Authors: Philippa Ballantine
Spectyr (31 page)
“Is my word not enough?”
They might be cosseted and locked away, but these women were like Court females all over the Empire: they expected to be treated with respect. They demanded it, in fact.
He had to be careful. Though the Prince wanted them to find answers, Raed doubted he would appreciate his women complaining. “Normally, yes—but this is serious, and my partner here”—he gestured to Sorcha, who tilted her head—“is the kind of woman who goes on hard facts.”
It was the tactic used all over the Empire—from city guards to politicians—one nice person, one angry one with the stick. When faced with that, people always chose to turn to the pleasanter person—well, at least those not used to the technique.
Gazian glanced at the other two women. “Both Lady Jaskia and Lisah were at the tournament—we can vouch for one another.”
Lisah gave out a little chuckle. “Yes—of course we can . . . but”—she paused, a tiny frown bending her flawless forehead—“but Jaskia wasn’t there in the morning. She—”
What exact excuse the daughter of the Prince had given was never to be found out. The room shook and rumbled as if thunder was bearing down on them. That was impossible, since thunder in Chioma was restricted to the rainy season.
The smell of spice and sweat filled the room as shadows swallowed up its corners. Jaskia screamed, her mouth flying far too wide for a human body to bear, and the sound that came out of it was far too large for her tiny body. Then she began to stretch upward, flesh pulled impossibly long. The sound of it grated on the ear and turned the stomach. Sinews popped, and bones poked from her joints in unnatural angles. Something was coming through her.
Lisah and Gazian screamed as if their lives depended on it, bolting for the door, but Raed was rooted to the spot. He knew there was no point in him running. He had enough experience with geists that he recognized a powerful one when it loomed over him.
At his side he heard Sorcha shout something, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the geist. It looked like a perverse hand puppet of the Lady Jaskia, stretched around something else—something that was pushing up through her.
The Deacon at his side summoned her blazing rune Shayst; green light licked her fingers as she held her Gauntleted hand toward the creature. It was the rune designed to pull power away from a geist, but her face by the light of it was twisted—not the usual calm mask. Without Merrick, Raed realized, she was still struggling.
Then fire ran up his spine, his vision blurred, and everything became irrelevant. Raed clutched his stomach, feeling panic consume him along with the pain. “Sorcha!” he yelled as his flesh turned against him. The Rossin would not stand for this. It was roaring its way up from inside him.
Please, no, please. Not here. Not with her.
His mind called out hopeless prayers to the unforgiving Rossin.
His mind called out hopeless prayers to the unforgiving Rossin.
He caught a glimpse of the Deacon turning toward him and felt a faint tug of the Bond between them like the end of hope—but it was far too late. The control slipped away from her—without Merrick in the Bond, she wasn’t strong enough to hold the Rossin.
Raed managed one more strangled cry to Sorcha, and then he fell toward the Curse, hearing his own scream turn into the geistlord’s cry for blood.
It was one of
her
creatures. The Rossin flew toward reality on wings of utter rage.
She
had tried to destroy
him
, first by direct attack and now by sending one of her minions, her lesser creatures, to take what was his—to break this flesh that he treasured.
her
creatures. The Rossin flew toward reality on wings of utter rage.
She
had tried to destroy
him
, first by direct attack and now by sending one of her minions, her lesser creatures, to take what was his—to break this flesh that he treasured.
Yet the Rossin had strength that Hatipai had not really explored properly at their last meeting. She hadn’t taken full notice of the changes time could produce among humans—let alone known the power of the Deacons. Her lack of knowledge was the Rossin’s advantage—one that he seized upon.
Since she had been contained, the various Orders of Deacons had come to power, and as he ruptured into the world, he felt it again—the rune-fed strength that flowed from the redhaired one. The Deacon’s foolishly constructed Bond was still in place—it constrained him, but it was also a source of unexpected strength.
As he took over Raed’s body, he drew on it with great satisfaction: fur rippled and broke through skin, jaws lengthened and grew teeth as sharp as razors, flesh twisted. The Rossin was once again breathing in the world of humans. He announced his coming with a roar that sent humans screaming in blind panic.
Unlike Hatipai, his enemy, he was confined to one person, his essence tied to a single bloodline, and he could not construct a body from scraps of flesh. It had advantages and disadvantages. As the great lion shape snarled his rage into the confines of the library, he felt the advantages particularly strongly.
Muscles stretched and popped, and he shook himself. Human females squealed and tried to run, but his bulk blocked the door. The Rossin did not bother to swipe at them but leapt at the ghast snapping in the corner of the library.
This creature was made of human flesh as well, but it was merely a meat puppet compared to a fully realized geistlord. The thing’s curved, needlelike teeth shattered on the Beast’s hide as it lunged forward. Its smell was something dried and moldy—an odor not to the Rossin’s liking. The human trapped within the ghast screamed in pain as her flesh buckled in the ghast’s control. Unlike the Young Pretender, she was feeling everything her inhabitant did.
It was almost mercy when the Rossin’s jaws closed like a trap around its throat. He shook the ghast hard, like a cat with a particularly vile rat. The thin thread of human life was broken and the focus of the geist destroyed. It was sent howling back to the Otherside, and the flood of human blood in the Rossin’s mouth was untainted.
It poured over his long, rough tongue and filled his throat with sweet, sharp flavor. Blood and power—they had always been tightly bound. This is what had brought him here to this world.
The Rossin spun on his paws, his great size making him awkward in the confines of the library. A shelf fell and smashed the window with a tremendously satisfying clatter that sent the humans into another massive screaming panic. It drew the Beast’s attention to them.
The Deacon was nearby, standing still against the far wall. She had her Gauntlets on, but her hands were limp at her side—for there was no rune in their lexicon that could draw power from the Rossin. He was as grounded in this world as they were.
“Shut up,” he heard her hiss, presumably to the terrified females sobbing in the corner, smelling of urine and sweat. They were jammed in between two tumbled shelves of books. “Stay very still,” the contemptible Deacon instructed them, and the Rossin felt her trying to take hold again with the Bond. Yet she was weak. The Bond was weak. Somehow the foolish creature had lost her partner.
The Rossin’s lip curled back and it inhaled. The other Deacon was not dead; that would have left this female completely exposed to him. No, the Otherside was close, and he had gone through there. Such a thing had not been attempted by a flesh human for generations. The Rossin was almost impressed.
However, should the male Deacon make a miraculous return, then the Bond would be restored to its strength—the Rossin had to move quickly.
The great cat snarled and lashed his tail, but he had no time to wreak havoc upon these quivering females. She was out there once again seeking to overcome him. All she had to do was find a body strong enough to contain her, locate the Ehtia device, and then even he would have trouble overcoming her.
When he roared at the female, all curving fangs and hot spittle, it was to show the Deacon that he would deal with her later. Soon she would feel his wrath. That quite unhinged the other two women, and they bolted from the fragile safety of the tumbled bookshelves toward the imagined safety of the door.
In reflex the Rossin lunged, his massive paw catching one around the torso, ripping her open, spilling blood and gore over his fur and the floor. The other he snapped at, enjoying the tiny scream, and then the crunch of her backbone between his jaws. He enjoyed aw more satisfying chomps before dropping the broken thing to the ground.
The Deacon yelled, her Gauntlets now flaring bright red with a rune that could not touch him. If she was protected from the ravages of the geistlord, then he was just as protected from her. The fire flowed over and past him as if he were her, which in a way he was.
It must have cost her to do that—foolishly loving his host as she did. With great contempt the Rossin bunched his hindquarters, leapt clear through the window, and landed on the roof of the lower palace. It was a feat no mortal creature could have performed.
Behind he could hear running and shouting—but such sounds were no longer his concern—all that mattered were those sounds of horror that lay ahead. His mouth was already watering as the prospect.
TWENTY-TWO
The Last Time
Merrick pulled himself to his feet, feeling the effects of Onika’s presence pass. Barely had he finished his recovery, when the burrowing ship lurched, knocking him off them again. The Prince caught him by the elbow, and with an impressive display of catlike grace managed to wedge both of them against the wall while the ship continued to vibrate and strain. The weirstones in their cradles rolled like children’s marbles, but thankfully none came loose.
Around them the metal groaned like a sick person, and for an instant Merrick had the image of it collapsing inward. He could almost taste the earth in his mouth, and he immediately reacted how he’d been taught—he flung his Center out. Instantly his senses were flooded with power—a power that he recognized.
“A geistlord!” he yelled, but Onika was not there to hear his pronouncements. He snatched up a weirstone and bolted back through the hatchway they had come through. All the way the ship shifted and bucked under them, but there was a definite direction—up.
Once in the main room, Merrick’s ears were assaulted by the clanging of the machinery around him: gears spun and pistons pumped harder than could be good. The Ehtia were everywhere, scrambling to keep their ship from tearing itself apart, shouting orders at one another, and wide-eyed with near panic.
Merrick lost sight of Onika but spun about when Nynnia grabbed his arm. Her eyes were dark pits in the strange green light of the ship. “We’re going to have to surface—she’s found us!”
The young Deacon could guess what kind of “she” she meant. He might be out of his own time, but his training still held.
“We’ve surfaced!” someone yelled, and now they were all running for the exit. Merrick jerked away from Nynnia and joined those pounding through the corridors and hatchways. This was not panic—this was the organized pelt of warriors toward a battle. He had seen it before in Vermillion, and as a trained Deacon the battle was where he had to be—it didn’t matter what time in history it was or that it was not his fight.
He burst through the final hatch, with a press of people at his back, and the sudden influx of light blinded him for an instant. A Sensitive without Sight, he stumbled forward. The Ehtia, with their strange dark clothing, spread out into the suddenly silent landscape. The weapons they carried were gleaming brass crossbows and long, curved sticks that he couldn’t identify. At their head stood Onika, a weirstone clutched in one hand. The interior of the stone wirling like a vortex, and it boded ill.
Merrick could smell the arrival of the geistlord. It was sweet and pungent, very like the thick perfumes found in the temples of the little gods. He flinched when Nynnia touched his shoulder. Her face was set in stern lines, and she flexed her fingers around one of the strange sticks. “Now you will get to see our folly, Merrick Chambers.” She looked so sad that he wanted to offer some comfort, but he didn’t know what would work. “The weirstone-craft we thought we were so clever to create”—Nynnia flicked him a bitter glance—“it brought their attention to us from the Otherside.”
Merrick was about to answer, when the earth twisted under him. It was not much, but a shiver that foretold something more. He could feel all the animals fleeing from where he and the Ehtia stood; the earthworms dug deeper, the bugs that could fly caught the breeze as best they could, and the furred beasts scampered in among the rocks. He wished he could join them.
A woman appeared over the rise of the hill, though it was hard to see her shape or form, concealed as it was in darkness. Merrick drew in his breath and felt primitive fear clutch his stomach.
Few Deacons had seen a geistlord and lived to report back. The first Deacon sprang to Merrick’s mind, the ancestor of Raed Rossin, and how he had made the first bargain with the geistlord. As the woman drew nearer, Merrick realized one thing—no one had spoken of their terrible beauty.
Her dark hair tumbled down flawless, naked skin. As his vision cleared he was entranced by the glimpses of her body beyond her curls. She was perfectly nude, and her soft feet landed on rock or moss without reaction—as if pain was for smaller beings. Shadows cascaded from her shoulders and circled her head. Thankfully he could not see into them fully . . . and he knew why.
“Shades,” he whispered, his Center revealing the captured souls that followed her. He could not count the number of them—it had to be thousands. Suddenly the horror of the Rossin did not seem so great.
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