Harbinger (26 page)

They were coming through the doorway now, lines of tall, pale people, marked by the Wrayth, and no more individual than an ant. He wasn’t going to be able to make it to her, but he was damn well going to try.

As Merrick scrambled up the remaining rocks, he felt Sorcha in the Bond—the merest of flickers,
Go! Please, Merrick, go!

His foot slipped on the rock. The Wrayth had gathered Sorcha up and were taking her back through their doorway, but a few of them turned his way; the gray eyes, devoid of emotion, suddenly fixed on him. These were no shambling undead; they were racing toward him.

Too fast. His mind processed that in an instant. Too fast and too many for Merrick to get back to Melochi, whose distant whinny seemed to be the only sound that reached above the thunder of the water. He saw at once what they would do to him; he had, after all, shared Sorcha’s vision of her mother. Deacon Merrick Chambers would become their puppet just as she had been.

It wasn’t really a choice. Without hesitation, Merrick ran toward the edge of the cliff. The thunder of the waterfall pounding over rocks filled his ears. He had no time to think—only to act. It had to be the last thing he heard, as he leapt forward into its embrace, expecting to see Nynnia very soon.

Raed woke with a pounding headache that threatened to blind him before he had even opened his eyes. He lay still on the ground for a moment, using the tactics he had come to rely on when dealing with the Rossin: sit still, take in details and assess the situation.

The ground underneath his hands was smooth, and when he dared to crack an eye open he realized that they were tiles, beautifully crafted and decorated tiles. Then his nose brought him a very strange scent, and one that was totally unexpected but very familiar; it was the salt of the sea.

Raed ran his hands over the tiles for a moment, then he shook his head, and levered himself upright. If they were near the ocean, then maybe things were not that bad; Mother Sea had always looked after him.

The only days of his life that had been any good—at least before he found Sorcha—had been accompanied by the rocking of the waves. He held on to that knowledge until his eyes were able to adjust and focus. The room was dimly lit but startling. He was once more in a cavern, but where exactly that cavern might be was the real question.

As he looked around and made out what was lighting the space, his mind did a quick turnaround. He saw windows, thick gleaming windows in the cavern, made of something that he suspected was weirstone, since it shone and occasionally shot through with blue, as those dangerous stones were wont to do. However, they were opaque enough to make him realize where the smell of salt water was coming from. Beyond the glass were floating strands of seaweed, thick castles of coral and shoals of brightly colored fish. This then wasn’t merely an underground cavern where secret doings were accomplished, but an underwater cavern.

As Raed leaned on his knees, all thoughts of his own danger were washed away by this amazing sight. He had always loved the sea, but had never had the pleasure of observing it like this. He leaned closer. Truly it was a wonder.

After a moment, though, someone breathing and moving fractionally in the dark made Raed aware that he was not alone. The figure that finally emerged from the shadows was not unfamiliar to him either. Derodak, the Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars, stepped toward him with a disconcerting smile on his lips. “Welcome, Young Prince. I hope your journey didn’t leave you feeling too unwell?”

The effects of traveling through a weirstone portal were unpleasant, but livable—but it seemed that they were compounded when forced to do so with extra weirstones touching his skin.

In what he hoped was an insulting gesture, Raed remained seated on the floor and looked up at his captor. From what Zofiya had told them of her imprisonment by this man, he was both unpleasant and quite happy to apply pain when it was needed. However soldierly the Grand Duchess was, Raed had endured more pain and torment than she could imagine in his role as host to the Rossin. It gave him a shot of confidence.

So he got to his feet and dusted himself off. “I’ve felt worse after a hard night out with my crew members. How are you feeling? The mad Emperor and Deacon Sorcha Faris are people I wouldn’t want to have at my back . . .”

His eyes darted around the rest of the room; he saw nothing that he could use as a weapon. In fact, the room was entirely barren—just the eerie light of the weirstones spread out over the floor.

Derodak drew closer, and Raed observed that the man was wearing a cloak very much like Sorcha’s, but it was held closed by a jeweled circle of stars brooch. The material was also far finer than any he’d ever seen the Order of the Eye and the Fist wearing. It shifted and gleamed like some exotic fish skin with all the colors of the rainbow. It reminded Raed of the way the people of his father’s small Court dressed like peacocks. It was desperate and flashy.

His jailor came close, but not too close. He ended up perching himself on the edge of the weirstone window. The strange blue glow illuminated him well enough, but revealed nothing of his emotions or plans.

The man looked to be in his later years, with gray staining his dark beard, but his eyes gleamed with vigor and arrogance. Raed had seen that look many times when he was growing up. His father, the Unsung Pretender, had plenty of it—though he had never done anything about pursuing his claim to the Imperial throne. He generally assumed that the Princes of the Empire would come crawling back to him, howling that they needed him. Now the Unsung was more irrelevant than ever in this warring world.

Perhaps his father and this man shared more than just arrogance. After all, Derodak had exposed the everyday citizens to the predations of the geists. Raed guessed soon he would sweep down and show them how he had the undead under control. Naturally, many would die in the process, but he would be able to play the role of savior.

As Raed examined Derodak, he was in turn being examined. Finally, it was the older man that broke the silence. “Quite a disappointment,” he said, adjusting his odd cloak around himself. “Generations of breeding, and yet so very little of me in there.”

Raed clenched his jaw and only just managed to hold back retaliation. He wanted to smack that self-satisfied smile from his face, but years of dealing with the fear and the dangers of the Rossin had taught the Young Pretender restraint.

“I hardly think after all these generations there can be much of you left in my blood,” Raed returned. “It is the mark of a desperate man to think—”

“Yes, that would be the case,” Derodak said, inclining his head, “except of course, every now and then I just popped back to keep it topped up.”

The Young Pretender closed his mouth with a snap as a shudder ran through his body. He had a horrible vision of the first Emperor sneaking into the bed of his female ancestors. He would bet good money that they hadn’t known or had a choice about it.

“Yes, I believe it was your grandmother that spread her legs for me . . . of course she thought I was your grandfather.” Derodak’s eyes never left Raed’s face. “And like a good gardener I came back now and then to do a little pruning. I couldn’t let the family tree grow too large and thin the bloodline.”

Raed began to understand what Zofiya had said about this man. His joy in applying pain . . . it obviously included emotional torture.

“By the Blood . . .” Raed swore and then stopped. He said that so often that he hadn’t really thought about what it meant. The Blood. His blood. The Young Pretender took several unwitting steps away from him. “You sick twisted bastard!”

“Perhaps by your mortal standards.” Derodak stood and tucked his hands behind his back. “But I am far from mortal. The rules do not apply. When my people fled to the Otherside, only I was brave enough to come back. I saw another way that they did not agree with.”

He swiftly covered the distance between them, until he was only a foot away from Raed. His eyes darted over the Young Pretender’s face, still searching for something. “Your father was a mistake in the line, and your grandfather a traitor to it, but you may be useful.”

Where was the Rossin? Raed tried to plumb the depths of his soul, screaming for the Beast to rise and slice this evil thing that wore a human face from throat to crotch. Yet there was no answer; nothing seemed to be there but a distant memory of power.

“I won’t help you,” he gasped out, desperate to gain some time.

His captor laughed, as if they were discussing a change in the weather. “That is what that impostor of a Grand Duchess said to me, and you saw how well that worked out for her. And don’t think the Rossin will help you. I have many, many centuries of experience handling that particular geistlord.”

He poked Raed’s shoulder with one finger and let out a small laugh. “I took care of everything. I made your line, and I made Vermillion itself. It was a hill, but I brought the water, and wound it around, making the canals and rivers to protect it from the geists. And what thanks do I get? They throw down my Order. Your own grandfather helped them . . . but he learned humility . . .”

He was so smug, so sure of himself, that Raed couldn’t take it. He lunged forward and grabbed Derodak by the collar of his cloak. The fabric was slick under his fingers, but he had enough of a grip to swing him about. He connected with the rough stone wall with a satisfying smack, but his expression didn’t change. Raed punched with his left fist, aiming to connect to his chin, but his opponent’s hand moved quickly, blocking the strike, and then bringing his right around. When it connected with his jaw, the Young Pretender felt as though an anvil had hit him.

He staggered back, the room dipping in and out of focus. He found himself on his knees. At this stage even staying upright was an achievement. How could he be this strong? Dimly he saw the gray shadow of Derodak move closer.

“You don’t see what he is doing, do you? You really have been blinded . . .”

His voice came from a long way off, and the sense of it was hard to grasp.

Derodak leaned down and whispered into his ear. “The great pard is looking for his freedom, and he is ever so close. You and I know that will never do . . .”

He was making no sense whatsoever. Raed reached out and grabbed hold of his ancestor’s cloak. “You . . . you . . .” he muttered, “it was you that shackled him to my family. It is your fault.”

“I did need him at first,” Derodak conceded. “When I was first born into this world, I was not as I am now, and I feared death. I wanted to create a family to take my seed into the future. The Rossin’s power promised that. It was also a way to control them if necessary—as it happened they turned on me, and you have had to bear the brunt of that.”

His hand clenched around Raed’s jaw and squeezed. The Young Pretender struggled for breath, clawing at the fingers that threatened to destroy him. He might as well have been pounding on a statue with bare fists.

Still however Derodak talked on; apparently quite happy to converse after so long in the shadows. “So I started another family, and this time I spread my seed a little farther afield. I made my own army over the generations.”

As Raed’s vision trembled on the edge of vanishing, his eyes locked on the brooch around the cloak. The circle of stars gleamed so brightly, and he understood. All those Deacons were his—and not just in the normal way of an Arch Abbot and his Order. They were as much his children as the Rossins were. Apparently there was no end to his craziness or his fecundity.

“Still, your blood will be of use. The last of the Imperial line will help summon the Maker of Ways—after I have killed just the right one, he will come.” Just like at the White Palace, Raed realized.

Desperate, Raed reached out and grasped the brooch with both hands, tearing it from the cloak. The diamonds in it cut into his hands and the pin pierced the palm of it deep. The pain was intense, and it felt as though he had hit a bone with it. Blood squirted out from the wound.

Now it was Derodak’s turn to curse.

The grip around Raed’s throat loosened, and he found himself abruptly dropped to the ground. The sudden flood of air into his body was a blessing, though the pain he had caused was not the only consequence. Blood. It was always about blood. The deepest and oldest magic that Ehtia and geist used in combination with cantrips, runes and weirstones. In the end, it was blood.

Deep within Raed, the Rossin finally stirred. The Beast was uncurling and unfurling, enraged by the presence of Derodak as he had not been by anything else for a very long time. Blood summoned him from the torpor that their enemy had put him in.

Surging upright, Raed dealt an uppercut to the surprised Derodak. Something about the bloodletting had given the Young Pretender a tiny advantage, and he had to take it. Everything slowed, and even Raed’s heartbeat felt labored.

Unlike Sorcha’s Deacons, he had no access to cantrips or runes—but there were the stones. While Derodak was momentarily distracted, Raed ran forward and slammed his injured hands against the weirstone windows. He had no idea if it would do any good, but he was rewarded when the clear blue stone flared bright enough to burn eyes.

“Fool!” was the only word his captor had time to voice, before the Rossin flooded upward.

He took Raed over in an instant, but they shared the blood this time. Raed had called on him, and there was nothing else to be done. His mind was locked with the Beast’s, and he had no chance of escaping the events that would unfurl after that. Actually, Raed found that he didn’t want to miss a moment of this.

The Rossin ripped clothing as he molded flesh into his cat shape, but it was only a momentary change. The pard struck the weirstones that the first Emperor had molded with all the impact of a charging warhorse—and something else. It was always about blood, and blood powered something deeper. The weirstone took the geistlord’s rage and magnified it.