The geistlord’s baleful eye fixed on the cliff face. He could sense them in there . . . the children of Derodak’s depravity. Each one of them touched by his blood, and each one of them looking up to him like he was a god. They fed Derodak, much like the Wrayth’s various human additions did. Maybe he had even gotten the idea from that vile geistlord.
Just as the Rossin was readying to swim to the surface and see which shore he had been flung to, he felt something stirring below him. His sensitive skin tingled as pressure reached it, pressure that indicated something was rising from below.
Images of the last monster from the deep Raed had encountered flashed across the gap to the Rossin. His host had seen a whole ship destroyed by it; summoned by Derodak to kill Nynnia. It was a blunt weapon, but Derodak had never had much finesse with these things.
Peering down into the darkness, even the Rossin’s sharp eyes could not quite make out what was rising toward him. His geistlord’s pride wouldn’t allow him to flee without at least seeing what he was facing, even though Raed was howling at him to get moving. It was an odd turnabout indeed.
The darkness at the bottom of the trench twisted, and tendrils of shadows clutched at the rock walls. Water was now rushing past the Rossin’s streamlined form. Bubbles and fleeing fish raced by him as he struggled to remain upright and not be swept away by this unnatural current.
A sound made its way through the water, a keening, high-pitched noise that struck him almost like a blade. Baleful eyes suddenly appeared in the gloom, slitted and gleaming orange. Now the tendrils of shadows were not merely shadows . . . they were tentacles, pulling and wrapping around the stonework, as the massive body they were attached to rose nearer and nearer.
For a brief moment the Rossin was struck motionless; thinking this was it, the arrival of the Maker of Ways. The realm would be torn and geists of all shapes and kinds would come pouring in. Then, however, he could finally make out the body. It was long and tubular, and had a waving frill around the edges that might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so huge. The tentacles were far thicker than the geistlord’s body, and they were reaching out to him.
Now he understood fear. It did not matter if he were geistlord or Young Pretender, this thing had been brought out of the depths for the specific purpose of hunting both of them. Derodak had certainly developed an inflated dramatic flair over the centuries. The Rossin wondered if he should be flattered.
The sea beast was not fast, but then it did not have to be. The tentacles shot out for him—and there were many of them.
With a flex of his tail, the geistlord darted away, weaving this way and that as a forest of them descended in his direction. Up close he observed there were large and small ones, and it was the thinner ones that were harder to get away from. They flung themselves at him like a series of slimy pink nets. As a few touched him along his back, his flesh burned with sharp stings.
Pain was not a sensation that the Rossin had much time for, but he was getting a full taste of it now. He roared—though the ocean swallowed much of the effect—and batted at them. Many he cut free, but the water around him was beginning to turn into a veritable soup of them. The geistlord twisted and twisted on himself, trying to cut a way free.
However, the tentacles, large and small, were guiding him closer to the dark center of the monster. Now he caught a glimpse of the beak of the thing: curved and pale, it was three times longer than his body. Tentacles curled and flung around him, cutting off escape routes and shepherding him toward doom. That beak would snap him like a twig.
Raed Syndar Rossin and he would share the same broken fate. The line would die with him, and he would even miss the Maker of Ways. His last thought was how bitter it was that Derodak had won.
TWENTY
The Blood Will Out
Sorcha dreamed that her mother was holding her. She cradled her daughter, pressing her head in tight against her shoulder. Sorcha felt warm, safe and happy. Her nostrils were full of her mother’s scent; roses and strength. She planted the lightest of kisses on her daughter’s head and whispered, “Remember who you are.”
Sorcha held tight to that gentle admonishment.
“Mother,” she murmured into the thick dark hair, “why did you leave me?”
It was a foolish question, but it came right from the heart of the little girl lost in the Order, whose sole loved one had been the Presbyter of the Young. She’d only been able to give Sorcha so much attention and care. In the lonely times in the Abbey’s garden, before she’d been taken into the novitiate for training, she had whiled away long afternoons wondering what her mother was like. Did they look the same? Sound the same? Did she miss her?
Sorcha did not need to wonder any longer. She was safe, missed, loved.
Just as she pulled that truth close, her mother pushed back from her. Sorcha screamed in horror. It was not the face she had seen in the vision in the Wrayth hive—it was the Wrayth itself. The thing that was holding her was a bubbling mass of faces, all screaming for mercy and release. The form of the Wrayth held them bound and pressed together.
“I never left you,” the creature growled, its hands tightening on her. “I have always been right here with you.”
Eventually Sorcha’s screams woke her, and she almost immediately wished they had not. Imprisonment of another kind waited.
Sorcha did not recognize the woman peering down at her, but she did recognize the type; long pale hair, and eyes that gleamed with something unnatural. The Wrayth was in the waking world too and looking out at Sorcha. She was being examined exactly as someone might when choosing a puppy from a litter.
The Wrayth woman straightened up, and Sorcha finally noticed that she was tied to a table—one that seemed to come very close to being like the draining table in Ulrich. Luckily, it did not have the spikes, but Sorcha was held at a tilted angle; not quite on her feet, not quite on her back.
At least they would have been unable to take her runes from her. Glancing down at her shackles she called on Seym, to fill her body with strength. Nothing happened.
Her captor let out a soft chuckle. “Do you really think that we have not mastered how to keep Deacons quiet, even if,” she said, gesturing to the marks on Sorcha’s flesh, “you have found a remarkable way to ingrain runes on yourself.”
A cold, hard realization came over Sorcha. She was right where her mother had been. The dire feeling of helplessness was the very same as her mother must have felt when she’d been snatched all those years ago. Sorcha, just like her own mother had been, was not used to the sensation. She was a Deacon—no, more than that, she was the Harbinger. They couldn’t do this to her!
However, that didn’t seem to matter. The Wrayth woman pressed a hand on Sorcha’s head and stared into her eyes. The voices in her mind grew more insistent now, clamoring for something. Sorcha tried to not listen, but one voice grew louder and louder the longer the hand remained there. It was screaming over and over, Obey, Obey! It was painful, and terrifying, yet when it receded she was left panting, but still herself.
Apparently this was not the result that the Wrayth woman had been hoping for. She flicked Sorcha’s head to one side with an impatient growl and walked away. The Deacon dared not consider what this might mean—that was until the Wrayth spoke.
“You are a deep disappointment, Sorcha Faris.” Her voice was sharp and laden with venom. “You are so very close to our goal, and yet you fall short.” Her hands clenched together while her eyes darted left and right. The Deacon had no doubt that the screaming voice was totally in control and letting out its frustration and anger inside that human skull.