Harbinger

by Philippa Ballantine

  Deep within his host the great cat uncurled and against the back of Raed’s eyes everything was suddenly awash in golden light.

  You cannot deal with a Deacon, the Rossin reasoned with the Young Pretender, but I can.

  The Beast spoke the truth; sword and pistol would be very little use against a Deacon of the Circle of Stars. However, if he let the Rossin have his way, there would be nothing left of the traitor but blood.

  Think of what they did last night. How many were killed?

  Raed ground his teeth hard. He could go back and find the Deacons, but by that time the traitor could have disappeared. And besides, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to do something for Sorcha. She’d carried so many burdens for these last months, and he had felt at a complete loss to assist in any way. It would be good to be able to bring something to her for a change.

  Now is your moment then.

  In the tight confines of the tunnel, Raed hastily stripped off his clothes, and let the Beast take over. It was getting easier and easier to do that.

  * * *

  The human was correct. It was getting even easier by the moment. The Young Pretender’s mind was weakening, which gave the geistlord hope that the Fensena was right. He would soon have his way. However, right now there was vengeance to be dealt out.

  The Rossin shook his great mane and crouched down. The corridor was awash in the smell of human, and suddenly his lust for blood boiled up inside him again.

  It was strange that the Young Pretender knew very little of his progenitor or the power he gained from both the Rossin and Derodak. That was the way with humans; they learned so very little in their time. His host had apparently chosen to forget the power they had tasted beneath the streets of Vermillion when facing the Murashev.

  The Rossin had not however. He would have that again.

  His long, rough tongue ran fleetingly over his nose. For now, there was one Deacon to deal with. He might not be of the line of Emperors, but he still shared the great traitor’s blood. The Beast could smell it on him.

  Crouching low, the Rossin began to stalk forward. The light grew brighter quickly because the tunnel was not very long at all—nothing more than a bolt-hole really. It was merely someplace where the infiltrator could work his craft out of sight of the other Deacons.

  On huge but well-padded paws, the Rossin stalked the human at the end of the corridor. His target was so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t notice golden eyes watching him from the semidarkness. The great pard was intrigued and for a moment merely observed.

  Derodak in his cleverness seemed to have outdone himself. The Rossin had little experience with machines; they had always been the preserve of the Ehtia, the Ancient race that had been the cause of the breach into the Otherside. The geistlord hunkered down and let his senses, natural and preternatural, run over the device the cloaked figure was hunched over.

  It was gleaming brass, with many intricate parts that moved over its surface and reminded him of scuttling insects. He did recognize some things about it though; the flicker of three weirstones within its boxlike shape and also the writing carved on every surface. Cantrips were scored in the metal, and he knew immediately that they were not the usual kind, though he’d seen them before.

  They were necromantic cantrips, which made perfect sense when the cloaked figure sliced at his own outstretched arm and dribbled blood into the vial at the end of the device.

  The Rossin’s tongue unconsciously licked over his nose once more. Blood was an Ancient source of power—especially the right blood. It could infuse a geist with strength, let the future reveal its secrets, or open up a little gap into the Otherside. That was why killing was always the last resort of the Deacons of the Order; the path for a geist was easiest when blood was spilled or death was summoned.

  Yet now here was this man sacrificing his own blood to a machine; a machine that seemed to grow brighter as the blood trickled into it, and the weirstones began to vibrate. The sound they made was so high-pitched that the mere human could not have heard it, but to the Rossin it was like jabbing spikes into his brain.

  Unable to contain himself, he rose to his feet with a roar that shook the rock, and for a moment drowned out the unholy noise the machine was making. The man hunched over it spun around and raised his hands instinctively in defense.

  He had no marks of any of the runes on him, but he had a pistol primed and ready. His shot could hardly have gone wild in these tight confines, but its impact on the great pard’s shoulder was as effective as a bee sting. The Rossin did not know the man’s name or face, but he was so enraged by the machine and the pitiful attempt at self-defense that he sprang forward.

  In the small space he could not leap as effectively as he would have wanted, but he still fell on the cloaked man like a crazed storm of teeth and claws. In the struggle, the machine was knocked over, breaking the glass vial that had funneled the blood and cracking the metal case. Two of the weirstones rolled free from their settings and bounced across the floor like a child’s marbles.

  The Rossin was tearing out the man’s guts while he beat with decreasing vigor on the pard’s head. Eventually he stopped altogether, and the Rossin gave him a final shake, as if he were a rat. With his jaws dripping in gore, the geistlord glanced at the machine. It appeared broken, but there was a familiar smell in the air.

  It was the fetid air of the Otherside. Something was coming.

  Leaving the corpse where it had fallen, the Rossin turned about and bolted back the way they had come. The cantrip doorway accepted the blood on his jaws, just as it had accepted Raed’s, and he flew through the stone as if it were paper and he a circus tiger.

  Covered in gore, the Rossin landed in the infirmary. To say the lay Brothers were excited by his arrival would have been a grand understatement. They might be men of science and healing, but a blood soaked leonine form in their domain was quite a shock.

  The Rossin took little note of the chaos that he caused. He did not hear the cries for help, nor see the lay Brothers rushing to remove their patients from his way. He had his senses locked on something else altogether, and his mind was racing over all the possibilities of what it could be. At best a simple rei, at worse the Murashev.

  Gathering his hind legs beneath him, he raced from the infirmary, scattering lay Brothers, patients, and furniture in his wake. No one moved to stop him. He powered his way up the stairs of the citadel, still knocking humans aside. He didn’t have the time to stop and see if they were Deacons or not. Finally, he threw the door to the battlements off its hinges and sprang into the open air. Behind he could hear thumps and cries of outrage, but they were nothing.

  Farther down the battlements, another door was opened and Sorcha Faris emerged. She looked paler than usual, and there was the stink of the Betrayer on her. The Patternmaker they called him; a geistlord who had thrown his lot in with the humans and taught them the runes to control his own kind. He would have given much to rid the world of that creature, but the Order needed him—at least for now.

  Sorcha’s blue eyes, shadowed and bloodshot as they were, met his. Shock would have been an appropriate response, but she had been sharing a bed with his host for months—she had to have guessed that this time would come.

  This Deacon knew a great deal more about him than the Rossin liked. Raed had whispered much into her ear, and she had informed him that the geistlord could talk. They had always thought him a killing machine—which he had been in the early days of his emergence—and he liked it that way. He had not wished to reveal any more to them.

  The Bond between them had thankfully grown a little thinner, but he still could not be sure if she was inside his head or not. He would have loved to be inside hers. Her gaze flickered over the fresh blood and flesh still staining his mouth and face.

  Sorcha opened her mouth, but then she stopped, as her gaze drifted away from his to the far side of the battlements. Only a fool would have missed the stench. The Otherside was he
re.

  The Rossin roared. Perhaps whatever was coming through would think again and return to the Otherside. Unless it was a geistlord. Unless it was the Maker of Ways.

  Both Deacon and geistlord stood on the battlements, mere feet from each other, as the tear appeared over their heads. The Rossin glimpsed the Otherside; darkness, swirling clouds, and a plain of endless torture. However, it was not a geist that slipped through—at least none he recognized. Instead it was a fine mist with no particular shape or form. It issued from the Otherside quickly, just before the tear sealed itself closed.

  It twisted on itself like a fine scarf thrown into the wind and then moved away down the valley, southward. Strangely, it had not even bothered with the two of them.

  The Rossin watched it go and wondered just what the Circle of Stars could be up to. A soft growl escaped his chest. Absolutely no good would come of this. He disliked the smell of it.

  He heard the Deacon approach him, and she did so with not a hitch in her step to show any fear or trepidation. He swiveled his attention to her.

  She was standing before him, and her gaze was curiously empty. This endgame was draining her. A mere human could not take all that she was being called on to do—even one as unusual as Sorcha Faris. The geistlord was abruptly worried that she might not survive—and he needed her. She still owed the Fensena a favor.

  Her eyes darted over him, perhaps weighing him up in a similar manner. She took in the clumps of gore splattered all over his mane, jaws and throat. Then she reached out to the great cat. The Deacon had dared a similar gesture when they’d been inside the Wrayth hive, but then it had been accidental—this time she was very deliberate. He tensed, his back legs bunching.

  Then Sorcha Faris’ spread palm came down on the spot between his nose. It rested there for a moment, buried in the fur and destruction.

  “You found the traitor,” she whispered, and the Rossin flinched slightly. Everything was changing with the Otherside coming closer. How she had plucked thoughts and memories from inside his head, he did not know—but he most definitely knew he did not like this development.

  She was very close to him, warm and full of blood. That was not the only thing though. His golden-slitted eyes locked with hers and for an instant he felt what she was feeling.

  The Wrayth inside her, long quiescent, was stirring. The whispers of that hive-mind geistlord were a faint rattle in Sorcha’s brain, like dry leaves shifting on one another. Along the Bond they scampered toward the Rossin.

  The great cat let out an outraged snarl and jerked back away from the human’s touch. Indeed, if he hadn’t needed her alive, he might have lashed out right there and ripped her to shreds. The Wrayth had been looking for a weapon, some way to draw all geists together under their dominion for generations. It looked like they finally had what they wanted.

  The Rossin was now not sure who he should be more worried about: Sorcha Faris or the Maker of Ways. Her blue eyes didn’t leave him though.

  “You hear them too.” It was not a question, and even a geistlord could feel the sadness and desperation in her voice.

  The Rossin growled, low and deep, while his ears flicked backward and forward. The voices had subsided, but he had the feeling that they were waiting a very short distance across the Bond.

  “Give him back to me,” Sorcha spoke to him. “Give me back Raed Syndar Rossin.”

  He growled. He snarled. He even raised one paw threateningly, but she never blinked or moved out of the way. She simply stood there on the battlements, her red hair twisting in the wind like a banner.

  “I will have my way,” the Rossin finally spoke, spitting out his rage. “When the Wrayth have torn you apart and made you their blade, I will still remain. I have always remained.”

  She looked unmoved by his predictions, only watching him out of eyes full of shadows. This Deacon was so nearly lost, and he still needed her. For now, he would let her pretend she was safe.

  The Rossin wrapped his power around him and returned to the depths.

  * * *

  Raed uncurled himself, feeling the wind cut through to his very bones. Before he could shake off the effects of the change, a cloak had been swung around him. He looked up and saw Sorcha standing over him, fixing shut the buttons on the clothing she had given him.

  He caught at her hands and looked up at her. “How many times have you given me your cloak?” The Young Pretender was trying to make a joke, but her brows drew together.

  “Many times, my prince,” she said, helping him to his feet, “but I think you have not noticed—this is not my cloak.”

  He looked down and noticed it was a simple gray one.

  “I have given mine up,” she said, “at least for now. I got this from downstairs for you though.” Looking up at her, Raed understood this was something deeper than a fashion choice.

  The Rossin had dived deep, but left him the memories of what the Beast had done—for once it was something that he was glad of. He did not regret the blood spilled. That treacherous Deacon had caused the deaths of many good people two nights earlier. He clasped Sorcha’s hands and got to his feet.

  Pulling her close seemed like the most natural and most important thing to do. A deep shiver ran through the Young Pretender’s body. He loved her so much, and yet he also knew that a dark path lay ahead. For a second he just concentrated on the feeling of her arms around him, and his around hers. Then he kissed her. Not the urgent, demanding kiss they had shared that first time in Ulrich, but one that lingered. He was trying to remind her that she had him—if nothing else.

  Sorcha squeezed her hands around his neck, and then slowly, reluctantly pulled back from him. She pressed her forehead against his, making just enough space between them for the wind to enter.

  Finally, he spoke. “The Circle of Stars knows we’ve discovered them. Since I—I mean the Rossin—killed their informant here, we have to move before they do.”

  She sighed, but nodded. “I guess it had to come. I had hoped to stay here just a fraction longer, but you are right; we must move if we want to live.”

  And despite it all he did want to live; to be with her and to fight.

  TWELVE

  Returning on Wings

  It felt very strange indeed to be at the head of a force of armed men walking with all speed back to the palace of her brother. The Grand Duchess Zofiya’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword, and she dimly felt the weight of her new rifle bang against her back. These things had given her confidence in the past, but now they felt rather hollow.

  She knew luck was with her—for the moment at least. The airship nearest the Priory had been the Summer Hawk with the redoubtable Captain Revele in command. It so easily could have been another—probably one who would have shot the Grand Duchess on sight.

  What was even luckier was that they made Vermillion city in five days. Revele burned every weirstone she had in the airship’s engines to make that happen. It was a risky course of action, because with no replacements the captain was entirely throwing the fate of herself, her crew and her ship in with that of the Grand Duchess.

  Zofiya knew it and accepted that loyalty gratefully.

  Even now, walking through the damaged streets of the capital, she was still not sure what she had done to warrant it though. She was a little afraid to ask. They passed over the Bridge of Whispers to the south of the ruined Mother Abbey of the Order. She did not want to see that broken edifice, nor did she want to draw too close to the new geists that surely must have been created there after the destruction Derodak and her brother had wrought.

  The city was revealing her injuries gradually to Zofiya like a wounded animal. The smell was of death and smoke, but there was also a strange tang to the air—something sharp and hot. She had become reacquainted with it after months spent with the remains of the Order; geists left a peculiar scent behind them. It was impossible for a normal human to detect only one being but many could leave a residue like this.

  Shoot
ing a gaze out of the corner of her eye, she observed that she was not the only one affected. Revele’s eyes were wide with shock, and Zofiya suddenly felt very old—though she could only be ten years older than the captain.

  “You don’t remember,” the Grand Duchess found herself speaking more to give herself something to do as they moved through the streets. “You weren’t in the corps when my brother and I arrived in Arkaym. The same smell hit us in the face as we landed for the first time.”

  “I was there,” Petav ventured from behind her right shoulder, “and I hoped to never see it again.” She had almost forgotten about the Deacon. It made her feel almost normal to have one with her.

  Zofiya was lost in the memory for a moment. “When the Arch Abbot led the charge, he was at the head of the largest Conclave ever assembled by any Order. It was magnificent.” Her throat strangely choked for a second. After a moment she went on. “And now that Order is broken, and we have only a small chance of recovering any of their number. With so few remaining, I do not know how any of us will survive this.”

  The Deacon at her back did not comment, only shifted slightly and hugged the irreplaceable tube, which contained the Pattern of his Order. As a Sensitive he was probably already searching for his lost fellows—yet he did not share what he was finding. That was not a good sign.

  Finally, Zofiya called a brief stop, drew Deacon Petav to one side and addressed him in an undertone. “Reverend Brother—a word if you will.”

  He followed her obediently.

  “What may I do, Imperial Highness?” Petav asked, his gaze narrowing on her face.

  Zofiya looked him up and down. “Now we are here, I must ask you to take on a dangerous mission.”

  The Deacon made no comment, so apparently the training of the Order held better than their Mother Abbey had.