Wrayth (42 page)

Her blue eyes held his brown steady for a long moment.
Raed stood not far away and remained silent on the matter. Another reason she was falling in love with him—even on this longer acquaintance. The Young Pretender did not try to make her what she was not, or bend her to his will.

The Pattern is gone, and we need the Order. Without them we’ve lost Arkaym.

She pushed the words toward him, but Merrick did not hear them through the fading rune. Sorcha had been complaining and worrying about having the young man in her head ever since she’d made the Bond. Now, it was the thing she wanted most in the world.

“Besides, if this works we can find the Circle of Stars’ Pattern.” She grinned at him wickedly. “Once we do that, we can teach them how dreadfully uncomfortable it is to have that ripped away.”

“At least let me go first.” Merrick glanced over at Ratimana sitting ready and waiting in the corner of the cave. The old man had been cleaned up some, but his eyes still glinted with madness.

“No.” She said it as kindly as she could manage, but maybe a little of the old Sorcha came out in the command. “I am Wrayth—at least a part of me, and like the first Deacon I must be the one to take the risk.”

It hurt to admit to that part of her, but Raed was there. He understood. He had lived his whole life with a geistlord inside him, so whatever little portion she had, she could also make peace with. At least she didn’t have one talking in her head.

She kissed the top of her partner’s head. “I always wanted to be a saint,” she whispered into his ear. “Let me have that chance.”

This statement, said so very seriously, made him burst out into unexpected laughter. When he had recovered himself, Merrick snorted and shook his head. “When I first saw you, that was what I thought. That woman will be a saint one day.”

Sorcha grinned, masking her own lingering concerns, and then stripped off her shirt, quite unconcerned about
her nakedness before these men who had seen everything about her. She even pinned up her hair so that the Patternmaker would have nothing to distract him from his work.

Ratimana waited for her, seated on the floor, legs crossed, looking relaxed and at peace. It was amazing what the application of a little water and soap could do for a person. He smelled a thousand times better than he had in that dank cellar. He was a gift from Nynnia, yet another person she had underestimated in her life. Now it was time to learn some lessons and trust herself.

She sat down and held out her bare arms to the Patternmaker. “What do you think?”

Ratimana ran his firm, practiced fingers down from her shoulders to her fingers. “I think,” he said, his eyes fixed on nowhere, “that there is room for each rune from here to your wrist. Your sigil you must carve yourself, into your palms.”

She swallowed hard, feeling a trickle of sweat begin to form along her temple. “We’ll do that last then.”

The Patternmaker nodded. “Then I shall begin with Aydien on your right shoulder.” His fingers slid over the instruments they had gathered for him: a pointed comb, a container of black ink and a little hammer.

Merrick came and sat down on her left, while Raed took up a place behind her. Sorcha looked across at her partner. His gaze was as steady and true as it had ever been.

Then she leaned back and felt Raed’s hands rest lightly on the nape of her neck. His grip was warm and constant. The other hand she held out to the artisan who stood ready with the tattoo hammer.

The Deacon’s voice when she spoke was firm. “Let us begin then.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

In the darkness of the night, after the exhausted Deacons slept, the Rossin took Raed’s shape. The Young Pretender was standing at the entrance to the cavern, watching the misty forest, while his thoughts roamed over what he had seen that evening. He barely had time to realize that the geistlord was on him, before he took over.

Ripped clothes and outrage would be all he’d have to remember of the moment, as the Beast stuffed him down deep into his own consciousness. This conversation was something that the Rossin would rather keep from him.

The air was chill, and the great cat’s breath stained it as he padded into the woods. He had not gone very far before a coyote’s howl sounded. The Rossin’s head swung up as he made a great bellowing roar in response and then sat under a twisted willow tree to wait.

The Fensena came to him, padding through the undergrowth. The coyote’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and he was as the Rossin remembered, lanky, shaggy and rather disreputable looking.

Even on the Otherside the Fensena had been useful. He’d specialized in working his way into other geistlords’ favor and then bringing them into the Rossin’s reach to become fodder. The coyote dined off the leftovers of the great pard, and now it seemed that he would do the same again.

Well met, my Lord,
the coyote said, laying one paw forward and bowing over it. The Fensena was always very well mannered, but behind that courtesy was a sharp-toothed grin. Even the Rossin knew it paid to keep an eye on the creature.

Whose shape do you wear tonight, coyote Prince?
The Rossin pressed the words into the mind of his fellow geistlord, but allowed a low rumble to take up residence in his chest. If any humans wandered across this strange scene they would be surprised at this meeting of beasts—at least until they were devoured.

A simple shepherd.
The coyote’s tongue lolled from one corner of his mouth.
I killed his dogs and bit him as he was running for home.

The Fensena did tend to burn out his hosts rather fast. It was a similar method to the Wrayth and the Rossin, but far more likely to attract attention. That was why the coyote kept moving.

It was no simple chance that they had found each other while Raed was traveling to Phia. The Fensena had always possessed the ability to locate the Rossin—like real scavengers that shadowed lions on the plains. The Young Pretender had never even heard the coyote following him, but the Rossin had sensed him. It had been many hundreds of years since they had seen each other.

You are indeed mighty.
The cat licked his paw with studied indifference.
Preying on the strays of this world.

It is one way to survive.
The Fensena was unmoved by his jibe.

You survive on my sufferance,
the Rossin said, with a growl,
remember that. Your fate and mine are tied together.

Indeed,
the coyote observed slyly,
but as of yet, neither of us is up to confronting Derodak. His is blood that is long overdue to be spilled.

The cursed Ehtia had grown strong in this world, learning his lessons better than any geistlord could have. He’d also amassed followers that spanned the whole world. It was not surprising that the Wrayth had thrown its lot in with him.

He will eventually bow before me, as will all creatures of this world.
The cat’s golden-flecked eyes fixed on the Fensena.
Have you secured what I tasked you with?

The coyote flopped down on the ground and yawned as if the whole affair bored him.
Indeed, I have taken all precautions to get you what you want, my lord. The Deacon is bound to me by way of a favor, and I have procured for you the answer to your vexing question.

The Rossin’s eyes narrowed.
I can no longer dwell in the darkness of this half life. Especially with the Rossin line having been whittled down to just one heir.
He did not need to point out that when the line died out there would be nothing anchoring him to this world.

Yes, and it is such a surprise considering they started off so prolifically.
The Fensena ran his tongue over his muzzle.
The death of the sister is most worrying for you I am sure.

The great cat flexed his claws. The coyote had not been reminded of his power for a long time. Perhaps it was nearly due again.

The Fensena must have felt the change in the air, because he whined and flopped down on his back. He presented his soft belly to show he still remembered his place.
Luckily, I have found a way for you to never have to fear that again.

The Rossin’s ears swiveled about.
What have you discovered?

The monks of Illus have made quite the study of you. Their library on the northern plains has unparalleled
volumes on you and your history. You should be quite flattered at all the attention.
The coyote wriggled from side to side, like a dog seeking flattery. He got none from the Rossin though.

Were they flattered by your meager attentions then?

The coyote’s wide smile would have frightened mortals to death.
They gave me what I wanted: instructions on how you can take the Young Pretender’s life for your own. It will not be easy, it will take time, but it can be done.

The great cat lifted his head and inhaled. He smelled smoke, blood and saltpeter coming from a great distance and from all directions of the Empire.
War is brewing and th
at will occupy the mortals’ attention to my benefit.

The Fensena rolled to his feet, his cunning eyes fixing on his fellow geistlord.
The doing of this will require the help of the Deacons. Are their attentions going to be diverted as well?

The Rossin also rose to his paws and glared down on him.
She loves him, and she is trying to remake what was broken. That is more than enough to keep her away from my work.

He didn’t answer for Merrick. The Sensitive Deacon was a problem, one that would have to be taken care of eventually. He was too clever by half, and saw far too deeply for the Rossin’s liking.

Follow us,
the great cat commanded, as he prowled from the clearing.
Observe and obey, and when I come to my full power, you may have the scraps.

As he made his way back to the sleeping Deacons, the Rossin did not check to see what the coyote did—he was already thinking how fine it would be to walk the world with impunity once more. The Empire—or what remained of it—would learn to fear and respect the will of the Rossin. Only then would everything be as it should have been from the very beginning.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in New Zealand,
Philippa Ballantine
has always had her head in a book. A corporate librarian for thirteen years, she has a bachelor of arts in English and a bachelor of applied science in library and information science. She is New Zealand’s first podcast novelist, and she has produced four podiobooks. Many of these have been short-listed for the Parsec Award, and she has won a Sir Julius Vogel Award. She is also the coauthor of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences novels with Tee Morris. Philippa is currently in the United States, where her two Siberian cats, Sebastian and Viola, make sure she stays out of trouble. Visit her website at
www.pjballantine.com
.