Geist (26 page)

His hazel eyes were green in the torchlight when they turned on her. “A lot of people are counting on you knowing what you’re doing.”

Sorcha clenched and stretched her fingers in her Gauntlets; the well-used leather made not a creak. Command often fell to a Deacon in similarly volatile situations, yet her heart was pounding and a tingle ran down her spine. She told herself it was just because Merrick was in danger and she didn’t want to lose her partner.

“I am aware of that, Raed,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the citizens advancing toward the gates. “Believe me, I am fully aware of that.”

With the addition of the crew members, the mob did seem larger and imbued with a newfound enthusiasm. As before, they charged toward the gates, but this time they carried a sturdy length of oak offered up by the local carpenter. It made an excellent battering ram. For effect, the raiding party from
Dominion
began shooting at the crenellations of the Priory, creating lots of noise and dislodging flying fragments of stone. The booming sounds of the battering ram and the angry mob’s roar were quite impressive.

And so too were the imposter Deacons. Sorcha tugged Raed down into a crouch next to her as hooded forms appeared on the battlements. It was immediately apparent that Aulis’ initial restraint had been all for show, because these newcomers were already reaching for runes. Sorcha’s hand tightened on the Pretender’s shoulder. “Here’s hoping the Mayor remembers what I told him, or this could get very messy.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Mayor Locke, standing right near the front, called out. The speed with which the citizens dropped the battering ram and scattered was impressive. They might not hold formation liked trained men, but they at least took orders—or maybe they simply had a good, healthy dose of fear.

Aachon now stood alone at the foot of the wall, the swirling weirstone held up. In the dark, he needed no torch; the orb’s light flared blue, making him look like an actor on some eerie stage.

“He’s a bloody beacon.” Raed made to get up.

“And he knows what he’s doing.” Sorcha grabbed his arm. “Give him a second.”

She hadn’t been wrong—if she had, it would have been the end of this whole crazy endeavor. Through her limited Sight, she watched Aachon summon shades. Of all the geists, they were the best choice, being common, hungry and incredibly mindless. Stripped of all humanity, they were drawn like magnets to Actives since they had no power of their own.

Raed and the rest of the citizens would see only twists of mist, like strands of thrown scarves floating up to the battlements, but through her Sight they had shape and form. The stretched and screaming wraiths might seem exactly as a child would draw a geist on paper, but their effects when they reached the Actives would be far from infantile. She wondered if the punishment dished out to Deacons for calling geists into the world applied to instructing someone else to do so.

“Is that mist going to be able to hold them?” Raed asked doubtfully.

Sorcha could feel a cruel grin forming on her face. “Without Sensitives? Oh yes, they’ll be occupied for a while.” A couple gave out screams, batting at the circling geists. It was most satisfying. For what they had done to their partners, they deserved every moment of it.

The first mate had chosen his moment perfectly. Aachon turned and jogged back to the mob, but he did glance in their direction. Sorcha got the message. Raed gave a little reassuring salute in the direction of his crew, while she took a deep breath—ready to break every lesson of her training.

She was doing the right thing. Raed would never know what she’d done, and once it was over, she would break the Bond. The Pretender frowned when she grasped his hands, but he didn’t look away when she looked into his eyes. It was too late now to go back, yet as the Bond snapped into existence Sorcha already regretted her choice. Raed Rossin, the Young Pretender to the Imperial throne, had been a very bad choice of Bond partner.

Merrick had told her about the silver fire he’d seen around the Captain. She’d glimpsed it herself, but it was a very different story when it was in her. Naturally, being untrained, Raed could not feel the Bond—it was a one-sided joining. Sorcha held back a curse.

“Let’s go,” she whispered as lights began to flash and burn on the battlements. It might take a long time for those heretic Deacons to find the right rune to fight off the shades, but then again, they could stumble upon it by accident at any moment. Crouched over, the two of them ran toward the rear of the Priory, where there was nothing but wall and tumbled rock. It was as impregnable as any Imperial fortress.

“Are you ready?” Sorcha asked. In the darkness, she could make out little but his form. It would have been good to see his eyes; to glimpse his thoughts.

“Say it one more time.” The Captain’s voice was calm but insistent. “Tell me you are sure.”

“I can hold the Rossin.” They taught classes in lying in the Abbey—it was sometimes a very useful skill for a Deacon. Still, this lie felt very wrong on her tongue. “I can control you.”

“I don’t know why”—the Pretender let out a long breath like a man about to dive—“but I trust you.”

She should have been relieved, but instead a sick knot was beginning to develop in her stomach. To cut it off before she could betray her fears, she concentrated on this plan of hers; a plan that could go horribly wrong at many various junctures. Sorcha reached down deep inside her, calling on her Active Center to open every door.

The two rogue Deacons couldn’t have chosen a better moment to attack. The world was burning white in Sorcha’s eyes as her body shuddered with the rush of power. The gate flickered open, for an instant outlining the two shapes against the swirling mists of the Otherside. She had no time for shock.
Holy Bones
, was her only thought. They were traveling
through
that realm—the implications would have to be considered another time.

The Pretender was facing her, his back to the wall and the silent arrival of the two hooded men. Her enhanced senses noticed that the dark eyes of the other Deacons were not locked on her—they were focused on Raed. One had a dark coil in his hands, something that looked suspiciously like a collar.

The Rossin. Her mind leapt ahead; Aulis might have meant to kill her, but Raed and the Beast within him had never been in danger. They wanted the Captain, Curse and all—no.
Because
of the Curse. Why, she couldn’t say, but Sorcha knew she had to stop them.

She grabbed hold of Raed, who was still unaware, and yanked him behind her. Though she had her hands on his skin for only a moment, the warmth of his power licked against her. With the gate to Otherside so near, the Rossin was very close to surfacing.

Deacon had never fought Deacon, but ever since she’d felt the attack on Merrick, she’d known this moment would come sooner or later. Better it be over with. Already full of power, Sorcha whirled Raed away, shielding him with her body while thrusting out a hand that burned with the blue fire of Aydien. The rune of repulsion made a noise like a cannon firing, smashing into the rebel Deacons just as they stepped out of the gateway.

One was flung backward in a most satisfactory manner, but the second was a little more observant. He managed to get Yevah up quickly enough to repulse her casting. All of them were fighting without Sensitives, so it was going to be a rapid-fire and dirty fight.

The first Deacon was lying, groaning, on the broken ground, but she couldn’t rule him out. Full of the power of the Otherside, sometimes physical injury meant little. Sorcha’s ears were sharp, and she heard Raed draw his saber.

“Stay behind me,” she gasped, closing her fist around the blue fire, and reaching at the same instant for another rune. “They want you.” She couldn’t spare the concentration to see if he was obeying her; she could only hope he knew better than to get in her way.

Pyet. She opened her palm and poured scorching flames at the shield of the rogue Deacon. The sensation of it tore through her—there was a limit to how much even one of the Order could channel. Sorcha knew that she was perilously close to that point.

The one scrambling to his feet didn’t have enough time to raise Yevah. The flames of Pyet wrapped themselves hungrily around him. The screaming began. While Sorcha had used this rune on the irretrievably possessed, never—
never
—had she thought to use it on one sworn into the Order. Her stomach rolled as the man burned like a candle, howling and beating uselessly at himself. It took all of her training to hold Pyet on the other man, the flames battering at his shield. Something had to break.

In the corner of her eye, Sorcha saw the flaming man fall mercifully to the ground, consumed like dried kindling. The smell of roasted flesh and bone was an awful thing, and she heard Raed swear. Behind Yevah, the remaining rogue Deacon’s eyes narrowed, lit up by the shield and the raging fire smothering it.

She saw it in his expression; the dawning realization that she was the stronger. Without Sensitives, it was indeed coming down to raw power, and Sorcha knew there was none in the Order anywhere that could match her. Her smile of victory froze on her face as she realized just what she would do if the tables were turned.

He did it. He reached for Teisyat. With the raw power of the Otherside streaming through him, all bets would be off. Yet he was trying to do it while holding up Yevah the Shield. Sorcha yelled to him, wrapping her fist around Pyet in an attempt to get him to stop. Summoning Teisyat while holding another rune was insanity. He would be destroyed and the gateway would be wedged open. Anything could come through. Anything.

But the fool didn’t care. His Gauntlet streamed lava, smashing a hole into the reality of the world. Sorcha bellowed at him to stop, darting forward and throwing herself against Yevah in a futile effort to reach him before he carved out the gateway. Too late.

A growl pierced the madness. Deep and loud, like a rumble from the earth itself. Sorcha felt it travel through her legs, and she knew instantly that there was only one thing capable of such elemental force.

Slowly she turned and backed away from the shifting sphere of Yevah. The Rossin crouched atop a rock; its form different from that last time in the tunnel. The shape was still feline, but larger and more muscular—almost twice as big as any Breed stallion. The Beast was not a shapeshifter—he was the lord of shapeshifters, varying his preferred form to meet any situation. His intent now was massive destruction, if this shape was anything to go by. Sorcha wondered for an instant how it felt for Raed to be inside this thing. Intoxicating and terrifying at the same time—the answer came dimly along their newly formed Bond.

With a snarl that shook the air, the Beast leapt from the rock and through the fire of Yevah, shaking off the remains of Raed’s clothes. Both rune and Rossin were of the Otherside; it was small impediment to one of the great geists. The Beast fell upon the rogue Deacon like a dark storm. So huge were its jaws that it tore him in half with one bone-shattering snap. The man had time for only a single horrified howl. Sorcha flinched but did not look away. The man had been a fool, a dangerous fool.

Now she was alone with the Beast that she held by the slimmest of leashes. A newly formed Bond seemed a very fragile thing to hang her entire life on. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she fought her instinct to run. If she did, her life would definitely be over—probably before she got more than a yard. Slowly, she bent and took up Raed’s dropped saber, feeling its weight nestle into her palm. It was an insubstantial kind of reassurance.

The great Beast turned and looked over one dark shoulder at her. Fitful flames from the remains of Pyet reflected in those eyes. Muscles were bunched and ready under its thick fur. The Beast was primed and the gaze seemed to suggest she had better find it a target very quickly.

Sorcha took a long deep breath, called on her runes and raised both hands. The power of Chityre smashed into the walls with the strength of twenty battering rams. Stone and mortar blew apart, creating a cloud of sudden debris. The rattle of masonry raining down around her was earsplitting.

Yet she could still hear the roar of the Beast, the satisfaction of a creature ready to act on its only instinct. The Rossin was now unleashed. The dust had not even settled before it bounded into the Priory.

The Rossin was free. Almost. The fire-haired Deacon, the one that had bound him, followed in his wake. He could hear her behind him, running to catch up. As it should be. As it had once been—with humans serving the Rossin, as they did on the Otherside. He did not know her name yet, but once he did, there would be a different kind of tethering, for her pitiful Bond could surely not be enough to hold him. Let her think that her puny link to the foci spared her. For now she served her purpose.

Deep down, the Rossin could feel the struggles of the human foci. The ancient foe, the family that had stolen his name and power and tethered him, was now suffering. But the Rossin had more immediate concerns. He scented prey in the immediate area; hot and warm and full of blood. The great imperative drove him as always—to feed and grow strong. The great teeth bared in a snarl that was an almost-smile as he leapt clear of the destruction.

Once beyond the tumble of broken walls and clouds of dust, the Rossin’s exceptional senses made out the racing of human hearts and the coursing of human blood more fully. Deacons—but not the sort of Deacon that followed him. These stank of the Otherside and desperation. Centuries before, there had been many such kind; before the coming of the Order.

The humans came running out, slamming on their Gauntlets, preparing to meet any attack. They weren’t expecting a geistlord. The Rossin tore into them even as they threw their puny runes at him; mere shadows of the real power of the Otherside.