Geist

FOURTEEN A Use for Blood and Bone

Aulis’ voice penetrated the fog that Merrick had fallen into—exhaustion and near death could do that to a person. He levered his eyes open. The woman who so falsely called herself Prior was again staring down at him as if he were a piece of meat, head on one side. He wondered what she was seeing with her obviously limited Sight. Trapped, he longed to be able to stretch forth his Center, but he’d learned from his earlier attempt. It would have to be reserved for the final moment of desperation.

“He’s ready. Bring him.” She gestured to the Actives lurking in the shadows. One of them brought forth a set of keys and unlocked the shackles around his wrists. Merrick left himself limp until they had unshackled all his limbs; then with a surge of energy he went at them. Unfortunately, after getting strangled into unconsciousness and spending many hours lying on the cold, damp floor, he was not in the best condition. Still, he surged up at them, swinging his arms, trying to remember all that he had been taught as a novice. He managed to get a few punches in, but his body felt sodden, wrung out. He was moving too slowly.

The Actives laughed, their voices grating on ears that felt raw. Merrick shook his head and swayed while they yanked his arms behind his back and tied them firmly. As they pushed him ahead of them, he tried one last time to reach Aulis.

“Think of your vows.” His voice sounded slurred even to his own ears, his tongue too large for his mouth. Yet he had to try. “Think of all the Order stands for!”

Her graying eyebrows drew together in a sharp line. “Oh, but I am thinking of it, young fool. You should have studied history more closely.”

The Actives dragged him upstairs, and he realized he had no chance of calling on their compassion. Yet, he tried.

The one to the right, with deep-set eyes, looked as though he must have been with the Order a long time. “You can still stop this,” Merrick managed to whisper out of the corner of his mouth, though his lips had gone slightly slack. He could only hope it was some effect of lying under those cantrips for hours and not some kind of palsy.

The man snorted his derision.

“Surely your partner who died—surely they . . .” Merrick called on the one thing that all Deacons shared.

“There are no Bonds that mean anything between us and the Sensitives,” the younger-looking Active to his left growled. “They are sheep and we are wolves.”

“Shut up, Falkirk,” the other snapped. “Let’s just get him upstairs as ordered.”

Merrick was not capable of any more questions anyway; shock had driven him to silence. The Bond between partners was the most sacred thing to any Deacon. It was not to be mocked and used so callously. Even if Actives and Sensitives did rib each other in the confines of the Abbey, they would never say such terrible things as had just issued from the mouths of these men.

Whatever this place called itself, it was not a Priory. They might wear cloaks the same color as Deacons, but they were not of the Order.

Any further contemplation was cut short when they reached the ground level of the keep. The numbness in Merrick’s body turned suddenly to ice. They were once more in the main Hall. It had, however, been cleansed. The charcoal patch was scrubbed clean; the benches were pushed to the outer edges, and when he managed to turn his eyes upward he also saw that they had somehow repaired the scorches in the ceiling. The Rossin was there, glaring down at him.

The Beast was not just some fanciful myth Raed’s family had decided to use for their family crest. It was tied to the land here; a geist of the highest order, around which legends had been built. It had never truly been tamed; its submission had been the result of a negotiation between it and the greatest Deacon in the mythology of the Order. Myrilian, who had been able to use his Active and Sensitive powers jointly—a feat never since achieved. It was this Deacon who was Raed’s ancestor.

All these thoughts ran through Merrick’s fevered head as he was dragged on his heels to the front of the Hall. They’d given up all pretense of interest in him. Merrick scrambled weakly, unable to find any power in his own legs.

A stone had been set in the spot where the lectern had once stood. Merrick shook his head groggily as he suddenly recognized the device from books—a draining board. They shoved him back roughly against it, the lines of razors slicing into his back. He lurched forward with a howl, but the two men were already lashing him against the device with merciless efficiency.

His mind scurried to make sense of it, trying to call on his memory and his training. Blood, bone and flesh made any summoning stronger. The blood of a Deacon already steeped in the midst of the Otherside would be best of all: it would be not only his power that could be drawn, but that of his partner, as well. Sorcha Faris, the strongest of the Actives.

To his right, Aulis appeared once more. She had discarded the blue cloak of an Active and was dressed in bright red robes. He’d never seen or heard of the like among the Order. The sleeves were embroidered with symbols and cantrips. “You see, young Deacon? All your training, all your talent—they shall not go to waste.”

Merrick turned his head away with a sick realization burning in his head. They had weakened him enough to enter his mind; normally, of course, a Sensitive was too powerful to be broken into in such a way.

Aulis leaned in close to him, so that he could smell sage and a whiff of smoke in her hair. “Thank you for your donation to our cause.”

The sharp little knives dug deeper into his body with every breath. The blood slid down the channels into the brass bowl the woman bent and placed at the base of the rock. They were draining him of life, as if he were an especially ripe fruit.

At Aulis’ gesture, the two Actives who had brought him in loomed into view. “We are nearly ready. Go and get the royal. He is right outside the gates.” She glanced upward once at the image of the Rossin on the ceiling, and her smile was dreadful and happy.

Merrick’s vision was darkening around the edges, shadows creeping in from around the lit torches to feast on his fear; shades and memory. The only mercy was that he felt so little pain, but he was sure that this was not a deliberate kindness. The Otherside was pulling at him—he knew the symptoms. Aulis and her Actives needed his blood for something, and he would probably never live to see it.

Don’t give up . . . Hold on.

“Sorcha?” he whispered, shaking his head, trying to clear it. Reaching desperately for the Bond, he tried to open his mind to his partner.

And then he felt soft fingertips on his forehead. He had to be dreaming, for now he heard Nynnia’s whisper. “I can’t get these shackles off.” The tiniest tug on them awakened coils of pain through his back. Merrick managed not to moan.

He licked his lips, desperate for moisture to make his mouth work. “Don’t . . . They’ll hear.”

At the far end of the Hall, they were still waiting for his blood to drain out of him, chatting among themselves as calmly as if this were a marketplace. He surely couldn’t be far from passing out. “Have you got it, Nynnia?”

His own heartbeat was slowing in his ears. The room began to waver. She had to be careful handling the Strop.

“Yes.” Her voice was muffled and distant, but he felt the smooth warmth of the talisman glide over his eyes. Suddenly everything was clear, and Merrick Chambers slipped into the Otherside.

The pain in Sorcha’s head was not going away—a hollow space in her mind where awareness of Merrick should have been. Her protective instincts told her to race up the hill back to the Priory, blast the doors off with Chityre and demand her partner back. However, she had not reached seniority in the Order by giving in to pure impulse.

Sorcha could feel Aachon’s glare like a knife in her back. She didn’t turn about until she had explained the last of her plan to the Mayor and the citizens of Ulrich. She kept it simple; the fewer people running about with complicated instructions, the better.

“As soon as you see the light, retreat back as quickly as you can. Aachon will do the rest.” Only when the crowd had nodded and shuffled away with something that looked like hope in their eyes did she turn around to face the wrath of the first mate.

Raed was enjoying this moment; he had a grin that threatened to split his face. If he was afraid of her plan, there was no sign of it.

Sorcha gave him a glare, but wasn’t about to get into a fight. Over the Pretender’s shoulder, the sun was sinking into the sea. The days here were incredibly short and they had little time to pull this off.

Taking out her Gauntlets, she thrust them onto her hands in a couple of short gestures. “Aachon, you understand how important timing is? You must choose your moment and wait until the Actives are on the wall—all of them.”

The man’s brow furrowed and he glanced down into his right hand, tightly clenched around the weirstone. “It feels wrong . . .”

“That’s because it is wrong,” Sorcha snapped. “Imagine how it is for me—this goes against everything a Deacon is ever taught!” She readjusted the slim pack on her back and watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Perhaps those had not been the right words, for he actually flinched as if struck. The native Order had fallen apart under the weight of the politics of so many fractured kingdoms. That they had rejected a man with such excellent Sensitive potential was only a symptom of that internal rot.

“Old friend,” Raed broke the stalemate, “we are all risking much here, but I know this is the right thing. I cannot always be hiding, and this is what a proper prince would do for his people.”

Aachon glanced down at the brilliant blue orb in his hand, staring into its depths as if the answer could be found there. Finally when he spoke, his deep voice vibrated with emotion. “I was given care of you by the Unsung, but you are my leader, my prince. I know you are also a good man, and if you say this is the way—then this is the way.”

With that, he took his place among the crew and waited for the sun to finish sinking. Sorcha led Raed away, far enough so that they could choose their moment, concealed among the rubble of rock to the right of the road. A quick glance at the Pretender brought her some reassurance; despite their plan hinging on releasing his inner beast, Dominion’s captain looked remarkably calm. His eyes darted to where his crew stood loading their weapons and preparing to assist the citizens. Two rickety old rifles wouldn’t bring every heretic Deacon to the wall, hence the full firepower of his crew. By the slight frown on his forehead, she knew his concern was all for them. Good; she didn’t want him thinking too much on his part in this hasty plan.

His hazel eyes were green in the torchlight when they turned on her. “A lot of people are counting on you knowing what you’re doing.”

Sorcha clenched and stretched her fingers in her Gauntlets; the well-used leather made not a creak. Command often fell to a Deacon in similarly volatile situations, yet her heart was pounding and a tingle ran down her spine. She told herself it was just because Merrick was in danger and she didn’t want to lose her partner.

“I am aware of that, Raed,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the citizens advancing toward the gates. “Believe me, I am fully aware of that.”

With the addition of the crew members, the mob did seem larger and imbued with a newfound enthusiasm. As before, they charged toward the gates, but this time they carried a sturdy length of oak offered up by the local carpenter. It made an excellent battering ram. For effect, the raiding party from Dominion began shooting at the crenellations of the Priory, creating lots of noise and dislodging flying fragments of stone. The booming sounds of the battering ram and the angry mob’s roar were quite impressive.

And so too were the imposter Deacons. Sorcha tugged Raed down into a crouch next to her as hooded forms appeared on the battlements. It was immediately apparent that Aulis’ initial restraint had been all for show, because these newcomers were already reaching for runes. Sorcha’s hand tightened on the Pretender’s shoulder. “Here’s hoping the Mayor remembers what I told him, or this could get very messy.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Mayor Locke, standing right near the front, called out. The speed with which the citizens dropped the battering ram and scattered was impressive. They might not hold formation liked trained men, but they at least took orders—or maybe they simply had a good, healthy dose of fear.

Aachon now stood alone at the foot of the wall, the swirling weirstone held up. In the dark, he needed no torch; the orb’s light flared blue, making him look like an actor on some eerie stage.

“He’s a bloody beacon.” Raed made to get up.

“And he knows what he’s doing.” Sorcha grabbed his arm. “Give him a second.”

She hadn’t been wrong—if she had, it would have been the end of this whole crazy endeavor. Through her limited Sight, she watched Aachon summon shades. Of all the geists, they were the best choice, being common, hungry and incredibly mindless. Stripped of all humanity, they were drawn like magnets to Actives since they had no power of their own.

Raed and the rest of the citizens would see only twists of mist, like strands of thrown scarves floating up to the battlements, but through her Sight they had shape and form. The stretched and screaming wraiths might seem exactly as a child would draw a geist on paper, but their effects when they reached the Actives would be far from infantile. She wondered if the punishment dished out to Deacons for calling geists into the world applied to instructing someone else to do so.

“Is that mist going to be able to hold them?” Raed asked doubtfully.

Sorcha could feel a cruel grin forming on her face. “Without Sensitives? Oh yes, they’ll be occupied for a while.” A couple gave out screams, batting at the circling geists. It was most satisfying. For what they had done to their partners, they deserved every moment of it.

The first mate had chosen his moment perfectly. Aachon turned and jogged back to the mob, but he did glance in their direction. Sorcha got the message. Raed gave a little reassuring salute in the direction of his crew, while she took a deep breath—ready to break every lesson of her training.

She was doing the right thing. Raed would never know what she’d done, and once it was over, she would break the Bond. The Pretender frowned when she grasped his hands, but he didn’t look away when she looked into his eyes. It was too late now to go back, yet as the Bond snapped into existence Sorcha already regretted her choice. Raed Rossin, the Young Pretender to the Imperial throne, had been a very bad choice of Bond partner.

Merrick had told her about the silver fire he’d seen around the Captain. She’d glimpsed it herself, but it was a very different story when it was in her. Naturally, being untrained, Raed could not feel the Bond—it was a one-sided joining. Sorcha held back a curse.

“Let’s go,” she whispered as lights began to flash and burn on the battlements. It might take a long time for those heretic Deacons to find the right rune to fight off the shades, but then again, they could stumble upon it by accident at any moment. Crouched over, the two of them ran toward the rear of the Priory, where there was nothing but wall and tumbled rock. It was as impregnable as any Imperial fortress.

“Are you ready?” Sorcha asked. In the darkness, she could make out little but his form. It would have been good to see his eyes; to glimpse his thoughts.

“Say it one more time.” The Captain’s voice was calm but insistent. “Tell me you are sure.”

“I can hold the Rossin.” They taught classes in lying in the Abbey—it was sometimes a very useful skill for a Deacon. Still, this lie felt very wrong on her tongue. “I can control you.”

“I don’t know why”—the Pretender let out a long breath like a man about to dive—“but I trust you.”

She should have been relieved, but instead a sick knot was beginning to develop in her stomach. To cut it off before she could betray her fears, she concentrated on this plan of hers; a plan that could go horribly wrong at many various junctures. Sorcha reached down deep inside her, calling on her Active Center to open every door.

The two rogue Deacons couldn’t have chosen a better moment to attack. The world was burning white in Sorcha’s eyes as her body shuddered with the rush of power. The gate flickered open, for an instant outlining the two shapes against the swirling mists of the Otherside. She had no time for shock. Holy Bones, was her only thought. They were traveling through that realm—the implications would have to be considered another time.

The Pretender was facing her, his back to the wall and the silent arrival of the two hooded men. Her enhanced senses noticed that the dark eyes of the other Deacons were not locked on her—they were focused on Raed. One had a dark coil in his hands, something that looked suspiciously like a collar.

The Rossin. Her mind leapt ahead; Aulis might have meant to kill her, but Raed and the Beast within him had never been in danger. They wanted the Captain, Curse and all—no. Because of the Curse. Why, she couldn’t say, but Sorcha knew she had to stop them.

She grabbed hold of Raed, who was still unaware, and yanked him behind her. Though she had her hands on his skin for only a moment, the warmth of his power licked against her. With the gate to Otherside so near, the Rossin was very close to surfacing.

Deacon had never fought Deacon, but ever since she’d felt the attack on Merrick, she’d known this moment would come sooner or later. Better it be over with. Already full of power, Sorcha whirled Raed away, shielding him with her body while thrusting out a hand that burned with the blue fire of Aydien. The rune of repulsion made a noise like a cannon firing, smashing into the rebel Deacons just as they stepped out of the gateway.

One was flung backward in a most satisfactory manner, but the second was a little more observant. He managed to get Yevah up quickly enough to repulse her casting. All of them were fighting without Sensitives, so it was going to be a rapid-fire and dirty fight.

The first Deacon was lying, groaning, on the broken ground, but she couldn’t rule him out. Full of the power of the Otherside, sometimes physical injury meant little. Sorcha’s ears were sharp, and she heard Raed draw his saber.

“Stay behind me,” she gasped, closing her fist around the blue fire, and reaching at the same instant for another rune. “They want you.” She couldn’t spare the concentration to see if he was obeying her; she could only hope he knew better than to get in her way.

Pyet. She opened her palm and poured scorching flames at the shield of the rogue Deacon. The sensation of it tore through her—there was a limit to how much even one of the Order could channel. Sorcha knew that she was perilously close to that point.

The one scrambling to his feet didn’t have enough time to raise Yevah. The flames of Pyet wrapped themselves hungrily around him. The screaming began. While Sorcha had used this rune on the irretrievably possessed, never—never—had she thought to use it on one sworn into the Order. Her stomach rolled as the man burned like a candle, howling and beating uselessly at himself. It took all of her training to hold Pyet on the other man, the flames battering at his shield. Something had to break.

In the corner of her eye, Sorcha saw the flaming man fall mercifully to the ground, consumed like dried kindling. The smell of roasted flesh and bone was an awful thing, and she heard Raed swear. Behind Yevah, the remaining rogue Deacon’s eyes narrowed, lit up by the shield and the raging fire smothering it.

She saw it in his expression; the dawning realization that she was the stronger. Without Sensitives, it was indeed coming down to raw power, and Sorcha knew there was none in the Order anywhere that could match her. Her smile of victory froze on her face as she realized just what she would do if the tables were turned.

He did it. He reached for Teisyat. With the raw power of the Otherside streaming through him, all bets would be off. Yet he was trying to do it while holding up Yevah the Shield. Sorcha yelled to him, wrapping her fist around Pyet in an attempt to get him to stop. Summoning Teisyat while holding another rune was insanity. He would be destroyed and the gateway would be wedged open. Anything could come through. Anything.

But the fool didn’t care. His Gauntlet streamed lava, smashing a hole into the reality of the world. Sorcha bellowed at him to stop, darting forward and throwing herself against Yevah in a futile effort to reach him before he carved out the gateway. Too late.

A growl pierced the madness. Deep and loud, like a rumble from the earth itself. Sorcha felt it travel through her legs, and she knew instantly that there was only one thing capable of such elemental force.

Slowly she turned and backed away from the shifting sphere of Yevah. The Rossin crouched atop a rock; its form different from that last time in the tunnel. The shape was still feline, but larger and more muscular—almost twice as big as any Breed stallion. The Beast was not a shapeshifter—he was the lord of shapeshifters, varying his preferred form to meet any situation. His intent now was massive destruction, if this shape was anything to go by. Sorcha wondered for an instant how it felt for Raed to be inside this thing. Intoxicating and terrifying at the same time—the answer came dimly along their newly formed Bond.

With a snarl that shook the air, the Beast leapt from the rock and through the fire of Yevah, shaking off the remains of Raed’s clothes. Both rune and Rossin were of the Otherside; it was small impediment to one of the great geists. The Beast fell upon the rogue Deacon like a dark storm. So huge were its jaws that it tore him in half with one bone-shattering snap. The man had time for only a single horrified howl. Sorcha flinched but did not look away. The man had been a fool, a dangerous fool.

Now she was alone with the Beast that she held by the slimmest of leashes. A newly formed Bond seemed a very fragile thing to hang her entire life on. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she fought her instinct to run. If she did, her life would definitely be over—probably before she got more than a yard. Slowly, she bent and took up Raed’s dropped saber, feeling its weight nestle into her palm. It was an insubstantial kind of reassurance.

The great Beast turned and looked over one dark shoulder at her. Fitful flames from the remains of Pyet reflected in those eyes. Muscles were bunched and ready under its thick fur. The Beast was primed and the gaze seemed to suggest she had better find it a target very quickly.

Sorcha took a long deep breath, called on her runes and raised both hands. The power of Chityre smashed into the walls with the strength of twenty battering rams. Stone and mortar blew apart, creating a cloud of sudden debris. The rattle of masonry raining down around her was earsplitting.

Yet she could still hear the roar of the Beast, the satisfaction of a creature ready to act on its only instinct. The Rossin was now unleashed. The dust had not even settled before it bounded into the Priory.