Geist (28 page)

Calmness fled in the face of remembrance. The five deep gouges in ancient stone; he’d traced them with his young hands, memorizing the spot where his father had died. He had never been able to find out what had killed him, no matter how many books he read or how many Deacons he quizzed. And now here it was. He wanted to flee. He wanted to fly to the Otherside and quit life. However, the voice was once more in his head.
You are stronger than that. Remember your training. Remember your own power.

The Bond must have been intensified while he wore the Strop. The Strop—of course!

Merrick bent his mind to the rune carved on it, no lesser than those on Sorcha’s Gauntlets. Mennyt, the rune that could take him to the Otherside. It was not the last Rune of Sight, but it was enough. Through it he could see his connection with the real world. The Bond was not the only link. Many things tethered him to this side: hopes, words and dreams. These were the things that made a person’s spirit into a shade. He had complete knowledge of his fate. He wouldn’t allow it.

The being was moving toward reality, pushing its head against the natural boundaries of the world like a nightmare child pressing its face against a shop window. It wasn’t meant for this world, though Merrick could feel its siren song tugging at him, promising him much. A deep part of him wanted to give everything to it; bone, flesh and sinew. His blood pulsed in his temples, drowning out all other sounds.

The weirstones, the cantrips, the blood, Sorcha, Raed and himself; Merrick could feel them like chess pieces in his Sight. Everything was so finely balanced. All it required was one little push. One little nudge and the stack of cards Aulis had so carefully constructed would tumble down.

However, this was not something he could do. As always his role was to See—Sorcha had to take her place in this drama. He reached out to her.
The stones,
he whispered into her head. Her eyes narrowed and he knew she was Seeing as he did. The Bond was growing stronger; he could feel it like ivy scurrying up a wall, tying them closer and closer.

The weakest point.
Her Active thoughts followed his lead. She was like lightning, burning, acting without thought. He admired that—he now relied on it. Pyet. Naturally she chose Pyet. He could have guessed that.

Fire bloomed from her Gauntlets, bright and beautiful. Sorcha’s power smashed out at the weirstone positioned right below the trembling arch of the hall, under the vaulted ceiling. The noise of the marble imploding was like a thousand souls screaming from beyond, calling out in horror and loss. The world burned and swirled with runes, a tangle of power that flared brightly for one moment. It was too much for anything but destruction to follow.

Above, the being from the Otherside howled, wrapped in shreds of white light and anger. However much it bucked and heaved, struggling against the natural order, it could not quite overcome it. The Otherside pulled it back, though it did not go easily. The Priory shuddered right down to its bones, as if it was clawing at itself to be free of the creature’s touch.

Now Merrick knew he was going to die. The real world was peeling back, breaking apart in a tumble of rock, mortar and dust. Something had to be sacrificed, and if it was himself and the Priory—then so be it. This was the end, but at least there would be no intrusion from the Otherside. His blood had caused the rift, and yet he had pointed the way to stop it. He could leave now.
Take me.
He opened up himself to the world, letting it do with him as it willed.

The ringing in his ears was distracting. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt. The world spun, and then sensation snapped back to him. Someone was holding his face in a viselike grip and calling his name in a very demanding tone. It took a heartbeat for him to realize just who it was.

“Wake up, Merrick. You’re lying down on the job.” It sounded like a cruel collection of words, but he could detect the hint of real concern.

He came around with a smile on his face just as Raed managed to free him from the draining table. He slipped down and Sorcha caught him around the shoulder, holding him up against her. His body felt as though it had been flayed—which, of course, it had. Merrick licked his lips experimentally and then croaked, “Where—where’s Nynnia?”

“Oh, by the Bones,” Sorcha snapped. “Back from the brink of death and you’re still all doe-eyed over that—”

He didn’t let his partner finish the sentence. “She was here; she brought me the Strop.” He realized Sorcha was holding it naked in her hands. He snatched it back in horror and the effort nearly knocked him over his feet. Even she shouldn’t have been able to touch his talisman.

Looking dazedly around, he realized why his partner was so irascible. The Hall was destroyed; not just damaged but reduced to a tumble of stones as if leveled by cannon fire. Only the places where his body had lain and the portion by the west wall where Raed and Sorcha had fought for their lives remained. He could see the bodies of their opponents lying among the stones.

Sorcha was grinning at him. “I don’t know what you did, Merrick, but remind me not to annoy you anytime soon.”

He looked at the back of his hand with horror; it was pink and warm and full of blood. And yet . . . and yet . . . His brain tried to process it. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled. “It was you—your Active power. I just showed you where to attack.”

“Pardon?” He felt his partner stiffen against him. “What do you mean?”

“Through the Bond.” He felt real strength returning to his limbs, but from where, he would not hazard to guess.

Sorcha was looking at him now through wide blue eyes. “I couldn’t feel the Bond, Merrick. Aulis did something to dampen it.” And she was right. He could feel it returning now; warmth and awareness, and a glimpse into her thoughts. She was not lying.

He had not been communing with Sorcha, and if it had not been Sorcha, then it begged the question of who exactly it had been. Managing to get his own feet under him, he looked around, but there was no sign of Nynnia.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “It must have been you . . . You must have just not felt it.” Sometimes Actives were so blind to the reality of things that it was almost reassuring.

Raed watched Sorcha and Merrick together out of the corner of one eye. Deacons were always so damn secretive.

The Pretender let out a long breath, one that felt like he’d been holding it in for hours. His nerves were still twitching erratically with the remnants of the Change—and also with relief. Sorcha had not let him down—his trust in her had not been misplaced. No one had ever been able to control the Rossin before, yet Sorcha had done it twice in less than a day.

He glanced over at the woman as he slipped on his breeches and shirt. Her bronze hair had come loose and was full of dust; some of it flew in the air as she argued animatedly with her partner. Sorcha looked tired but unbent. By the Ancients, she was beautiful. Beautiful, powerful . . . and married, he reminded himself, as the faint moonlight glinted off the runes on her Gauntlets.

A very salient point.
He was used to postbattle shock, and even the aftereffect of the Beast was familiar; what he wasn’t used to was having a building narrowly avoid falling on him. The rumble of that event was still affecting his ears. Raed shook his head, like a diver trying to remove water from his ears. Hopefully, the ringing would clear eventually.

While the Deacons conferred with each other, he decided to make absolutely certain that the Prior and her remaining minions were, in fact, dead. In too many battles, he’d seen men cut down by foes that they assumed had been dealt with. The human body was remarkable; a man could still pull the trigger of a pistol, even if he was destined to cough out his last breath a second later. What a Deacon could do in their final moments, he really didn’t want to find out.

Strapping on his saber, and thankful to once more be in clothes, Raed turned to this mundane task. Dust and smoke clawed at the back of his throat as he struggled to locate their enemies among the debris. Whatever Sorcha and Merrick would finally determine had protected them from the destruction was immaterial to him; it was a good turn by someone, and that was enough.

Unfortunately for the Prior’s Deacons, that same someone had not been so kindly inclined toward them. He found their two initial attackers beneath a massive column that had managed to crush both of them, like some giant skilled hand. One glance was all that was required; they were well and truly dead. Bugs crushed against a window had a better chance of stirring than these two poor fellows. Victory allowed Raed to be somewhat charitable in his assessment of them now. For the one who still had a face, he even bent and closed the dead eyes. The Pretender muttered a prayer to the little gods, though he had no way of knowing if they had been believers.

Now he had to find Aulis. Just as the whole building had come apart, he’d caught a glimpse of her making a run for the rear exit, and this was indeed where Raed found her. A buttress had given way, flinging rocks down on the Prior just before she would have reached the relative safety of the door. However, there was still life in the old girl. She might have been pinned beneath the rocks, undoubtedly dying, but her bone-white fingers were reaching out for the shredded Gauntlets that lay tantalizingly close.

Raed was taking no chances; he kicked the remains of the cursed things out of the way and crouched down next to the dying woman. The pain had to be significant, yet her eyes were clear and full of rage when they locked on him. “Traitor,” she spat, blood giving extra emphasis to her spittle.

He’d seen this sort of final vigor from many dying men, but he didn’t know how to treat a dying Deacon. Her fine red robes were torn and a silver disc around her neck glowed in a way that froze Raed’s blood. He knew that he had found the foci Sorcha had mentioned. Quickly, as if it burned, he jerked it off Aulis’ neck and threw it away into the rubble.

The fading Prior grinned at him crookedly. Raed might have called Sorcha or Merrick over, but something about her stare stopped him in his tracks.

“Traitor to the Emperor?” His laugh was short. “I am no more his—”

That grin was turning his skin to ice. “Not the Emperor, fool—to that great gift you carry.”

A thundercloud of a frown crossed his forehead. “You have no idea what you speak of—if you had any idea what it is like—”

Looming death had obviously devoured her manners, because Aulis cut him off again. “But I do . . . I do have an idea.” Her smile flickered beatific for a moment, as if she could see something he could not. Raed nervously glanced behind him as he realized that she was looking through him. He felt a sudden, strong urge to pick up a rock and finish her off then and there. Anyone who worshipped the Rossin had to be both mad and dangerous.

She stretched out one arm, bent and twisted as it was, toward him. “The pocket prince sent you, and our lord supplied the rest.” Scarlet boiled up from between her stretched lips. Her last words were, “So close . . .”

Raed crouched still for a moment, processing what she’d said. She may be mad, but he knew truth when he’d seen it in her smile. No further confirmation was needed—Felstaad had deliberately sent him here. But the Pretender doubted very much that the Prince had been able to predict that Raed would pay a visit to his court. No Diviner had been known for four generations. A far more likely scenario was an informant in his own crew—that idea was one he hated to contemplate.

“By the Blood.” He pushed his hand through his hair and stared down at the dead Prior. “Another complication I don’t need.”

“We seem to have found nothing but complications.” Sorcha was standing above the newly minted corpse, her Gauntlets twinkling with green light. “Perhaps we can still wring some answers out of this traitorous bitch.” She gestured, and a very pale-looking Merrick came to stand at her shoulder under the moonlight.

Raed was silent but his skin prickled. The mythical Deacon Bond was obviously working hard, because the glance the two of them shared was loaded with significance.

“She’s dead.” The Pretender rose to his feet, feeling a wave of exhaustion pass through him. “The only answers she will be giving are to the gods.”

Merrick shook his head. “No . . . Not yet, she won’t.” His tone was flat and colder than this winter night. “If we use necromatic cantrips and I use Kebenar to its fullest extent . . .”

“Necromancy?” Raed’s stomach churned and he glanced at Sorcha with a concerned frown.

She brushed away his concern. “We are trained. We are not some peasants foolishly playing with what they cannot understand.”

Raed glanced at her partner, expecting his support, but Merrick shook his head sharply. “We must find out what they are planning. This is only the beginning of the skein.”

“Move,” Sorcha barked, “before the shade escapes.” A wan light was flickering over Aulis’ remains. Sorcha snorted as if something amused her, and green fire leapt to life on her fingertips. Drawing a pattern over the corpse, she seemed satisfied.

“Now,” Sorcha said, her voice ripe with delight, “you shall answer our questions, Aulis.”

Raed had heard of such rituals, but had never witnessed one. Necromancy, the ungifted called it, and despite all his study and reading, the Pretender had to agree with them; it went against the natural order.

Merrick slipped the leather Strop over his eyes and the dark symbols writhed like poked snakes; the effect was both entrancing and disturbing. The younger Deacon inhaled, drawing a great deep breath that seemed to go on forever. The weakened shade wavered, struggled, but could not resist; it was drawn into the Deacon. Most sane people wouldn’t have taken a shade into their body willingly, yet Merrick had the demeanor of confidence that made Raed more curious than worried for his safety. Certainly there was a beautiful irony in the lad sucking down the shade of the person who had meant to kill him.