Vyra leaned on the ropes. “I confess, Deacon Chambers—”
“You may call me Merrick.”
“That would be inappropriate—and against regulations.” She stood suddenly military straight, and then shot him another glance. “But thank you. I must confess that when the assignments were handed out, I volunteered Summer Hawk for this detail.”
“Why would you do that? This delegation must be the dullest use of an Imperial Dirigible possible.”
Vyra shrugged. “I have a feeling, Deacon Chambers, that wherever you and your partner go, it is never dull.”
Merrick let out a breath. He had been worried that the captain’s interest was related to him—never thinking that it was just a desire for action. The Imperial Air Fleet was still new, and the Empire largely quiet—so much of what it did was act as a courier service for goods all over the continent.
“I am afraid that this is a mission that even Sorcha cannot make more than a civilized delegation.”
The captain shrugged. “The marriage of Emperors is perhaps not as simple as you think.”
The tone of her voice was enough to raise Merrick’s curiosity. “Have you heard something?” It was one of the risks of being a Deacon; gossip and scuttlebutt tended to not be passed on to the Order.
Vyra’s lips pursed as if she were considering the wisdom of doing that very thing. “Let us say that the jockeying for the position of Empress has not been . . . gentle.”
A stray fact, one of the many he had learned of Chioma, suddenly emerged from the depths of Merrick’s recollection; the principality was not only the home of every strange and exotic spice in the Empire but also some of the most powerful and hard-to-detect poisons. Suddenly their trip seemed to become far more complicated.
“It is good then to know you are our backup, Captain Revele.”
Her smile was sudden and brilliant in the moonlight, but she did not reply. Instead she squeezed his arm in a most familiar manner before she turned and strode the rest of the way up the deck toward the wheelhouse.
Merrick was left looking over the night of tumultuous clouds and angry moon. He didn’t need the Sight of Deacon Reeceson to know bad things awaited them in the rich principality of Chioma, but that was not what made him shiver.
It was instead the memory of the man that had chased him in his own sacred space. He would not sleep this night—and for many more, most likely—because of what he had felt. Merrick would be glad when they reached Orinthal and its Abbey. Maybe it was an illusion, but he felt sure he would at least be able to sleep there.
EIGHT
The Wakened Dark
After getting the appropriate paperwork, the Sweet Moon sailed up the Saal without much ceremony, but Raed couldn’t shake the memory of the blood-soaked woman holding her kin in a dripping bundle and screaming to an impotent goddess. Tangyre had tried to distract him to little effect. The surroundings of a slaver ship, even an empty one, were not that conducive to laughter.
Only Raed and Tang were above deck on the third morning, while the crew breakfasted below. The Young Pretender had felt very little like eating since leaving Londis. Instead he watched the riverbank slide away from the ship.
Despite it being over a season since he had been tormented by the Rossin, Raed was still wary of being this close to land. The urge to turn about and head for the open ocean, as he had done for most of his adult life, was powerful. Only the thought of his sister Fraine somewhere out there kept him on course.
The land they were sailing deeper into was unfamiliar to him, hotter and more parched than any he had seen. Yet it was part of the Empire and by rights should have been ruled by him. His grandfather, he knew, had sailed this very river heading north to Orinthal. Naturally, it had been with considerably more pomp and ceremony than their current circumstance called for.
Raed gripped the railing of the ship hard. “Life is never quite how you imagine it.”
“Indeed, my Prince”—Tang leaned on her elbows next to him—“but how we overcome adversity is the ultimate test of who we are.”
Raed swallowed hard. “I just hoped—well . . . I hoped that—” He stopped short, realizing the words he was about to say were ridiculous. His hopes were ridiculous. This world had to live with the geists, and more powerful men than he had tried to change things to no effect. Instead of letting out words that would make him sound like a petulant child, Raed shrugged. “I just feel as if something is waiting for us. For me.”
She squeezed his shoulder. Neither of them mentioned the Rossin and the fate of his mother, who had died beneath the geistlord’s claws.
“No one knows we are coming.” Tangyre turned around and said the next few words in an offhand manner that he did not buy for an instant. “Perhaps you are merely thinking of distant places—distant people?”
Raed arched an eyebrow, glad of the distraction from thinking of his sister or the Rossin. “I did not realize that Aachon had time to spill all my secrets to you.”
Captain Greene grinned broadly. “You just have to know which handle to crank to get everything out of him.”
Raed laughed.
“You are still not very good at hiding your emotions, Raed.” Tang was relentless. She knew him far too well—probably even better than Aachon, since she was not as lumbered with the first mate’s belief in the royal hierarchy. She fixed him with that hawklike stare. “This Deacon got under your skin.”
“In more ways than I can express,” he replied, thinking of their days on the Imperial Dirigible. “But the situation is complicated.”
“I can imagine. A Deacon, a married Deacon?” She laughed and slapped him on the back. “Would a simple tavern wench not have been a smarter choice?”
Raed grinned ruefully. “Everything else in my life as it is—I wouldn’t know what to do with something simple.”
Apparently just getting him to laugh had been her entire goal. “Then things are normal, my Prince.” Her voice dipped into quite a wonderful mimic of Aachon. “I better go find myself a spot of breakfast before the crew devours all there is.”
She left him alone on the deck but actually in a better mood. The scorched land looked less dire.
When the hatch to the slave quarters banged open, Raed did not move. Only when an unfamiliar voice spoke to him did he turn around. A strange woman stood on the deck, and apart from not knowing who she was, the Pretender was struck by one thing—she was impossibly beautiful.
It was not merely that her body was long and lithe, or even that her honey hair curled and gleamed down to her waist—she glowed. Even in the warm, sunny morning weather, she was the brightest thing about. Her lips spread in a smile that would have driven men mad, and her eyes were gold—a color never seen in a human skull. As Raed frowned and took a slight step backward, he noted something else strange. Her skin, gleaming and beautiful as it was, was also strangely patterned, almost like quilted-together remnants. Some pieces were pure white, others caramel colored. It was odd yet strangely compelling. A curl of displeasure filtered up from inside Raed, a flicker of awareness from the long-silent Rossin.
The woman’s hand fluttered to her cheek. “Yes.” She smiled, and it was like the grin of a wolf. “I am not as I once was. Perhaps I am not as practiced as I once was either—but I will remember eventually.”
Her tone was light and almost pleasant, but Raed did not mistake this for kindness—for her eyes were those of a predator. “I am dreadfully sorry,” he said, this time taking a step toward her, which also drew him closer to the hatch to the cabins, where his sword and gun were lying. “I don’t think we have been introduced.” Whatever this creature was, he was certain there was no way she could be a geist. They were on moving water. And yet, and yet—his mind slipped back to the destruction he had witnessed on the Imperial Navy ship earlier in the year. It was apparent that for every rule there was an exception.
Her head tilted, and her hands clenched at her side. “I was not talking to you—I was talking
to him.” Her chin lifted, and the contempt in her eyes froze Raed for a second.
No, she was not addressing the Young Pretender. She was addressing his Curse: the geistlord within. Fear flooded up through Raed, and his thoughts darted to those belowdecks. The danger to his crew was real, and he had to do something.
“Raed?” The hatch to the cabin popped open, and Tangyre emerged carrying a tray. For one frozen moment the three of them stood facing one another in an unlikely tableau.
Then the stranger moved. Raed wascloser to ure what was going to happen, but what he certainly was not prepared for was the woman charging at him. He was suddenly caught in a tangle of arms and hair, and her strength was unexpected. Raed found himself tumbling over the gunwales with the woman clawing at his face.
They hit the water hard. It was warm, murky and choked with silt and weed. Raed inhaled in shock and drew an unfortunate draft of it into his lungs. The woman’s hands were now on his throat, and there was nothing the Young Pretender could do. Her grip was like iron, and though his fingers scrambled at hers, he could not pry her loose. Raed caught a fractured glimpse of his attacker. She did not seem to worry about the water; instead, her gleaming eyes focused solely on him.
A peculiar lethargy stole over Raed. A long second passed where just giving up felt like the easiest course. But then he thought of them. Fraine, his little sister, lost somewhere in the Empire, abandoned to a bloody and cruel fate. Sorcha, the redhaired Deacon, who he had said good-bye to on a pier. Her words had been strong, but her blue eyes had been soft. He’d been certain they would see each other again.
For those two, he would not give up. Yet he was falling—spiraling into darkness. What other choice did he have but to call out to the Rossin? His Curse. His enemy. His only hope.
Down in the depths of blood and bone, the Rossin stirred as his host called. Life was fading around them both, smothered in dank river water and under the golden eyes of the woman.
It could stay quiet and let their attacker have her way. By the time that twisted geistlord had crushed the Young Pretender, the Rossin would already be far away inside the body of Fraine—next in the bloodline.
Yet that powerful entity did not like to give in to another of his kind, and the royal line was not as large as it had once been. Hatipai may have been a shadow of her former power, but he was not. The Rossin called on his shape.
Raed’s body was his material, and the geistlord stirred and molded it to his own purposes. Sinew and muscle snapped, twisting out of the woman’s unnatural grip even as her hands clawed deeper. The Rossin’s mer-shape, the one that was emblazoned on the flag that flew over the Dominion, sprang into being; the front a great pard, all claw and tooth, while the rear of it a coil of mighty scales and fins. The muscle-bound shape flicked its tail and dived deeper.
Hatipai’s hand was wrapped around its fin, and she would not let go. The Rossin roared into the water and snapped at her with long teeth.
It was beginning to recall how it felt to have a real enemy. Those of its kind that had relied on the faith and worship of humans had faded and withered. He had never expected to face another.
Yet here she was, in a form stitched of stolen bodies, glaring at him with radiant hatred.
You helped them imprison me. You betrayed me to humans! After all these generations her voice was the same, as beautiful as broken stained glass.
You wanted to destroy my bloodline, my home, he replied as he swam deeper, all the time twisting and turning to shake her off, but not quite able to reach her with his teeth.
It didn’t matter. She wore a human body. It could be a useful thing but also a liability—especially when stolen and stitched as hers was. It told the Rossin one important thing; she had to be on the very edge of nonexistence to form such a worthless vessel.
Yet, as the Rossin swam deeper and deeper, he realized something else—so was he. The battle with the Murashev had taken much of his power, and he had not been able to consume any more blood and flesh since then.
The Rossin could feel his enemy’s grasp puncture his flesh. He turned in ever decreasing circles, snapping with his teeth, but she was faster. She swapped her hands, yanking her body out of the way just in time. They were nearly at the bottom of the river, and both wrapped in slimy riverweed. Terrified fish and crocodiles swam away from their thrashing bodies, which churned the water.
Hatipai would take the remaining power for her own—thus had it always been between their kind—only the strong would survive and feed off the lesser. He spun and twisted, but now rocketed up toward the surface.
Hatipai laughed, triumphant. Revenge is indeed as sweet as humanity says.
Yet the Rossin was not as he had been when last they tangled. Deep down was the Bond, the connection that ran invisibly between the geistlord and the two most powerful Deacons in Arkaym. Just as his attacker pulled the Rossin down to take everything that remained, the Bond bloomed. The power of the Active and the Sensitive filled him—sweet and delicious. It fueled his depleted muscles, giving the Rossin enough strength to complete his last hope.
The great mer-cat leapt clear of the river’s surface, a lion’s roar breaking the quiet of the morning. This time Hatipai’s human body did let her down. She slipped and lost her grip as he tumbled through the air.
The Rossin dived back in, turned savagely about, and fell on her like the beast it had chosen to be.
In an instant it ripped apart the flesh and bone she had taken such pains to construct. Though it felt very good to tear and rend, he had to be quick. If he could get to her core hidden in the soft meat and devour it, her power would instead become his.
Yet it was a long time since he had fought another geistlord, and Hatipai was unfortunately too fast. She gave up the rent shell of flesh, leaping away skyward, where he could not follow without great risk. Her voice floated down to him. I know what you are doing, old friend. I am not as foolish as the humans.
The Rossin was left bobbing in the river, his thick tail wrapped around the remains, while his eyes followed the trail of her flight. He knew that she would not give up so easily. Geists, most especially geistlords, were creatures of infinite malice and infinite determination. Hatipai would come again—but first she would regroup and find more power.
Deep within the Rossin he felt Raed struggle, pitting his useless strength against a foe he had never won against. First we must feed. Discarding the now flavorless corpse, the Rossin ducked under the lapping waves of the river. This place was full of humanity, and he would not be caught unawares like that again. He would take blood and wreak havoc in the villages—only then would he surrender the reins of control back to his host.
Let him do his weeping and wailing once it was over. Grief and kindness were not emotions the Rossin knew. He did, however, have a sense of self-preservation—and Hatipai had been a fierce opponent in the Dark Time. He would not be this weak again.
With a snarl, the Rossin flexed his scaled tail and made for the shore. Blood and flesh would fill him. Let the humans of Chioma run screaming; it only added flavor to what he needed. Their laws and fears were of no concern to him.
NINE
Into the Hive
“Are you aware that no one actually knows how ancient the city of Orinthal is?” Sorcha had already noticed with some amusement that there were certain subjects that revealed Merrick’s youth.
He certainly made her feel old, leaning over the edge of the airship with unmistakable glee—ready for whatever came his way. His curly dark hair was fluttering in the breeze, so that when he glanced back, he did indeed appear like a young boy. “Bandele says that I may find in the Prince’s library many things that not even the Imperial Palace has.”
Whatever he saw when he looked down at the jumbled array of red buildings, she did not. Sorcha wanted to be there now, not observing it from above.
She was well aware impatience was one of her faults. Her tutors in the Abbey as a young Initiate had repeatedly pointed that ou
t to her—sometimes with willow lashes on her open palm. However, they never cured her, and neither had a little age.
Even though they had completed a journey that would have taken months riding, right across the Empire in a mere week—it still felt ridiculously slow. At least on horseback there were things to do; trapped in the dirigible she had spent the last week looking at miles of clouds.
So she tried to appreciate the city below. It was already far warmer than Vermillion. Spring was just giving way to summer in the north, but in Chioma it already had a warm, sticky grip on the country. Sorcha wiped a thin line of sweat from her forehead. They had not yet landed, but she could tell this kingdom was going to make her suffer.
Captain Revele was bringing them in slow to the port city, probably showing off for Merrick’s benefit—or to keep him on the dirigible for just that little bit longer. Revele’s feeling for Sorcha’s partner apparently sailed right past her target, though. He could have spent a week having fun with the captain, at least at night—yet he had not availed himself of the opportunity. Sorcha found it curious.
Merrick had, like most Deacons, been in the Order from childhood, but he had somehow missed a vital part of growing up that was certainly available even in the confines of the Abbey. He was utterly unaware of his effect on women, and Vyra Revele could not say anything, because a Deacon was, strictly speaking, higher in the chain of command than she.
As if summoned by the wandering of Sorcha’s thoughts, Captain Revele appeared out of the wheelhouse, adjusted her jacket in a sharp, telling little gesture and strode toward them.
“We’ll be landing in a few moments.” Her voice was almost as disciplined as a Deacon’s. “The Navy only has a small tether port here, but we have been instructed to wait for your return.”
Merrick didn’t say a thing, still too entranced by what was below. Sorcha tapped his leg, and he jerked upright. “Thank you, Captain.”
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