And now Revele had presumably found out from gossip about his relationship with Zofiya. Still, these were petty, childish things when laid next to the arrival of the Maker of Ways.
The captain of the Summer Hawk gave a snap of a little salute. “Reverend Presbyter, it is good to see you well.” He knew he looked different from last time they had spoken. The warmth of the fur on his back reminded him of that.
“Thank you, Captain. It is good to see you and your ship have survived the recent tumult.”
“Captain Revele has been a loyal and valiant servant of the Empire,” Zofiya said. “She and her ship have been invaluable in the fight . . . but now it is time to return to Vermillion.”
Revele took the hint, saluted her Empress and retreated back to the bridge of her airship. Soon enough, sailors were setting about their tasks, reeling in the ropes and starting the propeller that would power them on their way.
“I would talk with you, First Presbyter,” Zofiya said loudly, and spun on her heel. The Fensena looked up at Merrick with burning gold eyes, and the Deacon could have sworn that there was a hint of amusement in them.
Still, despite the look, Merrick really had no choice but to follow Zofiya. In the captain’s cabin, Merrick had just closed the door before the Empress in all her finery was slamming him against the door.
As her mouth pressed against his, Merrick barely had time for surprise. That he was now embracing the Empress—though not yet crowned—of Arkaym was an event he had not foreseen. Zofiya pulled back from him and stared him in the eyes. “Do not think of it,” she whispered. “I am the same person, and this crown means about as much as one made of paper at the moment. The geists are coming, my love. We do not have much time.”
When he looked at her, Merrick knew she was right. The breach could be opened in a matter of days, and then there would be no Empire for her to rule, just a lot of terrified people. Everything would break down after that. Airships, and all the trappings of civilization would be lost as the world descended into the grip of the geists.
So Merrick kissed her back, because it was all he had to offer. Her mouth was soft and sweet—just as he had remembered it. In all that had happened, he had still managed to miss her.
Zofiya unbuckled his cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and then pulled apart his shirt. The jacket she wore was stiff and covered in braid and military honors. It scratched his skin, but her mouth soon followed to act as balm.
A fine swinging bed occupied the corner of the captain’s cabin, but the Empress seemed to have no thought of that; she instead pulled Merrick down with her onto the fur cloak that she had only just crumpled there. Outside, he knew that there were soldiers, Deacons, and members of Court that would all be waiting for them, but there were also days to go until they reached Vermillion.
As Zofiya’s hands unbuckled his belt, Merrick abandoned worry, or rational thought. Just for a little moment. Just to remind himself what the struggle ahead was for. Life was precious and could be remarkably short.
When they finally had spent themselves on each other, Zofiya rolled over onto the fur cloak. Her fingers idly traced through its lushness.
“A beautiful animal must have died for this,” she said, resting her head on Merrick’s shoulder.
He nodded, for a moment content not to move. In fact, he was afraid if he did that the tiny bubble of time they had stolen would be whipped away. “Raed gave it to me,” he replied, kissing the top of her head, “so most likely it did.”
Zofiya sighed. “The Rossin Emperors were not a kindly bunch.” She wriggled her head back and forward like a child trying to get comfortable. “Do you think I shall be remembered as Kind Empress Zofiya?” Her tone was deliberately light.
Merrick knew that unless they stopped Derodak there would be nobody to remember anyone, but he also knew that was not what his love wanted to hear in this naked, intimate moment. “You shall be as kind as you can be. You will do all you can to be a good ruler because that is your nature. You are a good person, Zofiya. Remember that.” He placed a kiss on the top of her tousled head.
They did not have time for more, and considering all that had happened, not much energy for it either. So they slowly climbed to their feet, washed off with water from the pitcher hanging from the chain, and got dressed once more. They shared a moment of unintentional laughter when they had to untangle Zofiya’s gold braid on her jacket from Merrick’s shirt buttons.
“That wouldn’t do, would it,” she whispered to him. “Imagine the gossip?”
It remained unsaid that their world was narrowing to one where gossip was a luxury. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her lips once more before they left the cabin. In the meantime, the Deacons had all been tidied away into cabins and to temporary accommodations in the hold. Sailors were about their business and even Captain Revele was not on deck.
“It is a beautiful day,” Zofiya remarked, and she was right. The Summer Hawk had the wind at her back as she traveled east, and there was nothing to indicate, in either the sky above or the rolling green hills passing below, that they were flying toward death and danger.
“Vermillion is three days away?” Merrick asked.
Zofiya nodded slowly. “Yes, but only if we burn precious weirstones to get there.” When she looked up at him, a slow smile dawned on her face. “I guess in this world they are really not that precious . . . after all we could all be dead in three days.”
It was not a happy thought—but perhaps a profound one. Merrick chose not to answer it, instead clasping the Imperial hand as covertly as possible as they sailed toward the end.
TWENTY-FIVE
A Necessary Spectacle
When Raed took back the flesh that he’d been born with, it was a shock to find himself, leg to naked leg, with Sorcha. The only warmth and comfort they had in the cell was each other—which had always done good service for him. He nestled down and drew Sorcha as close to him as he dared. There was no pillow on this cold stone, but they had lived with much the same before.
The truth of it was, he wanted more time with Sorcha . . . he was greedy and only regretted that they had not met sooner. When the end came, in whatever form Derodak had planned for them, that would be his only regret.
“Raed?” Sorcha’s voice came out muffled as she turned to him, naked skin dragging against naked skin. “How are you here with—”
“Just lucky I guess,” he said, and in many ways it was true, he needed to be with Sorcha—and even in this situation he was glad of it. He would not have wanted her to go alone into this darkness. “Either that or Derodak wants both of us just as much.”
He felt, rather than heard a sigh go through her. “I imagine he thinks once he has control of the other geists he will be able to take the power of the Rossin too.”
Raed nodded. He’d already thought of that. “But what does he want from you?”
Sorcha licked her lips. “It has something to do with the Wrayth. They were trying to breed a person . . . a thing really . . . that could connect all the humans to their hive mind. Apparently they came close with me—but not close enough. So Derodak thinks he can use me to help the Maker of Ways.”
They both shivered in the darkness and contemplated that possibility.
Raed rubbed Sorcha’s shoulder; a blind human gesture of compassion that he knew was little to hold up against the dark. She snuggled in closer.
“You won’t do it,” the Young Pretender whispered to her. “You won’t do what he wants.”
Her breathing became, for a moment, very ragged. “I can say that all I like, Raed, but how can I stand against the whole geist world—against all of the Otherside?”
His mind raced. She had done amazing things, helped destroy two geistlords and mend the shattered remains of the Order, yet he knew that every person had a breaking point. So he lied to her to fill the gaps where uncomfortable truth resided. “You can. I know you can.” Raed wrapped his arms around her. “Perhaps you can do that trick with
your fingertips so we can have some light.”
She held up her arms, and he saw that some kind of silver paint was covering the runes. “I’ve tried rubbing this off, but it won’t budge.” She swallowed. “I can’t reach the runes at all.”
They didn’t say anything to each other after that. Huddled in the darkness, they kissed softly, to reassure each other that they were still human and still alive, more than anything else.
Sorcha might not have her runes, but the Rossin was still inside him. Raed tried to hold the waves of despair at bay with that thought. It might have been amusing that he was pinning his hopes on the Beast when most of his life had been spent terrified by it.
Eventually they drifted off into a shaky sleep. When they were jerked awake, it was impossible to tell how long they had actually been unconscious. Cloaked Deacons of the Circle of Stars were kicking them, apparently unbothered by the threat of the Rossin. Sorcha was dragged away, and he could hear her swearing and lashing out as best she could at these newcomers, but it didn’t last long.
“Sorcha!” Raed howled, unable to see her through the press of people in the cell. No reply came.
Their captors turned on him, and he too struck out, blind with rage. It felt good for his fist to connect with a few stomachs and a couple of jaws. Deep down he called to the Rossin, demanded he rise to the surface and rip these people into bloody little shreds. The Beast was reluctant for some reason, but Raed could feel him swimming toward the conscious world.
The Deacons did not seem to understand the danger that they were in, and Raed was glad of it. He let go and dropped away, like a child falling into a cool pool where there were no responsibilities. Let the Rossin do as he would. Let him kill them all.
* * *
The Rossin twisted and took form once more. The back of his throat was dry with the desire for flesh and blood, and it would be sweet to take them from the cursed Circle of Stars. However, as he reworked the body of the Young Pretender to his pard shape, there was a moment where the Circle Deacons made their move.
As he straightened and roared his renewed anger into the tiny dungeon cell, he felt something dropped over his head. A thread of weirstones, but it felt too light to hold him.
They did not have time to work the stones on him. He flexed his back legs and made to toss his head to free himself. That was when the device tightened on him. The Rossin had forgotten the deceitful makings of the Ehtia. Derodak had never been a machine maker, but he had apparently found one in this time that knew some of the lost tinkering arts.
The links of the collar they had placed around him tightened, burying themselves into his fur and cutting into his muscles. The pain that went with it was not just physical, it also flayed itself deeper still, in the dark places the Rossin lived. This was the between state, where he kept the kernel of his self, the bit that persisted when his host held the body they shared.
The pain of it was exquisite, as if he were being torn and shredded.
Derodak’s voice was the last thing that he wanted to hear, but it did intrude through the pain. “It is good to hear your howls, old friend. It reminds me of the beginning of these things. It pleases me to know that you will be there at the end of it too.”
The Rossin shook his head, climbing back from the agony, and realized that he had collapsed on the floor. The mighty cat leapt to his feet—he found he could do that—and snarled. His voice echoed impotently in the tiny room. None of the cloaked figures seemed moved—least of all Derodak.
The loathed Arch Abbot looked him up and down, before bending and taking up the trailing leash attached to the metal and weirstone collar. “Come,” he said and turned, before waiting to see if the Rossin followed.
At first he set his paws against the stone, but then the collar twitched and tightened on his muscular neck. It was a momentary reminder of his position, and it was a bitter, humiliating one. It spoke to the Rossin too much of the horrors on the Otherside, and that in turn reminded him that they were not done yet. The geists might be waiting, but the Maker of Ways had not yet been summoned. So, there was still time . . . even if it was just a little.
With a slight growl, the great cat allowed himself to be led from the dungeon cell.
Out of the corner of one eye, the Rossin saw that Sorcha Faris was being bundled up by Circle Deacons and carried with them. The Bond between them was so fractured he could not tell if she was conscious or not. He hoped she wasn’t, because then at least she would be spared some of the coming humiliation.
Derodak led this sorry procession to a tunnel on which was drawn the familiar braid of the Wrayth portal. Last time the Arch Abbot had tangled with the Rossin he had not had this trick up his sleeve. It was disturbing that such an Ancient human could still learn new tricks.
When Derodak pressed his hands against the stones and began to shift them, the Rossin flinched. He already knew where they were bound. A scene began to resolve itself in the area described by the circle, and he knew it well. The sun was just rising over the gleaming canal, and with the flat-fronted buildings directly placed against it, it could be nowhere else but Vermillion.
The Rossin had not spoken yet, but he could not resist it now. “No way to take us straight to the palace and the rift then?” he growled low in his chest.
Derodak’s gaze darkened. They both knew full well that he might have been able to make a portal from the palace to wherever he liked, but because of the cantrips and the water, he could not make one go the other way. “I built Vermillion too well,” the Arch Abbot said, tilting his head. “The islands and the swamps I created now work against me. Never mind. It will be good for the people of the city to see who is the true master of the Empire now. With their Emperor gone and the geists overrunning them, they will turn to me.”
The Rossin was not terribly knowledgeable as far as human emotions and actions went; mostly he was used to the taste of their flesh. However, he had the terrible feeling that Derodak was right. It was after all how he had risen to dominance in the first place—and used the Rossin to power the Imperial family.
The great cat hung his head, and did not reply. Instead he was led through the portal and into the city where it had all begun. The show would begin soon enough.
TWENTY-SIX
Back in Chains
Sorcha emerged from the darkness of unconsciousness and was unhappy to do so. She was being shaken back and forth, so that her head felt as though it might break. It seemed to take a long time for her to lever her eyes open. What she saw was dreadfully familiar.
Vermillion. It was the capital city and her former home. Even more frightening, she could identify the part they were passing through: the Imperial Island. She was strapped onto a wagon lurching its way up the hill toward the palace and seemingly hitting every rutted cobblestone on the way.
The next thing she noticed was how everything hurt. She was bent over at the waist and pinioned in a stock, such as might have once been found in a village square for the display of criminals. Sorcha rattled her hands back and forward but they were securely fastened. Not a good thing. The silver paint remained on her skin with the burning sensation digging into her and still denying her the runes.
As Sorcha strained her head to the left, she saw the rubble of her former home. With impeccable timing she had managed to return to the waking world just as they passed the Mother Abbey.
Despite all the pain and fear that filled Sorcha, she still could not look away from the tumbled ruins that had been the center of her life. The devotional building that had once soared toward the sky now resembled nothing so much as an Ancient hand clawing at it.
The Order had promised so much to her: a place of sanctuary, fellowship and training. It had been able to give her some of those things for some of the time, but eventually her blood and history had claimed her. Deep down a small voice whispered that she might have helped destroy it.
Perhaps it was the Wrayth having the last cruel jab.
Wind whipped do
wn from the top of Imperial Island to counterpoint her bitter contemplations. Before tears could fall, Sorcha jerked her head away, instead concentrating on what else was happening around her.
On examination, she noted the wagon she was on was being pulled by two animals, two creatures that should never have been shackled to such a mean creation. They were Breed horses—thankfully not Shedryi or Melochi, but other of their kin.
As she turned her head to the right, she saw that she was not alone. Beside the cart, Derodak and three more of his Deacons were riding. They were also on horses of the Breed. She hoped savagely that the animals would toss their passengers and trample them.
They did not.
Around her, Sorcha could now make out the sounds of a crowd. Darting little looks on each side, she saw that the procession she was so unwillingly part of had drawn attention from the citizens of Vermillion. They stood in near silent lines on the street, watching Derodak’s triumph. Sorcha recognized their hollow-eyed and beaten looks. Geists had certainly worn down the arrogance many had previously accused Vermillionites of possessing.
She thought of the procession the Emperor had taken to Brickmakers Lane. It seemed a long time ago and wonderfully festive in comparison. It was horrible to consider that those had been her best days.
Though Sorcha worked her mouth a few times, she could not find enough moisture. Her voice would undoubtedly come out a ragged croak. What exactly she had been going to say, even she did not know.
It was when Sorcha dared another glance to her right that she spotted a dark, shaggy form moving between the horses and standing nearly as tall as they.
Harbinger (A BOOK OF THE ORDER) Page 26
