Geist to-1

by Philippa Ballantine

  “The Emperor would not let such a thing happen!” Merrick was quick to leap to the defense of his sovereign.

  Raed noticed, however, that Sorcha was not. She chewed on the corner of one full lip and stared down at the Gauntlets tucked at her waist. “Presbyter Rictun hands out assignments, Merrick—but it was not he who gave us this one. The dispatch box was from the Emperor himself.”

  Despite what that meant for the Empire, Raed felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. At last, Kaleva had shown his true colors. Consorting with creatures from the Otherside was not likely to be forgiven by the common folk.

  Her partner must have felt some of her doubt across the Bond because he spun around. “Not the Emperor—he’s a great man, Sorcha. Think of all the good he has done!”

  “Then why . . .” Sorcha cleared her throat and looked up at him with steel in her eyes. “Why did he instruct the Arch Abbot to send us here alone, Merrick, when he could have sent a Conclave? Can you answer that?”

  Merrick pressed a hand into his hair as if his head were going to explode, and Raed’s sympathy forced him to throw him a lifeline. “Let’s not jump to conclusions without any evidence.” By the Bones, defending the Emperor felt very wrong.

  Sorcha drummed her fingertips against her thigh. “Indeed. We will need to consult with the Arch Abbot—find some answers if we can, like what part the Emperor’s sister has to play in all of this.”

  Nynnia raised her chin and looked the Deacon squarely in the eye—an impressive feat as far as Raed was concerned. Sorcha’s expression was brittle and dangerous, yet the smaller woman spoke with conviction. Raed again found himself wondering at this change in the girl.

  “Royal blood is good for many things.” Nynnia’s voice was flinty.

  Her words stopped the conversation dead.

  “Damned and Holy Bones.” Sorcha turned her back on them and looked up to the newly revealed night sky.

  Royal blood is good for many things. Those words. Raed had heard them before, years ago. The wreck of a deposed Abbot had whispered them to him in that room he’d wanted so desperately to get out of. The smell of stale old man and musty clothes flooded his nostrils, mixed with the scent of his young boy’s fear.

  Raed shook his head to clear the memory and realized that Merrick was looking at him. The muttering in his head was still there. That was it; he’d been injured and many things had been shaken loose.

  “There is one thing more.” Kyrix pulled out another piece of paper. This one was a mere scrap, the fire had consumed nearly all of it, but just legible was one word: “Murashev.”

  It was the younger Deacon who let out a gasp. “A geistlord . . . Sorcha, they are planning to release a geistlord.”

  Sorcha’s fists clenched at her sides before she turned back to them. “No—not a geistlord, Merrick. The Geistlord.”

  All of them stared at one another, and even Raed knew what they meant. The Murashev was the boogeyman under every child’s bed: the mythical creature that lived in the depths of the Otherside, feeding on not just the souls of the living but on other geists as well.

  “They wrote ‘first.’ ” Merrick was the first to speak. “But there are other meanings to it—it can also mean ‘family.’ They wrote it in Ancient above me, soaked it into me. The Murashev cannot just come into our world; he needs other geistlords to bring him.”

  “Well, you stopped one here.” Raed let out a breath he’d been unconsciously holding in. “So we don’t need to . . .”

  Kyrix let out a sound that was more a wheeze than a real breath. “They did not need all seven geistlords.”

  Nynnia squeezed his shoulder when he faltered. “If they had all seven, it would have been easier for them to bring through the Murashev, but there are other ways.”

  Merrick and Sorcha exchanged another glance. One look at their pale faces told Raed all he needed to know, but he asked anyway. “What ‘other ways’?”

  The younger Deacon licked his lips nervously before replying. “Many, many deaths.”

  “I overheard her.” Kyrix swayed where he stood, near the end of his waning endurance. “She spoke of a grand event in three days—in Vermillion itself.”

  “We can’t get back to the city in three days, and the Priory weirstones are burnt out, so we can’t alert anyone.” Merrick was looking at Sorcha with all the intensity of a young boy looking to his older sister for guidance.

  “Even if the ice broke with sunrise, I couldn’t get Dominion near Vermillion in so short a time.” Somewhere along the way, Raed discovered he had given up caring about his Curse and the geists that might bring it on. If the Murashev became real, those things would matter very little. The last words of the decrepit deposed Abbot still echoed in his head—his last ones before he tried to best the Rossin inside him: You’re their tool, foolish boy. The geists will use you like a lever to open the way. He hadn’t known what those words had meant back then, though they had frightened him a great deal all his life. But now he realized that the Prior had wanted him for more than his connections to royalty.

  “There is another way,” Sorcha was looking at him, the bleak expression fading from her like a sea mist. The Pretender did not know if he liked it at all, and when she spoke, it was confirmed. He didn’t.

  “The Imperial Dirigible depot is four miles from here.” The Deacon beamed. “We fly back to Vermillion.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Raed couldn’t help a little laugh escape him. “You want me to load not only my crew, but myself, onto an Imperial dirigible and fly with you to Vermillion?”

  “No.” She raised one eyebrow. “Not all your crew. Bring Aachon and five people you can trust.”

  Raed glanced at Merrick, but the younger man was going to offer no support. He was talking in a low voice to Nynnia, effectively leaving his partner and the Pretender to sort it out for themselves.

  “In case you hadn’t forgotten,” Raed said, shooting a raised eyebrow right back at her, “I am a wanted man—and not just by the ladies of the Imperial Court.”

  She gave a short laugh, but her expression remained set. “This cult—or whatever they are—want you for some reason.” She smiled slowly. “To keep you safe, we need to keep an eye on you.”

  “You’ll be able to do that admirably as they take me up to the gallows,” Raed muttered. He stroked his narrow beard for a second and glanced at her speculatively. “Are you sure this isn’t just an attempt to take the bounty yourself?”

  “At times like this, I wonder about your education.” She sighed. “Whatever are they teaching at Pretender school these days? Have you not heard of the concept of sanctuary?”

  A tremor of fear ran through his belly. “You plan on holing me up inside the Abbey?”

  He watched as she slipped on one Gauntlet. She whispered, presumably for his benefit, “Seym.” When he took a step backward, she held it up. The rune was colorless but the air around her fingers moved as if with heat. “The rune of flesh, and I promise this won’t hurt.”

  He’d already trusted her with everything he had, so when she placed her index finger against his forehead, Raed managed not to flinch. It was, in fact, cool on his skin, like a touch of an ocean breeze. A clean, sharp scent filled his nostrils. The rune of flesh. It made him think about what that word meant. A memory of all he’d seen last night up on the hilltop made him twitch, abruptly aware of how close the Deacon was to him.

  “There.” She stripped off her Gauntlet, and he wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but her look was somewhat proprietary. “You are now officially held under the Sanctuary of the Order—not even the Emperor can break the seal without risk of losing the Arch Abbey’s support.”

  Raed frowned at her particular choice of words. “So I am effectively your property?”

  Sorcha looked smug, like a cat that had finally caught a pesky mouse. “Basically . . . yes.”

  It was most definitely the wrong thing to say, and she had to have known it; when his jaw tightened enoug
h to nearly break a tooth, she responded with a grin. For a moment the Pretender considered doing something foolish just to see that look wiped from her face. He was surprised when he felt her hand take his. Its warmth and strength was a shock, even more so when she gave his fingers a light squeeze. He wondered if she was resorting to using her feminine wiles on him, until he looked into the utter honesty of her blue eyes. “Until we find out why they want you, Raed, it is imperative we stick together. The sea is no longer safe for you.”

  He looked down at her hand in his, and for a moment neither of them pulled back. His heart was beating fast, and this time it had nothing to do with the Rossin or the swordplay. Out of the corner of one eye, Raed glimpsed Merrick striding over to them, a sudden cold bucket of reality on their quiet moment. Their hands fell away from each other.

  Raed could wait for the geist-driven ice to melt away, take Dominion out of Ulrich harbor and sail away, but really, there was nowhere to hide. All of his life had been spent facing up to uncomfortable realities; and besides, this realm was still his by right. He wanted to protect and serve it, even if his father did not. “I’ve been running all my life, Sorcha—I shouldn’t trust anyone, and yet I have already given my life into your hands twice this week.”

  Sorcha’s lips twitched upward in a beautiful and cruel smile. “I’m just that sort of woman, my lord Pretender.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Creature of the Air

  The Imperial Dirigible outpost was unimpressive next to the large transports themselves. Two long cigar shapes twice the length of the building, with large boat-shaped quarters hanging beneath them, were tethered by thick cables into the rocks of the headland. They were both painted with the Emperor’s device, a green fist holding a skein of ribbons. A sharp wind had come up from the sea and they shifted like hunting dogs impatient to be let off the leash.

  Shedryi tossed his mane, gave a whinny and then a little buck that Sorcha had to pull in quickly. He might be of the Breed, but horses were never overly fond of looming shapes that seemed to defy the laws of nature.

  “Having a little trouble there?” Raed kicked his borrowed mount up next to hers with skilled ease.

  She made a face at him and replied shortly, “You’re riding a nag. The Breed are somewhat more of a challenge.”

  “Excuses, excuses,” he chided, then rose in his stirrups and called back to his men and Aachon. “Who wants to be last there?”

  With a whoop of delight, the pirates galloped past. After being cooped up in a ship for years, undoubtedly there was a certain freedom in it—yet Sorcha couldn’t help but feel a little put upon. Shedryi clenched underneath her, upset that she wasn’t letting him have his head and show the inferior horses his heels. But there was certain decorum a Deacon had to maintain, and Merrick was taking the rear with Nynnia and her father. It would look bad if Sorcha took off chasing the scruffy pirates.

  The mare Melochi must have felt it too, for she was chomping at the bit as Merrick held her to a trot. Their two tag-along guests were mounted on the shaggy ponies and were going as fast as they could.

  Kyrix was pale, but remarkably his bruises were already fading. His daughter too seemed to have undergone a change. She’d followed them and actually watched as the Deacons performed the exorcisms on the affected children. It was relatively easy, but it was not a sight for those with a weak constitution. She hadn’t objected to them cleansing the girls, but neither did she allow them any but minimal time to prepare themselves. Raed had only a short moment to choose his men and give orders to those who were to remain in Ulrich with the ship.

  Sorcha had observed that while the Pretender seemed to trust the Deacons, he had still instructed the remaining crew to careen Dominion—just in case it was needed.

  She nursed the thought that they’d be lucky if any of them survived. Raed might have heard of the Murashev like all children had, but he had not read the thick tomes held in the Arch Abbey’s library. Her novice thesis, the requirement before gaining her Gauntlets, had been on this very thing: the dark threat that lurked in the farthest reaches of the Otherside.

  It was not the numbing wind that made her shudder.

  When they reached the dirigible base, she had another situation to deal with. A handful of shouting pirates descending on an Imperial outpost had caused some issues with the local guard. Sorcha kicked Shedryi into the gallop he’d been so desperate for.

  The garrison commander, the type of seasoned old battler that the Emperor favored, was standing behind a rank of his troops—probably his only rank of troops. And yes indeed, as she neared, she could see that there were rifles raised.

  At the sight of a Deacon among these reprobates, the commander called out, “Identify yourself!”

  Sorcha heard the beat of Melochi’s hooves behind her and felt the reassuring warmth of Merrick’s presence at her back. “Deacon Sorcha Faris and Deacon Merrick Chambers,” she called, kneeing Shedryi up so that she was between the soldiers and the sailors. The troopers were unlikely to fire upon a member of the Order, unless things had gone very wrong here too.

  They might not have recognized Merrick’s name, but at hers a flash of relief crossed the old commander’s face. He told his men to stand down and strode across to them, with only the barest of limps discernable. After they had dismounted, he took Sorcha’s hand in a warm shake. “Commander Boras Llyrich,” he said gruffly. “Apologies, Sister, but there has been some trouble from the town these last weeks.”

  Sorcha’s lips quirked in a bitter smile. “No need to explain; we have come from there. Your caution is completely understandable.”

  After shaking Merrick’s hand in turn, Llyrich studied the leader of those he had just considered assailants. His gray brows drew together and Sorcha knew immediately that there could be trouble; this didn’t look like a man who forgot to read dispatches when they came.

  She flicked her hands and the cantrip of concealment blazed in white light on the foreheads of the pirates. It was not a rune, so would not last more than one night—but at least it would get them away from here. The rest would just have to look after itself.

  Llyrich shook his head, shot her a glance and then snapped off a salute. “What can the Imperial Legion do for you, Deacon Faris?”

  “We need to get to Vermillion immediately.” She gestured to the dirigibles. “One of these will be adequate. I trust an hour should be enough to get ready.”

  The commander’s jaw tightened, his white beard fluttering in the wind against his dark blue uniform, but this was a man well used to taking orders, and the Deacons had carte blanche with any and all Imperial assets. “Captain Revele is the best we have. She commands Summer Hawk.”

  “Then pray tell her she has a new course.”

  Llyrich answered with another salute and hurried off to inform the Captain and crew that they would have to abandon their breakfasts.

  Sorcha had flown several times with the Imperial Air Fleet, but it would be everyone else’s first time. She looked forward to their expressions once they took off. They boarded with brisk military efficiency. The Breed horses, their eyes covered, were loaded into the large hold of the dirigible, while troopers had been assigned to return the borrowed horses to their owners.

  Captain Revele appeared from the depot, buttoning her flight jacket and hurrying over. She looked a smart woman, young and probably overly confident as most air captains were, but the gleam of real intelligence was in her green eyes, and she actually smiled at Sorcha as if she recognized her. The Deacon could be sure that they had never met.

  “Captain Vyra Revele.” She snapped to attention before the assembled pirates, Deacons and various hangers-on. Even though it was necessary for a member of the Imperial forces to salute one of the Order, Sorcha appreciated the genuine nature of the gesture. “Pleased to meet you, Captain. This is my partner, Deacon Merrick Chambers.” She didn’t bother to introduce the rest and hopefully the Captain wouldn’t ask.

  Thankfully the Abbey h
ad a reputation for mystery. “Well”—Revele cleared her throat and led her way toward her vessel—“Summer Hawk is at your disposal, Deacon. We’ve been tied up here for a week after a trip from the Usul Mountains, and the crew have been itching to get moving. We were scheduled for reconnaissance farther north, but south works just as well.”

  Summer Hawk was new, as were all of the fleet, but she had the sleek look of a seagoing frigate. Sorcha caught Raed skimming his eye professionally along the keel as if she were just that. The usual complement was twenty crew, and Imperial marines in the order of a further eighty.

  Sorcha liked the looks of both the ship and the Captain. She gave the latter a nod. “We will need you to run on a bare minimum of crew and marines. Speed is of the utmost essence. We have to get to Vermillion within three days.”

  Revele’s frown was present, but not deep. A run to the capital was not fraught with much danger. “I’ll make arrangements.” She stepped aside. “If you’d like to board now.”

  They walked up the gangplank laid out for passengers; horses and landlubbers needed special attention. Raed looked confident right up until the moment he set foot on the deck of the Hawk. He’d probably been expecting it to be the same as a ship, but though a dirigible might share a similar shape, it was a different beast. He glanced over the side and muttered something that sounded like, “How safe is this damn thing,” as the rest of his crewmates climbed aboard just as gingerly.

  “Having a little trouble?” Sorcha asked sweetly, knowing her lips were giving the game away.

  “Laugh all you want,” he shot back, “but this thing is a travesty of a vessel.”

  The air Captain shot Sorcha a wide grin. “Many people say that before we cast off—amazing how quickly they change their mind.”

  Raed looked skeptical and Sorcha found she felt a little sorry for him. Although these past weeks had been tough on her, she couldn’t imagine how it was for him. One moment a captain of his own ship, albeit with a curse hanging over his head, the next at the center of a geistlord conspiracy of unknown dimensions.