“I would have thought the staff would have cleaned up in here.” Raed pulled the chair gingerly over the stains and sat down to examine the papers.
“Often people are too afraid of the geists to clean up.” Sorcha began to circle the room, her eyes half-lidded, her Center as open as any Active could manage.
Even without the smell of blood in her nostrils, she would still have been able to tell that murder had been done here. The ether was stained and rent; an ugly color burned her senses, and there was a tang in the air, like before a thunderstorm.
The Chancellor’s death had not been quick nor easy. Strange, considering that with one cry he could have summoned guards—yet here he had fallen at the foot of his own desk and choked on his own blood. The sound of his last agonized breath lingered in the ether.
“I’ve found his journal with a list of appointments.” Raed’s voice snapped Sorcha back to this reality and this time. She joined him at the desk as they flicked to the date that the unfortunate Chancellor was killed.
“Such a busy man,” she muttered, running a finger down the dates. “An appointment with the Prince’s Chamberlain and another with the food taster. I hardly think they would have killed him . . . ”
“You never know.” Raed nudged her. “The royal bed linens and food are weighty subjects.”
“And yet it could well be something as common as that.” Sorcha stared down at the ruined floor. “It could be hidden in the mundane. Most killings are by someone the victim knows rather than some random violence—comforting as most people find the lie.”
“The Chancellor was a eunuch—without wife or family—his entire life devoted to the Prince of Chioma. His work was all he had.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded.
Together they began to yank open the drawers in the desk and paw through them—giving up on any pretense of tidiness.
Raed pulled one drawer out and examined it particularly closely. “Seems a little short.” When he shoved his arm into the space it had previously occupied, he grinned. “Never known a piece of bureaucratic furniture that didn’t contain a hidey-hole or two.” The rap he made on the back rang beautifully hollow.
He made a face, flexing his arm in the void, and then came a snap of something metal. Sorcha felt her heart begin to race a bit faster. Raed’s hand withdrew, and he was holding a fold of vellum.
They exchanged a glance. Vellum was unusual and reserved for important documents—state documents. Raed spread it on the desk.
“This is a blood oath.” Raed’s jaw was tight. “A blood oath to Hatipai—probably half of Chioma has one tucked away somewhere.”
The ether flared, a wind flicking through the drapes, bitterly cold, when outside everything was fiendishly hot. Sorcha wished that Merrick was here—his insight, his calm was sorely missed.
“Unfortunately, the Chancellor won’t be easy to get answers out of.” Sorcha sighed and slid on her Gauntlets. The feeling of leather against her skin, the faint prickle of the runes calmed her. She was not powerless. “This is going to be so much harder without Merrick . . . ” Her voice trailed off even as her eyes fixed on Raed.
He did not flinch at the gaze. “What is it? If I can helpen take whatever you need.”
It was less than ideal, yet the Bond still persisted, and through it she would have some chance of at least seeing what she was doing. He wouldn’t have Merrick’s same abilities, but Sorcha was used to working as a pair. Flying solo was not something she was prepared to do.
So she gestured the Young Pretender over to her, precisely in the middle of the dried mess that was what remained of the once-fine carpet. “They destroyed him, Raed—there is a good chance a shade is still here.” She kept her voice level, because she knew he was wary of anything to do with a geist.
He looked at her—his hazel eyes steady, and he squeezed her hands.
“I sometimes see their point.” The words tumbled out of her in a way she was not used to.
Raed tilted his head. “Who?”
“Those who believe in the little gods.” In her pocket she fingered one of her cigars. “Sometimes there just seems to be too much coincidence—too much irony—in the world.”
“Don’t start falling apart on me now, Deacon Faris.” Raed pulled her into a hug that she really did need.
They kissed, standing there on the blood-soaked carpet, and when they were done held each other tight for a second time.
“Now”—Raed pushed her back gently—“let’s stay on the path. You find the shade and make him talk.”
He didn’t understand what he was asking for, but he was right. With a long, slow breath, Sorcha pulled out her knife from its sheath at her waist.
“We will need to bring him out.”
The cut she made on her left finger was clean and not very deep—but it also hurt unreasonably compared to other far worse wounds she’d had in the name of the Order.
Unfortunately, there was nothing quite like the blood of a Deacon to bring geists from every corner. Bending, she drew a circle right on the blood that had been spilled—that had started everything off. Cantrips were not to her liking, but without one, they could be here for hours waiting for the shade to appear.
When she rose from her crouch, Raed handed her his very fine ivory-colored handkerchief—quite a strange thing for a fugitive to have on his person—but also quite charming. Wrapping it around her finger, she opened her Center as wide as she could.
The Bond was her spine in these dangerous moments—holding her to the world when runes and geists could well rip her away from it. Sorcha kept one hand in Raed’s, while the ruby flames of Pyet flickered on her other Gauntlet—just in case.
Dark shadows danced along the line of the bookshelves as if reluctant. Sorcha frowned—this was curious. Most shades of the murdered were in a hurry to reveal themselves.
A whiff of something sweet—cinnamon or some other exotic spice—filled the room, and goose pimples ran along Sorcha’s arms. It was so much easier when you just destroyed geists, she thought vaguely.
However, the shade that began to form in the circle was not the one either of them had been expecting. It was no wizened Chancellor. It was instead a young woman—no, a girl, on the cusp of womanhood. She had long, dark hair plastered to her face, which seemed pale, even though it was as dark as any other citizen of Chioma, and her outstretched hands showed deep wounds on both of her wrists. Her expreion was confused and terrified—fairly usual for the shade of a recently murdered person.
Raed shifted behind her. “By the Blood, who is that?”
Sorcha would have warned him to stay quiet, but it was far too late. The shade fixed her eyes on the Young Pretender, and then she did something remarkable. She spoke.
“Where is it? Where is it?” Her voice was a bare whisper in the gentle breeze that had come with her. It was so plaintive that Sorcha felt her usually tightly controlled emotions swell into sorrow.
A shade that spoke was remarkable indeed. Most were confined to re-creating the actions of their everyday life or the moments leading up to their death. Conversing with a geist was a tricky business, but now unfortunately, it had locked onto Raed and not her.
“She can see you,” Sorcha hissed under her breath, though there was no point. “You are the focus now—she won’t acknowledge me or any other living being.”
“Oh.” Raed swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Ask her what it is—the thing she’s looking for?”
The Young Pretender actually took a hesitant step toward her. “Where is what, sweetheart?”
The shade let out a long moan that rattled the pictures on the wall and shook the ranks of pens on the desk. “The money.” She held out a bloodless hand. “They said I could have money . . . if I was pure of heart. Where is it? My little brother is very sick.”
A virgin of either sex had a particular power, because standing on the edge of change was the most attractive place for a geist to strike. Attacks most often happened at sunset or sunrise. Beaches and marshes, the in-between places were the most dangerous. The moment between sleeping and waking was also a particular favorite for a poltern to take possession.