Zofiya closed her eyes and turned her head away; she would give them no screams or tears.
ELEVEN
Bargaining with a Coyote
Sorcha existed in her bubble of silence and stasis, cut off from the world and mortal cares. It was awful. The crew of the Dominion, even Aachon now that he had his compass, ignored her. These were people that knew her—at least a little from their time in Ulrich—and yet soon enough they regarded her as they did a piece of furniture.
Thanks to the Prince of Chioma she didn’t even have the mortal discomforts of the privy to worry about. She was as perfectly preserved as a bug in amber. So on the morning of the second day, when someone new entered the cabin and sat at her side, Sorcha was hungry for company and distraction.
Straining her eyes to the right, she was able to make out the shape of a man at her side. Her brain, as always teetering on the edge of utter madness, believed for a moment that it was Merrick or Raed; her beloved and dear, come to free her from this invisible prison and punish his crew.
However when she discerned it was not, she was able after a moment to identify him as Serigala, the man who had helped carry her aboard. He was young, with blunt features that matched his rather large frame. At least, that was his physical appearance.
Cut off from her powers as she was, there were still some that remained unaffected—namely her latent Sensitive Sight, and something about this man sitting beside her set it all aflutter.
Her gaze drifted to the wound he had talked about, a dog bite he had said.
“Ah yes,” Serigala rubbed at the spot on his unmarked flesh where it had been. “Quite amazing how a little salve cured that.” The grin he shot her was wide, full of teeth, and not at all comforting. “I am joking of course, but let’s not waste time on words—especially if they happen to get overheard.”
He grabbed hold of her arm, hard, and despite her condition she felt it clamp down on her flesh like ice. She wished she had a scream to let loose, but before she could mourn that, the real world flared white and disappeared.
Sorcha blinked. She was standing on a shifting stretch of sand, and she knew this place. The kingdom of Chioma—where she had battled a geistlord masquerading as a goddess. The place she had stretched her powers too far without her Sensitive and been lost.
Slowly she raised her arm and stared at it as if it were a great prize. Movement—after so long. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a ragged breath, trying to calm herself.
“I wouldn’t become too excited if I was you.” The voice made her start and spin around. A coyote the size of a large pony stood eyeing her with sharp intelligence. It had long shaggy beige fur, the brightest green eyes she’d ever seen, a sharp muzzle and frighteningly long bone-white teeth.
Her abrupt joy at this returned freedom froze in an instant. “Where am I, Fensena?”
Yes, Sorcha knew immediately that this was no place on the mortal plane, and she even recognized the geistlord. Certainly there were precious few of them to know, and their names were drilled into the initiates of the Order. His name stood out: the Fensena, also called the Oath Bender, the Widow Maker, the Broken Mirror. No one had seen him for a hundred years, and yet here he was standing before her.
“So generous of you to remember me.” The coyote’s head tilted in a frighteningly human way. “I would have thought by now mere mortal memory would have forgotten my name.”
Cautiously she circled around him. She was wearing her clothes, but was stripped of weapons. “Believe me, it was written down and every initiate memorizes it faithfully.”
“Very kind, I am sure.” The geistlord sank down onto his haunches and watched her intently. “As to where we are…why, inside your mind; the plain of your inner self, if you will. Not the most elegant of settings, but it will do for my purposes.”
Purposes. The way the geistlord just threw out that word made Sorcha break out into a cold sweat. It might only be an imagined one, but it felt very real. She had experienced the might of the Rossin, been humbled by his strength, and now here she was with a geistlord inside her very own mind. Her immediate reaction would have been rage, but several things held her back from that; she was still cut off from her power, and she was without Merrick.
“Yes, quite a shame he has abandoned you.” The coyote’s huge tongue lolled out of one corner of its mouth. “I thought you were supposed to be Bonded and all that.”
He wasn’t just a projection inside her mind—he was reading it too! Across the vast plain, walls suddenly erupted, shoving their way out of the sand with a staccato hiss narrowly avoiding the geistlord. The coyote leapt nimbly back, landing only feet from Sorcha. She might be immobile, but she still had her training.
The Fensena’s eyes flared abruptly red, but his voice continued on calmly enough. “Why would I want to read your mind, little pup? Everything that I need know about you I can see already.” The coyote paced around her in a tight little circle.
Sorcha held her ground. She was damned well not going to run away from the creature in her own mind. Besides—where could she go? This moment in her head was the most she’d moved in long weeks. “What exactly do you think you can see?” she said, slowly and softly. It was hard not to approach this creature as she would a rabid dog.
The coyote’s head tilted. “A foundling child with a broken past and a terrible future. A frightened little girl trapped in her body by something she doesn’t understand. And to top it all off, you were born in for a reason that you cannot yet see.”
“I do understand,” she shot back. “I went too far with my runes and without my Sensitive. That is all.”
The Fensena’s tongue lolled out of his mouth as he considered her. “You really know nothing? How intriguing—but never mind, where you are going there are plenty of answers. I wish I could be there to see your face though.”
Sorcha could feel her anger begin to boil up, and she knew that was a foolish emotion to have around a geistlord—even one that looked like a coyote. She’d always rather liked dogs of all shapes and kinds, but she was rapidly changing her mind. “You don’t need to make fun of me! I am not the first Active to damage themselves without their Sensitive.”
Now the coyote let out a sigh and flopped down on his haunches by her feet, his huge fluffy tail covering his paws. “That was part of it, but by now you should have recovered. That cloak that the Prince of Chioma gave you is rather getting in the way, don’t you think?”
She thought of the moment that she had taken his gift—one that he said would be only temporary. Then she thought of Garil stabbing her and the result. “Are you saying without this gift I would recover? It worked fine for the Prince. He moved around perfectly well.”
“There are differences. Important differences,” the coyote replied enigmatically.
“Do you want it for yourself?” she blurted out as the possibility suddenly dawned on her. The image of an invulnerable geistlord was not one she wished to contemplate.
The Fensena licked his lips. “It does not work for my kind. If it had, do you not think Hatipai would have used it herself? You really are an extremely foolish Deacon!”
She may have been lying on her back for weeks on end, but her brain was still fully functional, and if there was one thing Deacons were taught it was that geists—and particularly geistlords—could not be trusted. Among all those powerful unliving creatures, the Fensena was known for being the most slippery and cunning. Now he was sitting before her offering her salvation.
It was enough to give anyone pause—even someone who had been slowly going mad inside her own brain. Yet, as much as Sorcha wanted to give him an emphatic no, another part of her craved conversation and company. “Why would you help me, a Deacon?”