Spectyr (45 page)

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Authors: Philippa Ballantine

BOOK: Spectyr
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So the Deacon tightened the lacings on her Gauntlets, then dashed up the stairs and threw herself into the maelstrom. The gold light enveloped her, and everything else ceased to matter. Her Center was blinded and useless. All there was was Hatipai. The Bright One.
The geistlord tore at Sorcha with her forming hands, and the pain was exquisite. The Deacon screamed as the geistlord wrapped around her inside her. Yet Onika’s gift held her body against the onslaught.
Sorcha tried to think past the pain. Though her body could not be destroyed, her mind and soul could be, so she had to work quickly. Desperately she called runes from her Gauntlets; Chityre and Pyet. Lightning flickered and danced through the red and gold of Hatipai, while flame bloomed around them. It could not touch the geistlord though.
Her face in the flames was now smiling and beautiful. “You cannot hurt me, Deacon. I do not yet have a body.”
“But you can’t destroy me either,” Sorcha panted, her muscles screaming, “thanks to your son’s gift. I will hold you here forever if necessary.” She hoped her opponent could not read the lie from her mind. Sorcha had no idea how temporary her immunity was.
Dropping Chityre, she instead demanded the rune Yevah from her Gauntlets. The snap of the shield around them might offer some protection to the humans.
“Perhaps so.” Hatipai caressed the Deacon’s cheek, a line of fire following. “But I will eventually burn out your mind and then have my way.”
By the Bones, she was right. The image of the broken members of her Order had always haunted Sorcha. She was an idiot to think she could hold out indefinitely.
“So many fears, so many doubts.” The geistlord cooed into her ear. “We all have our secrets, don’t we, little human, and I know the dirty secret of your existence . . . ”
Sorcha didn’t know what the damned creature was talking about, too busy holding up multiple runes while drowning in pain. Through the flickering of the shield she could finally see Raed. Now he was looking at her, his face a mask of horror and frustration as he strained against his bonds. They seemed to always be getting their timing wrong, and now there would be no chance for more. She regretted that.
The followers.
The voice in her head was not Merrick, not even Raed; it was the Rossin. Trapped and angry, the Beast reached out to her.
The undead foci, they still follow her. Why? Why, you foolish mortal? Think!
The foci of any geist were a strength and a weakness. Sorcha’s streaming eyes flickered to those coalescing shades, and it was then she suddenly realized that most of them were spectyrs.
Yes, you see it. You finally see it. Vengeance.
Hatipai had lied to them, and they were not here at her bidding—they were here for her! They were out for vengeance, and it was the Deacon’s place to give it to them.
Dropping the runes she held, Sorcha called on another, Tryrei, the rune that created a tiny peephole to the Otherside.
Hatipai roared with laughter. “You cannot drag me back home with that.”
Sorcha, holding the rune, felt her strength begin to wane, but she would not let go. “The spectyrs can’t see you very well. I’m giving them a torch,” was all she managed to gasp out.
They had gathered together here to find answers to their ancient deaths. They knew they had been tricked by a geistlord and their faith had been misplaced.
The tiny hole to the Otherside got their attention, buried as it was in midst of Hatipai, the one who had fooled them. A terrible scream filled the Temple, the sound of a thousand souls in pain. They had lost everything to the geistlord: love, family, hope and life itself. The spectyrs flew re like an angry cloud of ravens. Sorcha bit her lip, clenched her muscles and concentrated on the rune as they tore away at Hatipai. She had to hold it for them.
She was drawing too much—she could feel power draining out of her like a broken dam. Without Merrick’s strength, she only had her own, and it didn’t seem enough. She could see nothing, only hang on blindly. Awareness of her own body broke away, and she became a feather in a screaming storm. Something broke in her—she could actually hear it like a sinew snapping. What it was she could not tell, but Sorcha was overwhelmed.
The ground appeared from somewhere, smashing into her, but there was no pain. However, Deacon Faris still held the rune tight, though her Gauntlet was trapped and spread wide.
When the spectyrs took Hatipai’s godhood, they vanished into the Otherside, filled with their own satisfaction. The goddess was no longer a lovely, golden creature but a snarling, snapping monster with the long snout of a wolf and baleful, red eyes. It loomed over the fallen Deacon, but she could only see it from one eye. Her head wouldn’t move to give her a better view of her oncoming killer. Unable to control any part of her body, she was restricted to what she could see from her place on the floor.
Sorcha heard the crowd scream, their voices mingling into a tangled web of horror and shock, and then the sound of running feet made the Temple ring.
The Deacon’s eyes flicked in the other direction, catching sight of the Grand Duchess. Zofiya, her face showing her own distress, but still she somehow managed to see what needed to be done. With her white robe streaming behind her, she ran to Raed. She’d just seen her goddess stripped of illusion—and the Grand Duchess saw their only chance. In Vermillion she had seen the Beast—she knew its power. So she yanked the string of weirstones from around Raed’s wrists, freeing him from the dreadful machine, and then staggered back.
It was a good thing she did, because the Young Pretender was not there for long. His flesh bloomed with the Curse, and the great lion was born, enraged and ready for revenge. He sprang up, snarling, and broke his remaining bonds in an instant.
Despite what he was, the Deacon lying on the floor could not deny the beauty of the Beast. The scene wavered before Sorcha, but she held on. She wanted to see the end. The rune finally faded from her Gauntlet, but her eyes still let her see the moment when the Rossin fell on Hatipai and with evident satisfaction tore her apart.
Somehow it was done, but Sorcha had no time to celebrate. She was so tired, so alone, and nothing moved when she commanded it to. Raed was alive, Hatipai fed into the maw of the Rossin, and soon, very soon, Merrick would come for her. Now if only her body would move . . . everything would be all right. She should have been afraid but found she was not.
Deacon Sorcha Faris abandoned herself. It felt like the best thing to do.
THIRTY
 
Birthing Sorrow
 
Merrick didn’t wai
t for Captain Revele to moor her vessel. He scrambled to the swing device and had himself cranked swiftly down to the desert. The Bond told him Sorcha was alive but also that something was terribly wrong. His throat was tight and his breathing echoed in his head as he ran toward the Temple.
People were streaming out of the building, sobbing and wailing. Many was terribld off into the desert, tearing their hair, while others looked stunned and simply knelt in the sand with faces stripped of any emotion.
Merrick knew immediately nothing would ever be the same in Chioma again. His mind whirled and his Center flickered lightly across the heaving mass of people, searching for his own people in the crowd. He found Raed, Sorcha and the fiery spark of Zofiya—which he recognized—but he couldn’t find Onika anywhere.
Merrick stopped for a second and wondered how he would tell his mother. It wasn’t unexpected, but it wouldn’t be any easier because of that. The Deacon had studied the political struggles of Arkaym, but how they would affect her and his unborn half brother was impossible to tell. The young Deacon’s head was full of so many whirling possibilities that it was hard to nail down any fact in those terrifying moments.
The crowd was lost, struggling—not the mob they had been in the city—and thankfully that made it easier for him to reach the Temple steps. Merrick had just put his foot on the first one when Raed appeared at the top. At his side was the Grand Duchess Zofiya—though looking like he had ever seen her; she was out of uniform, her dark hair wild and tangled, and most shocking of all, she was sobbing.
Yet even this sight could not hold him for long, because something even more horrifying filled his vision. In Raed’s arms was Sorcha, her Gauntlets still on, but held awkwardly before her so they did not touch the Young Pretender. He need not have bothered—one glance said the runes were burned out and the leather destroyed. However, she was alive; her partner knew that instantly. As he darted up the remaining stairs to her, he fully grasped the damage. Guilt and grief washed over him.
“She won’t answer me,” Raed whispered. The other clue that something had gone terribly awry was the fact that he was wearing Sorcha’s cloak and was completely naked under it.
As Merrick pushed his partner’s hair out of her face and directed his Center upon her, he muttered, “How many died in there?”
The Young Pretender swallowed. “Under the Rossin’s claws, just Hatipai—but . . . ” His gaze drifted out to the sand. “More may follow.”
That comment passed over and through Merrick as his fears were realized, and the full impact of his lie to his partner was now revealed. “I’m sorry, Sorcha.” And he was—more deeply than he could ever say. In all his years in training, he could never have imagined having to choose between his mother and his Active. Merrick felt guilt begin to settle on him. The younger Deacon pressed his teeth together so tightly his jaw ached.
“What is wrong with Deacon Faris?” Zofiya asked, seeming to gather up some of her control while brushing tears from her cheeks.
“She went too far,” Merrick replied, his tone as heavy as the reality he conveyed. He’d seen Deacons who had lost partners, read the reports, as well as spent a year as an Initiate caring for those in the infirmary. “Without me she could not tell when to stop, where to strike, which rune to use.” He paused, swallowed and, not daring to look up at the Grand Duchess or the Young Pretender, instead he muttered, “I must get her back to the Mother Abbey as quickly as possible. They have the best chance to bring her back.”
“Why weren’t you there to help her?” Raed roared, his rage sudden, violent and uncharacteristic.
The Deacon was so full of guilt that it easily turned to anger. Defenses were up, and Merrick for once was not backing down. He was done being the diplomat—the quiet one who always took the abuse. He might have failed Sorcha—but they were only in Chioma in the first place because of Raed. They could be safely back in Vermillion right now; bored, perhaps, but safe. Sorcha had risked everything both of them had to save this man.
“Give her to me,” the Deacon shouted back, his face only inches from the Young Pretender’s. “Give her to me if you have any feelings for her at all. Only the Order can save her now. You’ve done enough!”
Raed’s fingers tightened around Sorcha, his lips pressed together in a white line. For a second Merrick thought that he might try to run into the desert with her or drop her entirely and lash out.
“By the Blood, you better save her!” Raed spat and then handed her into her partner’s arms.
A dozen Imperial marines had disembarked from the
Summer Hawk
and now pounded up the steps. They paused on seeing their commander in chief in such flimsy attire but snapped to attention.
“Take the Honored Deacon to the dirigible,” she ordered as sharply as if she were in uniform. “We’re returning to Vermillion immediately.”
They gently took Sorcha from Merrick and followed after the Grand Duchess as she made her halting way toward the vessel. Her gait was painful but still proud.
Seeing the pain in Raed’s eyes as he watched Sorcha going away from him, Merrick felt a stab of sympathy. This was a terrible situation for all of them. If he paused to make a list of all the terrible things that had happened, Merrick felt he might not make it back to the airship.
“Come with us.” He touched the Prince’s shoulder. “I know Vermillion is dangerous, but we have the Grand Duchess to vouch for you, and . . . ”
“I cannot.” The Young Pretender’s face closed, his eyes hard as green agate. It was not an expression that Merrick was used to seeing on the face of the usually jovial Raed. He felt along the Bond, but all he found was a deep pit of pain past which nothing else could be discerned. The Rossin, who had fed deeper than he ever had on the power of Hatipai, was hidden and hibernating. This pain then belonged entirely to his host.
Merrick was suddenly embarrassed that he had raged at Raed. Something had happened to him in the desert, something he would not share. The young Deacon tried to make amends. “Sorcha cares about you—you must know that, Raed. She came all this way for you. Would you not see her well again? I know your presence would help her.”
Raed swallowed hard, and his voice came out tight and low. “We only seem to ever meet in danger, Merrick; brief moments we snatch out of the mouth of peril. It isn’t real, and my life is far too tangled for it to ever be. I would have her be well, but I cannot come with you. I have . . . business to attend to.”
“Business?” Something tasted wrong in that statement. The Deacon could feel this old and painful thing turning within the other man, eating him up with grief, guilt and loss.

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