Spectyr

by Philippa Ballantine

  Raed pushed with his hands, levering himself off the carriage seat, but quickly found that they were bound, and it was not with anything he had ever encountered before, but he knew what they were immediately.

  “Weirstones.” He held up his hands before him, swaying slightly and still a little muzzy. The string of tiny stones gleamed like diamonds in front of his slowly focusing eyes. “Really—you shouldn’t have.”

  Zofiya laughed, but it was a short sound with no real amusement behind it. “But if I did not, then your passenger would become very troublesome.”

  Raed twisted so that he was sitting a little more comfortably on the seat, though it still felt precarious. His feet were bound in the same fashion. “It takes very little to restrain the Rossin.” He measured how far it was across to the Grand Duchess, but at this moment he remained curious rather than angry.

  She leaned back, some of the baking Chiomese sun filtering in through the curtains and outlining her form even more in the thin white dress. Raed was aware, if not entirely immune, to her tactics. Zofiya was a beautiful woman, and the dress not only showed off her womanly curves but also the lines of honed muscles years of military training had given her. He began to reconsider how great his chances of overcoming her physically really were.

  “It is not merely the weirstones that restrain the Rossin,” Zofiya replied, “but the fact that he was soundly beaten.”

  Raed had dreamed most of his life of hearing someone saying that to him—telling him they had a way to defeat the great geistlord that haunted his life. Sorcha, Merrick and the Bond had given him some comfort, but he had never thought that there could be any more.

  Raed was not comforted—not when her smile did not reach her strange eyes. Raed knew about possession better than most, and there were many small signs of it on Grand Duchess Zofiya: a tiny twitch under her right eye, unusual fashion choices, and a complete lack of sweat on her body.

  “What are you,” he asked through dry lips, “to sit there talking so calmly about beating the Rossin, when most people don’t even want to say his name?”

  She gestured down her body. “I dare because I am protected.” When she shifted, Raed saw something that his blurry eyes had not noticed before. Sitting on the seat next to her was a mahogany box, large enough to hold a man’s head. He wondered if that was what was in it. “My goddess Hatipai has cast her cloak over me, and even your passenger carries no dread for me.”

  “A goddess?” Raed couldn’t help letting out a little snort of disbelief. “You are relying on the protection of a little god against the Rossin?”

  She moved so fast that all he felt on his skin was the sting of her slap. She had enough strength behind her attack to rock him back in the seat, and something else—a brush of power that tasted familiar. It was gone too quickly for him to identify, but the Young Pretender was left staring at the Grand Duchess with a new appreciation.

  “Don’t you dare talk about things you have no idea of,” she whispered to him over bared teeth. “You may call them little—but Hatipai is a living goddess—my living goddess!”

  Raed rubbed his cheek somewhat awkwardly and smiled in what he planned on being a charming manner. “A gentleman doesn’t like to bring up debts in front of a lady, but this seems hardly fair, considering I saved your life only a season ago.”

  She tilted her head, her luminous dark eyes full of regal pride. “And a Grand Duchess does not acknowledge what is hers by right. Every citizen of Arkaym does his duty when he protects the royal family.”

  Now, that pinched his pride. “I have never sworn an oath to you or your upstart brother—I owe you nothing!” Raed hoped to enrage her to the point where he might be able to overcome her—perhaps get the tight length of weirstones around her fine neck.

  Idly Zofiya drew her long knife and began to clean her nails with its shining length. “Perhaps you do not . . .” The way she said it so archly implied something that chilled Raed.

  The Rossin. It always came down to the Rossin. If it was not enough trouble to be the Pretender to a throne with a bounty on his head, he also carried a geistlord inside him that apparently had even more enemies.

  “What do you want with him?”

  Now Zofiya leaned back in her seat, a beautiful woman with something dark lodged in her. The Young Pretender knew a lot about that. He also knew this was not the Duchess he had taken a bullet for back in Vermillion.

  Her smile was devastating and knowing. “She wants him. She must have her revenge.”

  Raed let his head drop back on the seat with a slight groan. “Hatipai, you mean. This is what it is all about?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” And that was all she was going to say.

  “Where are we going?” the Young Pretender asked, hating to sound so helpless, but peering out from the carriage still only revealed more sand and a group of Imperial Guard.

  The Grand Duchess did not respond at first, so Raed tried to weigh his options. Without the Rossin there were very few. He couldn’t be sure of overpowering Zofiya, who was a fine warrior in her own right. If she carried any sort of geist, which he suspected was the case, then the chances went down even further.

  He couldn’t for the life of him find the Bond that Merrick and Sorcha talked about. Raed was ready to roll from the carriage and see what happened, but just as he was gearing up to do that, Zofiya spoke again.

  “We are going where you wanted to go all this time, Raed Syndar Rossin—we are going to meet your sister.” Her voice was soft and precise.

  The Young Pretender only just managed to stop himself from leaping on her. “Fraine? You took Fraine?”

  She bared her teeth in a smile that would give him nightmares. “ ‘Took’ is such a strong word.”

  Raed clenched his teeth, sucked in his self-control, then gave her a curt nod. “For now you live, Grand Duchess Zofiya. Until I see her.”

  She did not reply, and he did not try to engage her any further in conversation. In this manner they traveled on into the darkness and the desert: the second in line to the Imperial throne and the man who had been born to it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Eye and the Fist

  Sorcha let Merrick lead the way mainly so she could keep an eye on her young partner. They had to avoid the main thoroughfares, which made getting back to the palace a rather laborious process. Everyone not on the streets was slamming shut their doors—barricading them if they could.

  “The pull of the geistlord”—Merrick shot a glance over his shoulder—“is only felt by those true believers.”

  Sorcha’s laugh was so sharp it could have cut. “I always knew faith was a bad habit.”

  “It may be that all gods are not geists.” The alleyways were strung with washing lines so that Merrick had to push through someone’s dirty linens merely to make headway.

  Just how her partner could say such a thing with such confidence was a mystery. He had returned with more secrets than was right. She was just about to demand some sort of explanation when Merrick flicked two sheets aside and saw a scene that neither of them could walk away from—even if they wanted to.

  Abbot Yohari was the last person Sorcha would have expected to see in the back alleys of Orinthal, especially bleeding on the ground holding up the blue fire shield of Aydien while being attacked by his own Deacons.

  Merrick stood there for a moment, horrified by the sight of those attackers Delie and Jey. The older partner saw Sorcha and smiled—a smile that sank reality into the Vermillion Dacon’s heart. She was not wearing her Gauntlets—the other Active most certainly was.

  It was not the first time she had faced off against one of the Order, so she moved a little faster than Merrick. Grabbing him by the back of his robe, she yanked him hard, sending them both tumbling, just as the lightning of Chityre filled the alleyway. It danced over the Abbot’s waning shield before flicking and spitting up the mud walls. Seldom had Sorcha had the opportunity to experience the rune from the other side of the Gaunt
let—it really was most impressive.

  Still, finally she had a target for her rage. Sorcha had her Gauntlets on in a heartbeat, rolled to her feet and wrapped her own Aydien around them. No Chiomese turncoat Deacon was going to best her. Even the idiot Arch Abbot Rictun had never brought into question her own talent or power. Her shield pulsed brighter, moved faster and enveloped Abbot Yohari before his could drop away. Together Merrick and Sorcha went to his side.

  She could not, however, spare a glance down; it was not that holding Aydien up was hard, but she watched Delie carefully as she dropped Chityre. The older woman whispered a word to her Sensitive, who looked as calm as a rabbit before a polecat.

  At her side Sorcha heard Merrick tending to the Abbot, though her partner’s Center still remained open and shared with her. He will live. Merrick’s voice in her head was hot with outrage.

  “You’ve attacked your own Abbot—a cardinal offense whichever way you cut it.” Sorcha cocked her head and addressed the two rogue Deacons through the flickering blue of Aydien. “As representative of the Mother Abbey, I demand you surrender your Strop and Gauntlets to me and prepare to be escorted to Vermillion for trial.”

  Delie’s lip curled while her hands flexed—Sorcha already knew the answer before it came. “Never! The Order is a hollow nothing now that the Bright One has returned.”

  The idea that anyone would place the Order of the Eye and the Fist below a little god made Sorcha bark out a laugh. “You break your oath to the people of this land for a childish imagining? I did not know fools were so easily let into the Chiomese Order!”

  “Perhaps not the best reply—” Merrick’s warning was cut short as Delie shoved Jey out of the way and raised her Gauntlets. The green light of Shayst flickered on the Chiomese Deacon’s Gauntlets, and Sorcha felt her rage flare at the same time. She had to let it out.

  If these Deacons thought that they could drain power from her with the very same rune they used on geists, they were about to be disabused of the notion.

  “Take out that damn Sensitive!” she snarled at Merrick while calling Seym to her. A giddy rush and then the Rune of Flesh filled her muscles with strength, giving her the power of one possessed.

  Kill her? Merrick’s question made her head ring with his horror.

  Not unless you have to. Reaching the older Active, she sprang upon her with vengeful glee. Delie’s eyes widened as she realized that Shayst was not taking power away from Sorcha nearly quickly enough. The depth of the triple Bond was unique, but the Deacon from Vermillion did not give Delie time to ponder it long.

  Gauntlets were seldom used as a weapon of physical attack—but that did not mean they could not be put to that purpose. Sorcha delivered a strong left hook into the other Active’s stomach, knocking her back and leaving her gasping for breath.

  However, she too could draw on Shayst, and when she did, she came at Sorcha with as much rage as the Vermillion Deacon. They had no time to spar or take each other’s measure; the runes could not be held indefinitely, and this was no competitive boxing match.

  Merrick and Jey were fighting nearby, their strikes fast and more accurate than those of the Active. Yet none of them were drawing swords. Despite falling on one another like brawling children, not one of the Deacons would draw their blades on another.

  Though she might be angry, somewhere in the back of Sorcha’s mind lurked the suspicion that Hatipai had done something to her fellow Deacons. Unlike the traitors in Ulrich, these two had a bemused air about them, as if they were not quite all there.

  Still, they could do plenty of damage. Sorcha took a good uppercut blow from Delie and reeled back. The Rune of Flesh dulled pain and swelled muscles, but she would feel the damage all the same when she let go of it. The next blow the Chiomese Deacon hammered down at her, Sorcha caught fast with her left hand. Pivoting on one foot, she caught Delie in a wristlock behind her back.

  “Give up,” she hissed in the other’s ear. “Remember your training and your loyalty.”

  Her opponent struggled. “My first loyalty was always to the Bright One—there can be no greater calling than to obey her will.”

  Sorcha dared a glance at Merrick. His eyes were shadowed with pain, even as he kicked out and knocked Jey from her feet. It was not surprising that he took no pleasure from attacking a fellow Deacon and a woman. The female Sensitive looked up at Merrick and for a second there appeared some clarity in her vision.

  “Delie,” she gasped, “please—let’s just go.”

  Her partner struggled briefly and then sagged in Sorcha’s grasp. She was wise enough to know she was outmatched. Sorcha pushed her away hard, using her arm as leverage. When Delie turned about, her eyes were hard and bitter. Whatever force had the Chiomese, it had sunk its claws deeper into her than Jey.

  Logically, Sorcha should have drawn her sword and dispatched the two of them, because they would undoubtedly bring back reinforcements to finish the job—but she hesitated.

  Her training had taught her sympathy and care for those possessed—and though Sorcha had never seen anything like this kind, she knew it was something similar. Though her hand caressed the pommel of her sword, she did not draw it.

  “Come, Jey,” Delie snarled, yanking her Sensitive to her feet. Tears looked ready to spring to the young Deacon’s eyes as she followed her Active away down the alleyway.

  That was when lightning struck out of the clear blue sky. It smashed the three-story wall above the Chiomese Deacons with a deafening boom of thunder that filled the tiny space and knocked Sorcha and Merrick off their feet. For a moment everything was white.

  When it finally cleared enough for her to see again, she turned to see Abbot Yohari propped up on the street behind them, his Gauntleted hand raised with the remains of Chityre still dancing on it. His dark, handsome face was twisted in pain and rage for a heartbeat before it was quickly smoothed away in a wash of trained discipline.

  One glance back to where the tumbled remains of the building stood told Sorcha that no one was climbing out of that wreckage. Still, she looked to Merrick. His shake of the head was the final confirmationit had suv>

  Standing over the Abbot, she released her breath slowly before pointing out to him, “They were retreating.”

  His expression would have suited a statue. “They strayed from the path,” was his only reply.

  Sorcha couldn’t decide what to make of this implacability. The Order had plenty of rules that she was sure she didn’t care to know about.

  Yohari stripped off his gloves, tucked them under his belt and then imperiously held out a hand to Sorcha. Their gazes locked, and for the longest moment Sorcha didn’t move. Finally it was Merrick, faithful, dependable Merrick, who darted forward and helped the injured Abbot to his feet.

  Every muscle that Sorcha owned, as if on cue, began to ache—but it was highly unlikely that she would have time for a soak in a hot bath. Not for a very long time. Despite the pain, she did not remove her Gauntlets.

  “Take me to the Prince.” The Abbot leaned against Merrick and glared at Sorcha. “We must get to the Prince.”

  She would have loved an excuse to leave Yohari—but somehow the Bonds of loyalty still held her to the path of the Order—and she couldn’t let Merrick shoulder all of this burden. Taking her place under the Abbot’s right arm, smelling the tang of blood and incense, Sorcha found herself agreeing with him.

  “To the Prince, then—and by the Bones, it had better be a short, uneventful walk.”

  They reached their destination in the sullen cold of the evening. Raed had long ago given up trying to outlast Zofiya and had dropped back to sleep in the swaying carriage. If life on the run had taught him anything, it was that you were always best to take rest where you could.

  So when the carriage rumbled to a stop, he jerked awake and reached automatically for his sword. The sheath was empty at his side, and his hands remained tied firmly with the weirstones.

  Zofiya, on the opposite seat, smiled at him almo
st coyly, then, leaning forward, she yanked on the cord that bound him. For a second Raed contemplated putting up a fight but then decided his energy was best preserved. If the Grand Duchess got her thrills leading him around like a tame animal, then he would let her grow accustomed to that illusion.

  “I hope we haven’t kept everyone waiting,” he muttered as he stepped out of the carriage.

  Zofiya’s laugh was low and delighted. “They would wait for you, Raed Syndar Rossin, because you are the guest of honor.”

  It was not exactly a cheery comment, so Raed decided to ignore it.

  They were still out in the sand—hardly surprising, since they had been traveling with the setting sun on their left, which meant only more desert. The heat had long dissipated; instead, a freezing cold wind was blowing off the dunes. Raed shivered and looked about him. A long row of flaming torches led somewhere in the dark, though he could make out a hump of some kind on the horizon—it blocked out the stars. It could be just another sand dune, but some deeper awareness, something from the Rossin, most likely, said it was not.

  “I do hope this isn’t another ‘we need royal blood’ ritual.” He sighed in mock boredom. “Because I already went through one of those recently.”

  “The Murashev in Vermillion?” Zofiya’s voice was tny in the vast desert. “That was a geist—this is for our Bright One.”

  “It’s not royal blood they want, Brother”—a second female voice came out of the dark—“else they could have had some of mine.”

  For a long beat of his heart Raed remained frozen, certain that somehow his mother’s spectyr had found her way here. It was her voice, light and sweet but still full of the command of a royal lady. Tears leapt to his eyes in an instant as the last image he had of her flashed before him—her beautiful face twisted in agony, just before the Rossin took her life.

  The Young Pretender spun around. A form, tall and shapely, stood by the closest torch. It was hooded, but as he watched, delicate hands pushed aside the cowl. Curls of bright gold hair tumbled down her back but were held away from her face by a string of gleaming pearls, and Raed took a step away in shock. His sister was the living image of their mother.