Wrayth (20 page)

He burned through her bones, and reminded her of the power that could be hers if she merely reached for it. She’d felt that before, but there was something else. The Rossin’s flame was far hotter than she ever recalled it being—even in Chioma, when faced with the geistlord Hatipai, the beast had not felt like this.

“Yes,” she finally nodded. “It has him, but it feels like the Rossin has been present for a long time.” She felt along the Bond. It remained intact, but the whisper of Raed was very faint.

“The Rossin has always abandoned my prince after it is sated,” Aachon said, glancing over his shoulder, “but if things have changed, then we cannot be sure we can get Raed out. Not without being killed by the creature, that is.”

Sorcha pressed her lips together, remembering the last devastating time she’d been face-to-face with the Rossin. It
had begun with the death of two innocent women, and rapidly gone downhill from there. “What are you suggesting?”

“While we go in through the sewers, you use some of those runes of yours, phase through walls and get to the Rossin. Only you have any chance of pulling him back and reclaiming the Prince.”

Her desire to see Raed again, to hold him tight, even if just for a moment, was intense, but she had to be careful. She pushed her tangled and sweaty hair back from her eyes, and nodded tightly. “All right, but you better hold that connection open. I was lucky in Orinthal running through walls without Merrick. I don’t want to push the fates any further than I have to. Without you I could be some very pretty wall decoration.”

As expected Aachon did not laugh, instead he turned and bellowed at the crew; they were used to it. Only Arriann made any kind of grumble, the rest quickly scattered to their tasks.

Sorcha adjusted her blue cloak, one that she might not have a right to anymore, and ran toward the dreadful-looking fortress without looking back. She would have been far more grateful for a Hunter’s Moon than the gleam of a full one; it made her feel very much exposed over this open ground.

As she ran, stretching her legs to the greatest strain they had encountered in months, she thought,
By the Bones, it is good to be moving again.

Her body had made a remarkable recovery thus far, but she didn’t know if she trusted it enough to believe it wouldn’t fail her at an important moment. Her legs were shaky and her vision uncomfortably blurred in and out if she turned her head too fast. Sorcha couldn’t be sure it was the weirstone that was keeping her upright. She most certainly did not like relying on it.

Still, she was committed now, so raising her Gauntlet she summoned Voishem. The world shimmered and became a shadow of itself: unreal and sketchy. It resolved
itself down to the basics: stone and gaps in stone. She staggered on through it, holding the rune before her like a talisman. Once the Deacon stumbled and fell to one knee awkwardly. She hadn’t tripped on anything, she couldn’t in phase, but it was confirmation her strength was limited. After taking a quick breath, she lurched to her feet and went on.

It was impossible to say how long Sorcha staggered toward the burning Rossin presence. It seemed like forever, and with every step she missed Merrick more and more—though he would have chided her for this rash dash.

However, finally she emerged gasping into the same space as the Rossin and was able to drop Voishem. It was like having a huge load removed from her shoulders.

For a long moment, Sorcha rested her hands on her knees, drawing her breath as slowly and evenly as she could and trying to control the spasms in her legs. If the Beast had wanted to devour her then, then he would have had no better time.

He did not. Slowly the Deacon raised her head, and took in the Rossin. Every time that she’d been near the great cat she’d been in awe of him. He’d demonstrated tremendous power and bloodlust whenever she had seen him. She’d been a witness to him ripping Deacons and citizens apart, and been a grateful observer to him destroying another geistlord. However now, he looked capable of none of those things.

The Rossin lay on the simple stone floor, his eyes half-lidded, his massive head propped up on his outstretched paws.

Sorcha was able to observe all this because she was jammed into the tiny cell with him and was only a couple of feet away from his heaving flank. He was hot—so hot that she could feel it on her exposed skin as if she stood near to a bonfire.

Despite everything she had seen the Rossin do, and people he had slain, she dropped to her knees and touched
him with no thought to her own life. Aside from a flinching of the muscles beneath the skin, the creature did not acknowledge her presence. She slid around him, placing herself behind the great bulk of the geistlord, just in case his captors were nearby.

Captors…of the Rossin? It seemed impossible, but there it was. Someone or something in this fortress had imprisoned the terrifying geistlord. Why was he even still here? The Rossin devoured, sated itself on blood and then retreated, leaving Raed in charge of his own body once more. However it seemed this time was different.

The creature was burning both himself and his host up. A geistlord gained many things from claiming a foothold in a human, but it remained a complicated relationship. No one frail human body could contain the power of a geistlord all the time. Even a common geist could burn out the flesh of their host, and that was what it felt very much like the Rossin was perilously close to doing to Raed Syndar Rossin.

But why would he do such a thing?

“Raed,” Sorcha whispered into the soft fur of the Rossin’s ear. “Raed, it’s me. Come back.”

The Beast stirred, opening one of his eyes. His characteristic rage was indeed burning low, because she saw nothing of the hatred and hunger in him that she had seen all the other times they’d encountered each other. A low growl was all there was, and even that was felt through her hand rather than heard.

The Rossin swung his head about and inhaled a breath, tasting the air with all the intensity of a predator trying to smell a piece of prey. Then he turned awkwardly on his back and closed his eyes once more. The fur around his thick neck twitched and spasmed. Sorcha knew the signs and stepped back. Her heart was hammering far too fast, and she clenched her hands tight.

The change took a long time—much longer than she had ever seen. The outline fluctuated between man and beast
in drawn-out madness. She was completely unable to do anything to assist but felt the helplessness deeply. It must have been painful because both Raed and the Rossin were wracked by spasms. They arched their backs, their mouths stretched in silent screams of pain—but somehow they managed not to make any noise. It was an impressive feat.

When it was finally over the Young Pretender was left curled up, naked on the floor, his skin pale and waxy looking. He looked thin and very vulnerable—and her breath caught in her throat at the sight. Finally, the Deacon unclenched her hands, letting her breath out in a long gasp. Part of her couldn’t believe it was him and dared not touch him least he evaporate and spin away from her like mist. At last, gathering up her courage, Sorcha bent and wrapped her cloak around him.

Under her fingers his skin was chill but somehow still covered in a layer of sweat.

“Raed, please get up,” she whispered, cradling him in her arms, and rolling him over gently. For a long few heartbeats she was afraid he was dead from the strain of the change, but then the Deacon discerned his chest moving slightly. Sorcha couldn’t help it; she bent and kissed his cheek. “Come on, please Raed. We have to get out of here.”

He groaned and opened his eyes. They were the same beautiful hazel eyes that she’d craved seeing for months. All Merrick had told her about him leaving after the disaster at Hatipai’s temple did nothing to remove her feelings for him. He must have had his reasons. Now holding him in her arms, she just wanted to protect him and make him smile again. It was strange to see the normally strong and brash Raed as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Sorcha,” he managed to croak out her name through parched lips as she took off her cloak and draped it around him. It was not the first time she’d done so.

“Yes.” She smiled and pressed a hand to his cold skin. “What trouble have you got yourself into, foolish man?”

He blinked at her, and then that handsome mouth
twitched upward a fraction. “Oh you know…the usual business where I need you to help me out of it.”

She tried to glare at him.

Raed Syndar Rossin’s smile broadened. “Now,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around hers, “why aren’t you kissing me?”

It didn’t matter the situation, there was none so dire that she could deny him a kiss. Sorcha pressed her lips against his, and for a second that was quite enough. Once again, she told herself this time there was no way she was letting this man out of her sights.

When she’d quite thoroughly kissed him, stolen both of their breaths, she pulled back. “No more cross-country jaunts for you,” she growled. “I don’t care if I can’t move…next time take me with you!”

Raed’s eyes went distant for a moment, then he looked back at her. “I stand…or lie…corrected. I won’t do it again.”

Taking him at his word, Sorcha helped him to his feet. She dare not use Voishem on him in this weakened state for very long; that rune was a terrible strain on anyone, let alone a person under strain from the change. She would need to find Aachon and the others and get him out that way. Along the fragile weirstone Bond, she pushed the image of a hurt but alive Raed to him. Hopefully he received it and understood.

Then Sorcha wrapped her arms around him and pulled Raed through the bars of the prison. Even just that small moment caused the Young Pretender to wince in pain.

“Hold on,” she whispered to him, while keeping her shoulder under his arm. Sorcha glanced left and right up the corridor. It was hot and it stank down here, and it was a smell she was familiar with: the wretched odor of unwashed and uncared-for humanity. It often came with the presence of geists. They were not able to control human bodily functions very well.

Holding Raed up was proving difficult too. At full strength
it would have been awkward, but as she was currently, it wouldn’t be long until they both ended up on the ground.

“A little help please, Raed,” she grunted, maneuvering him as best she could down through the cells, in the direction of where Aachon and the crew were.

“Sorcha,” he stumbled over her name and shuffled his feet, desperately trying to get them under himself, “where are we going?”

“To safety,” she said, hauling him higher. “Haven’t you heard? Wherever you are, I need to be. Some call it fate.” Despite the whole sorry situation, she squeezed his arm. Hopefully it conveyed reassurance.

He worked his mouth a few times, gathered some strength and pressed on. “You seem to be short one Deacon. Where is Merrick?”

The Young Pretender was always one for the questions. “We got separated, but I have Aachon with me. We’re using a weirstone so I can see, and we’re going to get you out of this.”

That got Raed’s attention. His head rose fractionally, and his face shifted into something that was a strangely concerned expression. “I have to get to Fraine.”

She’d had quite enough of him throwing his own safety to the wind so that he could chase his twisted sister. “She’s lost, Raed. You can’t save her.”

“No”—the Young Pretender tugged on her arm—“I know I can’t—but she is getting ready to start a rebellion. It will tear apart the Empire.”

Sorcha swallowed. This was just the kind of news she really didn’t need to hear, but it was also the kind she could do nothing about right now. As a Deacon her area of expertise was the unliving—not Pretenders to the Imperial throne.

So she murmured, “We’ll see, Raed, once we find Aachon.”

As she moved down the corridor supporting him, Sorcha saw they were not alone. She stopped, stock-still.

The rows of cells that lined the corridor were not empty. Her gaze locked with a woman in the cell next to the one the Rossin had been in. Sorcha had seen plenty of dead-eyed people in her time in the Order; it was pretty much a standard for the possessed souls who were the prey of geists. This was nothing like that. She could see no sign of the Otherside in the woman. All that despair and hopelessness was very real and very human. The way her twiglike hands clutched onto a far-too-swollen belly was not a protective gesture; it was almost a pleading one.

“Deacon,” the woman’s voice was barely a whisper. “By the Blood, a Deacon.” She gave a little laugh, one that sounded like a mockery of amusement. “I waited for a fellow Deacon to find me. I dreamed about it, and now here you are—but far too late.”

Sorcha stopped dead still in her tracks. “You…you’re a member of the Order?”

The woman glared at her, taking a step back from the bars and standing up as tall as her condition allowed. “I was. A Deacon of the Phia Abbey, only a year ago I was brought here, and now look.” Her trembling hands sketched the devastation of her body. “I dreamed of being an Abbot one day. All the women here like me had dreams.”

“All the women?” Sorcha swallowed hard, turned and looked up the line of cells. Around each doorway, she could see other thin hands wrapped desperately around the bars.

At Sorcha’s side, Raed levered himself upright, away from her. He looked as frail as a newly hatched bird, but none of the other women were any better. They were all trapped in a real living, breathing nightmare. Each of them had the tattered aura of members of the Order, and each of them had the dead eyes of a long-term prisoner.

“We can’t leave them here.” The Young Pretender staggered, holding himself upright as best he could. That was the trouble with Raed Syndar Rossin; in his presence
Sorcha found herself doing things that weren’t particularly sensible.

She tilted her head, and closed her eyes for a second—not to reach out to Aachon—but to consider her options. Usually she would have gone to the nearest Abbey for support, and to clean out this damn nest of undead horror. That was not a choice she had here. The logical part of her mind said that they couldn’t possibly get all these emaciated, pregnant women out of this place—not when she was weak and underpowered.