Spectyr

by Philippa Ballantine

  “Most are—but even those rules can be bent by the Ehtia.” The Prince sighed. “And you could not sense them because they are too smick blurte register in anything but True Sight.”

  Merrick frowned. The Prince must be speaking of some form of the Sight taught to Deacons—or rather that which would be taught to Deacons. He had indeed not opened his Center during the one interview with the Prince in his own time. He crossed his arms and stuck his hands under his cloak; the room was slightly chillier than the other Ehtia rooms. “And the machine? What does that do?”

  “So very curious.” The Prince’s hand traced the surface of the weirstone he was almost reclining on. “You should take a care that you do not dig too deep. Even a time traveler can be caught out.”

  Merrick found being in this awkward position made him bold. “The machine,” he repeated obstinately. “What is its purpose?”

  Onika answered in an almost condescending fashion. “The machine is powering this transport, digging us through the ground in an attempt to escape her wrath.”

  The Deacon had been in some very strange situations and had used some advanced methods of travel in his short time with the Order—but a machine that burrowed underground like a mole was quite the concept. However, something else had caught his notice. “Her?” he asked, wondering why his throat was feeling dry and his heart was racing.

  The Prince of Chioma’s hand tightened, the sound of fingernails on the weirstone as pleasant as it would have been on a blackboard. “Yes, my mother.”

  The Deacon did not need to open his Center or call on any of his runes to know that he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question—but he drove on regardless. “And who, by the Bones, is your mother?”

  A long pause followed, where in the eerie silence of the weirstone magazine, he could hear the Prince muttering something under his breath. It sounded almost like a prayer. When he spoke to the Deacon, his voice was resigned, heavy with regret.

  “She gave me these eyes but denied me everything I have ever wanted.” He swept back the curtain of bright weirstones, so that once again Merrick dropped to his knees. Even so, he heard what the great and magnificent Onika said next. “My mother is the goddess Hatipai.”

  Suddenly everything made sense. Merrick fell to the floor and wept with the joy of a believer who has found revelation in the unlikeliest of places.

  NINETEEN

  Looking Deep

  Sorcha opened her Center. Merrick had said something curious about the Young Pretender the first time they had met: “He blazes.”

  And he did. The whispers across the Bond, the ones he could not hear, gave her strength—helped her reorient in a world that felt like it was spiraling out of control.

  Find his sister. Find Merrick. Find a killer.

  As the door to the audience chamber swung shut behind them, the bang nearly made her jump. Raed was already moving, however. His companions Tangyre and Isseriah came to meet them.

  “Take this.” Raed thrust the Prince’s seal to the older woman. “I want you to go into the Prince’s harem and find if my sister is there. I suspect not, but I must be certain.”

  “We need that!” Sorcha blurted.

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  Holding her Center for so long was draining her, and she found she didn’t have the strength to argue.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Now, Isseriah.” Raed took the young man by the elbow. “We discovered some tunnels last night. I want you to follow them and see where they lead. Take my crew with you, but be careful.”

  Sorcha listened while the Young Pretender gave instructions on how to find the tunnels where they had lost Merrick. She knew they would find no sign of her partner, but Raed was right; the attacker had used them last night, and they needed to know where they led.

  When he was done, his two companions barely stopped themselves from saluting. For a brief second the Deacon wondered what sort of Emperor Raed would have made—then she yanked her thoughts away. Such musings were not only foolish but also treasonous.

  “Let’s find this Chancellor’s chambers.” Raed turned them in the direction of the western wing of the palace.

  They hurried toward the part of the palace where all the bureaucrats labored. Raed’s nearness was distracting her, making her Center even harder to hold. Sorcha knew she was avoiding labeling her feelings for the man deliberately, but she couldn’t so easily ignore the strength of them. And it was quite typical of her life. Nothing was ever simple.

  When they reached the stairs leading up to the rooms of the most important councilors and bureaucrats in Chioma, Raed leaned into her side. “Brace yourself; we are about to enter a world where there is very little air—except of the hot kind.”

  Managing to keep a straight face, Sorcha flashed the gold of her Order badge at the guards at the bottom of the stairs. The Young Pretender was right—it was enough—they were let through with a wave.

  It was an effort of will not to race up the smooth, curving stairs to the Chancellor’s room on the top floor. It had his name on it and a guard posted outside. This time Sorcha didn’t even have to show her badge; the man outside unlocked the door and let them through with a bow.

  “Don’t say a thing!” she whispered to Raed in a mock growl.

  Behind the cedar door Sorcha’s enhanced senses picked up the tang that could only be the scent of not-so-old blood. She heard Raed’s indrawn breath rasp over his teeth, and she reached back to place a hand in his.

  The Rossin. She had not thought of the geistlord once since seeing the Young Pretender who was his earthly focus. Yet, as a Deacon, she could never forget that he was still there.

  “Let’s look around,” Sorcha said more confidently than she felt and began examining the desk, piled with papers, pens and ledgers. “I may need your help identifying which of these is important.”

  Raed’s lips twisted. “This is one aspect of rule that I am glad to have avoided.” He took a place next to her and then looked down. “And I daresay this is where the poor old man was killed.”

  The carpet was soaked with dried blood, but it had also splattered the bookcase behind the desk, the wall and a globe of the world that stood next to the window.

  “Quite the mess.” Sorcha stared down at the evidence of sughter.

  “I would have thought the staff would have cleaned up in here.” Raed pulled the chair gingerly over the stains and sat down to examine the papers.

  “Often people are too afraid of the geists to clean up.” Sorcha began to circle the room, her eyes half-lidded, her Center as open as any Active could manage.

  Even without the smell of blood in her nostrils, she would still have been able to tell that murder had been done here. The ether was stained and rent; an ugly color burned her senses, and there was a tang in the air, like before a thunderstorm.

  The Chancellor’s death had not been quick nor easy. Strange, considering that with one cry he could have summoned guards—yet here he had fallen at the foot of his own desk and choked on his own blood. The sound of his last agonized breath lingered in the ether.

  “I’ve found his journal with a list of appointments.” Raed’s voice snapped Sorcha back to this reality and this time. She joined him at the desk as they flicked to the date that the unfortunate Chancellor was killed.

  “Such a busy man,” she muttered, running a finger down the dates. “An appointment with the Prince’s Chamberlain and another with the food taster. I hardly think they would have killed him . . . ”

  “You never know.” Raed nudged her. “The royal bed linens and food are weighty subjects.”

  “And yet it could well be something as common as that.” Sorcha stared down at the ruined floor. “It could be hidden in the mundane. Most killings are by someone the victim knows rather than some random violence—comforting as most people find the lie.”

  “The Chancellor was a eunuch—without wife or family—his entire life devoted to the Prince of Chioma. His work was al
l he had.”

  “Perhaps,” she conceded.

  Together they began to yank open the drawers in the desk and paw through them—giving up on any pretense of tidiness.

  Raed pulled one drawer out and examined it particularly closely. “Seems a little short.” When he shoved his arm into the space it had previously occupied, he grinned. “Never known a piece of bureaucratic furniture that didn’t contain a hidey-hole or two.” The rap he made on the back rang beautifully hollow.

  He made a face, flexing his arm in the void, and then came a snap of something metal. Sorcha felt her heart begin to race a bit faster. Raed’s hand withdrew, and he was holding a fold of vellum.

  They exchanged a glance. Vellum was unusual and reserved for important documents—state documents. Raed spread it on the desk.

  “This is a blood oath.” Raed’s jaw was tight. “A blood oath to Hatipai—probably half of Chioma has one tucked away somewhere.”

  The ether flared, a wind flicking through the drapes, bitterly cold, when outside everything was fiendishly hot. Sorcha wished that Merrick was here—his insight, his calm was sorely missed.

  “Unfortunately, the Chancellor won’t be easy to get answers out of.” Sorcha sighed and slid on her Gauntlets. The feeling of leather against her skin, the faint prickle of the runes calmed her. She was not powerless. “This is going to be so much harder without Merrick . . . ” Her voice trailed off even as her eyes fixed on Raed.

  He did not flinch at the gaze. “What is it? If I can helpen take whatever you need.”

  It was less than ideal, yet the Bond still persisted, and through it she would have some chance of at least seeing what she was doing. He wouldn’t have Merrick’s same abilities, but Sorcha was used to working as a pair. Flying solo was not something she was prepared to do.

  So she gestured the Young Pretender over to her, precisely in the middle of the dried mess that was what remained of the once-fine carpet. “They destroyed him, Raed—there is a good chance a shade is still here.” She kept her voice level, because she knew he was wary of anything to do with a geist.

  He looked at her—his hazel eyes steady, and he squeezed her hands.

  “I sometimes see their point.” The words tumbled out of her in a way she was not used to.

  Raed tilted his head. “Who?”

  “Those who believe in the little gods.” In her pocket she fingered one of her cigars. “Sometimes there just seems to be too much coincidence—too much irony—in the world.”

  “Don’t start falling apart on me now, Deacon Faris.” Raed pulled her into a hug that she really did need.

  They kissed, standing there on the blood-soaked carpet, and when they were done held each other tight for a second time.

  “Now”—Raed pushed her back gently—“let’s stay on the path. You find the shade and make him talk.”

  He didn’t understand what he was asking for, but he was right. With a long, slow breath, Sorcha pulled out her knife from its sheath at her waist.

  “We will need to bring him out.”

  The cut she made on her left finger was clean and not very deep—but it also hurt unreasonably compared to other far worse wounds she’d had in the name of the Order.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing quite like the blood of a Deacon to bring geists from every corner. Bending, she drew a circle right on the blood that had been spilled—that had started everything off. Cantrips were not to her liking, but without one, they could be here for hours waiting for the shade to appear.

  When she rose from her crouch, Raed handed her his very fine ivory-colored handkerchief—quite a strange thing for a fugitive to have on his person—but also quite charming. Wrapping it around her finger, she opened her Center as wide as she could.

  The Bond was her spine in these dangerous moments—holding her to the world when runes and geists could well rip her away from it. Sorcha kept one hand in Raed’s, while the ruby flames of Pyet flickered on her other Gauntlet—just in case.

  Dark shadows danced along the line of the bookshelves as if reluctant. Sorcha frowned—this was curious. Most shades of the murdered were in a hurry to reveal themselves.

  A whiff of something sweet—cinnamon or some other exotic spice—filled the room, and goose pimples ran along Sorcha’s arms. It was so much easier when you just destroyed geists, she thought vaguely.

  However, the shade that began to form in the circle was not the one either of them had been expecting. It was no wizened Chancellor. It was instead a young woman—no, a girl, on the cusp of womanhood. She had long, dark hair plastered to her face, which seemed pale, even though it was as dark as any other citizen of Chioma, and her outstretched hands showed deep wounds on both of her wrists. Her expreion was confused and terrified—fairly usual for the shade of a recently murdered person.

  Raed shifted behind her. “By the Blood, who is that?”

  Sorcha would have warned him to stay quiet, but it was far too late. The shade fixed her eyes on the Young Pretender, and then she did something remarkable. She spoke.

  “Where is it? Where is it?” Her voice was a bare whisper in the gentle breeze that had come with her. It was so plaintive that Sorcha felt her usually tightly controlled emotions swell into sorrow.

  A shade that spoke was remarkable indeed. Most were confined to re-creating the actions of their everyday life or the moments leading up to their death. Conversing with a geist was a tricky business, but now unfortunately, it had locked onto Raed and not her.

  “She can see you,” Sorcha hissed under her breath, though there was no point. “You are the focus now—she won’t acknowledge me or any other living being.”

  “Oh.” Raed swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Ask her what it is—the thing she’s looking for?”

  The Young Pretender actually took a hesitant step toward her. “Where is what, sweetheart?”

  The shade let out a long moan that rattled the pictures on the wall and shook the ranks of pens on the desk. “The money.” She held out a bloodless hand. “They said I could have money . . . if I was pure of heart. Where is it? My little brother is very sick.”

  A virgin of either sex had a particular power, because standing on the edge of change was the most attractive place for a geist to strike. Attacks most often happened at sunset or sunrise. Beaches and marshes, the in-between places were the most dangerous. The moment between sleeping and waking was also a particular favorite for a poltern to take possession.

  Raed turned to her, his face written with anger and rage in equal amounts. “What do I say? By the Blood—what did they do to her?”

  “I don’t think our Chancellor is dead at all—but he certainly used this poor girl for something . . . evil.”

  “But what do I tell her?”

  It was terrible, but all they had to go on was what the girl had seen in her last moments. To tell her the truth of her state would destroy any chance they had of learning more.

  When Sorcha whispered the words he needed to use into his ear, the Young Pretender looked at her with horror. After a moment he nodded firmly, understanding that if they lost this chance, his sister might be lost as well.

  He sighed, cleared his throat and then looked directly at the poor girl. Sorcha was used to the forms a geist could take, but the shade was most difficult to get used to, being a reflection of a dead person.

  “You may have your money and go home,” Raed said, his voice stern with command. “But first you must tell us about the people who brought you here.”

  The girl’s empty eyes darted back and forth. “The guards brought me to the palace—I’ve never been here before. There was a lady, she was standing there.” Her finger pointed to the spot by the window. “She was wearing a cloak of gold, so pretty.”

  The poor child of the slums must have been dazzled by a woman from the harem—the cloth of gold was the signature of one of the Prince’s consrts.

  “She said I was pleasing to the Lady—m
y purity was a blessing in her eyes.”

  “Always with the purity,” Sorcha muttered under her breath, “right up until the moment that they sacrifice the innocent.”

  The curtains fluttered, just at the corner of her vision, and suddenly the temperature in the room plummeted. The two living humans’ breath was now visible in front of them, a worse sign still.

  “What about the lady do you remember?” Raed’s words tumbled out. “Quickly, sweetheart. I’ll give you that coin.”

  The girl’s form flickered, the wind from the window buffeting the edges of the apparition. Sorcha strode to the window, and with some difficulty jerked the shutters closed.

  The poor sacrificial shade’s voice was down to a very faint whisper. “She was veiled—but she had the prettiest blue eyes.”

  Blue eyes in Chioma were certainly highly unusual. Sorcha, however, didn’t have enough time to feel victorious, because suddenly her Center was overcome with darkness. She cried out, for a second completely blind.

  Something raced toward them through the ether like a bull charging. Reflexively she pushed Raed back behind her. Even though nearly blinded, Deacon training told her there was only one type of geist that moved that aggressively. A ghast.

  A gleaming set of ethereal fangs, the stench of sulphur, and a wave of nausea confirmed Sorcha’s suspicions. Yet it was not the humans who were the target of the attack.

  The shade screamed, screamed louder than she would have when she was killed. Her shadowy hands reached out toward Raed, the person who had promised her the one thing she wanted.

  He started forward, as if she were a mortal creature, as if he could do anything to help. The Rossin within him was writhing—inflamed by the danger to his host.

  Sorcha grabbed the collar of the Young Pretender’s shirt and yanked him back; he could not be allowed to follow the shade. Her reaction was so swift that he stumbled and fell against the desk. Sorcha was already releasing him and letting the fire of Yevah flare from her Gauntlets. The shielding rune sprang up before them with a roar like a gout of flame.