternoons wondering what her mother was like. Did they look the same? Sound the same? Did she miss her?
Sorcha did not need to wonder any longer. She was safe, missed, loved.
Just as she pulled that truth close, her mother pushed back from her. Sorcha screamed in horror. It was not the face she had seen in the vision in the Wrayth hive—it was the Wrayth itself. The thing that was holding her was a bubbling mass of faces, all screaming for mercy and release. The form of the Wrayth held them bound and pressed together.
“I never left you,” the creature growled, its hands tightening on her. “I have always been right here with you.”
Eventually Sorcha’s screams woke her, and she almost immediately wished they had not. Imprisonment of another kind waited.
Sorcha did not recognize the woman peering down at her, but she did recognize the type; long pale hair, and eyes that gleamed with something unnatural. The Wrayth was in the waking world too and looking out at Sorcha. She was being examined exactly as someone might when choosing a puppy from a litter.
The Wrayth woman straightened up, and Sorcha finally noticed that she was tied to a table—one that seemed to come very close to being like the draining table in Ulrich. Luckily, it did not have the spikes, but Sorcha was held at a tilted angle; not quite on her feet, not quite on her back.
At least they would have been unable to take her runes from her. Glancing down at her shackles she called on Seym, to fill her body with strength. Nothing happened.
Her captor let out a soft chuckle. “Do you really think that we have not mastered how to keep Deacons quiet, even if,” she said, gesturing to the marks on Sorcha’s flesh, “you have found a remarkable way to ingrain runes on yourself.”
A cold, hard realization came over Sorcha. She was right where her mother had been. The dire feeling of helplessness was the very same as her mother must have felt when she’d been snatched all those years ago. Sorcha, just like her own mother had been, was not used to the sensation. She was a Deacon—no, more than that, she was the Harbinger. They couldn’t do this to her!
However, that didn’t seem to matter. The Wrayth woman pressed a hand on Sorcha’s head and stared into her eyes. The voices in her mind grew more insistent now, clamoring for something. Sorcha tried to not listen, but one voice grew louder and louder the longer the hand remained there. It was screaming over and over, Obey, Obey! It was painful, and terrifying, yet when it receded she was left panting, but still herself.
Apparently this was not the result that the Wrayth woman had been hoping for. She flicked Sorcha’s head to one side with an impatient growl and walked away. The Deacon dared not consider what this might mean—that was until the Wrayth spoke.
“You are a deep disappointment, Sorcha Faris.” Her voice was sharp and laden with venom. “You are so very close to our goal, and yet you fall short.” Her hands clenched together while her eyes darted left and right. The Deacon had no doubt that the screaming voice was totally in control and letting out its frustration and anger inside that human skull.
“Really?” she gasped, licking her lips in an attempt to make her voice not come out as a dire croak. “You cannot know how much that pleases me.”
The Wrayth seemed not to hear her, as she began to pace back and forth. “You have all the makings of the final weapon, and yet you remain aloof from us. We cannot connect with you.” She stopped pacing and stared at Sorcha. “The fault lies not with your father, so it has to have been your mother who—”
“It is too late for recriminations now,” a familiar voice spoke. He had stood out of Sorcha’s line of sight, concealed behind the table she was strapped to. As he walked around into view, Sorcha felt her anger begin to boil, rising over the dull ache of helplessness.
Derodak, Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars, stood next to the Wrayth and watched Sorcha rage. She strained against the bonds, calling out a stream of profanities that would have earned her stern retribution in the Order.
He was the maker of all Arkaym’s misery . . . all this death and destruction. He had brought down the Order of the Eye and the Fist, the only protection for the people of Arkaym. He had caused the Empire to fall into civil war, and now Sorcha saw that he was working with the Wrayth. All these things he had done for his own profit, so that he might rule the world as his Ehtia race once had.
He waited until she was done before turning to the Wrayth. “So, since she is of no use to you, I take it our agreement still stands?”
The pale woman raked her eyes up and down Derodak, her face now devoid of any emotion. “If there was time, we would try again by breeding off her . . .”
Derodak raised a finger and wiggled it at her as if the Wrayth were a recalcitrant child. “Now, now, we all know there is no time for that. You have failed to make your weapon, so our original agreement remains; I shall give you the west to do with as you please. Raise the humans as cows for all I care, but this thing you made is now mine.”
The woman’s eyes said she would have murdered him if she had the chance, but eventually she nodded.
Sorcha tried to think of anything to say to stop what she was witness to, but what could be said to two immortal geistlords intent on the destruction of her whole world? He would enslave the geists that came through from the Otherside and rule the humans, while the Wrayth would have the western edge of the Empire to harvest.
Instead, Sorcha tugged on her bonds for a time, and offered no words for them to enjoy. Even the Bond was a dark, empty thread; nothing came along it to comfort her. She was alone again.
Yet her whole life she had tried not to be alone. In the embrace of the Order, she had found peace, purpose and friendship. Her partners and her colleagues had filled her life. Her mission to help those endangered by geists had given her something worthwhile to strive for. Now, she was watching the destruction of all of that from captivity. It was enough to break her. Hopelessness rushed in, and she had no Merrick to save her from its icy grip.
The Wrayth woman left the room, head held high, not acknowledging Derodak or Sorcha again. Now it was just the two of them in the room.
Sorcha turned her head away. She had no desire to see the triumph on his face. Could it really be just yesterday that she had driven the geists from the city and claimed the title of Harbinger? It felt like a lifetime ago.
She raised her head slightly to glare at Derodak. “Why are you really doing this? You are causing so much pain and misery to everyday folk—”
“My people ruled this world before the coming of the geists.” He stared down at her for a moment, then bent and clasped her chin hard in his hand. “We were mighty and terrifying, because no one else could do the things we could do. When we fled, this place became as a wasteland of insects scrabbling to survive. I will show all of them the way to live. Show them all how to harness the geists and become mighty once more.”
Sorcha realized it was worse than she thought; Derodak was no madman—he genuinely believed in his course. An immortal life span had not taught him anything but the value of control.
When she remained silent, he smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of his lips. “The first Order was my Order, and all that you have tried to build here was but a reflection of what I had already done.” He flicked her chin aside and stepped back. “You may not be the weapon that the Wrayth hoped for, but I think you will suit my purpose very well.”
Something about the way he said i
t, lingering over the words like each of them was a ripe fruit, sent a shock through Sorcha’s system. She had not fought so damn hard to pull together the new Order just so that he could destroy it. Her mother had fought for her, and now she was going to fight for the rest of it.
“We shall be on our way,” he said, bending and unlatching her bonds. “Vermillion is waiting for her leader.”
Derodak could not be all that good of a Sensitive, because he did not expect his prisoner to throw herself up and on him. She grabbed him around the head and neck, throwing her whole weight against his throat. Her vision was dancing with black spots, but it felt very good to finally have her hands on him. All of the dangers she had faced—the Murashev, Hatipai and the Wrayth—could not compare to this man. He had made it happen. It was an easy thing to let all of that flow through her. She was going to choke this man out and then beat his proud head with a rock until it was pulp. Let him show how immortal he was then.
They struggled together; Sorcha’s one arm wrapped around his throat from behind, while her other hand sought out the knife on his belt. Her addled brain would have been happy to slit his throat. If he had taken the runes, then she would do it the old-fashioned way.
However, apparently Derodak didn’t need the runes as much as she had expected. He jerked, and the back of his head connected with Sorcha’s nose. The sudden explosion of pain disorientated her, but she held on. So he slammed her backward against the rough stone wall. The wind was knocked out of her, and her grip on his neck loosened just enough so that he was able to get a hand under hers. In one smooth move, he dumped her off his back to land on hers in the dirt.
The green flames of Shayst enveloped her, sucking away the strength from her muscles. In the flickering green light, Derodak smiled. “We have enough time yet, so that you may learn a lesson, Sorcha Faris. I am rather afraid it will be a painful one.”
She struggled to rise, but nothing was working.
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 21
