“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.