Authors: Philippa Ballantine
Spectyr (20 page)
He sighed. “I have no choice—I got word that my sister has been taken—and the trail led us here.”
“To Orinthal?”
“To Orinthal.” Raed picked up her hand and kissed her palm. The feel of his lips and the brush of his beard on her skin sent shudders running into Sorcha’s core.
“I am sorry to hear it.” The anger was melting out of her. “Can I help?”
“I am sure you can.” Now Raed pressed her hand against his chest, so she could feel that his heart was racing. “But not tonight.”
Sorcha could tell him about the spectyr, the visions and everything—but it would make no difference—not to this moment.
The Deacon ran her thumb over the line of his lips, feeling them curve upward under the delicate touch. Something about him was so beautiful to her.
“You make such a fool of me.” It was the truth, but she was half laughing.
His smile, the secret smile she only saw when he was alone with her, struck her through. His hazel eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
“As you do me, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” Then he kissed her again, slower this time, but full of the same hunger.
Raed was alive and so was she—there was nothing wrong with remembering that. Under her fingers his skin felt so exquisite that she wanted more. She wanted it all. They stumbled, fumbled with clothes; it had been so long, so many weeks, so many months. Sorcha was hungry, and she could feel that hunger in him too. Need would have to be satisfied before anything else.
“No swinging bed this time.” Raed’s laugh was low and throaty and set all the deep places inside her on fire.
“We’ll make do,” she replied before fastening her mouth on the warm, soft spot on his neck.
He groaned when she nipped him there. “I am glad these walls are thick,” she went on, her hands tugging on his belt buckle. The jingle of it hitting the ground was deeply erotic.
Raed’s hands buried in her hair, tugging her tightly against his mouth—the sting of it was sweet. In return, she raked her fingers down his back. The most basic part of her wanted to mark him, claim him, make him say that he was hers, just as he had taken all of her without so much as a by-your-leave.
The circular effect of want and desperation made their embrace into almost a tussle, until falling onto the bed, Raed began licking his way down her body. She wanted more, wanted him, but his strong arms held hers down, until his tongue drove all struggle from her. It was the ultimate indulgence, and Sorcha knew life seldom afforded her such moments. She was happy to voice her delight, so he knew what he drove her to.
When finally she spiraled into pleasure, only then did Raed slide up her body and enter her. Yet, when he began to stoke slow and deep inside her, Sorcha twisted under him, spilling him onto his back.
“Now,” she laughed wickedly, “who is the prisoner?”
The Young Pretender chuckled in response, his hands falling back on the sheets. “I am yours once again, fierce Deacon—to do with me as you will.”
“I will,” Sorcha returned, rocking her hips upon him. “But there will be long hours of interrogation for you, I fear.”
Raed tilted his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes as her hands clenched on his chest. For an instant—just a split second—Sorcha saw something else there too, the hint of something darker. The Rossin flickered across the face of the man she was so addicted to. It was a reminder of the Beast within.
Yet, Sorcha was too far gone to deny either of them pleasure. When Raed’s eyes opened again, the hazel of them had gone dark green in the half-light of the candles, and his breath hissed over the perfect line of his teeth.
She had never thought to see him again, and so she would make the most of this moment—and make it last as long as possible. Sleep was, after all, highly overrated.
FOURTEEN
Alone with Consequence
When finally Merrick slept, it was not the deep rest he really needed.
Every Deacon knew there was one place where the barriers they trained so hard to create slipped. Sleep, which every mortal needed, was a perilous place. Luckily there were few geists that could penetrate that landscape—but it didn’t mean that it was secure.
Merrick was on a great plain of sand, standing naked looking up at the stars. The air was cool, a breeze coming as if from some distant sea. He felt open to the world and to nature as he could not remember being since childhood. Even his nakedness did not disturb him.
Above the sky was a stretched silk of deepest blue, unmarked by any moon—all there was were stars. Merrick had studied long hours. He knew every constellation and formation in the night sky both north and south. The stars above him were in the constellations he recognized, but not a single one was in its correct place. It was as if some great hand had adjusted the parchment of the sky, and now many of the southern shapes were in the northern sky.
Where was he? The edges of fear trickled over him. On the horizon five stars detached themselves from the firmament and spun toward him. At first he was amazed, but then horror overcame him. The stars loomed bright and larger as they bore down on him.
Merrick turned to run with the stars burning and snapping at his heels. Under his feet the sand was fickle. It pulled him toward the stars, rushing past his toes. He stumbled many times, his breath rammed in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. Yet he was unable to make any distance.
Our son
—the voice in his head was not Sorcha’s—
do not run, there is nothing to fear.
—the voice in his head was not Sorcha’s—
do not run, there is nothing to fear.
Ahead a palace erupted from the sand, and suddenly the dreadful singing of the stars stopped. Now sand was blown against his face, stinging it like acid. Merrick stopped, panting, terrified, and craned his neck to look up at the building.
The white stone was carved with many seated figures, all of them the same, all of them wearing the crystal mask of the Prince of Chioma. When the crystals moved, it seemed as though he might be able to see beyond them and make out a face. Yet, whenever he leveled his gaze upon that space, all he beheld was a blindingly golden light that hurt his eyes more than the sand. Something beautiful and terrible was beyond.
With a grinding sound that made him clap his hands to his ears, the statues all stood, but as they did, they broke and shattered.
All must be broken. All must bow. All must be made anew.
The voice was female, seductive, and it surrounded Merrick. It was not his mother. It was not Sorcha. Yet he knew it. He knew it from childhood.
Somehow, though, the stars were gone. All of them. The sky above him now was totally blank. Instead, the golden light was spreading across the horizon, banishing the darkness.
The light was all around him, wrapping him in its embrace. Merrick bowed his head, accepting the light if it would have him. He fell to his knees—
And that was when the screaming woke him.
While Sorcha lay tucked in his arms, her breathing slow and deep, Raed found he could not do the same. Their sweat was drying slowly in the sheets, and yet he could not rest as his mind was troubled.
When he had turned to see her simply standing there, he’d felt as though he’d been hit between the eyes. Yet it was Sorcha, wearing the same unassuming clothes and blue cloak of the Deacon as when Raed had last seen her. Merrick, a little more muscular, a little more adult around the face, stood at her shoulder. In that instant, even Raed, without the training of the Order, felt it. The Bond they talked about. The one that Sorcha had formed so flippantly in a moment of danger.
If there were gods, they had an interesting sense of humor.
Raed trailed one hand down her cheek. She murmured and stirred under it, wriggling closer to his naked skin. He’d been afraid to see her—afraid that what they had shared in those moments on the dirigible had been merely a reaction to the danger. Now he didn’t know what to think—or where to file away these sensations.
With him, women and relationships had always been shortlived things; his status as hunted criminal in the new Empire forced them to be. Dare he start thinking that these interludes with Sorcha could be strung together into something approaching a real relationship? It would mean she would have to surrender all of her current life.
Raed knew he certainly had nothing left to give up, or to offer her, for that matter. As a fugitive, the Young Pretender had to make do with moments of happiness, so he wasn’t going to spoil this one thinking about what he could not have.
He also wouldn’t tell her about the Rossin having broken free so recently; he knew what would happen after that. Sorcha would offer to find Fraine herself and send him back to the ocean and safety, and he feared that with the Bond she could force him to do just that. t souldn’t risk it. His sister’s life was at stake.
Gently blowing aside a strand of Sorcha’s long red hair, Raed worked his way down to rest in behind her as close as he could: one hand wrapped around her waist, the other gently cupping her breast. He had just closed his eyes, when the scream rang out.
Both of them scrambled out of bed and reached for weapons before their clothes. With her hair curling down her back and around her breasts, Sorcha went to the window, inched open the shutters, and looked out. Raed waited.
“Something is happening in the garden.” Sorcha slammed the shutter tight. “Lots of torches and guards.”
Without further discussion they got back into their clothes, while outside they could hear a commotion growing. They were not the only ones to be disturbed.
Sorcha glanced at Raed. “You can’t go out the way you came in. Here.” She threw her cloak about him and pulled the hood up. “I think there is enough trouble out there that they won’t notice you’re not exactly female.”
He grabbed a quick kiss. “By the Blood, you do know how to flatter a man.”
She was right; out in the hallway there was much running and wailing as women woke to the chaos outside. They pushed through the panicked women and ran down the stairs.
“Is it a geist?” Raed spoke directly into Sorcha’s ear—suddenly worried that whatever had attacked him on the boat had found him again.
She paused in the tumult, and her eyes unfocused as she concentrated on the world that only the Deacons could see. “It is hard for me to tell—I need Merrick.” She sounded annoyed, then her head flicked around. For a second Raed thought he heard the younger Deacon’s name repeating in his skull—a whisper that made his skin crawl.
Before he could wonder on the strangeness of that, Sorcha darted down the remaining stairs, pushing aside the womenfolk as if they were not even of the same species as her. Raed wouldn’t let her get out of his sight, however; he followed in her rather rude wake.
Outside, the courtyard garden was all lush tropical foliage and hanging exotic flowers. It was not laid out in the northern fashion with symmetrical design. This was a little slice of luxury from the jungles in the eastern part of Arkaym—where there was more rainfall. It did, however, have a white gravel path, so he and Sorcha dashed along it, following the universal call.
“Alarm! Alarm!” It was the hue and cry that every citizen of the Empire was called upon to answer. The palace guard would quickly come running.
They rounded a large ficus tree and found themselves at the scene of the disturbance. Three guards stood among this beauty and looked down at a scene of utter horror. This was the center of the pleasure garden, marked with a delicate marble fountain—and perfumed by exotic honey scents.
At least, that was how it should have been. At first glance it was hard to tell that the bodies lying there had been human. Blood was everywhere: splattered against the beautiful fountain, pooling in the white gravel and covering the bodies.
“I need those torches closer!” Sorcha’s Deacon training brought so much command to her voice that these men did not question. They moved, but she had to snap, “But not
in
the blood, fools!”
in
the blood, fools!”
The nearest guard, young and with barely a beard on his face, turned whiteheard the div>
Raed knew the look from green sailors, and apparently so did Sorcha. “And Unholy Bones, if you need to be sick—go do it elsewhere!”
Handing his torch to his colleague, he trotted off to do as bidden.
“Stay close,” Sorcha whispered somewhat redundantly. As a Deacon she would not be questioned, whereas he, an unaccompanied male, would probably be killed on sight. He certainly wasn’t going to just wander off.
“I’ll do my best,” Raed muttered, feeling utterly useless but somewhat relieved that at the moment the Rossin was silent.
After the guards lit the scene a little better by planting their torch spears in the gravel, Sorcha waved them back. Despite the difference in Chiomese and Vermillion Deacons, the guards did so—most likely they were grateful to have someone else to defer to.
Leaves on the other side of the garden rustled. The guards, naturally jumpy, nearly sliced Merrick in half as he stumbled out of the bushes.
He blinked at the pair of swords leveled at him before calmly brushing them aside with the tip of one finger. With all the situations they had been thrown into, Merrick had always shown the kind of center and focus that the Order specialized in—a graveness seldom seen in one so young.
The Deacon nodded to Raed, though his barely buttoned shirt and badly fixed cloak were evidence that he too had been caught unaware. “What do we have, Sorcha?” Merrick asked.
Crouched over the bodies, she glanced at him with dark humor. “I could be wrong—but I am fairly sure it is murder.”
One old woman and one young lay spread in the white gravel of the garden, their blood staining it as red as spilled wine. Their throats had been ripped out with savagery—more than enough to kill them. And yet their murderer had gone much further. Their chests and bellies had been cut open. The final outrage in this bizarre display was that the killer had placed their organs between their legs. The smell was awful, even in the sweet-scented pleasure garden.
“No hearts.” Sorcha poked delicately at the mound of organs. “The hearts are missing.”
“And this blood is still very fresh.” Merrick’s eyes darted around the scene, with the slightly glazed look that signaled the use of Sight. Raed was impressed the young Deacon had managed to keep his dinner down. “And such ritual is usually the domain of someone possessed—it could even be an attempt to open a gateway to the Otherside.”
The guards, already jumpy, spun around to peer into the shadowy corners of the jungle gardens. “Geists,” one whispered, “like last time.”
“Last time?” Sorcha’s head jerked up, her blue eyes fixing on the slightly older guard.
Under such a concentrated gaze, stronger men had given in—and this poor old sergeant had no chance. “More deaths—last week—but in the city,” he choked out.
The Young Pretender thought of the creature that had attacked him in the river—but that had been miles away.
And yet . . . and yet . . . by the Blood, let it not be so.
And yet . . . and yet . . . by the Blood, let it not be so.
“Wonderful.” Sorcha’s voice indicated it was anything but.
Raed considered himself as much an expert on geists as anyone outside the Order—having one living inside him had given him a unique insight. It did look like the work of someone possessed; since geists could not affect the world directly, they usually had to take on flesh already made to wreak ruin in the world. Even his own Curse, the Rossin, had been forced to link himself to a bloodline to both survive and make its presence felt.
“Merrick?” Sorcha looked up at her partner. The young Deacon’s eyes continued to flick around the garden—even as a shadow of a frown began to darken his brow.
Finding Fraine would be so much easier with their power to aid him. The meaning of this double murder and how that fit with his sister’s kidnapping, that was what frightened him. A pit of possibilities yawned before him.
Sorcha and got to her feet. Deacons were always so damned inscrutable that Raed was forced to ask the question that the spooked guards were all wondering. “So, is there any geist activity?”
“Not that we can see,” she replied—though no further words had passed between her and her partner.
“Who are these ladies?” Merrick gestured down to the victims. Raed wasn’t entirely sure of the fashions of the Court of Chioma, but one glance at the richness of their dress and the coils of jewels on their wrists and necks was answer enough. These were not some unlucky serving girls.
“Meilsi and her daughter Rani,” one of the guards choked out, “from one of the best and oldest families in Chioma. Good, kind ladies—who would do such a thing to them?”
The Deacons had no answers; in their profession they must be often asked that question.
“I thought you could see everything?” Raed said to Merrick. “How can someone slay two women and then disappear without you noticing anything at all?”
The young Deacon let the accusation roll off him but closed his eyes one more time. “Still no geists, and I can feel every human in this palace, but none with blood on their hands or murder in their hearts.”
It was exasperating—but it was the way of the Deacons. Raed, having learned to rely on non-magical senses, gestured to the guards. “Stay still.”
The gravel in the center of the garden was churned up, covered in blood and gore and of little use, but as the Young Pretender stepped carefully beyond that, he saw quickly with the eye of a man trained to hunt from childhood that there was one set of footprints that did not belong to them or the victims.
“As far as I know”—he beckoned Sorcha over and pointed to the line of footsteps—“geists do not leave trails.”
A little smile tweaked the corner of her full lips. “Not usually—but I won’t be disappointed if it is just a madman.”
“We’d better be quick about it.” Then Raed turned and fixed the guards with a stern look—the look of disappointed royalty. “Protect your Prince’s women—better than you have already done tonight.” Could his own sister have been better protected? Could her guards have been a little too lax in their duty?
With those bitter thoughts, Raed spun on his heel and followed the trail. It was a blessing that careful gardeners had raked the gravel so precisely and regularly—possibly only a short time before the murders. The power of Princes was for once working for the Young Pretender.
“Keep behind me, if you please, Honored Deacons.” He gave Merrick and Sorcha a little bow. “We shall use a little of my skill.”
She rolled her eyes, and ick tilted his head, neither happy with this change of circumstances.
Together they pushed through the lush jungle foliage, following the disturbed path back to the buildings. The trail did not lead to the exit they had tumbled out of so recently—and Raed was grateful for that. The idea of a crazed murderer or a possessed innocent rampaging among the frightened women was not one the Young Pretender wished to contemplate.
Instead, the signs led them toward a door that was obviously meant to be barred. When Raed had snuck into the palace, it had been over the undulating roofs—someone else had taken a far more direct approach.
The three of them there stood there and gaped. The wrought iron gate lay with its thick lock askew and hanging off its hinges as if kicked by a great horse—except no creature on four legs, or indeed one on two, could possibly have twisted and destroyed it in such a way.
Raed turned and cocked an eyebrow at the remarkably silent Deacons. “Still think this is the work of a madman?”
“Point made, Your Majesty,” Sorcha replied tightly.
They slipped into the corridor, and Raed managed not to make any further comment. Once beyond the loose white pebble paths, there was still a possibility of tracking the offender. The dry, soft mud walls and floor of the Hive City still held a faint impression that even the most careful foot could not avoid. It was a good thing they were not trying to do this in the Imperial Palace with its much-admired marble flooring.
Sorcha and Merrick followed behind him, and Raed was pleased he was able to show some of his skills—he had witnessed theirs often enough.
Why the younger Deacon was unable to sense the flight of the murderer remained a mystery, but he looked none too pleased to be stripped of his powers. As Raed knelt and examined the signs at a corridor junction, he glanced over his shoulder at Merrick. “Anything?”
The younger Deacon pushed his hair out of his eyes, even as they dipped away from reality again. “It’s like”—he waved his hand, searching for a word—“a shadow of something in here. Not a geist—something else.”
It was easier by far to see the press of a foot and the brush of a cloak against the walls than to understand what Merrick was going on about.
With a gesture, Raed urged them to follow him. They were moving off the main corridors and into dustier rooms. These appeared to have been abandoned long ago. The shapes of sheet-covered furniture and stacked boxes were eerie in a palace so packed with people. What could have caused them to abandon perfectly habitable looking rooms?
A strange odor permeated the air; not just dust but something almost sweet, as if an incense bearer had just passed by. Raed’s heart began to race at the air of menace in these rooms. Nothing warm or welcoming lingered here, and he found himself hurrying through them.
Apparently he was not the only one feeling it.
“I didn’t realize the Hive City went so deep.” Sorcha shot Merrick a look as if she expected him to say something, but her partner was fingering his Strop and completely distracted. Raed was glad he was not the only one with flesh rough with goose pimples.
Still, it gave him a chance to show off something else—his education. “Orinthal is called the Hive City because it is modeled after the red flame termite—the one that builds those red earth towers in the desert.”
She blinked at him.
“I think you need to get out more,” Raed chided as he paused to examine the floor leading to a set of stairs spiraling down. “Unfortunately, it won’t be tonight—this person is going even deeper.”
“I still can’t feel anything human ahead of us.” Merrick sounded both troubled and annoyed at the same time. “Insects, small mammals, but nothing larger.”
Sorcha pulled her Gauntlets out of her belt. “Nice to know the Prince is not above having a vermin problem.”
“Shall I try the Strop?” With shock Raed realized that the Deacon was asking him, not his partner. It was frightening how easily the three of them slipped into roles, just as they had beneath Vermillion. Something in the gaze of both Deacons told Raed that they also remembered their time together in the ossuary.
Raed cleared his throat. “We can’t afford to let this person get away—stay here if you want.” The empty place on his belt where his sword should have been suddenly felt even greater. Like every other person in the Hive City, he had been forced to surrender his weapon before entering—everyone, that was, except the Order.
Sorcha unhooked her sword and handed it, sheath and all, to him. “I am already armed enough.” She put on the Gauntlets. The brown leather with the faint flicker of luminescence made her point.
Her tone was light, as if she didn’t know the implications of lending her sword to someone not of the Order. It was this trusting gesture, a surrender of control, a placing of her reputation in his hands, that stopped Raed in his tracks.
He would not question her trust, however—to do so would be to sully it somehow. Instead, Raed buckled the sheath onto his own belt, then, taking a sputtering bare flame torch from the wall, he lead the way down the stairs.
The Hive City was naturally cool, thanks to its thick soil walls, but as they went deeper underground it actually became freezing. The thin clothing they all wore was inadequate—but no one was turning tail at this point.
“I sense running water.” Merrick pointed down, his eyes slightly unfocused. “It is interfering with my Sight a little.”
“Water—down here? I don’t hear it.” Sorcha stood between the two men, her voice an unintentional whisper.
“The Hive City only survives because it sits on a huge network of underground channels.” Raed, though he didn’t particularly feel like a history lesson, was glad to have something to add. The pressing atmosphere had nothing to do with the water supply and everything to do with the churning feeling in his chest—a sure sign that the Rossin was hovering on the edges of awareness.
Yet Merrick had said that there were no geists about. Raed repeated that to himself, trying not to think that Merrick was also not able to sense a person whose blatant trail they were following.
And then there was a noise. All three of them froze on the stairs. It was a dragging metallic sound—and not very far ahead.
Carefully, Raed led the Deacons forward, his hand locked tightly around the pommel of Sorcha’s sword. They were now so deep that there was even faint moisture in the air, and the long, low corridor that they were in was becoming more and more like a tunnel.
“Still nothing!” Merrick now sounded really annoyed.
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