Harbinger (6 page)

End times,
the Rossin replied, his claws flexing on the unyielding rock beneath. He had come to like the feeling of this realm—in fact come to rely on it. He would not have it snatched away.
The moment of the geist is upon us, and I will not be unprepared for it.

Indeed, those meddling priests have woken more than they could imagine on the Otherside. They wanted power, and soon it will come to find them.
The coyote looked up at the stars, as contemplative as the Rossin had ever seen him.
We must all make preparations for the changes to come or else be swept away by them.
His gaze when it returned to the other geistlord was chill and strangely free of humor.
To that end I bring news. I did not come empty of paw to you tonight.

He bounded off into the brush and returned a moment later, something long clutched in his mouth. The Rossin inhaled the scent of this offering and felt the warmth of achievement wash over him. His servant had done as he had asked. His pelt lay on the rock before him—his real pelt, not the one he formed from his host. It was one vital piece of their puzzle. The great cat bent his head and nuzzled its luxurious softness.

You have done well,
the Rossin conceded.

I would say I have.
The Fensena sat down and cocked his head.
Vermillion is a dangerous place to be for man or geist these days.

His fellow geistlord survived in the human realm in his own way; a way that the great cat viewed as more than a little disgusting. The Fensena was transmitted from body to body through bite, and he wasn’t particular about who or what he lodged in. He happily jumped from human to dog and back again, leaving a trail of exhausted bodies in his wake. Possession by the coyote burned through a body’s resources, but he most often chose not to wear them down to death. It was a messy, wasteful business, but at least his fellow geistlord was not trapped as the Rossin was.

Linked to one family, one bloodline had seemed like a wonderful way to lock into a focus point in this world. Unfortunately—either by luck, or perhaps by the design of the family that had taken the name of the Rossin as their own—the pool of blood relatives the geistlord could transfer to on the death of his current host was gone.

At least for the moment that is so,
the Fensena replied.
This is the answer to your problem.

My pelt is not the answer!
The Rossin tilted his head and snarled.
A thousand years, and you think it can just be fixed by putting this on me?

Those clever searching eyes of the coyote, fixed on the massive cat.
It is a step, my lord. A step closer to your freedom.

The Rossin, tired of these games that the Fensena did so love to play, examined the pelt. Through his geist-sight it appeared like nothing more than a piece of luxurious fur. Not one touch of rune or cantrip was on it. However, there was a tug inside him, and an urge to keep it in his sight. When the first Emperor had ripped it from him, and taken it as part of the pact, it had hurt. It was a part of him; his freedom.

The fact that he did not know what to do with it frustrated the great Beast.

Rage boiled inside the geistlord that Derodak had thought to trick him in such a way. He would have bent and grasped the useless pelt right then and there, had the Fensena not put himself between him and it.

The two geistlords snarled and snapped, for a moment reverting to the nature of the flesh they inhabited—a dog and a cat arguing over scraps. It was the danger of being so clothed; it sometimes overcame their greater nature despite all they might do. After a few seconds, they gained control of themselves.

The Rossin, huge golden mane of fur standing out from his body, loomed over the smaller shape of the Fensena, but the pelt had been saved.

Out with your plan, scavenger,
the Rossin hissed.
Before I lose every bit of my temper.

The Fensena tucked his tail between his legs.
The priests I told you about, they have the knowledge of how and where the pelt must be attached to bring your whole power into this world.

I need to be free of this cursed family before the last of their blood dies.
The Rossin bent and sniffed the pelt as if it might hide a clue.

It is one part of the puzzle.
The Fensena licked his own jowls in a gesture that might have been nervousness.
The rest of the answers I will hunt the world for.

There was an ill tone in the other geistlord’s words; an almost leer that the Rossin could not tolerate. He sprang on the coyote, with such little warning that the Fensena was knocked off his paws. He tried to scramble away, but the Rossin slammed one paw the size of a cauldron down on the coyote’s brindle hide, pinning him to the rocky ground.

The Fensena howled in pain, but he was lucky that the great cat did not extend his claws and do him real damage. The coyote made to bite at the paw holding him down, but the Rossin flexed it hard enough to make his point.

The Fensena looked up at him, and there was a satisfying edge of fear in that gaze.
I promise I will hunt down the priests with the knowledge you need. Derodak’s story is old and scattered, but it still exists I am sure.

The Rossin breathed down on him, letting him smell destruction hot on his face.
If you do not find what I want, then you will meet the same fate as all my enemies, but their suffering will seem like a welcome relief to that which I will deal to you.

The two geistlords stared into each other, and the memory of flame flickered to life in the Fensena’s gold-coin eyes. That was when the Rossin knew he had not forgotten the Otherside and the chaos of survival there. Geistlords were snakes that fed on other snakes, and the alliance between himself and the coyote was unusual. Yet they had both profited off it.

When the Otherside tears its way into this world,
the Rossin reminded him,
we will need all those skills and more to survive. I cannot be vulnerable with this body. Help me, and I will help you as of old.

The Fensena’s ears shifted back and forth, as if he were listening to distant sounds and making a judgment. The Rossin had some idea of his fellow’s powers, and it was possible that was what he was doing. He was hearing the sound of distant battles and the breaking of promises all over the realm. Finally, the coyote closed his eyes and dipped his head.

The Rossin stepped back and allowed the Fensena to climb back onto all four feet. The coyote shook himself as if he had just emerged from a very dark and cold pool.
I promise you, great lord, that soon enough you will be free of both the family and the troublesome Bond. I must seek out one more detail for you, and then we shall move.

And these priests that have all the answers, will they die with all their secrets?
The Rossin did not like the idea of anyone else finding out his weaknesses or what he was up to.

The bright pink tongue licked once more over the coyote’s nose.
I will leave their monastery in flames and their bones scattered in the dust.

The Fensena dipped his head—for once choosing the safer path of not arguing.
I will travel swifter than thought, there and back.

Both geistlords stood still for a moment looking up at the stars, judging the turning of the world. The Rossin thought to himself that they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Nothing in the Otherside compared to the gleaming ice blue jewels in the night sky. However, in a constant battle for preeminence, he had never had much chance to look up.

The Fensena tilted back his head and let out a wild, screeching yelp. It was not as magnificent as his own roar, but the Rossin understood what it was: a mark on the world. It was a promise that he was going nowhere.

Hold on to the pelt.
The coyote’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
I will bring you news of the rest that is required.

It is my own pelt! Do you think I would lose it?
The Rossin growled softly.

The coyote performed his little routine of making a bow, and then loped off into the underbrush. Alone, the Rossin hunkered down on the rock once more, the pelt still lying at his feet. For once the urge to take blood did not touch the geistlord, and he feared what that might mean. The Otherside was closer than it had ever been since the Break. He recalled the joy he’d felt that last time the two worlds intersected, but he’d been on a different side then.

He’d come to appreciate the joys of this realm, and he would not give them up. For now, he would watch the stars, and muse on what might lie ahead.

The morning sun woke Raed with a start. He was naked, lying on a rock, looking up as clouds skidded across the sky. He shuddered with the chill and, wrapping his arms around himself, sat up. Unfortunately, he had a lot of experience waking in such situations, and now, as in every other time, he felt terrible. The blinding pain behind his eyes and the deep aches in muscle and bone were a particularly favored gift of the Rossin. Reflexively he checked himself over, and was surprised and delighted that he was not covered in blood. It felt damn good to have a mouth that didn’t taste like iron and guilt.

As Raed stood up, however, his heart slammed into his throat; not two feet from him lay a bundle. The Young Pretender frowned and cautiously padded over to it.

“Curious,” he whispered, even as a deep shudder ran through him. This rock was definitely cold and exposed. He was used to waking up aching and miserable, but the Rossin had never left him a gift.

Carefully, he leaned down and examined it before opening it. It was a large piece of fur, wrapped in red string. After he had checked from all angles, he took a chance, unraveled the fur and spread it on the rock.

It was a thing of great beauty. The sunlight gleamed on the tips of the strange silver fur, and Raed leaned forward to run his hands through it. It had to do with the Rossin, of that he was sure. Despite that, the Young Pretender scooped it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. Instantly warmth enveloped him. He wanted to throw it away because he was sure that there was more to this gift than it appeared. Yet, it was protecting him. The Young Pretender was caught in the middle. The pelt was seducing him, a deep part of his being understood that but could not fight it.

Still Raed turned back toward the citadel, and began walking, clutching the warmth and softness of the pelt to himself. Hopefully somewhere along the way he would find his clothes.

That search however was going to be nothing compared to having to explain to Sorcha where he had been. She was bound to have felt the Rossin appear, and was certain to have questions. Those he feared facing, because at this stage he really didn’t have any answers.

In the wake of the attack, there was no time to even take a breath. Zofiya stood in the doorway watching Sorcha and Merrick talking quietly to each other while the smell of death was ventilated from the room. Something had just happened, something that shook them to the core, but she found herself hesitant to interrupt.

While she helped clear the debris out of the Great Hall, stepping over pools of scarlet blood, a lay Brother appeared at her elbow. He was tall, thin and pale faced, but his hand was not trembling as he passed a roll of paper to her. “Imperial Highness,” he said, and she managed not to flinch at the use of her title, “you asked if we could find any news of your brother’s activities to the north. We have been able to secure this.”

Zofiya’s hand clenched on the scrap, but she managed to remain calm. “Where is this information from? Can we trust it?”

“Indeed yes! It is from a lay Brother who escaped a Priory to the north of Vermillion.” The young Brother dropped his eyes. “Like many others he managed to get out with a weirstone and has been sending in what reports he can.”

“Thank you,” she managed, while her eyes darted over the short message. It felt like ice water flooded through her veins. What she read there made up her mind immediately—she had to get out of the citadel.

Without a word to anyone, she spun on her heel and made her way back to the room she shared with Merrick.

In the city of Vermillion, she’d slept on a bed carved like a boat and had whatever material possessions she had wanted. In the citadel, they had a narrow camp bed with a thin blanket to cover them both.

Shutting the door behind her, Zofiya leaned on it for just a moment. “I am the Grand Duchess of Arkaym,” she whispered to remind herself, before snatching up her rucksack and starting to throw the few items she had into it.

Merrick had saved her, and it had been a relief to give herself over to that fact for a time: to be a follower rather than a leader. However, the appearance of geists tonight had merely underscored what she had already known. Her brother was part of this, and she had to do something about it. Now, she must leave and not think about how doing so would hurt.

“Zofiya?” Merrick had slipped in the door behind her without her noticing. He was capable of great silence when required—certainly, he would have made an excellent spy or assassin.

She looked up at him and into those brown eyes that were the most reassuring she had ever seen in any human. In them, for a few months at least, she had been able to rest and recover. Yes indeed, it had been a dream, but now it was time to wake up.