Suddenly the centered Deacons were anything but. They were twisted, sobbing, terrified at the dark they had created. Merrick had no way of telling if they could fight back against his wild talent, but he was taking no chances. “Mother.” He ran forward and grabbed her hand. He had no idea how long what he had done would last.
The darkness was so complete that only the barest hint of the tunnel they were in revealed itself to Merrick’s Sight, and worse there was no end to it.
“We should be back to the main pipe by now,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t understand it.”
“We’re not in Chioma.” Japhne wheezed at his side. How his mother would have such an idea Merrick could not afford to stop and ask. Yet he feared she was right. Weirstones and even runes could be used for such things.
Screams rang out from behind them, the sounds of the Deacons but higher-pitched—the sound of pain and death rather than just fear. Whatever shackles they had put on their Beast had obviously required concentration.
Merrick was not sorry for them. Any who chose the path of consorting with the Otherside deserved their fate. However, he knew the creature would pursue them now that it was done with its tormentors.
He slipped his arm around his mother. “Then we have to find the entrance—it must go both ways for them to come and go into the palace.”
She nodded against his shoulder, but her breath was coming in ragged gasps. Merrick had little experience, but he was fairly sure that heavily pregnant women should not be running for their lives in the dark.
And then the sound he had feared and half expected came; the high-pitched whine of a geist on the hunt. It was like claws on glass—but several types of geist had similar sorts of calls.
His mother stumbled and would have gone to her knees without Merrick catching her. The ground underfoot was now getting slippery, and she cursed. “If only I was younger; if only I could see!” It took a lot to get his mother upset, but she was obviously at the end of her tether.
“It’s not much farther,” Merrick lied. His Center was only giving him details of the cave walls a mere five feet in front of them.
Japhne tripped again, and the sound drew closer, along with a wave of cold so intense it might have come from the heart of winter. For the first time in his life Merrick regretted being a Sensitive. If Sorcha was here alone with the heavily pregnant woman, she would have at least been able to protect her.
“Leave me.” Japhne tugged on his cloak, and he didn’t need to see her face to know it would be racked with pain. As a mother she wanted to protect her unborn child, but she also wanted him to protect himself. It was a decision no mother should have to make. “Run.”
It was an idea that Merrick did not entertain for a moment. If one person was going to survive this, it was his mother. The geist was upon them. He shoved Japhne, something that as a good son he would have never have done until this desperate moment. She stumbled and fell against the wall, while Merrick stood alone between her and the creature.
“Go!” he bellowed, pulling his sword, though it was a totally pointless gesture. The geist loomed out of the darkness, or maybe more precisely gathered itself from within the darkness, because he finally recognized it: a ghast. The dense knot of shades was held together by cantrips and weirstonea snarling, snapping creature composed of twenty or so tormented human souls and their lost hopes.
Racked with so much pain, a ghast was a maw of destruction that would enter a human body and pull it apart from inside, creating another shade to add to its conglomeration. They had created more pain and destruction than any other kind of geist and had been the priority for the Order of the Eye and the Fist when they had made landfall on Arkaym with the Emperor years before.
Merrick remained calm, though he knew the odds; he was a Sensitive adrift without his Active and had nothing to offer up except his body.
Flicking around, he screamed at Japhne, who had not gone much farther than he had shoved her. “Mother! Save yourself, save the child!” The howl came out raw, and he knew it would be the last thing he said.
She clutched the rock wall with spread fingers, tears streaming down her face and unable to chose a path. They would all die here then in this lonely corridor, not even knowing where they were.
Merrick turned and became Active. No Deacon except the Arch Abbot ever held both the Gauntlets and the Strop, but every one of them had the seed of both specialities in them. Merrick did not have the Gauntlets that would provide protection from the backlash of the runes, and he didn’t have the training to control them, but at this moment he was out of all other options. The one thing he did have was knowledge.
In his mind’s eye he drew Pyet, the cleansing flame. The long, looping line of the rune, bisected by the horizontal straight line leapt into existence, carving itself into the flesh of his palm.
The fire cut to his core. Never having done it, Merrick nevertheless imagined it felt the same as shoving his hand into a burning hearth. But he couldn’t afford the time and energy to scream. If he lost control of the rune now, they would all be consumed by it. Trained to see through pain, he managed to hold out his hands.
Red fire coursed from the rune, flowing over his hands—thankfully not melting his flesh yet—and enveloped the ghast as it gathered itself to leap from the shadows.
The conflagration filled the tunnel, and Merrick wondered, even as the pain chewed at his concentration, how he had managed such a display. His Active side was latent only, and he had at best been hoping for a mere distraction so that his mother could escape.
The smell of charred brick and dirt filled his nostrils, even as the power filled him. It was heady and terrifying. The Active talent heightened every sense, until he was choking, sobbing, overwhelmed—yet still Merrick held on.
Pyet was more than a physical flame. It had to be to have any effect on a geist. As the intense flame poured from the mark on Merrick’s hand, the ghast writhed.
Its screams were filled with the pain of dozens of souls trapped and feeling death again. But it was a little pain compared to the agony of holding the rune. Merrick knew it was burning far too brightly and far too long. The ghast was gone, a candle held in a blast furnace, but the Deacon could not stop the destruction gushing out of him.
Now the smell was that of his own mortal form; the hairs on his arm burst alight, and he could feel real physical flames reaching out to consume skin and flesh.
He had saved his mother and unborn brother, but now it was he who would be the candle. Merrick prepared himself to be taken, until the moment Japhne laid cool hands on him. He jerkby way, trying to shake her loose, but she was surprisingly strong. Forcing her fingers around his wrists, she pulled him to her, and Pyet and the flames were suddenly gone.
Merrick stood there for a long moment, feeling his mother’s arms now go around him. She was soft and cool comfort. And he was alive.
When the Deacon pulled back, she still held on to his hands, cradling them in her own. He looked down, fearing what he would see. They were not blackened lumps as he might have guessed, but they were bright red and blistered. It was going to be painful, but he might keep his hands.
“How did you—” he began.
Japhne smiled, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “The Ancient blood flows in your veins—but not from your father’s family.”
“The Ehtia,” he whispered in return, wondering how much of the wild talent that his Order was so afraid of came from them. “So you—”
“It is a little talent.” His mother stroked his hair back from his face. “I can calm magic from time to time. It turned out to be a very useful skill when I fell in love with Onika.”
Despite the situation, Merrick blushed—he had wondered if the Prince kept his mask on in private—but if Japhne was unaffected, then it all made sense. He quickly changed the topic of conversation, which was unseemly and awkward for him as both a son and as a Deacon.
“Come on.” He put his arm around his mother.
“We have to get you back to the palace, and then I must try to catch up with Sorcha and Onika. They have gone to stop the goddess Hatipai gaining a body in this world. I fear I know how I was able to channel an Active rune.”
Holding each other up, they made it back to the junction with the pipe under the palace. Now, with the darkness lifted, Merrick could make out a circle of weirstones embedded in the brickwork—it was a masterfully done job.
“But your hands,” his mother murmured as they stepped out of one pipe and back into Chioma.
Once there, Merrick could feel the Bond singing in his head. The buzz was not a comforting noise. Somewhere not far off, he feared he had left his partner significantly diminished. He glanced down at his palms. “I’ll bind them. Perhaps if I take the fastest horse, I can still catch them.”
Japhne frowned, undoubtedly thinking of her own lover in danger. “What use can you be, my son? Surely what is done is already done?”
“Not where Sorcha is concerned, Mother.”
“Then go to the dirigible station.” Now she was tugging him along. “There are two vessels in port, and if they burn weirstones, you may just get there in time.”
Merrick’s heart welled with admiration and love for Japhne. He had saved her, and then she had saved him. The young Deacon could only hope that he would get to his partner in time to bring her the same hope.
TWENTY-NINE
Prodigal Son
Sorcha woke in a cradle of sand. It had blown over her, cushioned her, but was now trying to swallow her. She jerked erect, the broken swing tangled on top of her, her mouth dry and her pulse racing. Turning her head to the left, she saw the still-smoldering remains of the Winter Falcon spread over the dunes.
The brave Chiomese and the Imperial sailors had died together because of Hatipai—Sorcha had no doubt of that. It was up to her to stop the false goddess from taking any more victims.
After she pushed herself free of the remains of the swing, she dragged herself to her feet and examined her body carefully. She felt as though she’d been given a damn good beating, and even without pulling aside her clothes, Sorcha could tell there would be plenty of bruises. Though she had no way of knowing how far she’d fallen, nothing felt broken. Next she tried to orient herself under the blazing sun.
“It’s over there.” Onika’s voice at her back made her jump like a green Initiate. The Prince of Chioma could have been a statue revealed by blowing sand—he certainly didn’t look as though he had fallen any great distance either. He looked no more ruffled than if he’d been standing in his own Court.
He didn’t point, but then he didn’t need to. The Temple of Hatipai was the only structure in a blinding ocean of sand. It stood out, red like a blister among the gold of the dunes.
“You don’t have to go.” She tottered over to stand at his shoulder. “I have sworn an Order Oath; I have to go down there, but you—”
“I too swore an oath.” The Prince raised his hand and tore off the shining mask. He flung it into the sand as if it were something vile, but he didn’t turn around. “The people of Chioma are mine to protect—they always have been.”
Sorcha averted her eyes. “How can you protect them if you are dead? What about your son waiting to be born?”
His voice was calm. “I cannot think of that now. Even as much as I love Japhne and him to come, I cannot put them above my people. I trust Merrick will take care of his mother.”
The Deacon heard his cloak slide through the sand as he moved forward, but she still dared not look. She could almost feel the heat of his charisma beating on her head like the sun. “A child should always have its parent.”
“Not everything that can birth a child can be called a parent.” Onika touched her hair. “Some parents do better to leave this world before they can teach a child to fear. How could I have a son who cannot even look at my face?”
Sorcha had never known her own parents, so could not argue with him. His open hand appeared in her peripheral vision.
“Please, Deacon Chambers, I need someone to look at me.”
His voice cracked with melancholy and fear. Sorcha looked up and opened her Center. While her humanity was stunned by the immortal god, her Deacon training helped her see behind it to the man he was.
“Why?” she stammered through numb lips and burning eyes. “Why are you going down there straight into her hands?”
The Prince smiled and jerked aside his cloak. Underneath, hanging from his belt was a long, curved dagger with a weirstone gleaming on its hilt. “Not long ago I found a secret book of prophecy. It can only be done by me, with this blade, in her Temple, as she becomes mortal. Just before she does, there will be a moment of weaknesses.” His hand touched Sorcha’s head lightly. “I am the only one who can strike.”
As a Deacon, Sorcha was sure she didn’t believe in prophecies or fate, but in the gleaming light of his charisma, she trusted him.
“But I have something for yof this should fail.” From one of the pouches at his belt Onika pulled a strange sphere. It was about the size of his fist with a miniature crank in its clear side. When he turned it, a high-pitched whir sounded, while around the Prince the air shifted. His face flickered with momentary pain as a silvery gray liquid filled the sphere, but from where it came, Sorcha could not tell.
“Hold out your hand, Deacon Faris.” Sorcha offered her palm, and he placed the strange device into it. “This is one of my mother’s gifts, a protection for the body. For a human with no trace of geist it should not last long, but it will help you if things go wrong in the Temple.” Onika spun the crank in the opposite direction. The gleaming liquid now began to drop away in the sphere, until there was no liquid apparent. Instead, Sorcha felt warmth spread over her.
For a second her skin gleamed like it was covered in a thin film of oil, but then that too vanished. “You’ve made me immortal?”
Onika laughed again. “Temporarily your body is protected—that is all, Deacon Faris. Do not get arrogant, for it will wear off in a few days. You are not born of a geistlord as I am.”
“And you?”
“If I survive this, I want to grow old with Japhne.” He glanced back toward Orinthal. “I want my son to rule in Chioma, so it is no loss to me.”
Giving up this was a sign of faith Sorcha could not understand, but she wouldn’t argue with it. The look in his eyes said this was no sudden decision.
“Then let us unshackle your people,” she said, slipping on her Gauntlets and facing the Temple.
“Thank you.” His fingers tightened on hers, apparently immune to the sting of the runes, and then together they walked down toward the Temple. With every step, as long as she didn’t glance at him, Sorcha felt her equilibrium recover.
As they got closer to the Temple, she couldn’t help it, she began to chuckle. “Oh, your mother is quite modest.”
Onika’s laugh was loud and unexpected as he got her point. The Temple was shaped like a beautiful woman lying on her side, one hand propping up her head, the steps leading to the interior literally burrowed into her belly button. It was the bright red of the city of Orinthal but not nearly as charming.
“That has to be the crassest thing I have ever seen.” Sorcha giggled. “And I grew up in Delmaire!”
“I think you should mention that when you meet her!” The Prince’s laugh was long and genuine.
A mass of people were clustered around the Temple door. This was indeed where Orinthal had migrated to. Onika untangled his hand with hers so now he stood alone. “Follow me.”
The people turned and then, like a wave breaking on the shore, dropped to their knees, abasing themselves before the Prince. It was not because he was their ruler. It was because he was unmasked. Hatipai had them in her control right up until the moment her son appeared. It was one thing to have belief in a goddess, but when a god walked among them in the flesh, it overrode all that.
A hot wind was coming off the desert and straight into Sorcha’s face, flinging bits
of sand into her eyes and mouth, but while she held her hand up and swore, Onika only kept moving forward.
“She’s not far now.” His voice was soft as he stepped carefully over and past the prostrate bodies. Sorcha followed in his wake ashey climbed the stairs and into the Temple of Hatipai.
“I will go in first,” Onika said, and with his godhood, false or otherwise, about him, Sorcha could not deny him.
Inside, the heat was the first thing the Deacon noted. Most Chiomese buildings were deliciously cool—but obviously the geistlord cared little for human comforts. As Sorcha looked around, she realized that in fact humanity cared little for those comforts, either. They were packed in here tighter than pickled herrings. It made it hard for them, but still the people of Orinthal managed to squeeze back a little, allowing their Prince farther into the Temple.
Above the crowd, there was a dais. Sorcha was pushed to and fro and had to stop and crane her head to see what was up there. Desperate to see, she was angry with the crowd, the foolish damn people. Finally, she saw.
It was a shadow of gold, hanging together like a faint mist that was trying to hold on to human form. A suggestion of wings flared out, twining and sparkling, and when she opened her Center, the shadow burned in her Sight—much as the Rossin did. A geistlord indeed, then.
Among the crowd she caught sight of the mustard yellow robes of the Chiomese Deacons, and yet they were just as smitten. Every face around her wore the same idiotic look; all logic, all reasoning washed away in fanaticism.
And the humans were not the only observers in the Temple. Through her Center the Deacon saw the shadows that filled every corner of the Temple: the shades of Hatipai’s followers. Even after death, the so-called goddess kept her hold on them.
Sorcha struggled to keep her feet as the crowd surged forward, and she realized with horror that she was no longer in Onika’s wake. The people had closed around her, and he had moved on. She pushed, shoved and swore, but it was as effective as a piece of flotsam fighting against the sea.
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