Spectyr to-2

by Philippa Ballantine

  The thing behind Zofiya’s eyes shifted, and Raed felt himself plunge deeper into madness. “Empress?”

  The smile on her face was stretched. “With your sister’s backing, the rebel Princes will fall into line. I will rule, and in return my Bright Lady will help your sister by taking care of the Rossin. Once the faithful have gathered tomorrow, you will die; he will die with you and not be passed on to her.”

  Raed pressed his lips together lest a cry escape him. When suicide had tempted him, it was the thought that Fraine would suffer the Rossin if he did, which stopped him. Apparently none of this mattered to her—he was simply the man who had killed her mother and any chance of a happy life.

  “I want to watch you suffer first. I want you to know real loss.” Fraine got up, brushed off her pants and gestured to the guards waiting in the darkness. Raed managed to struggle to his knees just as his crew was dragged through the sand dunes; all were bound, and many looked as though they had put up a fierce fight.

  Abruptly he knew what their fate was. “No!” Pulling his feet under him, he charged at the guard nearest him holding the silent and bruised Snook. The Young Pretender never reached them.

  Other guards sprang from the shadows. Raed fought back with forehead and shoulder, but they knocked him down quickly, and with rifle butts and fists kept him down. The Young Pretender swore, snarled and wished for the Rossin to take him, but nothing happened. He had the wind knocked out of him, and when they were done, he was left staring at the stars.

  “Get him up.” Fraine’s voice reached him like he was underwater. It should have come as no surprise to him that it was Isseriah who tugged Raed back up onto his knees. Under the rule of a new Rossin Emperor it was certain that the rebel had been promised his earldom back. Raed had no more venom, but he spat at the traitor’s feet.

  Bruised and heartsick, the Young Pretender looked at his five crew members: Snook, Laython, Balis, Nyre and the young blade Iyle. They looked back at him with clenched jaws, dark eyes and resignation. They knew as well as he what was coming.

  “It has been a pleasure to sail the waters with you, my Prince.” Snook tilted her head up, the light washing over her narrow, sweet face. She had never used his title as Aachon was wont to do. That she did so now poured cold horror through him.

  “Long live Prince Raed,” she cried, and the other four crew members repeated her call as if their lives depended on it—but it made not one jot of difference.

  “It’s been my honor,” Raed choked out.

  He was held tightly as, in one practiced move, all five guards slit all five throats. Not one of them cried for mercy. The gushing of blood flooded over the sand, and then they let the bodies drop. Like that, they were no longer human, just bundles of meat he had once known, loved and sailed with.

  Raed bellowed, reaching for the rage of the Rossin, not caring what happened after—but all he found was emptiness. This was his crew. They had followed him for years, and he’d taken them to their deaths far from the oceans they loved. Like everything else, it was his fault.

  “I see now, Brother”—Raed glanced up as his sister’s words fell on him like rough stones—“that you do in fact have a heart. That is, until they cut it out of you.”

  What could he say to his sister? No matter how many times Raed told himself that it was the Curse, the Beast, the Rossin that had torn their mother to shreds, he could not shake the guilt that it had been him in some way.

  For Fraine, the Young Pretender could find no words. She was not the little sister he had carried on his shoulders, but neither was he that carefree lad anmore. The Rossin had killed both of them along with their mother.

  Fraine and Tangyre looked down at him for a second. Raed wanted them to stop looking at him, wanted it to be over with. Every bone and muscle ached in his body, but it was not as terrible as the pain in his soul—if he had a soul.

  His sister looked across at Zofiya. “Will it be painful?”

  The Grand Duchess hummed a little tune under her breath, her eyes on the looming mound that blackened the horizon. “They will all be gathered tomorrow, and the Bright One will descend.”

  Zofiya’s laugh cracked halfway through, and even in his pain Raed could hear there was less and less of herself in her voice. He knew all about being eaten up from the inside. “Oh, it will hurt. The Bright One will devour his heart and brain and through them the Beast inside.”

  In the firelight Fraine swallowed hard, for a moment looking pale, but she regained her composure and nodded. “Good . . . I want him to suffer just as our mother did. I want him to know pain and fear before he dies.”

  “That you can be guaranteed.” The Grand Duchess sketched a little mocking bow. “Now, get you to the north and rouse the Princes there to our cause.”

  Then the two women who had brought him to this fate turned on their heels, and quickly the darkness took them.

  Raed shook himself, feeling the blood of his crew beginning to pool around his knees. He knew he had to stop Zofiya—she would tear the Empire apart. Even if she did manage to claim the throne, it would mean death and war for years—maybe generations.

  “Zofiya,” he said, twisting around, “what are you thinking? You will have to kill your brother to take the crown. Everything I have seen says you love him dearly!”

  Her eyes, when they looked at him, were confused, as if the spirit of the Grand Duchess was down there somehow, swimming desperately toward comprehension but unable to find it.

  Sensing a chance, Raed tried to throw her a lifeline. “You swore to protect Kaleva! He is your brother—your blood.”

  A flicker of horror passed over her finely carved face, the look of a sister who did still love her sibling. Yet even as hope surged in Raed, the expression passed, and she was once more a statue of calm. “The Emperor has always despised religion. He will never accept the Bright One as I have. I will show them the proper path.”

  “You will bring about chaos!” Raed tried to surge to his feet but was held down by three guards.

  Zofiya’s mouth formed a smile that was not her own. “And that will serve my mistress well.” She turned and faced the darkness on the horizon, the place where no stars burned. “Bring him—we go to make ready for her.”

  Raed struggled weakly, but it was now only a primitive survival instinct. He had never felt more beaten and broken. It was almost enough to make him yearn for the next day. Almost.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Unseen Prince

  Dragging a bleeding Abbot through the almost empty corridors of the palace was not how Sorcha had imagined this visit to Orinthal ending up. Yet that was exactly what they were going to do.

  y had stopped briefly to bind Yohari’s wounds, and Merrick had pronounced it a clean through-and-through stab wound. The Abbot must have flinched away from Delie’s strike with her sword at just the right moment. Still, it bled plenty, and the Abbot, hardly used to a life of stabbings, was not the best patient. If anyone thought Deacons were stalwart, they would have been surprised at his wincing and grumbling.

  Still, Merrick was proficient in the art of field medicine, as Sensitives often had to be, and the palace would have much better facilities.

  They finally reached it by scrambling through every alley and backyard in Orinthal—at least that was how it felt to Sorcha. The gate was devoid of any guards and even hung slightly ajar.

  Sorcha ached to stop and light a cigar—at the very least a cigarillo. It was her usual reaction to stress and the impending feeling of doom.

  “It must be quite the party if even the palace guards have given up their posts,” she commented, hitching the Abbot a little higher. His arm was over her shoulder, and his badge of the Order was digging into her neck. Such little discomforts at time like this shouldn’t have mattered—but they did.

  The older man winced and clutched his side. “The number of Hatipai’s devotees is no less in the palace.”

  “Well then,” she said jauntily, “let us hop
e they have all gone off for the event, or we shall make most unwelcome visitors.”

  Merrick in his rather travel-stained green cloak, shared his Center with Sorcha, and she was able to breathe a little easier; there were many people still in the palace, but not so many that it appeared to be an ambush.

  Pushing open the gates, they staggered in. Whatever had happened here was very similar to what had happened in the town. It looked as though some kind of wild party had taken place: pictures hung askew, amphoras of water lay broken on the floor, and there was the distinct odor of sweat in the air. It was entirely different from the palace that Sorcha had been in only a few hours before.

  “We must find the Prince.” Abbot Yohari wheezed. “We must make sure he is alive.”

  All traces of the joviality that the Chiomese Abbot had exhibited on their first meeting were gone. As they worked their way closer to the throne room, the damage got worse; now it was more like a riot than student pranks. In one doorway they passed there were several bodies.

  “Looks like some guards tried to make a stand,” Merrick whispered, though the corpses were far past caring. About ten guards blocked a corridor along with bodies of petitioners, servants and bureaucrats. Like all battlegrounds, it smelled rank, but the Sensitive stopped to look with his Center. “No shades or spectyrs.”

  “By the Bones, that would be all we need.” Though Sorcha knew that by day’s end there would be plenty to clean up in Chioma, she had other more pressing issues.

  After they skirted the pile of corpses, they made it to the throne room. Rather unsurprisingly, it was barred. “He’s inside.” Before she could stop him, Merrick strode forward and banged on the huge doors. The brass rang like a bell, and Sorcha flinched. If there were any enemies around, it might just sound like a dinner bell.

  Her partner was well educated and talented—yet the one thing he lacked was real-world experience.

  “They better let us in now,” Sorcha muttered to the Abbot, and he rimaced across at her.

  “Indeed.”

  All it took was a whispered conversation through the viewing port, and the mechanism on the other side of the door sprang into life. The lock snapped free, the cogs whirred, and the doors swung open. Sorcha had not noted the lock on the doors before—probably because it was used very rarely. Not many throne rooms had locks, since it was the object of the room to let people in.

  Once again the Prince of Chioma had proved to be rather forward thinking. Either that or justifiably paranoid.

  The three Deacons found themselves ushered into the throne room. If they needed proof that a battle had indeed been fought, then it was here in the heart of the Prince’s kingdom. The room was full of civilians nursing wounds: women of the harem with wide eyes, clerks tending one another’s injuries, and old women from the kitchen sitting shaking in the seats once occupied by the cream of Chiomese society. A couple of guards manned the door, and a handful of civil servants clustered around Onika at the far end of the room.

  Nothing about this group said they were capable of holding off a riot, so Sorcha was a little confused. Even the huge brass door and its workings could not have resisted a decent attack. Yet here they were, the survivors of a wave of madness.

  Abbot Yohari, who must have been conserving his energy for this moment, pulled loose of Merrick and Sorcha and tottered his way toward the Prince. The little huddle around Onika gave way before him, some even remembering to bow. The Prince spun about as Yohari stood swaying before him.

  “Abbot?” His voice was calm but with the underlying edge of stress. “Where are your Deacons? We are counting on them to stem this tide of violence!”

  Yohari sketched a bow and almost toppled. The Prince caught his wrist and guided him over to the steps of the dais as if he was leading his grandfather. “Your Highness”—the Abbot shook his head—“they are all gone. All gone—to her. ”

  A ripple of gasps and sobs ran through the little crowd. Soon the survivors were whispering and clutching one another. Sorcha didn’t need Merrick’s aid to see despair taking hold.

  Even the Prince took a step back and sank down next to the Abbot.

  This could quickly get out of hand. Sorcha had dealt with plenty of groups beset with geists; those who lost hope and the will to fight never lasted long. It might not be the right time, but it was the only time. She pushed her hair back out of her face and flicked a look at Merrick.

  Yohari was too injured and too defeated to lead anything. They had to take charge, so Sorcha cleared her throat and spoke. “Your Highness, I think the time for pretense is over.”

  Onika’s shoulders pressed back, the only discernible sign that he had even heard the Deacon. After a long moment, in which Sorcha decided which rune she might need if those around them pulled out knives, the Prince’s head suddenly flicked around like a viper’s and stared at her.

  “Everyone, leave me to talk with the Deacons.” The tone was deep, powerful and suggested imminent pain if it was disobeyed. The courtiers and the guards recognized that too—scattering to the rear of the chamber.

  “Your Highness,” Yohari began, “I do not think that these Vermillion Deacons can quite understand the uniqueness of our position—”

  “Enough!” Onika held up one hand and cut the Abbot off. “I charged you with watching your Deacons just as I charged all your predecessors. You failed me, Abbot Yohari.”

  Sorcha’s brow furrowed. Just how old was the Prince? Along the Bond, Merrick was unsurprised. The feeling that her younger partner knew something she did not was rather frustrating.

  “As for you,” Onika began, and Sorcha’s hands clenched on each other, “I expected you to find the killer in our midst—and instead one of my daughters is murdered. Explain yourself.”

  His tone now was so flat and dreadful that even though he did not have the resources he once had, Sorcha was sure Onika could still find a way to make her dead. She would have defended herself, tried to find the best words to say, but Merrick stepped between them.

  “You should take my word on this, Onika—Sorcha did not kill your child.” That was the way of Sensitives—they saw so clearly that they could dance around the truth so much more easily. Sorcha knew she might not have killed Jaskia, but she had contributed to the situation that had led to it. Deacons often did.

  The word of a member of the Order, least of all one so young, should not have had any sway with this imperious and mysterious monarch, yet he let out a breath that suggested beyond the shimmering veil he might actually be crying. “Merrick—you don’t know what else has happened.” Even without seeing his face, Sorcha observed the set of his shoulders, the weariness in every muscle—it was as if a great weight was pressing down on him.

  “Onika?” Merrick took a step forward and actually grasped the Prince’s elbow. Such a breach of protocol could have resulted in a challenge to a duel or at least a reprimand, but the monarch did not move. Sorcha grew more confused by the minute, especially when the next words came out of the Prince’s mouth.

  “It is your mother.” There was no mistaking the tone; there was grief in his voice. “They have taken her.”

  Her partner’s face went white, and a surge of fear suddenly rose above the other emotions muddled in the Bond. Sorcha could no longer stand still and let these strange events unroll around her.

  “Mother?” Her eyes widened. “By the Bones—who is he talking about, Merrick?”

  When he turned around, his eyes were wide but his jaw set. He looked younger than his twenty and five years—almost like a frightened child stepping toward anger. His voice was flat as he told her, “You’ve already met her—she’s pregnant with his child.”

  She recalled the woman, beautiful and heavy with pregnancy and curiously devoted to the Prince. Suddenly the similarity between her and Merrick smacked his partner between the eyes. She almost laughed—there were plenty of good reasons she had never been considered as a Sensitive.

  Sorcha hadn’t heard much from
Merrick about his family—but then neither had she told him anything about hers. Most of the Deacons were trained from childhood, many orphaned or sent into the Order by impoverished parents. It was so common that it was taken as the rule. But Sorcha knew from what she had heard in the harem that the royal concubines and wives were no commoners. They were proud of it.

  So, if the woman she had seen was Merrick’s mother, then that meant by consequence that he was no common orphan picked up off the street.

  “We have no secrets from each other,” Onika stated, “and she was so happy to fiou.”

  Sorcha, please. Through their connection she could taste Merrick’s panic. Her partner. He was her partner, and he, unlike her, had family. That had to mean something.

  When this situation is sorted out, she replied, we will talk about this.

  Just help me find her. It was the voice of a son, traced through with love and fear. Some part of her yearned to have that loving connection with kin and was jealous that she did not.

  Sorcha, who had never known her own mother, had however loved the Presbyter of the Young deeply. Merrick was her partner now, and his family was her family. “Where was she last seen this . . . ”

  “Japhne,” Onika broke in. “Her name is Japhne, and she was in her bed. The baby was tiring her, so she went to her room early this afternoon to rest. This was before Hatipai’s madness infiltrated the palace.”

  “Perhaps she is simply hiding from the rioters?” Sorcha glanced across at Merrick.

  He was opening his Center, spreading it farther than she had ever felt him do before—the effort traveled through his body like a vibration and humming along the Bond.

  “Nothing,” he gasped and reached for the Strop. Only the last two runes of Sight required the Strop, and she knew he meant to use the sixth one, Mennyt. Without questioning him, she drew her Gauntlets out from her belt and slipped their comforting weight over her hands.