“The Emperor and the Pretender share much of the same lines . . . Ancient blood to wake the Murashev is pouring into the White Palace.”
It was cruel to be dying and know it was for nothing. “It is rising,” Merrick said as the ground again rumbled. “They must have connected the pipes to some sort of summoning circle below.”
“I believe the expression is, Done”—Raed spat out a great clot of blood and grinned weakly—“and dusted.”
“Do something!” Sorcha’s expression was dark and dangerous under the wave of her copper hair, and it was turned on Nynnia. “He’s dying.”
“I can’t heal without my foci,” Nynnia said, her voice cold even while reality seemed to be getting hotter. “There is only one lord who can save him.”
Raed felt the impact of her words and he knew what she meant immediately. Sorcha, however, was distracted by the madness around her, the groan of the underworld rising up to meet them.
It was Merrick who grasped it first. “The Rossin—by the Bones, you mean to use him.”
“He has his part to play, as we all do.” Nynnia shifted in his vision, for a second looking bright, like a glimpse of the sun. Raed knew he was dying, but by the Blood, he was going to die as himself, not as some raving beast. He tried to shake his head, but there was so very little strength left in him.
Out of the corner of his wavering vision, the Pretender saw Sorcha shoving her Gauntlets on in a sharp gesture. Her face was like stone. “Then we Merge.”
Never been done with so many Bonds. Even Merrick’s thoughts were hurried and full of fear. Images filled the Pretender’s failing mind. To Merge and become one entity was the final act of desperate Deacons—ones who didn’t expect to live.
Raed’s mouth was full of the taste of iron. “What part of desperate do you not see about you, Merrick?”
The young Deacon was pale, and it was hard to tell if the shake of his hand was due to the tremors of the earth or his own inner fear. Yet he smiled back, a sharp flash of grim humor, the kind that Raed had seen plenty of times on other young men in the heat of battle. Courage was filling him: reckless understanding that this was the end.
Sorcha placed her Gauntlet-encased hand on his head; it was warm like her skin. I cannot say how this Merge will go—the Rossin is unpredictable.
No need to tell me. Raed closed his eyes. I’ve been living with him my whole life.
White light burned through his eyelids and the Pretender realized he should have been terrified—yet there was a moment of bliss as he let it take. He surrendered to it, as he never had to any battle in his life.
Four strands of base metal twined together in the forge of the Bond’s making. The fear of being lost within one another was overcome by the giddy rush of joining. Flesh and mind were flayed open in pain and ecstasy until only one creature remained. One creature created out of four. The wild core of this being was the Rossin, the geistlord trapped for so long in the bodies of the line of kings. But the others were there; the young and brave Sensitive, the angry power of the Active, and the ancient strength of the Pretender. The Bond wrapped them tighter than twins or lovers, holding mind and flesh together. It not only had the power of the Rossin—it had the vision and runes of the Deacons.
The massive cat towered over Nynnia so that she had to tilt her head back to meet its eye. Standing larger than any feline that had ever walked, its hide was tawny rather than the black of the Rossin, but it was patterned with the runes of the Deacons—even the feared Teisyat. Its eyes flickered from blue to brown to hazel and then gold in a spiral of sparks. As the White Palace erupted around it, there was no fear in the Great Beast. The ground shook as the bones ruptured paving stones and houses, destroying all that humanity had built with shards of what they all eventually came to.
The Beast braced itself on its massive paws, and it roared. It was a sound that proclaimed its ascendancy and rivaled both the screams of the fleeing populace and the rumble of the arriving ossuary. Even Nynnia flinched from it, and the Beast was proud. It was more than the world had ever known; a Merging of the royal line, the geist and the Deacons.
And now it would hunt. The boneyard that punctured Vermillion like a white row of spears was but a sign. The Beast snarled, its curved scimitar canines sliding over its lips. It smelled something below, something that wakened ancient enmity in the deepest core of its brain. Something that made its claws flex and clench into the crumbling stone of the fountain.
When Nynnia reached out and laid her hand into the deep fur of its dark mane, it flicked its head around, ready to destroy her. She too smelled of this enemy; the scent more distant and muted by the wrapping of human flesh, but definitely there.
While the Beast recognized fear in its parts, it was full of its own pride and power. Whatever was below was prey and deserving of death. Even though the woman at its side was at least partly the enemy, her human form protected her from its rage. It even tolerated her hand in its mane. This was nothing to do with the Sensitive deep down relishing her touch. No, certainly not—no human could influence it.
“Come,” she said, taking a step down from the broken dais and into the dust of the bones. “The Murashev awaits.”
The Beast and the woman picked their way down the stairs into the White Palace, and there was an eerie beauty about it. Rows of skeletons were stacked up on each side; walls made of thighbones and topped with skulls. All of these bones were ancient, their domes crushed in and smelling of dust.
The Beast’s scything shoulder blades brushed against the curved roof as it swung its head from side to side, inhaling. Humans had been here, humans that part of it recognized. Deacons had passed this way, smelling of old man and incense. A growl disturbed the massive chest.
The Beast could see better than a cat in the dark and could now make out a light ahead. Those swirling eyes narrowed to slits and the rumble in its chest threatened to become a snarl. The Rossin core recognized the light and was ecstatic. The light of the Otherside—home. However, the Deacons within and the uncrowned king were cautious. Something had already breached into this world.
The woman’s hand slid out from its mane, and it paused to glance at her. “You must go on ahead,” she said softly. “I have to get close to the Murashev without it seeing me.” In the near darkness, there seemed to be a glow coming from her, even through the shell of human flesh.
It did not bother the Beast, though deep down the strand of the Sensitive was confused. The creature padded forward on paws of silent velvet through once-tidy rows of bones and skulls.
Whatever had just happened had thrown this section of the White Palace into disarray. Tumbles of ancient skeletons lay all around, and the Beast could not help but crush some as it drew nearer to the light. Not that it looked down; its eyes were riveted to the scene before it. It was obvious that a doorway had been opened because this chamber in the White Palace was full of shades, flickers of white mist hovering around the source of light like eldritch moths.
The Murashev was already here. The geistlord that was no geistlord. The one creature that the Rossin feared. She was such a small creature in this world that the humans in the meld registered astonishment. She stood in the middle of a growing pool of water; water that was pink with the blood of the Pretender. The Murashev was only as tall as the Arch Abbot standing next to her, yet she was the one that glowed. Even the Beast glanced away for a second. For, she was beautiful; more beautiful than anything this realm could offer. Her skin was the scintillating colors of the Otherside, a rainbow of running shades that entranced over a body that was at least humanoid. Long tendrils of what might be termed hair fanned out around her head, curling alternatively toward and away from Hastler. Behind, a long, curved tail twitched, the only addition to a form very similar to those it would burn and enslave.
The Rossin repressed its growl, crouched low in the wreckage of bones, and prepared to strike. Great muscles bunched and the Merged creature charged, ready to rip and rend the Abbot an
d the Murashev apart.
Then the new arrival turned her face to the Beast. It was the face of one who dwelt in the deepest parts of the Otherside, all beauty and deadly danger. The melded creature stopped midstride.
My new body is here. The Murashev’s lips did not move from their wicked smile, but her words buried themselves directly like splinters into the brain. The final piece fits.
The Beast snarled and roared, held in place by muscles suddenly not capable of anything. The Murashev had not even gestured. She stepped out of the pool, blood-soaked water running down her shifting form, and she walked toward the Beast, trailing light. The white mist of dancing shades followed, leaping in the air with joy at this creature’s arrival.
You have done well, Hastler. The mesmerizing eyes ran over the great shape of the Beast. This scion of our line will indeed make a fine home for my power in this world.
“As promised, great lady.” The Abbot seemed to be made of shadow against the burning light of the Murashev. “Two of our best Deacons, and the Pretender to the throne; worthy material to make you a body for this realm.”
The tendrils of light whipped about, moved by unseen winds, and that eldritch smile burned bright. Indeed, I am the Opener of ways. Blood of kings brought me here, and I will bring fire—enough fire to consume every citizen of the Empire. Each one sacrificed will bring my kin back into this world.
The Murashev burned too hot for this world—she would need flesh, and soon. The Rossin within howled at the trap. The Murashev’s hand reached out and touched the Beast, and it was like winter invading the Merge. The four entities within cried out as tendrils pulled at them to make space for this much greater force. Sensitive, Active, and Pretender screamed as one.
As on the Otherside, the enemy was clever and cruel, more so than any geistlord. She sought to break them apart and find her own place in the Bond. She would become them. The veins of the Murashev twined through them all.
Merrick saw his father on that stone staircase, burning with the power of the Deacons. Raed saw his mother’s face, the horror as she was pulled down into the Rossin’s talons while he, buried so deep, was unable to do anything about it. Sorcha heard the siren cry of the Otherside, the one she had tried to ignore for so long; had tried to pretend held no attraction for her.
Ripping and tearing, the Merge was tested to its ultimate limit. The Murashev wanted in—to become part of them—yet they would not let her. The strain was intense, burning and physical for a long moment. And yet—it held. Sorcha and Merrick, who had thought their Bond only a temporary thing—found it so much more. And then Sorcha and Raed, the unexpected surprise, sudden like a storm. Even between Raed and the Rossin, a bond of fear and rage was still more than it had once been. All of these tangled bonds—some new, some ancient—held true against the assault of the Murashev.
She could not get in. Outraged beyond measure, the Murashev resorted to brute force. If she could not have the body she wanted, then she would destroy them and find another, but she would leave no geistlord behind to challenge her. The strand of the Rossin was too powerful, but the humans were weak. She turned her might upon them. Flesh and mind caught fire under her assault; the strands howled in agony. As long as they were together—they would all burn together.
Do not let me in, then. Her voice made the ossuary tremble like a struck bell. I will unmake you one by one. It will be my first pleasure in this world.
Finally human spirit could not take any more pain—they let go of the Bond and fell into brightness.
Sorcha staggered out of the light of the dissolving Merge, feeling as though her mind and body were still in pieces. Merrick was on his knees to her right, shaking his head like an animal emerging from hibernation. To her left, Raed—more experienced in shifting than the others—was getting up, his hand already going to his saber.
There before them was the Murashev, the bright creature of every Deacon’s nightmare. And she did not look at all happy. Her tendrils danced and her tail lashed, and Sorcha was sure she had indeed smoked her last cigar. Ruefully she patted the remaining one in her pocket. Despite knowing that it was useless, she raised her Gauntlets.
Then Nynnia appeared, leaping out of the shadows like a cast spear. She attacked the Murashev, the light spilling from her in a very similar way to that of her opponent. Sorcha knew what that meant. Her form was too fast and lethal for her to be anything but from the Otherside. Merrick staggered to his feet and made toward the whirling females, struggling and howling as Sorcha tried to hold him back. The light flared around them, knocking them off their feet once more.
Within the bright globe, Nynnia and the Murashev fought while the flocks of geists spun around them. It was hard to see anything, but what she could make out gave Sorcha pause. The Murashev’s form was flickering—without a mortal body, it could not last long in this realm. Nynnia had the advantage of a physical form, but it was also a hindrance. Flesh burned where they touched, but she did not flinch or slow.
Sister, we can breathe again—this fighting is foolish. The Murashev’s voice was a purr; soothing and calm.
“And they die for it.” Nynnia’s hair, scorched and burned in some places, stuck to her pretty face. “This is not our way.”
The two females clashed again, sending showers of light cascading over the humans—four humans. For a moment Sorcha had forgotten Arch Abbot Hastler. She had wanted to forget the shock of seeing the head of the Order standing at the side of the great enemy. It had been easier to imagine him kidnapped.
However, she could not afford to hide in ignorance. Summoning the Murashev was a task that would drain any Deacon. She needed to act now. Sorcha’s brow furrowed, and she took a careful step toward the Arch Abbot. Bile choked the back of her throat.
Raed made to go with her, but she shook her head. “This is my fight, my Abbot.” His hazel eyes locked with hers; then one finger lightly touched her cheek and he let her go.
Hastler saw her coming, and his face, which she had once thought kindly, twisted into rage. As she strode toward him, her stomach twisted with fear, Sorcha called out. “I think you need to come in, Hastler. You really need to face an Episcopal inquiry.”
“Weak,” the Arch Abbot replied. “You always were a weakling with far too much power.”
“And you relied on that when you sent us north.” Sorcha’s ear was tuned to the raging battle between the Murashev and Nynnia. “You moved us like pieces on a board.”
His lips split in a cruel smile. “The Knot is tightening, and you may have slipped it twice, but it will find you again.” His Gauntlets were already on, but as she got closer he tied on his Strop as well. The tooled leather turned him from a maddened old man into an eerie creature whose eyes were replaced by runes. Sorcha hoped he was more exhausted by the summoning than he appeared; Hastler was more than her equal. By the Bones, she hoped he didn’t have it in him to open Teisyat.
She reached out along the Bond for Merrick, and it was like hitting a raw nerve. Merging had made the Bond as sensitive as a newly pulled tooth, but the world bloomed bright. Hastler was glowing in this world, but not as strongly as he normally would have. Blue tinges were emerging; he was reaching for Yevah. She had to act quickly—she summoned Seym. Her body filled with power.
Sorcha ran, and before Hastler could get his rune shield up, she was on him. When she wrapped her arms tight around him, she found him as cold as a piece of ice—dealing with the Otherside could do that to a person. A lesser Deacon would probably have died from such a summoning, but she had no time to compliment her superior on his fine achievement. Yevah was of no use to the Arch Abbot now—not while Sorcha was so close—but he still had plenty of reserves.
He’s reaching for Pyet, Merrick howled in the back of her head.
“By the Bones,” Sorcha grunted. For an old man, Hastler was strong and hard to get a handle on. She twisted and grabbed at his Gauntlets before he could bring the burning power of the rune to bear on her. She had no desire to f
ind herself a piece of crumbling toast hanging on his back.
It felt wrong, and yet deeply good, to smash a fist into his face. Normally, punching an old man would have been the lowest of the low—but this was the man who had summoned the greatest danger to her city, made them outlaws and, above all, lied to her. But even as Sorcha tried to hold on, Hastler broke away from her; residual strength from the Murashev must have been aiding him. Once free, he turned the fire starter rune on her.
Try Shayst, Merrick hissed into her mind effortlessly—more an idea than words.
It was the rune that drew power from a geist, and as far as Sorcha knew it had never been used on a human before. But then, Hastler was only borderline human now, anyway. With a yell that contained all her rage and frustration, Sorcha summoned the rune of drawing and shoved her green-lit hands onto the Strop that girded the other’s eyes. The sensation was like fire pouring into her head. Dimly she was aware of screaming, and realized that it was coming from both of them.
Her body was flung aside. She slid across the floor and smashed into the far wall of bones, but she barely felt the impact. Weakly, she struggled up out of the debris of the dead to see Raed charge the Abbot. His first blow was only just caught by Hastler as the Abbot raised Yevah, the edge of the Pretender’s blade slicing through the top layer of the cloak that Hastler had no damn right to wear.
He seemed to have been slightly blinded by her drawing of his power; he clasped one Gauntlet to his Strop, and the delivery of the shield rune was awkward. Still, by the time Raed spun and made a second strike, the Arch Abbot had recovered enough to summon Deiyant. The Pretender was shoved backward as if caught by a great wind. Sorcha struggled to her feet, her head buzzing with an unfamiliar energy. Traditional weapons, then. She rolled to her feet, though every muscle screamed a protest, and ran toward the Abbot as he advanced on the stunned Pretender.
She had time to spare a glance back toward Nynnia and the Murashev. The women were now impossible to see, their blazing light a sun in the ossuary. Merrick was standing nearby and Sorcha could feel him feeding his energy to Nynnia—though it would not be as effective without a Bond. Still, he turned and looked at Sorcha. Their gaze, only a heartbeat long, pinned her with a realization.
Geist Page 32
