Both Deacon and geistlord stood on the battlements, mere feet from each other, as the tear appeared over their heads. The Rossin glimpsed the Otherside; darkness, swirling clouds, and a plain of endless torture. However, it was not a geist that slipped through—at least none he recognized. Instead it was a fine mist with no particular shape or form. It issued from the Otherside quickly, just before the tear sealed itself closed.
It twisted on itself like a fine scarf thrown into the wind and then moved away down the valley, southward. Strangely, it had not even bothered with the two of them.
The Rossin watched it go and wondered just what the Circle of Stars could be up to. A soft growl escaped his chest. Absolutely no good would come of this. He disliked the smell of it.
He heard the Deacon approach him, and she did so with not a hitch in her step to show any fear or trepidation. He swiveled his attention to her.
She was standing before him, and her gaze was curiously empty. This endgame was draining her. A mere human could not take all that she was being called on to do—even one as unusual as Sorcha Faris. The geistlord was abruptly worried that she might not survive—and he needed her. She still owed the Fensena a favor.
Her eyes darted over him, perhaps weighing him up in a similar manner. She took in the clumps of gore splattered all over his mane, jaws and throat. Then she reached out to the great cat. The Deacon had dared a similar gesture when they’d been inside the Wrayth hive, but then it had been accidental—this time she was very deliberate. He tensed, his back legs bunching.
Then Sorcha Faris’ spread palm came down on the spot between his nose. It rested there for a moment, buried in the fur and destruction.
“You found the traitor,” she whispered, and the Rossin flinched slightly. Everything was changing with the Otherside coming closer. How she had plucked thoughts and memories from inside his head, he did not know—but he most definitely knew he did not like this development.
She was very close to him, warm and full of blood. That was not the only thing though. His golden-slitted eyes locked with hers and for an instant he felt what she was feeling.
The Wrayth inside her, long quiescent, was stirring. The whispers of that hive-mind geistlord were a faint rattle in Sorcha’s brain, like dry leaves shifting on one another. Along the Bond they scampered toward the Rossin.
The great cat let out an outraged snarl and jerked back away from the human’s touch. Indeed, if he hadn’t needed her alive, he might have lashed out right there and ripped her to shreds. The Wrayth had been looking for a weapon, some way to draw all geists together under their dominion for generations. It looked like they finally had what they wanted.
The Rossin was now not sure who he should be more worried about: Sorcha Faris or the Maker of Ways. Her blue eyes didn’t leave him though.
“You hear them too.” It was not a question, and even a geistlord could feel the sadness and desperation in her voice.
The Rossin growled, low and deep, while his ears flicked backward and forward. The voices had subsided, but he had the feeling that they were waiting a very short distance across the Bond.
“Give him back to me,” Sorcha spoke to him. “Give me back Raed Syndar Rossin.”
He growled. He snarled. He even raised one paw threateningly, but she never blinked or moved out of the way. She simply stood there on the battlements, her red hair twisting in the wind like a banner.
“I will have my way,” the Rossin finally spoke, spitting out his rage. “When the Wrayth have torn you apart and made you their blade, I will still remain. I have always remained.”
She looked unmoved by his predictions, only watching him out of eyes full of shadows. This Deacon was so nearly lost, and he still needed her. For now, he would let her pretend she was safe.
The Rossin wrapped his power around him and returned to the depths.
Raed uncurled himself, feeling the wind cut through to his very bones. Before he could shake off the effects of the change, a cloak had been swung around him. He looked up and saw Sorcha standing over him, fixing shut the buttons on the clothing she had given him.
He caught at her hands and looked up at her. “How many times have you given me your cloak?” The Young Pretender was trying to make a joke, but her brows drew together.
“Many times, my prince,” she said, helping him to his feet, “but I think you have not noticed—this is not my cloak.”
He looked down and noticed it was a simple gray one.
“I have given mine up,” she said, “at least for now. I got this from downstairs for you though.” Looking up at her, Raed understood this was something deeper than a fashion choice.
The Rossin had dived deep, but left him the memories of what the Beast had done—for once it was something that he was glad of. He did not regret the blood spilled. That treacherous Deacon had caused the deaths of many good people two nights earlier. He clasped Sorcha’s hands and got to his feet.
Pulling her close seemed like the most natural and most important thing to do. A deep shiver ran through the Young Pretender’s body. He loved her so much, and yet he also knew that a dark path lay ahead. For a second he just concentrated on the feeling of her arms around him, and his around hers. Then he kissed her. Not the urgent, demanding kiss they had shared that first time in Ulrich, but one that lingered. He was trying to remind her that she had him—if nothing else.
Sorcha squeezed her hands around his neck, and then slowly, reluctantly pulled back from him. She pressed her forehead against his, making just enough space between them for the wind to enter.
Finally, he spoke. “The Circle of Stars knows we’ve discovered them. Since I—I mean the Rossin—killed their informant here, we have to move before they do.”
She sighed, but nodded. “I guess it had to come. I had hoped to stay here just a fraction longer, but you are right; we must move if we want to live.”
And despite it all he did want to live; to be with her and to fight.
TWELVE
Returning on Wings
It felt very strange indeed to be at the head of a force of armed men walking with all speed back to the palace of her brother. The Grand Duchess Zofiya’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword, and she dimly felt the weight of her new rifle bang against her back. These things had given her confidence in the past, but now they felt rather hollow.
She knew luck was with her—for the moment at least. The airship nearest the Priory had been the Summer Hawk with the redoubtable Captain Revele in command. It so easily could have been another—probably one who would have shot the Grand Duchess on sight.
What was even luckier was that they made Vermillion city in five days. Revele burned every weirstone she had in the airship’s engines to make that happen. It was a risky course of action, because with no replacements the captain was entirely throwing the fate of herself, her crew and her ship in with that of the Grand Duchess.
Zofiya knew it and accepted that loyalty gratefully.
Even now, walking through the damaged streets of the capital, she was still not sure what she had done to warrant it though. She was a little afraid to ask. They passed over the Bridge of Whispers to the south of the ruined Mother Abbey of the Order. She did not want to see that broken edifice, nor did she want to draw too close to the new geists that surely must have been created there after the destruction Derodak and her brother had wrought.
The city was revealing her injuries gradually to Zofiya like a wounded animal. The smell was of death and smoke, but there was also a strange tang to the air—something sharp and hot. She had become reacquainted with it after months spent with the remains of the Order; geists left a peculiar scent behind them. It was impossible for a normal human to detect only one being but many could leave a residue like this.