Geist to-1

by Philippa Ballantine

  “You are like the Murashev, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  Merrick gave her a stern look, but the shattered remains of the beautiful Nynnia smiled. “Once again, you only see a part of the truth.” Her once-sweet lips twisted in pain. “Like, but not like. The same . . . The same creature, but not all our kind agreed with its course of action. My path, being born as a human, takes longer, limits us—but I was sent to stop this.”

  “And you have,” Raed said softly, his hand resting on Sorcha’s shoulder.

  Nynnia gasped, her body undoubtedly descending into shock. “Yes, I did. But I did not expect to find love here.” Nynnia’s smile was faint but victorious. “And neither did you, Deacon Faris.”

  Sorcha gasped, her memory flashing back to those dreams she’d had while sharing a room with Nynnia. What had the creature done? What had been whispered into her head while she slept on unaware? Were the feelings she had for Raed only part of some Otherside plan?

  “Hastler was not the only one who could see the future,” the dying girl whispered, “yet he could not include me in his calculations. I am not of your world, after all. My elders said I shouldn’t have been born, taken human form, but I have no regrets . . .” Her hand fluttered up to rest against Merrick’s lips. “None.”

  Merrick brushed her hair from her face and her scorched lips as gently as he could. “We’re safe, thanks to you.” His tears poured out of his gentle eyes.

  “No—not safe,” she gasped, lurching up in his arms, her fingers locking on his hand. “This will not be their last attempt!” Nynnia coughed and writhed in real mortal pain. “They will not stop.” Her eyes were losing their luster; the light of the Otherside dimming in them. One final breath rattled out of her broken body. Merrick held her close, but there was no way for even a Deacon to hold back death. Whatever the creature had been, she died as a mortal.

  Then there were only the three of them, staring into one another and surrounded only by bones and death.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Into Apostasy

  Merrick held to his training—it was all he had left. He gathered up Nynnia, knowing she deserved proper ceremony. She felt so light, as if her departed soul had been the heaviest thing about her—if she had possessed a soul at all.

  Through his numbness, the logical part of him was still working. “We have to take Hastler’s body too,” he mumbled. “There will have to be an Episcopal inquiry. The Presbyters will need to see it, much as it should stay here to rot.”

  Sorcha’s blue eyes, dark pits in the dimness of the ossuary, flicked to Raed. “Can you carry him?” She did not complain, but the way she held herself spoke of at least a broken rib. Wordlessly, Raed slung the remains of Hastler over his shoulder.

  As they scrambled mournfully up into the light, around him Merrick could hear the creaks and groans of the White Palace, as if they were buried within an arthritic body. The ossuary was sliding back underground; drawn up by geist-power, it was returning to its natural place.

  None of these facts made any impact on him. They were distant details to the cooling form in his arms. Perhaps he had been a fool to love Nynnia so quickly, and with so little thought, but he wasn’t going to wish it had never happened. She had not told him what she was, but her actions spoke of a bright being that he would miss. Some inherent Sensitive part remembered her words and knew that in the shadows to come, they would need all the help they could get.

  The blazing light of the sun made him blink through eyes still burning with tears and scarred from the light of the Otherside. The people were emerging from their houses—frightened, yes, but aching to see what had happened. Their faces, covered in dust, looked so alien that for a moment Merrick feared that Nynnia’s sacrifice had not been enough; that they were surrounded by damned souls staring at the body of their Arch Abbot tossed so casually over one shoulder of the Pretender to the throne. His mind raced—something was very wrong in a day that had seen enough wrong—yet his mind was too numbed to make hasty connections.

  Then the Order arrived. The trio was surrounded by the emerald and blue cloaks of Merrick’s fellow Deacons, like ornamented crows. They moved swiftly between the survivors, shielding them from the view of Imperial troops and commoners. They took Hastler from Raed, and Sorcha disappeared from sight altogether. A knot of panic clenched in Merrick, and he knew it was not an entirely unreasonable reaction.

  Their own Arch Abbot had been conspiring with creatures of the Otherside—who knew if this was an aberration or a new policy? Only his awareness of the Bond kept the young Deacon sane. He might not be able to see the others, but he could feel them. Sorcha was as numb as he was, while Raed felt resigned; he would not be able to escape from the Order now.

  When kind hands tried to take Nynnia from him, though, Merrick stood tall, clasping her close. “I will carry her,” he said, his voice cracking a little.

  It was an uneasy return to the Mother Abbey, flanked by Deacons none of them knew if they could trust. He resisted the urge to fall gratefully into their arms. A lot had happened in a few weeks and he was not the green boy who had ridden out that day.

  They took Sorcha and Raed to the infirmary, but Merrick they left alone in the mortuary to lay Nynnia out. He straightened her limbs, cleaned her face and carefully cut away her dress. It was burnt to her skin in many places, but he was able to remove enough to put her in a decent replacement.

  He heard Presbyter Rictun come in, but did not acknowledge his superior until he was done. Turning around, he locked eyes with the man who was now, effectively, one of the heads of the Order in the Empire. With Hastler dead, the five Presbyters would speak for the Mother Abbey; and yet Merrick didn’t know if they were as corrupt as the Arch Abbot had been.

  It took the young Deacon a moment to recognize at the Presbyter’s back were five others from the Order—a quickly assembled Conclave. Their linked minds were probing his, weighing every word for truth. Well, they were not the only ones who could do that.

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed. The woman he had been growing to love had died, the world had teetered on the edge of doom, and the man they had all trusted to lead them had proven false. Before they could stop him, Merrick thrust with his Sensitive power, which had never failed him in the ossuary, even for a moment. Indeed, it seemed to have grown stronger, and he slipped easily within the Presbyter’s mind.

  It was not a place he wanted to be, cool and perhaps cruel—but Merrick had his answer. Inside, the Presbyter was shocked and disgusted with Hastler, concerned with what this would mean for the Order, and cautious about what Sorcha, Raed and Merrick had seen in the White Palace. That was all.

  The Conclave’s attention swelled and he was unceremoniously ejected from the Presbyter’s mind. One of the Conclave members muttered under his breath, no doubt displeased with the young Deacon’s presumption.

  Rictun’s eyes widened slightly as he realized how easily Merrick had plucked his concerns from his mind, but surprise soon turned to anger. “So it was Hastler? You saw him consorting with the Murashev?”

  The mental fingers of the Conclave pressed harder into Merrick’s mind, holding him rigid like a bug as he said the words condemning their beloved leader. “Yes, it was Arch Abbot Hastler. He planned the death of Grand Duchess Zofiya to bring the Murashev into Vermillion. Why, I cannot say with certainty.”

  Rictun cleared his throat. “A full inquiry is being assembled for two days’ time. There we will examine your partner’s experience, but it has already been decided: the Arch Abbot’s part in this will not be revealed to the public. The only person outside the Order to know of it will, of course, be the Emperor.”

  Merrick felt his jaw tighten, and his mind opened to Sorcha. They’re going to cover up that Hastler was behind all of this. He felt her rage boiling over the edges of his own.

  It must have been enough for even the Active Rictun to feel, because he raised his hand. “Think for a moment about this, Deacon Chambers. Think what would happen to
the Order if we disclosed everything. Do you really want to go back to the bad old days before we came here?”

  Merrick glared at him. “The truth is not an option; it is a necessity.” His words echoed in the emptiness of the mortuary.

  “Really?” Rictun grinned bleakly. “Think about it: none of the great unwashed would ever believe that the Order is not corrupt. They would never trust us again. They would never turn to us when the geists break through.”

  Merrick glanced down at his feet, thinking of his first taste of what geists could do to the unprepared. The bodies of the slain Tinkers haunted his nightmares.

  “They would understand, if we explained properly.” Even his own ears could discern the edge of uncertainty in his voice.

  Rictun strode over and looked down at what remained of Nynnia, and then he delivered the ultimate blow. “You don’t believe that, Chambers, and you know this woman’s sacrifice will be for nothing if the people lose faith in us. We are the only defense they have against the geists.”

  Merrick felt his throat go tight, and he had the sudden awful feeling that if he spoke now, he might cry. Light from the one stained glass window was casting a soft rainbow glow over Nynnia’s body, concealing her terrible wounds. His fingers drifted back to touch her now-cold hand.

  He opened himself to Sorcha again, and felt reassured that despite her anger she had come to the same conclusion. Clearing his throat, he turned to face his superior. “A lie is a terrible thing, but what I have seen in the last few weeks is also terrible. One day, the truth will come out.” Pausing, he squeezed Nynnia’s hand as if she could still feel it.

  Rictun’s eyes narrowed. “But not today?”

  “No, not today.”

  The Presbyter nodded. “A wise choice, Deacon.” His concerns assuaged, his tone softened. “You and Deacon Faris will submit yourselves to the inquiry by day’s end. There is much to be decided, if the Order is to survive.”

  “Naturally.” Then Sorcha’s concerns flooded over him. “Presbyter Rictun,” he called. His superior paused at the door. “What of Raed Syndar Rossin? He was a great help to us. He even saved the life of the Grand Duchess.”

  It was impossible to read Rictun’s expression. “He is also the Pretender to the throne, and one of our Emperor’s greatest enemies. He will be locked in one of the civic prisons until his fate can be decided.” He sighed. “But I believe our liege will be inclined to leniency, given the circumstances.”

  “Are you certain, or just confident?” Merrick asked, feeling Sorcha’s rush of rage clog his throat.

  Rictun gave him a stern look. “Today no one can be sure of anything, but I will certainly take the results of the inquiry to the Emperor and plead his case.”

  Merrick felt something else in Sorcha then, something that she only barely acknowledged herself: guilt.

  Her partner asked where she could not. “And Deacon Kolya Petav, Presbyter? Will he be at the inquiry?”

  The answer plunged Sorcha deeper into remorse. “No, he will not. He is still in a healing coma in the infirmary. The mess the Arch”—Rictun broke off with a glower—“Hastler made of your Bond will have to wait until more pressing matters have been dealt with.”

  It was enough for now. The Presbyter left Merrick to his mourning, and even his partner pulled back her consciousness. He was left alone with the ashes of his love and hope.

  The Pretender slept fitfully in the comfort of the Emperor’s prison, but it was not that his host was exceptionally harsh. The cell was clean and tidy, and surprisingly it contained a very comfortable mattress over the slotted wood cot. Nor was it his jailors, who seemed uninterested in torturing him. They fed him through the bars with simple but tolerable fare.

  No, it was the chattering of the Deacons in his head that Raed could not stand. He turned over on the bed with many a sigh and tried to block out the whispers of the inquiry he was forced to share with Sorcha and Merrick.

  It was impossible. Whatever floodgate they had opened in the ossuary, it refused to close.

  In time, it will fade. The Rossin, too, was tired of the connection.

  Eventually exhaustion won out over the drone of Deacons, and the Pretender managed to get a few hours’ sleep. The noise of a crowd outside woke him. It was not the cheering noise from the day before, but the shuffle of somber feet and subdued whispering. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Raed stood on his bed and peered out the window.

  The jail was on Silk Road, one of the main thoroughfares of Vermillion, and when he peered out into the early-morning light he could see it was already crowded with people. No flags were in evidence this day and everyone was dressed in shades of gray. Raed could, in fact, make out weeping.

  Outside his cell, one of his jailors was about to slide a morning meal between the bars, so the Pretender ventured a question whose answer he feared: “What’s happening outside?”

  The man’s lip curled, and his brows knitted together in an expression that he had not worn the previous day. “It’s the funeral procession for the Arch Abbot.”

  Raed swallowed hard as dread built in every nerve ending. “A state funeral for a traitor?”

  The jailor threw the tin tray containing Raed’s breakfast against the bars. Some of it splattered onto him. That was a shock, but the sudden boiling rage on the man’s face was too. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he bellowed. “You’re not fit to lick that sainted man’s boots.”

  This was a very bad sign, but Raed couldn’t help himself. “Fond of murderers, are you?”

  The jailor’s face grew crafty. “You might be singing a different tune by the end of the day.” He left Raed alone with that prophecy hanging in the air.

  Raed turned once more to the window to see how the Order took care of its own. He had to see how it would all end, despite everything. The crowd was filling every cranny of the street, hanging out of every window and clinging to any other vantage point they could find. The whispering was louder too, and there were plenty of angry faces among the grieving. Raed did not imagine it; one or two were turned in the direction of the jail.

  The cortege was announced by the low drone of pipes, a fresh wave of weeping and the rattle of carriage wheels. Clenching his hands around the bars, Raed was able to pull himself up a little and see farther down the street. Four ebony Breed horses pulled a shining wagon on which was placed an elaborate brass and oak chair, surmounted by the emblem of the Order, the Eye and the Fist. It had to be Hastler’s chair of office. Another carriage followed up the rear, and this one had a plain coffin on it.

  Raed’s dread now filled his stomach and bubbled behind his eyes. The ranks of Deacons followed, made all dark and somber by the fact their cloaks were turned about so that the black lining showed. Only a flutter of occasional emerald or blue indicated who was Sensitive and who was Active. It could have been only his imagination, but he thought he caught a glimpse of copper hair among the ranks. His eyes closed briefly as the Deacons gave way to files of aristocracy and Imperial Guard making up the rear of the cortege.

  He’d been betrayed. He’d been stupid. Naturally, the Order would never reveal what their Arch Abbot had been! It didn’t matter that he’d saved the Grand Duchess—such trivial details were of little account.

  As the dirge receded into the distance, the Pretender’s hands grew white, clenching harder around the bars. He was so consumed with his own rage that for a minute he took no notice of the change in the crowd. He didn’t drop back when the first of the angry fingers were pointed in his direction—and by then it was too late.

  A wave of outraged screams swelled up in the crowd. A deep bellow sounded from many throats, and then came the wave of missiles. Raed jerked back from the window, but the damage was already done. They had seen the object of their anger.

  The rattle of objects thrown against the jail was far too loud to be merely soft fruit. It sounded instead as if the crowd, now turning itself into a mob, had pried loose some of the paving stones as well. The impact of these
only grew, and now he could make out individual words.

  Murderer! Assassin!

  Raed glanced over his shoulder. There were thumps in the depths of the building, the rattle of angry fists on the doors of the prison. He strode to the cell door and, grasping it, made to call out to his jailor. The door swung in his grip. While he’d been occupied with the scene outside, his newly unfriendly captor had unlocked it.

  So, his guardians were of the same opinion as the mob. The smell of smoke wafted up from outside just as the screaming reached a level to make his ears ring. Even if there was one jailor that didn’t like the taste of a lynch mob, there was no way that man would risk his life for the Pretender. Raed slipped through the door and into the corridor, but after that his plan got very blurry.

  “Not staying for the show?” The woman’s voice was behind him, and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

  Spinning around, he caught Sorcha’s grim smile—and she was not alone. Merrick, despite the fact that Hastler had tricked him into partnership with the older Deacon, remained true to his vows.

  “It doesn’t sound like my sort of party,” Raed admitted, before kissing her. In his mind, there was always time for that.

  “Quickly.” Merrick grabbed them both and tugged them down the corridor in the opposite direction from the screaming of the mob. The alarming smashing now sounded very much like a door giving up its hold on its hinges.

  Together the three of them ran past the row of cells full of cheering, howling prisoners. Down a spiraling staircase, they found the back door. It was smoking and lying on the ground. Raed shot Sorcha a surprised look, but she smiled back. “We were a little short of time.”

  He was not going to question her methods, because behind them they could now hear the sound of pounding feet. Dashing out into the alleyway, however, he found the rescue more than a little lacking. “I hate to be picky—but shouldn’t we have some method of escape?”