Geist to-1

by Philippa Ballantine

  “Blaze?”

  The other raised his hand as if to sketch a halo around Raed. “You look like silver fire.”

  “That’s a good thing . . . isn’t it?”

  Merrick sighed and glanced away, once again seeking out his partner. When he turned back, his expression was somber. “It explains many things. You burn so brightly, Prince Rossin, that it is no wonder the unliving are drawn to you.”

  Raed felt the diagnosis like a hammer blow between the shoulder blades; he swallowed hard.

  The Deacon lightly touched his shoulder. “It will be all right. Sorcha and I are very strong, and when we get you to the Priory, there will be others to assist.”

  The tone of his voice was calming, but Raed now knew the truth. He blazed in the ether, and sooner or later the geist that had killed Corsair would be drawn to him. That geist, or something worse.

  He watched Merrick return to his partner, and speak in a low voice to her. Sorcha waved her cigar at him, almost jabbing him in the shoulder. She threw her hands up in an exasperated gesture, after which she shook her head for a minute before eventually, grudgingly, nodding. It was impressive, the way that Merrick handled her. Then she was striding over to Raed. Her hair had dried somewhat, and was now a lighter bronze color. If he blazed in the ether, the woman bearing down on him blazed in the real world.

  “Captain,” she growled, folding her arms and glaring at him. He was slightly taller than she, but somehow it still seemed she was looking down her nose at him. “I understand my partner has made an agreement with you.”

  “You prefer not to reach your destination? Or perhaps swim?”

  Her lips twisted in a smile that had nothing to do with amusement. “No. The people of Ulrich need us, and your ship is the only one currently available. Your agreement with Deacon Chambers stands, but I just want to make one thing clear.”

  “Yes?”

  “When we leave Ulrich, all bets are off. You are not only a fugitive from the Emperor, but you also make use of illegal and dangerous weirstones.” Replacing her cigar, she chewed on the end a little.

  “Fair enough,” Raed replied. Watching her fume seemed to calm him. “But there is one other condition.”

  Sorcha tilted her head back and looked at him with hooded eyes. “What might that be?”

  “I insist that you and your partner take my cabin.”

  The Young Pretender had enough experience dealing with difficult people to know that giving them what they least expected often sucked the wind out of their sails. It did indeed seem to work on this particular prickly Deacon.

  She was stumped for words for a moment, but eventually she pushed back some of her curls and replied. “Thank you, Captain.”

  With a little bow, Raed turned on his heel and made for the quarterdeck. It was always sweet to get the last word in, and he had a feeling that if he lingered, he would have lost the advantage. The loss of his cabin for a few days was little compared to that victory.

  EIGHT

  Bringing Judgment

  Merrick felt like he was sitting on a powder keg. Sorcha was mortally offended by the Young Pretender’s use of the weirstone and seemed unable to realize that their transport, and most likely their life, relied on him.

  “He’s a danger,” Sorcha growled, sucking down the last of her cigar and flicking the remains over the edge. “We’re supposed to protect people from loose cannons like this Pretender.”

  Something about being fished out of the water had really irritated the Deacon. It was almost as if she would have preferred to drown. The Bond between them was no weaker; Merrick could feel her tension in his own bones.

  Wearily, he rubbed his head, feeling a headache build behind his eyes. He was unable to tell if it was his or hers. “We’re all tired, Sorcha. Can we please just rest and recover a little? Being attacked by two geists in four days has really taken it out of me, and you’ve had one more than that.”

  Her eyes locked with his, and there was a strange giddy sensation as for a minute the Bond swallowed them. Both of them felt it, but it was Sorcha who turned pale.

  “All right,” she whispered. “Yes . . . Yes, that is probably best.”

  As she went into the cabin, Merrick turned around to find Nynnia at his side. Her dress was torn, but her dark hair had dried in soft curls around her face. Merrick’s eyes darted over her, but the tears in her clothing were not matched by any injuries he could see.

  None of the crew was nearby; most of those not busy were clustered around the hold hatch where the Breed horses had finally been stowed. Gently, so as not to alarm her, Merrick took Nynnia’s arm and guided her farther away.

  “I have arranged for you to stay in the Captain’s cabin,” he started. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened a little. Merrick felt all the blood rush into his face. “Oh, no . . . no . . . The Captain has kindly given up his cabin. You will only be sharing with Deacon Faris.”

  “Very well.” The young woman sighed. His partner had not taken any care to hide her dismissive attitude to the other woman, so it was Merrick who found himself making excuses.

  “Faris has had a difficult week; her husband was badly injured and . . .”

  “I’m sure she has,” Nynnia said quietly. “It’s just I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  Merrick looked down into her soft brown eyes. For a woman who had survived both shipwreck and sea monster only to be rescued by what amounted to pirates, she was very calm. She seemed very young and yet there was a cord of strength in her that ran just as deep as in Sorcha. Through his Center, he glanced down at her. She was so vital and lovely it bled into the ether. With the Young Pretender and Nynnia on board, and with the water no longer providing protection from the geists, Merrick feared they were in great peril.

  “She is not as bad as she seems, and it would be best if you stayed close to her.”

  “Why?” Her doe eyes were wide, and with a lurch, Merrick recalled the feeling of her lithe body pressed against him while Melochi swam.

  He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. On the whole, the Order frowned on discussing the Otherside with the ungifted; mostly, they believed it only inspired people to dabble with things they knew nothing of. Yet Nynnia was in as much danger as the rest of them and she deserved to know. Merrick cleared his throat, glancing around one more time just to be sure. “Have you heard of the Curse of the Rossin?” He made a subtle gesture up to where the flag of the beast flapped.

  Nynnia looked at the flag with the mer-lion creature. Her brows drew together in a frown, still pretty but perhaps more human. “Everyone knows the Rossin is just a story, the creature that gave the ruling family their name . . .”

  “And strength to rise to High King over all the other princes. We studied it in the Abbey; the most famous case of geist familial attachment in the book. This ancient unliving creature made a deal with the family, giving them its name and power to rule. In return they agreed that their heir would belong to the Rossin, and could never be born anywhere but Vermillion.”

  Up on the quarterdeck, Raed the Young Pretender was giving orders to his crew. Nynnia followed Merrick’s gaze. To her the Captain would appear nothing more than a slightly rakish, bearded man, but when Merrick looked through his Center, he was almost blinded by the man. The halo of silver fire that burned through him was like a glimpse into the raging core of the Otherside.

  Merrick could not look at him long through his Center. “The Unsung’s son was not born in Vermillion and he has inherited the Curse. The unliving are drawn to him . . . and when they touch him . . . the Rossin is unleashed.”

  “Unleashed?” Nynnia smiled slowly. “But being a mer-creature . . .”

  “The Rossin has many shapes, not all of them as pretty as the one on the flag, and all of them uncontrollable.”

  “But they cannot cross water . . .” she whispered. “Everyone knows . . .”

  “All the rules are being rewritten, Nynnia—even that one. We are not safe.”
/>
  She bit her lip and glanced down at her toes, swaying slightly. “What—what do you want me to do?”

  “Stay close to Deacon Faris.” Merrick pressed her shoulder lightly. “She may be prickly as a desert cactus, but she is also the most powerful weapon against the geist.”

  “Very well.”

  With real relief he turned toward the quarterdeck himself.

  “Merrick.” The tremble in her voice made him pause, as did her use of his name. “What are you going to do?”

  “The thing I do best.” He smiled broadly and went up the first step. “Watch.”

  * * *

  Sorcha did not like the guard dog Merrick had set upon her. Those wide brown eyes followed her as she paced the Pretender’s cabin. Being closeted with nothing more than a girl, let alone a girl who was obviously made nervous by her, was demeaning. Sorcha realized that she had misjudged Merrick; he was a schemer. Making a deal with the Pretender was surely just the beginning of the end. Sensitives, if you didn’t watch them, could easily believe they were the boss in a partnership. Actives, they said, were nothing more than weapons to be used.

  Sorcha strode to the window and looked out into the darkening sky. Night was sinking over the ship and, despite everything, she thought of the sea monster with a shudder. Surely that particular individual had had enough of life on the surface, but if the unliving could possess one, then they could possess others. That realization was deeply disquieting—enough to make her glad of her sharp-eyed partner above. Yet there was nothing for Sorcha to do but pace and feel uncomfortable under scrutiny.

  She stalked the decks for a while, feeling more helpless than she had in years. On her return to the cabin she realized why.

  In all her time as a member of the Order Sorcha had never let her Gauntlets be anything more than an arm’s reach away. But they had never been soaked in seawater, and so she had left them drying by the little range. The door was open a fraction and through it she saw something that made her freeze in place.

  Nynnia wasn’t actually touching the talismans—that would have been dangerous—but her fingertips flickered over the tops of them. Curiosity was perhaps understandable—her words, however, were not. She was reciting the Litany of Dominion. Her voice was soft as she repeated the words an initiate learned in their first years in the Order.

  Aydien, holds my foes as bay.

  Yevah, my mighty shield of fire.

  Tryrei, a peephole to the Otherside.

  Chityre, the power of lightning in my fist.

  Pyet, the cleansing flame consume them all.

  Shayst, my enemies’ strength is mine.

  Seym, makes me more than I am.

  Voishem, no wall can hold me.

  Deiyant, everything moves to my will.

  Teisayt, the door to their world I dare not open.

  The Deacon could not abide the travesty any longer. “You know the words, child.” Sorcha strode over and snatched up her Gauntlets. “But you should not meddle in the Order’s affairs.”

  Nynnia flushed scarlet and scampered back to her side of the cabin. “Forgive me. I just heard the chant around the Priory.” She picked up some socks she was darning for the Captain and remained silent for the rest of the night.

  Though the explanation made sense, it also disturbed the Deacon. What if Nynnia was more than just a stranger they’d encountered by chance? Sorcha shook her head. No—if anything was amiss with Nynnia, she trusted Merrick would have seen it. The world was already full of enough complications.

  Trying her best to ignore her silent young companion, she decided that if the Pretender had given up his room, it was her golden opportunity to do some snooping. On the table were spread various sea charts that she could not see much of interest about, and the rest of the cabin was sparsely decorated. The only items that were intriguing were an old sea chest and a large leather-bound journal that she found rammed down the back of a battered chair.

  Head on one side, she considered. One hand strayed to her Gauntlets while the other traced the outline of the embossed cover. She drew out one of the fine pins that held up her hair and set to work on the large brass lock of the journal. While the sea chest might contain treasures, the pages of a journal would reveal even more.

  The little brown-eyed mouse in the corner squeaked. “I don’t think you should—”

  Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. The woman was barely out of girlhood, sitting with her hands folded ever so properly. Undoubtedly she had some moral objection to Sorcha’s little piece of thievery, but then, maybe she’d never had to live in the real world. With a snort, Sorcha focused on the lock once more.

  “No, I really think you should—” Nynnia ventured again.

  “Don’t you dare—” Sorcha rounded on the other woman and then stopped. Standing in the doorway was the owner of the book she was trying to pry open.

  For a moment, all three of them stared at one another like some comic tableau. In this light the Captain’s eyes were hard and green. Sorcha’s mind scrabbled for a witty excuse. In the intervening silence, the Pretender’s voice was flinty. “May you excuse us, Miss Macthcoll?”

  The girl exited the room without so much as a whimper. Yet she shot Sorcha a strangely triumphant look, the expression of a far older woman.

  Sorcha straightened and as calmly as possible slid the pin back into her hair. “I wasn’t aware that we had anything to say to each other, Captain Rossin.”

  He carefully closed his own door and walked over to the table, his lips pressed together in a thin line above his neatly trimmed beard. Sorcha was not much of a Sensitive, but she was enough of one to sense something strange about the man. This close and all alone, he had a faint attractive scent: leather and sea salt. She couldn’t help it; she let her Center fall toward him.

  Merrick was right. In the normal world Raed was a handsome man, but through geist-Sight this man blazed, and not just visually. Her partner had not mentioned the scent, but that was probably because he was a male. Raed’s was like a heady perfume. Sorcha’s Center enhanced all her usual senses, which could produce some rather uncomfortable chemical and physical reactions. With a little gasp, Sorcha put away her Center and dropped back into her body. She shook her head to try to get past the effect.

  “Are you all right?” Raed leaned forward, his hand resting on the top of the charts. “Or just trying to apologize?”

  Sorcha tried to still her racing heart. The unliving had many aspects, many ways to tempt mortals to bend to their will, and few were more primitive than sex. The possessed often displayed aggressive sexual behavior or urges. This man, this cursed man, had a flame in his core, a flame that was designed to draw people to him. Even those who weren’t Deacons would be unconsciously attracted to him; would find him good-looking, charming and very, very sexy.

  Sorcha knew of nobles who would kill for such effects. But she was damned if she was going to tell him this. “I don’t know what you mean,” she snapped, feeling her body respond to the unliving effect.

  The flicker of concern slipped from his features and was replaced by the kind of dark scowl that should have thrown ice over her. It didn’t. “Well, then maybe you can explain why you are taking advantage of my good nature by breaking into private property?”

  She felt a pang of guilt, but didn’t let it show. Shoving the book toward its owner, she tried to act flippant. “As a Deacon, I have the right to examine any item I think may contain information on the unliving.”

  His jaw clenched. “Again, we are back to that.” He leaned forward once more, both hands now on the table. “I am not—repeat, not—a citizen of the Empire, so your foolish rules do not apply.”

  Sorcha laughed shortly. Spinning on her heel, she threw herself onto the chair in a studied example of indifference. “I would think our agreement gives me the right. After all, I may have to throw myself between you and a raging geist at any point.”

  His mouth opened and she was sure there was a bitter retort re
ady to come, yet he bit it back. Sorcha swung her leg over the arm of the chair and tried not to inhale his scent.

  Instead of replying, he made a grunt of displeasure and turned his back on her to open the sea chest. She tried to crane her head as subtly as possible, but it appeared all he was taking out was a clean shirt. Ignoring her completely, he stripped down to the waist.

  If Sorcha didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he was deliberately trying to distract her. Admiring the shifting planes of the muscles in his back was certainly diverting, but the fact remained: this man was the burning light, and the places they were going would be full of very large, very dangerous moths. She clenched her fingers in the arm of the chair and reminded herself that her reaction was all related to the Curse.

  When he turned around suddenly, Sorcha quickly flicked her eyes away—hopefully, quickly enough. “I appreciate your talents, Deacon Faris”—his voice was softer—“but I am still captain of this ship. And, while on my ship, I would be grateful if you at least showed me the common courtesy of a houseguest to a host.”

  Sorcha’s mouth twisted. “A host that could turn into a raging beast at any moment.”

  For a moment, his hazel eyes reflected the light of the waning sun. “Yes, and you’d do well to remember that in the future,” he growled, his body tense like a coiled spring.

  Sorcha’s heartbeat leapt up two levels and her skin prickled as if in the presence of a geist. Every instinct screamed to her to leap out of the chair and wrench on her Gauntlets, but a quick flick of her Center revealed nothing but the flaming presence of the Pretender.

  She forced herself to remain still, though her mouth was dry and her hands trembled with their yearning to be wielding power. Instead, she let him get away with something she rarely allowed: having the last word. He stormed out of his own cabin, taking his disturbing presence, thankfully, away.