“If the Grand Duchess were to be taken there and sacrificed . . .” Even Nynnia couldn’t finish that sentence. It didn’t take too much imagination to consider the consequences.
Apparently, however, Frith had no imagination. “What’s so cursed different about her blood compared to ours? She bleeds red just like every other person!”
“Certainly she does,” Merrick replied, “but her line is rife with old blood. Ancient blood.”
“They need it,” Nynnia said, with a sidelong glance at her father.
Sorcha was beginning to suspect there was something more to that relationship. Feathers of eldritch blue light twined between the two. The flow of power from man to woman was like blood flowing through shared veins. Life force. He might call himself her father, and that could still be true, but he was also her foci, just like Raed and the Beast, or the children of Ulrich and the poltern. Whatever kind of creature she was, she needed her foci just like the rest. It was both a strength and a weakness; a foci meant she couldn’t be easily dismissed back to the Otherside, but also bound them together so that her strength depended on his fate. No wonder she had wanted to reach Ulrich so desperately when they had first met.
Nynnia’s eyes locked with Sorcha’s, acknowledging the Deacon’s observation and recognition. Sorcha’s gaze did not flinch. “Don’t you think it is a good idea for your father to be safely away from this?” she asked pointedly, while the men around them murmured among themselves blindly.
The slim woman nodded slowly. “Yes, you are right.”
“Better make it quick,” Raed commented. “There is a crowd gathering.”
Sorcha stood at his shoulder and glanced out into the street. He was right: people were streaming in the direction of Brickmaker’s Lane; they were suddenly surrounded by eager apprentices, mothers with wailing babies, gritty laborers and dyers with their hands stained the colors of the rainbow. The Emperor and his sister were coming out from the palace—not an everyday event.
The opening of a public fountain was not something that would have warranted the sovereign’s attention, but having been so publicly attacked by geists, he was probably trying to reassure the citizens by appearing with the Grand Duchess.
“By the Bones, I need a smoke,” she groaned, thinking miserably of the ones lost to Merrick’s enthusiastic plan.
Wordlessly, Raed reached under his disguise and pulled two smooth brown Ilyrick reserves out of his pocket. Sorcha’s smile was broad and thoroughly inappropriate for the situation. She took them, knowing her hands were trembling slightly. She tucked one into her pocket and tore off the end of the other. It was a cigar that deserved better treatment, but she simply didn’t have the time. Raed lit it for her, and she leaned back for just a minute and drew the smoke sensuously into her mouth. There was no time to enjoy this cigar as it should have been enjoyed: slowly, on a balcony, watching the stars and in his company. There would probably never be such a moment for them.
Sorcha would take what she could get.
She pushed away from the wall, still sucking on the cigar, and looked at Raed: her beautiful surprise. “Nynnia, get your father out of here.” Sorcha fell back on old habits of command. Pulling up the hood on her disguise, she gestured. “The rest of us have an audience to attend.”
The crew, for once, did not look to Raed. Even Aachon fell into step behind her as they blended in with the crowd. Nynnia was talking with Kyrix, and they both looked distressed. As the others flowed ahead of her a little, Sorcha hung behind, waiting for Nynnia. She didn’t want to lose the creature in the press of the crowd.
All it took was one glance away; when she looked back toward the pair, Nynnia was hugging her father one last time. She did not notice as a towering man, who had looked like just another member of the crowd moments before, suddenly lunged forward. Sorcha darted toward them, but she couldn’t reach them in time. The man thrust a long knife under the old man’s rib cage and gave a vicious twist. Without a noise, Kyrix crumpled to the ground.
Nynnia cried out, but the Deacon grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her into the crowd. The foci was already dead—the attacker had known what he was doing. Their enemy, whoever they were, must have realized something about the nature of the woman missing from the Possibility Matrix.
Tugging the stunned Nynnia behind her, Sorcha zigzagged through the crowd, trying to lose the attackers in the tumult. Her heart was racing and her brain tumbling. How on earth were they going to save the Grand Duchess from someone who could see one step in front of them? Even Garil’s gift was not this accurate. Her mind still lingered on the sigil of the Emperor on that dispatch box that had started everything.
Catching up with the others, she thrust Nynnia’s hand into Merrick’s. “Your beloved just lost her invulnerability in a rather messy way.”
The creature’s chin tilted up in defiance. “I am still what I am. You need me.” She might have been in shock from having her foci ripped away, but she had determination in spades.
Sorcha began to warm to Nynnia. “I have no doubt of that.”
“We should split up,” Raed said as they drifted forward with the crowd’s ebbs and flows. “They’ll have less luck tracking us that way—we can blend in more.”
“Not us,” Merrick hissed, his hand still locked with Nynnia’s. “You and I and Sorcha . . . the Bond . . . We should stay together.”
Sorcha thought about it a second. Although she didn’t like the idea of splitting up, there were going to be a lot of people at the opening, and without any idea of Zofiya’s movements it was going to be difficult to position themselves in the ideal way to protect her. Also, the assassins would undoubtedly be looking for the group of them. The added difficulty of the Possibility Matrix was impossible to calculate. It could easily cloud her judgment so much that she would be swallowed by entropy. Best to move.
“The Bond gives us an edge,” she muttered to Merrick while they were pushed backward and forward in the press of people. “We won’t lose each other.”
His look was suddenly not that of her partner, but of a young man caught in the middle of something he had not expected from his first case. Her sympathies went out to him. By the Bones, I wish I could make this different for you—for all of us.
I trust you. The answer came back as clear as the shouting and arguing around them, even though Merrick had not opened his mouth. His wise old eyes in that youthful face held hers steady.
Sorcha smiled back—for once grateful for this unusual Bond. Then she turned to Raed, sliding her hand in against his chest, for a moment luxuriating in the warmth and strength of him. She leaned in close, his smell of leather battling with the cigar still clenched in her hand. “We’ll do as you say.” She paused, took a long breath. “I trust you.” She had to say the words, just in case he hadn’t heard through their Bond.
Underneath her palm, Raed’s heart was suddenly racing. It wasn’t their dire situation that caused it, but his body’s reaction to her nearness.
He jerked his head toward the crowd that gathered before the towering fountain. “I will get my crew to spread out over there. You, Merrick and Nynnia take up positions at the back—I want you to be invisible.” His fingers wrapped around her chin, a gesture she would not have tolerated from anyone else.
Sorcha reached up and stroked the line of his jaw, his beard rough under her fingertips. “Take care of yourself, pirate. I’ll be watching.”
His kiss was hard and sweet, driving away fear with desire—at least for an instant. Then he turned and drew his men away from them into the crowd.
Sorcha, Merrick and the hunched Nynnia pulled up their hoods and drifted to the rear of the fountain. It was cold enough that they were not the only hooded figures. They found a spot mostly blocked by the bulk of the construction. Merrick’s mind was now so wide-open that Sorcha’s head swam. The Sensitive had not used any of his powers yet, but even so, the world was brighter through two pairs of eyes than one.
At the front of th
e crowd Imperial servants were beginning to hand out triangular flags in red and yellow: the Emperor’s colors. As these were passed back through the throng, Sorcha noticed the first Guard arrive, dripping in scarlet and gold braid. She knew that they were incredibly well trained—but she was just as sure that they were not prepared for what they were facing. Toward the back, she saw the blue and emerald cloaks of the Emperor’s own Deacons. Lolish and Vertrij, a good team—as far as she knew. If her dark suspicions of the Emperor were correct, then maybe not.
Nynnia was standing between them, and for the first time Sorcha noticed tears on her pale cheeks. Either the creature was an excellent actress or she had felt genuine affection for the foci she had called father. “You must not fail,” she said softly, glancing up at Sorcha through red-rimmed eyes.
“I know!” Sorcha snapped, feeling enough weight of responsibility.
“No.” Nynnia pressed close to her ear and whispered. “You must stop them summoning the Murashev—I have seen her. Your world would not survive her coming.” When she pulled back, her face was a mask of real terror.
Sorcha believed her. She nodded wordlessly.
A murmur traveled through the crowd like a ripple of wind on water. The flags raised and waved enthusiastically.
“They are here,” Sorcha whispered to herself, and the cold descended about them all.
TWENTY-THREE
A Worthy Sacrifice
Raed had lost sight of Sorcha in the crowd, and he told himself that was a good thing. If he couldn’t see her, then maybe no one else could either. When the flag-waving began, he even lost sight of Aachon and the crew, but he knew they were close—watching his back as always.
It was sunny for a winter’s day, and the press of people around him kept the wind at bay. The festive air of the square was certainly real enough—the citizens of Vermillion were genuinely excited to be seeing the Imperial siblings in the flesh, as was Raed. Putting aside the visions in the Possibility Matrix, it would be the first time he would lay eyes on the Emperor who had been dogging his family’s footsteps for such a long time.
A cheer went up near the south end of the square, and the crowd turned as one to crane their heads in that direction. Raed, standing taller than most around him, caught a glimpse of a white horse surrounded by the tin soldiers of the First Guard. The Emperor arrived on a white charger—hardly original. His sister, the Grand Duchess Zofiya, was at his side on a coal black mare. From this distance it was hard to get a good look at them, but as they both dismounted and walked on foot into the Square proper, Raed’s heart began to race.
It was a nice touch, Raed had to give them that. Mixing with the people on their level always made a sovereign look like he had a common touch—made him seem unafraid of his own subjects. The Pretender watched as the Emperor turned and waved to the crowd. Kaleva, second son of Magnhild and now Emperor of Arkaym, was—even Raed had to admit—the very figure of a ruler. He was ten years younger than the Pretender who watched from the crowd. The Emperor was attired simply in white dress uniform, only lightly decorated with gold braid. The crispness of the outfit set off his dark coloring to best advantage, caramel skin and waves of jet-black hair. Yes, Kaleva was a fine-looking young man, the kind to inspire devotion from his citizens and probably send half the princesses in the realm running for their best dresses and most sparkling jewels.
His sister, Zofiya, was only slightly shorter, but a stunning beauty that gleamed like an exotic jewel at his side. Her ebony hair was elaborately tied and draped over one shoulder, standing in stark contrast to the scarlet of the Imperial Guard. Even on the open sea Raed had heard that the Grand Duchess was an excellent commander and a fine swordswoman.
They made a striking pair of siblings, and the Pretender finally understood what he was up against. Raed could hear his father’s voice in his head, reminding him that the usurper had stolen everything that once belonged to their family.
We should destroy them all, the Beast slavered. When chaos erupted, it would be easy to kill both the Imperial siblings.
He let out a long breath through his nose and glanced over his shoulder as the Grand Duchess mounted the carved steps of the impressive fountain. Her brother pressed the flesh of the cheering crowd, surrounded by his Guard. Raed knew he would have to act soon.
Kill yourself if you like, but I will become your sister’s burden.
The Rossin reminded him of the one fact that had stopped him jumping from the cliffs when he’d found his mother’s blood on his hands. He loved his sister, and had sworn that he would never willingly pass his onus to her, but this was about more than his family’s curse—this was the death of the realm itself. He couldn’t stand by while that happened. Aachon, to his left and two ranks back in the crowd, was shrugging. Everyone seemed happy, waving their flags and cheering. The Grand Duchess stood, hands clasped behind her back, smiling slightly and waiting for them to calm down.
“Good people.” Zofiya finally got their attention, and reluctantly the crowd grew silent. “Good people,” she began again, her sweet, strong voice only slightly tinged with a Delmaire accent. “When this vital water supply was destroyed by geist attack over a month ago, my beloved brother promised that it would be restored in record time. You now see how he keeps his word.”
In among the crowd, Kaleva turned and glanced back at his sister, but it was impossible to see his expression at this distance. The crowd, however, lapped it up.
It was hard not to watch the beautiful Grand Duchess—especially from the Pretender’s perspective—but he turned his eyes deliberately back to the crowd. The First Guard were hard to miss, standing stiffly, half-turned toward the mass of people. They were watching Zofiya, but it was obvious that the Emperor Kaleva was their major concern. Some had their eyes turned upward toward the tottering buildings—after all, a shot could come from anywhere. Raed knew good troopers when he saw them, and he was just about to resume scanning the crowd when a flicker caught his attention.
For just a split second something seemed odd about the Guard to the right of the Grand Duchess, on the far side of the fountain. Through the Bond, Raed saw a glint of light dance across his face, as if reflecting off of something above them, and then disappear. The trooper was possessed.
He began charging through the crowd toward Zofiya, while the Rossin laughed, low and wicked in his head. To reach the Grand Duchess in time, the Young Pretender had to tap into the Rossin’s power—at the same time holding back the Change as best he could. He had never tried this before, but the Bond with the Deacons gave him more control. The Guards facing the crowd barely had time to turn as he leapt over them, his body still between forms. The Bond was pulling him back, keeping him hanging right on the edge of Change, as the Pretender bent all of his will to reaching the Grand Duchess.
Out of the corner of one watering eye, he saw the possessed Guard raise his gun and fire. The Beast roared in Raed’s head as he leapt upon the slender figure of the Duchess.
Hot lead pounded through body and bone as the two of them tumbled backward in the cool waters of the fountain. The Rossin snarled, caught between Change and Bond, its instincts to hold together the body it had lived within for so long. He caught a glimpse of the Imperial Guard hustling the Emperor quickly away—as focused on his safety as they should be.
The water turned red in an instant. Zofiya and the howling Pretender were eye to eye, caught in surprise and shock. The distant screams of the crowd and shouts of the Guards were still a long way off. But the Change was so damn close . . . The Unsung might get his wish to hurt the imposter’s family after all.
Zofiya was looking around her at the blood now filling the fountain, realizing it wasn’t hers. Understanding dawned upon her face. Raed jerked, feeling crushing pain warring with the rigors of the Change. “Go, go!” he gasped to the Grand Duchess.
He howled in pain as, instead, Zofiya pulled him out of the fountain and onto the cool surface. “Raed Syndar Rossin.” She sounded puzzled r
ather than frightened. At least his fatal bravery would have a fitting epitaph.
“Raed!” Sorcha’s voice was nearby; he increased his effort to hold back the Change. The pain was making it hard.
He wasn’t so far gone that the rumble didn’t reach him. Somewhere below the fountain, something was moving; the cracking was like gunshots. Now the screaming began in earnest as the crowd realized there was more going on than a madman’s attempt on the Grand Duchess.
“Imperial Highness.” Merrick’s voice was calm as he appeared over Sorcha’s shoulder. “Please get to safety.”
Zofiya opened her mouth to protest, but then her retinue surrounded her. Gloved, urgent hands pulled the Grand Duchess away, despite her protests, using their own bodies as shields. They had their orders. She disappeared in a sea of scarlet uniforms, hustled away.
“It is too late.” Nynnia was out of his narrowing cone of vision, but her voice was full of sadness. “You tried your best, mortal, but it was too late. There is no safety left for anyone.”
Raed coughed on his own blood as Sorcha pulled him up into her lap. “Damn that,” he spluttered, barely able to make himself heard through shock and the shivering edge of the Change. “I saved the bloody Duchess.”
Sorcha had her hands pressed to the wound in his side, staunching it as best she could. The world seemed to be tilting. No one was explaining this phenomenon to Raed, and breathing was taking all his concentration.
“He did it; Zofiya is safe!” Sorcha was practically screaming to be heard above the wrenching of rock; she was as outraged as he at the unfairness of it.
“They needed royal blood.” Nynnia shook her head, dark curls coming loose to spill down her cheek. Her eyes widened. “The fountain!” She pointed to it, the stone tilted at an angle. “It is draining into the ossuary.”
“What are you talking about?” Sorcha pressed harder on Raed’s wound, but the pain was distant now.
Geist Page 31
