“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 all 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 us
ually 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—my 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.
The room distorted through it, but still enough to see the final howls of the girl’s shade in it. The ghast was outlined in fire, the dark orb of its eye fixing on the Deacon, but then it faded back into the ether.
They stood there for a long moment, panting, Yevah enclosing them. Merrick, by the Bones, she missed Merrick.
Finally and with caution, Sorcha let the Rune fade from her Gauntlet. The gagging smell of rotten eggs and a faint burn mark on the carpet where there had once been blood was all that remained to say anything had happened.
The geist had only come to destroy the shade—not, it appeared, to take on one of the Order. Sorcha let out a ragged breath and turned to Raed.
“Are you all right?”
His face was pale, his jaw set, but he nodded tightly. “Yes, but by the Blood, I have not seen a geist so close without the Rossin”—he cleared his throat—“appearing.”
Sorcha reached out along the Bond, twisting past the coil of Raed’s fears and deeper into the Rossin. The geistlord was close to the surface, and she caught a glimpse ohis great muzzle, yet he did not venture out.
It was not just unusual—it was against the very nature of the geistlord. The Rossin was designed to feast on both human and geist. It reveled in destruction, blood and pain. Now it was something odd indeed: cautious.
“He’s afraid.” Rossin’s shoulders were tense. “Only the Murashev has ever made him feel like this. It . . . it can’t be another one, can it?”
She would have loved to deny it—but she didn’t have enough information to be sure. “I hope not. I am not much of a Sensitive, but I can tell this much—something was controlling that ghast.” She touched the back of his hand lightly, just enough, she hoped. “I think it is about time we went back to the harem and find out how many blue-eyed women it has.”
“I wish Merrick were here.” It was good for him to say it—it meant Sorcha didn’t have to. She merely nodded in reply.
As they stepped out into the corridor, they were almost knocked down by a flood of young bureaucrats racing down the hall. Raed put an arm across Sorcha and held her back against the wall as half a dozen footmen dashed in the other direction.
It was as if they had stepped into a completely different palace from the one they had entered. Something was most assuredly up.
Sorcha exchanged a glance with Raed, and together they grabbed a passing servant who was laden down with a stack of books.
“What’s going on?” The Young Pretender inquired, managing to sound both commanding and kindly at the same time.
“The Grand Duchess,” the boy gasped, struggling to keep his pile straight. “Word came from the port—she is making her way to the palace this very minute.”
Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, trying to balance this new information, but like the boy, she was failing miserably. Zofiya—of all people!
“What is she coming here for?” Raed, who had only briefly met the Grand Duchess when he was saving her in Vermillion, could not possibly comprehend how much trouble the cursed woman was.
“No one knows,” the boy squeaked, trying to tug his arm fre
e and keep his pile from falling on the floor at the same time. “But nothing is prepared, and she may want to see the Kingdom’s tax records.”
“Thank you, lad.” Raed released him, and the poor thing scampered off to join the melee. By the Blood, those papers better be in order!
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Sorcha hissed into her lover’s ear. “Zofiya isn’t the type of person prone to flights of fancy—and there was no word of her visiting here when I left Vermillion. She could have come with the Ambassador, and yet she didn’t.”
Raed closed his eyes for an instant. “The ossuary wasn’t everything, then.”
It wasn’t a question, and Sorcha knew they had better hurry. The Grand Duchess meant not just panic for the palace, she also created a delicious target for whoever was manipulating geists in Orinthal. The mess had just gotten larger.
TWENTY
A Grand Arrival
Zofiya stepped off the dirigible to be immediately bathed in sweat. They had burned four weirstones to get here in th days, and two engineers had been injured replacing the last one. The curious mathematics of this did not matter. She was here as her goddess had commanded.
“Perhaps the Grand Duchess would like to change into Chiomese silks?” The minor official who Orinthal had managed to rustle up on short notice was bent in an appropriately low bow.
Zofiya took a long breath and let the warm air fill her lungs. The nights it had taken to get here had been sleepless, and she was fully aware that her mood was less than perfect.
Still, she had been born to royalty and managed to control the outward display of her emotions—occasionally. Luckily for the trembling official, this was one of those times. “That will not be necessary—I will, however, require transportation to the Temple of Hatipai.”
The man’s eyes flickered behind her, and Zofiya concealed a smile as he took in her pitifully small entourage: only half a dozen Imperial Guards. Even when she was traveling without her brother, Zofiya should have by rights been accompanied by ten times that number.
However, when your goddess calls, you do not linger to gather what is proper. She could sense that the official was dying to ask more, full of questions he could not quite work out how to get answers to. Let him squirm, she thought; there would be plenty more Chiomese who she was bound to unnerve.
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