Later, when she lay resting in his arms, looking up at the moving silk hangings around the bed, she felt exhausted but stronger. Merrick had drifted off to sleep, his face nestled against her neck, one leg hooked in hers.
The daylight had not yet crept in through her open windows, and it was easy to imagine the fight before them was a long way off. She would allow herself that illusion for a few more minutes.
She glanced to her right and at the sleeping Deacon. He was about her age, but there was still a strange innocence about him that she had never been able to afford in the palace at Delmaire. Sometimes it felt as though she’d been born world-weary and conspiracy alert.
Zofiya sighed, turned her head and pressed her face against Merrick’s curled head. It felt good to have an ally—even one with divided loyalties outside the palace. Despite her doubts, the Deacons had always fought bravely for her brother and now she hoped one of their number would fight just as bravely for her and the Empire. It could get very ugly very quickly for both of them.
Just as she felt sleep tugging at the corners of her own eyes, a tiny sound made her slide cautiously out from under Merrick. It was so soft and gentle that it might have been mistaken for a mouse running by the wall, but Zofiya knew every noise in her private domain. This one was not familiar.
Her eyes darted to the door that led into the privy chamber, and then to the only other entrance to her bedroom, the one that led to her balcony. It was that place at least three assassins had tried their hand at reaching. Two had fallen to their deaths without a handhold on the sheer wall, while another more agile one had met his fate at the end of her sword. If this del Rue was going to try a similar thing then she would be only too happy to oblige him. Once she had a dead assailant to show her brother he might well view her concerns more seriously.
Taking up her weapon, she slid naked from the bed and padded toward the balcony, but when the sound came again it was not from that direction. It appeared to be coming from the large grandfather clock that stood in the opposite corner. It was one of Kal’s rejected pieces, so it didn’t work, but she had always admired the detailed carving on it. Now it made a decidedly odd creak—almost as if one of the gears had come loose.
She knew every inch of the palace, and was certain there were no secret doors or passages behind this section of wall. However as she leaned forward, brow furrowed, to examine the clock, a hand, covered in a fine leather glove that shone with the light of a rune shot out of the solid oak paneling and grabbed hold of her. Then another, with an encircling wreath of green flame closed over her shoulder.
The Grand Duchess abruptly had no strength to lift her sword. It was suddenly heavier than an anvil. As it dropped from her strangely numb fingers, a hooded face appeared out of the woodwork, phasing through it as only a Deacon could manage. It did not surprise her that it was del Rue, or that he was smiling.
Then after that, all was darkness.
TEN
A Vast Enemy
The Rossin fell and, snatching control of Raed’s body from the weak mortal, transformed in midair. The human’s clothes were ripped away, and the pack he carried tumbled down the shaft. None of that mattered. An eagle’s scream sounded in the nest of the Phia and he didn’t care. Raed had called on him again, a deep desire to survive might have driven it, but he had still done what was required. With every change he was one step closer.
The Beast was careful to hide his thoughts when the mortal wore the flesh, but when his royal host was subsumed it was liberating in all ways. He had tried to keep them away from the land of Ensomn, but he’d not been able to stop the fool. Apparently sibling bonds ran very deep.
Now, they were in the lair of the Wrayth and there was nothing to be done except get them out. The Shin was a name they had taken to hide their true natures, and it appeared to have worked well for them. A fortress. Ruling over a stupid population of people. It was an old trick, but still a good one.
The Rossin twisted his wings and surged upward toward freedom and the open sky. Only the narrow slice of moon gleaming through the steel grate stopped him crashing into it. He twisted midair like a falcon, and slammed his curved talons into the barrier. Then opening his wings wide, he heaved. The only thing that snapped however was his beak in rage.
Hanging there like an enraged bat was not his happiest moment in this realm. The Wrayth were cunning and so numerous that they were in fact a far more dangerous opponent than even Hatipai. The Rossin’s avian form was meant to fly, meant to dominate the air. It was not meant to be caged like this—but what was the other option?
His head twisted around, as he peered down into the darkness. He could smell the Wrayth below. He knew there would be a way out down there, for the peons to come and go. It was the only way he was going to get free of the Wrayth.
Folding his wings about him, the Rossin released his claws from the grating and dived into the darkness.
The smell of the Wrayth was stronger the farther he went; the reek of blood and flesh combined with the sharp odor of the geistlord itself. He transformed a moment before he reached the ground, and dropped to the dirt in his feline form. It was his most powerful shape; a thickly muscled cat the height of a human’s shoulder, with spotted fur and teeth made to rend. It also meant that he was silent and deadly—useful things in this situation.
As he moved forward, the Rossin crunched over the broken remains of Raed’s pack, and paused to consider. It was humiliating to even have to think about his host, but should they be trapped in a position as they had been just recently the weak creature would need his weapons and clothing. With a derisive snort through his nose, the beast took the pack in its mouth and padded on.
The heat down this deep into the Shin fortress was terrible, especially to a huge beast covered in fur. It was the mass of flesh his fellow geistlord commanded that created such a hot, humid atmosphere. The Wrayth were not known for their kindness to any creature—even among other geistlords, but the Rossin was ready to hurt them in return. They had fought in the chaos of the Otherside, a battle of survival, and now it appeared they would continue it in this realm.
The Rossin moved deeper into the hive, his ears flicking back and forth seeking any movement. The smooth walls of higher up in the fortress had devolved into rough stone passages, but his massive padded paws took them with ease, though his mortal host might have had problems with the darkness and uneven terrain. Mortals often had problems with many things. When his plan came to fruition it might well be a relief to his Young Pretender.
The Rossin paused and inhaled. The stink of the Wrayth was now overcoming every other scent, and he knew that there would be many of them ahead. He clenched his claws, their creamy length puncturing the earth. A growl remained deep in his chest and largely unvoiced.
Shoulders scything, the Rossin eased himself still deeper into the Wrayth hive.
Many geistlords used humans as tethers to this world; from his own ability to hide within the bloodline of a family, to Hatipai’s method of actually birthing a half-geist child of her own to act as a link. The Wrayth’s method combined a little of both; as was immediately apparent when the great cat climbed through a breach in the earthen wall, and peered down into his fellow geistlord’s breeding chamber.
It stank of humanity—a lot of unwashed, highly sexed humanity. At least his own host did not reek as badly as the Wrayth’s—but mainly that was to do with sheer numbers. He had found his enemy’s breeding pit. Women, all of them with their belly’s swollen in various states of pregnancy, wore very little except the brand of the Wrayth. A pair of claw marks on the shoulder. Their eyes were vacant and staring. Their skin white from lack of sun.