Harbinger

by Philippa Ballantine

  The darkness at the bottom of the trench twisted, and tendrils of shadows clutched at the rock walls. Water was now rushing past the Rossin’s streamlined form. Bubbles and fleeing fish raced by him as he struggled to remain upright and not be swept away by this unnatural current.

  A sound made its way through the water, a keening, high-pitched noise that struck him almost like a blade. Baleful eyes suddenly appeared in the gloom, slitted and gleaming orange. Now the tendrils of shadows were not merely shadows . . . they were tentacles, pulling and wrapping around the stonework, as the massive body they were attached to rose nearer and nearer.

  For a brief moment the Rossin was struck motionless; thinking this was it, the arrival of the Maker of Ways. The realm would be torn and geists of all shapes and kinds would come pouring in. Then, however, he could finally make out the body. It was long and tubular, and had a waving frill around the edges that might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so huge. The tentacles were far thicker than the geistlord’s body, and they were reaching out to him.

  Now he understood fear. It did not matter if he were geistlord or Young Pretender, this thing had been brought out of the depths for the specific purpose of hunting both of them. Derodak had certainly developed an inflated dramatic flair over the centuries. The Rossin wondered if he should be flattered.

  The sea beast was not fast, but then it did not have to be. The tentacles shot out for him—and there were many of them.

  With a flex of his tail, the geistlord darted away, weaving this way and that as a forest of them descended in his direction. Up close he observed there were large and small ones, and it was the thinner ones that were harder to get away from. They flung themselves at him like a series of slimy pink nets. As a few touched him along his back, his flesh burned with sharp stings.

  Pain was not a sensation that the Rossin had much time for, but he was getting a full taste of it now. He roared—though the ocean swallowed much of the effect—and batted at them. Many he cut free, but the water around him was beginning to turn into a veritable soup of them. The geistlord twisted and twisted on himself, trying to cut a way free.

  However, the tentacles, large and small, were guiding him closer to the dark center of the monster. Now he caught a glimpse of the beak of the thing: curved and pale, it was three times longer than his body. Tentacles curled and flung around him, cutting off escape routes and shepherding him toward doom. That beak would snap him like a twig.

  Raed Syndar Rossin and he would share the same broken fate. The line would die with him, and he would even miss the Maker of Ways. His last thought was how bitter it was that Derodak had won.

  TWENTY

  The Blood Will Out

  Sorcha dreamed that her mother was holding her. She cradled her daughter, pressing her head in tight against her shoulder. Sorcha felt warm, safe and happy. Her nostrils were full of her mother’s scent; roses and strength. She planted the lightest of kisses on her daughter’s head and whispered, “Remember who you are.”

  Sorcha held tight to that gentle admonishment.

  “Mother,” she murmured into the thick dark hair, “why did you leave me?”

  It was a foolish question, but it came right from the heart of the little girl lost in the Order, whose sole loved one had been the Presbyter of the Young. She’d only been able to give Sorcha so much attention and care. In the lonely times in the Abbey’s garden, before she’d been taken into the novitiate for training, she had whiled away long afternoons wondering what her mother was like. Did they look the same? Sound the same? Did she miss her?

  Sorcha did not need to wonder any longer. She was safe, missed, loved.

  Just as she pulled that truth close, her mother pushed back from her. Sorcha screamed in horror. It was not the face she had seen in the vision in the Wrayth hive—it was the Wrayth itself. The thing that was holding her was a bubbling mass of faces, all screaming for mercy and release. The form of the Wrayth held them bound and pressed together.

  “I never left you,” the creature growled, its hands tightening on her. “I have always been right here with you.”

  Eventually Sorcha’s screams woke her, and she almost immediately wished they had not. Imprisonment of another kind waited.

  Sorcha did not recognize the woman peering down at her, but she did recognize the type; long pale hair, and eyes that gleamed with something unnatural. The Wrayth was in the waking world too and looking out at Sorcha. She was being examined exactly as someone might when choosing a puppy from a litter.

  The Wrayth woman straightened up, and Sorcha finally noticed that she was tied to a table—one that seemed to come very close to being like the draining table in Ulrich. Luckily, it did not have the spikes, but Sorcha was held at a tilted angle; not quite on her feet, not quite on her back.

  At least they would have been unable to take her runes from her. Glancing down at her shackles she called on Seym, to fill her body with strength. Nothing happened.

  Her captor let out a soft chuckle. “Do you really think that we have not mastered how to keep Deacons quiet, even if,” she said, gesturing to the marks on Sorcha’s flesh, “you have found a remarkable way to ingrain runes on yourself.”

  A cold, hard realization came over Sorcha. She was right where her mother had been. The dire feeling of helplessness was the very same as her mother must have felt when she’d been snatched all those years ago. Sorcha, just like her own mother had been, was not used to the sensation. She was a Deacon—no, more than that, she was the Harbinger. They couldn’t do this to her!

  However, that didn’t seem to matter. The Wrayth woman pressed a hand on Sorcha’s head and stared into her eyes. The voices in her mind grew more insistent now, clamoring for something. Sorcha tried to not listen, but one voice grew louder and louder the longer the hand remained there. It was screaming over and over, Obey, Obey! It was painful, and terrifying, yet when it receded she was left panting, but still herself.

  Apparently this was not the result that the Wrayth woman had been hoping for. She flicked Sorcha’s head to one side with an impatient growl and walked away. The Deacon dared not consider what this might mean—that was until the Wrayth spoke.

  “You are a deep disappointment, Sorcha Faris.” Her voice was sharp and laden with venom. “You are so very close to our goal, and yet you fall short.” Her hands clenched together while her eyes darted left and right. The Deacon had no doubt that the screaming voice was totally in control and letting out its frustration and anger inside that human skull.

  “Really?” she gasped, licking her lips in an attempt to make her voice not come out as a dire croak. “You cannot know how much that pleases me.”

  The Wrayth seemed not to hear her, as she began to pace back and forth. “You have all the makings of the final weapon, and yet you remain aloof from us. We cannot connect with you.” She stopped pacing and stared at Sorcha. “The fault lies not with your father, so it has to have been your mother who—”

  “It is too late for recriminations now,” a familiar voice spoke. He had stood out of Sorcha’s line of sight, concealed behind the table she was strapped to. As he walked around into view, Sorcha felt her anger begin to boil, rising over the dull ache of helplessness.

  Derodak, Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars, stood next to the Wrayth and watched Sorcha rage. She strained against the bonds, calling out a stream of profanities that would have earned her stern retribution in the Order.

  He was the maker of all Arkaym’s misery . . . all this death and destruction. He had brought down the Order of the Eye and the Fist, the only protection for the people of Arkaym. He had caused the Empire to fall into civil war, and now Sorcha saw that he was working with the Wrayth. All these things he had done for his own profit, so that he might rule the world as his Ehtia race once had.

  He waited until she was done before turning to the Wrayth. “So, since she is of no use to you, I take it our agreement still stands?”

  The pale woman raked her eyes up
and down Derodak, her face now devoid of any emotion. “If there was time, we would try again by breeding off her . . .”

  Derodak raised a finger and wiggled it at her as if the Wrayth were a recalcitrant child. “Now, now, we all know there is no time for that. You have failed to make your weapon, so our original agreement remains; I shall give you the west to do with as you please. Raise the humans as cows for all I care, but this thing you made is now mine.”

  The woman’s eyes said she would have murdered him if she had the chance, but eventually she nodded.

  Sorcha tried to think of anything to say to stop what she was witness to, but what could be said to two immortal geistlords intent on the destruction of her whole world? He would enslave the geists that came through from the Otherside and rule the humans, while the Wrayth would have the western edge of the Empire to harvest.

  Instead, Sorcha tugged on her bonds for a time, and offered no words for them to enjoy. Even the Bond was a dark, empty thread; nothing came along it to comfort her. She was alone again.

  Yet her whole life she had tried not to be alone. In the embrace of the Order, she had found peace, purpose and friendship. Her partners and her colleagues had filled her life. Her mission to help those endangered by geists had given her something worthwhile to strive for. Now, she was watching the destruction of all of that from captivity. It was enough to break her. Hopelessness rushed in, and she had no Merrick to save her from its icy grip.

  The Wrayth woman left the room, head held high, not acknowledging Derodak or Sorcha again. Now it was just the two of them in the room.

  Sorcha turned her head away. She had no desire to see the triumph on his face. Could it really be just yesterday that she had driven the geists from the city and claimed the title of Harbinger? It felt like a lifetime ago.

  She raised her head slightly to glare at Derodak. “Why are you really doing this? You are causing so much pain and misery to everyday folk—”

  “My people ruled this world before the coming of the geists.” He stared down at her for a moment, then bent and clasped her chin hard in his hand. “We were mighty and terrifying, because no one else could do the things we could do. When we fled, this place became as a wasteland of insects scrabbling to survive. I will show all of them the way to live. Show them all how to harness the geists and become mighty once more.”

  Sorcha realized it was worse than she thought; Derodak was no madman—he genuinely believed in his course. An immortal life span had not taught him anything but the value of control.

  When she remained silent, he smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of his lips. “The first Order was my Order, and all that you have tried to build here was but a reflection of what I had already done.” He flicked her chin aside and stepped back. “You may not be the weapon that the Wrayth hoped for, but I think you will suit my purpose very well.”

  Something about the way he said it, lingering over the words like each of them was a ripe fruit, sent a shock through Sorcha’s system. She had not fought so damn hard to pull together the new Order just so that he could destroy it. Her mother had fought for her, and now she was going to fight for the rest of it.

  “We shall be on our way,” he said, bending and unlatching her bonds. “Vermillion is waiting for her leader.”

  Derodak could not be all that good of a Sensitive, because he did not expect his prisoner to throw herself up and on him. She grabbed him around the head and neck, throwing her whole weight against his throat. Her vision was dancing with black spots, but it felt very good to finally have her hands on him. All of the dangers she had faced—the Murashev, Hatipai and the Wrayth—could not compare to this man. He had made it happen. It was an easy thing to let all of that flow through her. She was going to choke this man out and then beat his proud head with a rock until it was pulp. Let him show how immortal he was then.

  They struggled together; Sorcha’s one arm wrapped around his throat from behind, while her other hand sought out the knife on his belt. Her addled brain would have been happy to slit his throat. If he had taken the runes, then she would do it the old-fashioned way.

  However, apparently Derodak didn’t need the runes as much as she had expected. He jerked, and the back of his head connected with Sorcha’s nose. The sudden explosion of pain disorientated her, but she held on. So he slammed her backward against the rough stone wall. The wind was knocked out of her, and her grip on his neck loosened just enough so that he was able to get a hand under hers. In one smooth move, he dumped her off his back to land on hers in the dirt.

  The green flames of Shayst enveloped her, sucking away the strength from her muscles. In the flickering green light, Derodak smiled. “We have enough time yet, so that you may learn a lesson, Sorcha Faris. I am rather afraid it will be a painful one.”

  She struggled to rise, but nothing was working.

  Derodak took his time, putting on a pair of fine leather Gauntlets. “The Patternmaker is a turncoat.” He tilted his head, reconsidering. “Or rather he is the ultimate survivor. When he was in my possession, he created some new runes for me . . . and now I think I will show them to you.”

  He bent and clamped his Gauntlet on her arm. As she spiraled into agony, she knew that as an immortal, Derodak had learned a great deal about the application of pain.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sibling Reunion

  “There he is,” Deacon Petav said, pointing out to port. “Your brother is indeed waiting for you as agreed.”

  Zofiya hoped the clenching knot in the pit of her stomach was not reflected on her face.

  Captain Revele appeared out of the bridge of the Summer Hawk. She snapped to attention in front of the Grand Duchess and offered up her spyglass in one hand without comment. Zofiya saluted and took the brass instrument from her.

  She trained it toward where the sun was progressing toward the horizon, and saw the Winter Kite ahead of them just in front of the mountain known as the Sky Tower. It was not alone either; twenty or so airships floated nearby. They gleamed and fluttered in the light breeze.

  The Grand Duchess wouldn’t have minded that so much—since she had brought her own fleet—but they were not tied up together in the usual way for airships suing for peace. They circled behind their flagship the Kite, but looked like at any moment’s notice they might go into a more combative formation. Yet, from the prow hung the white banner of truce, and all of the cannons were rolled back from their positions.

  Captain Revele took the spyglass when it was handed back to her. “Are you certain this is the correct course, Imperial Highness? We could communicate with weirstones instead from the safety of the Summer Hawk . . .”

  “No,” the Grand Duchess shot back and then immediately realized her rudeness. “I am sorry, Captain. It is just that I must see my brother, face-to-face. Weirstone communication is very limited, and I must make my point very, very clearly to him. A great deal rests on that.”

  The captain nodded, but offered up another suggestion. “At least take a platoon of marines with you. I would feel . . .”

  She shook her head again. “One platoon would not be enough if things go badly, and it would only give the impression of a threat. I do not know how broken the Emperor is, so I can take no risks upsetting him.”

  Zofiya understood that none of those around her were comfortable with what she was doing. They would have preferred she retreat to Vermillion and begin approaching the rebel Princes to join her side. They had said as much in the days after she’d returned to the palace. The pretender who claimed to be the sister of Raed Rossin was losing battles, and many now suspected her for what she actually was.

  However, that would do no good; the fighting would rage just as long, and then Zofiya would be waging war on her own brother.

  So seeing that her commander’s mind was made up, Captain Revele did as she was bid and instructed the pilot to draw the Summer Hawk up to dock with the Winter Kite. She did not look happy about it though.

  As they came
within twenty feet of the other ship, Zofiya decided now was the time that she would drop the bomb on her other companions too. “Deacon Petav, I must insist you stay here on the Hawk while I converse with my brother.”

  Part of her was amused by the look of shock on his face. He certainly hadn’t seen that one coming—and it must have been quite the sensation for a Sensitive Deacon.

  When his mouth opened to let out some pointed argument, she held up her hand. “My brother is trembling on the very edge of sanity, but Derodak has infected him with an utter hatred of any kind of Deacon. If you set foot on his flagship, then there is a very strong likelihood that he will kill us all.”

  The hooded heads of the Deacons turned slightly to each other, but after a moment Petav spread his hands. “Very well, Imperial Highness. We will make sure to keep ourselves out of sight, but we will be watching.” He leaned in close to her, his hood almost touching her face. “Just remember, at some point you may have to come to terms with the fact that your brother is a lost cause.”

  The audacity of his words caught Zofiya by surprise, yet she could not offer a rebuttal in the open. Instead, she glared at him. He had only spoken her deepest fears, but she wouldn’t acknowledge them.

  “I could expect no less,” she replied for all to hear. The Deacons quickly glided below, and then all she had to think about was the approaching meeting.

  The Winter Kite was the very first airship that the Imperial Air Fleet had started with. She was impressive, with her scarlet envelope and long lines of cannons running from prow to stern.

  Zofiya frowned, suddenly wishing she had not already dismissed the Deacons, because there was an odd square, squat machine sitting right next the gunwales of the Kite. It looked ugly and out of place on the deck, and what’s more, she had no idea what it was.

  As head of the Imperial Guard she had been in charge of armaments. She racked her brain to try and shake out any memory of the experimental weapons they had worked on, but still there was nothing to be had. She had not seen her brother for many, many weeks—he could have been up to anything.