Geist to-1

by Philippa Ballantine

The crew, for once, did not look to Raed. Even Aachon fell into step behind her as they blended in with the crowd. Nynnia was talking with Kyrix, and they both looked distressed. As the others flowed ahead of her a little, Sorcha hung behind, waiting for Nynnia. She didn’t want to lose the creature in the press of the crowd.

  All it took was one glance away; when she looked back toward the pair, Nynnia was hugging her father one last time. She did not notice as a towering man, who had looked like just another member of the crowd moments before, suddenly lunged forward. Sorcha darted toward them, but she couldn’t reach them in time. The man thrust a long knife under the old man’s rib cage and gave a vicious twist. Without a noise, Kyrix crumpled to the ground.

  Nynnia cried out, but the Deacon grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her into the crowd. The foci was already dead—the attacker had known what he was doing. Their enemy, whoever they were, must have realized something about the nature of the woman missing from the Possibility Matrix.

  Tugging the stunned Nynnia behind her, Sorcha zigzagged through the crowd, trying to lose the attackers in the tumult. Her heart was racing and her brain tumbling. How on earth were they going to save the Grand Duchess from someone who could see one step in front of them? Even Garil’s gift was not this accurate. Her mind still lingered on the sigil of the Emperor on that dispatch box that had started everything.

  Catching up with the others, she thrust Nynnia’s hand into Merrick’s. “Your beloved just lost her invulnerability in a rather messy way.”

  The creature’s chin tilted up in defiance. “I am still what I am. You need me.” She might have been in shock from having her foci ripped away, but she had determination in spades.

  Sorcha began to warm to Nynnia. “I have no doubt of that.”

  “We should split up,” Raed said as they drifted forward with the crowd’s ebbs and flows. “They’ll have less luck tracking us that way—we can blend in more.”

  “Not us,” Merrick hissed, his hand still locked with Nynnia’s. “You and I and Sorcha . . . the Bond . . . We should stay together.”

  Sorcha thought about it a second. Although she didn’t like the idea of splitting up, there were going to be a lot of people at the opening, and without any idea of Zofiya’s movements it was going to be difficult to position themselves in the ideal way to protect her. Also, the assassins would undoubtedly be looking for the group of them. The added difficulty of the Possibility Matrix was impossible to calculate. It could easily cloud her judgment so much that she would be swallowed by entropy. Best to move.

  “The Bond gives us an edge,” she muttered to Merrick while they were pushed backward and forward in the press of people. “We won’t lose each other.”

  His look was suddenly not that of her partner, but of a young man caught in the middle of something he had not expected from his first case. Her sympathies went out to him. By the Bones, I wish I could make this different for you—for all of us.

  I trust you. The answer came back as clear as the shouting and arguing around them, even though Merrick had not opened his mouth. His wise old eyes in that youthful face held hers steady.

  Sorcha smiled back—for once grateful for this unusual Bond. Then she turned to Raed, sliding her hand in against his chest, for a moment luxuriating in the warmth and strength of him. She leaned in close, his smell of leather battling with the cigar still clenched in her hand. “We’ll do as you say.” She paused, took a long breath. “I trust you.” She had to say the words, just in case he hadn’t heard through their Bond.

  Underneath her palm, Raed’s heart was suddenly racing. It wasn’t their dire situation that caused it, but his body’s reaction to her nearness.

  He jerked his head toward the crowd that gathered before the towering fountain. “I will get my crew to spread out over there. You, Merrick and Nynnia take up positions at the back—I want you to be invisible.” His fingers wrapped around her chin, a gesture she would not have tolerated from anyone else.

  Sorcha reached up and stroked the line of his jaw, his beard rough under her fingertips. “Take care of yourself, pirate. I’ll be watching.”

  His kiss was hard and sweet, driving away fear with desire—at least for an instant. Then he turned and drew his men away from them into the crowd.

  Sorcha, Merrick and the hunched Nynnia pulled up their hoods and drifted to the rear of the fountain. It was cold enough that they were not the only hooded figures. They found a spot mostly blocked by the bulk of the construction. Merrick’s mind was now so wide-open that Sorcha’s head swam. The Sensitive had not used any of his powers yet, but even so, the world was brighter through two pairs of eyes than one.

  At the front of the crowd Imperial servants were beginning to hand out triangular flags in red and yellow: the Emperor’s colors. As these were passed back through the throng, Sorcha noticed the first Guard arrive, dripping in scarlet and gold braid. She knew that they were incredibly well trained—but she was just as sure that they were not prepared for what they were facing. Toward the back, she saw the blue and emerald cloaks of the Emperor’s own Deacons. Lolish and Vertrij, a good team—as far as she knew. If her dark suspicions of the Emperor were correct, then maybe not.

  Nynnia was standing between them, and for the first time Sorcha noticed tears on her pale cheeks. Either the creature was an excellent actress or she had felt genuine affection for the foci she had called father. “You must not fail,” she said softly, glancing up at Sorcha through red-rimmed eyes.

  “I know!” Sorcha snapped, feeling enough weight of responsibility.

  “No.” Nynnia pressed close to her ear and whispered. “You must stop them summoning the Murashev—I have seen her. Your world would not survive her coming.” When she pulled back, her face was a mask of real terror.

  Sorcha believed her. She nodded wordlessly.

  A murmur traveled through the crowd like a ripple of wind on water. The flags raised and waved enthusiastically.

  “They are here,” Sorcha whispered to herself, and the cold descended about them all.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A Worthy Sacrifice

  Raed had lost sight of Sorcha in the crowd, and he told himself that was a good thing. If he couldn’t see her, then maybe no one else could either. When the flag-waving began, he even lost sight of Aachon and the crew, but he knew they were close—watching his back as always.

  It was sunny for a winter’s day, and the press of people around him kept the wind at bay. The festive air of the square was certainly real enough—the citizens of Vermillion were genuinely excited to be seeing the Imperial siblings in the flesh, as was Raed. Putting aside the visions in the Possibility Matrix, it would be the first time he would lay eyes on the Emperor who had been dogging his family’s footsteps for such a long time.

  A cheer went up near the south end of the square, and the crowd turned as one to crane their heads in that direction. Raed, standing taller than most around him, caught a glimpse of a white horse surrounded by the tin soldiers of the First Guard. The Emperor arrived on a white charger—hardly original. His sister, the Grand Duchess Zofiya, was at his side on a coal black mare. From this distance it was hard to get a good look at them, but as they both dismounted and walked on foot into the Square proper, Raed’s heart began to race.

  It was a nice touch, Raed had to give them that. Mixing with the people on their level always made a sovereign look like he had a common touch—made him seem unafraid of his own subjects. The Pretender watched as the Emperor turned and waved to the crowd. Kaleva, second son of Magnhild and now Emperor of Arkaym, was—even Raed had to admit—the very figure of a ruler. He was ten years younger than the Pretender who watched from the crowd. The Emperor was attired simply in white dress uniform, only lightly decorated with gold braid. The crispness of the outfit set off his dark coloring to best advantage, caramel skin and waves of jet-black hair. Yes, Kaleva was a fine-looking young man, the kind to inspire devotion from his citizens and probably send half the prince
sses in the realm running for their best dresses and most sparkling jewels.

  His sister, Zofiya, was only slightly shorter, but a stunning beauty that gleamed like an exotic jewel at his side. Her ebony hair was elaborately tied and draped over one shoulder, standing in stark contrast to the scarlet of the Imperial Guard. Even on the open sea Raed had heard that the Grand Duchess was an excellent commander and a fine swordswoman.

  They made a striking pair of siblings, and the Pretender finally understood what he was up against. Raed could hear his father’s voice in his head, reminding him that the usurper had stolen everything that once belonged to their family.

  We should destroy them all, the Beast slavered. When chaos erupted, it would be easy to kill both the Imperial siblings.

  He let out a long breath through his nose and glanced over his shoulder as the Grand Duchess mounted the carved steps of the impressive fountain. Her brother pressed the flesh of the cheering crowd, surrounded by his Guard. Raed knew he would have to act soon.

  Kill yourself if you like, but I will become your sister’s burden.

  The Rossin reminded him of the one fact that had stopped him jumping from the cliffs when he’d found his mother’s blood on his hands. He loved his sister, and had sworn that he would never willingly pass his onus to her, but this was about more than his family’s curse—this was the death of the realm itself. He couldn’t stand by while that happened. Aachon, to his left and two ranks back in the crowd, was shrugging. Everyone seemed happy, waving their flags and cheering. The Grand Duchess stood, hands clasped behind her back, smiling slightly and waiting for them to calm down.

  “Good people.” Zofiya finally got their attention, and reluctantly the crowd grew silent. “Good people,” she began again, her sweet, strong voice only slightly tinged with a Delmaire accent. “When this vital water supply was destroyed by geist attack over a month ago, my beloved brother promised that it would be restored in record time. You now see how he keeps his word.”

  In among the crowd, Kaleva turned and glanced back at his sister, but it was impossible to see his expression at this distance. The crowd, however, lapped it up.

  It was hard not to watch the beautiful Grand Duchess—especially from the Pretender’s perspective—but he turned his eyes deliberately back to the crowd. The First Guard were hard to miss, standing stiffly, half-turned toward the mass of people. They were watching Zofiya, but it was obvious that the Emperor Kaleva was their major concern. Some had their eyes turned upward toward the tottering buildings—after all, a shot could come from anywhere. Raed knew good troopers when he saw them, and he was just about to resume scanning the crowd when a flicker caught his attention.

  For just a split second something seemed odd about the Guard to the right of the Grand Duchess, on the far side of the fountain. Through the Bond, Raed saw a glint of light dance across his face, as if reflecting off of something above them, and then disappear. The trooper was possessed.

  He began charging through the crowd toward Zofiya, while the Rossin laughed, low and wicked in his head. To reach the Grand Duchess in time, the Young Pretender had to tap into the Rossin’s power—at the same time holding back the Change as best he could. He had never tried this before, but the Bond with the Deacons gave him more control. The Guards facing the crowd barely had time to turn as he leapt over them, his body still between forms. The Bond was pulling him back, keeping him hanging right on the edge of Change, as the Pretender bent all of his will to reaching the Grand Duchess.

  Out of the corner of one watering eye, he saw the possessed Guard raise his gun and fire. The Beast roared in Raed’s head as he leapt upon the slender figure of the Duchess.

  Hot lead pounded through body and bone as the two of them tumbled backward in the cool waters of the fountain. The Rossin snarled, caught between Change and Bond, its instincts to hold together the body it had lived within for so long. He caught a glimpse of the Imperial Guard hustling the Emperor quickly away—as focused on his safety as they should be.

  The water turned red in an instant. Zofiya and the howling Pretender were eye to eye, caught in surprise and shock. The distant screams of the crowd and shouts of the Guards were still a long way off. But the Change was so damn close . . . The Unsung might get his wish to hurt the imposter’s family after all.

  Zofiya was looking around her at the blood now filling the fountain, realizing it wasn’t hers. Understanding dawned upon her face. Raed jerked, feeling crushing pain warring with the rigors of the Change. “Go, go!” he gasped to the Grand Duchess.

  He howled in pain as, instead, Zofiya pulled him out of the fountain and onto the cool surface. “Raed Syndar Rossin.” She sounded puzzled rather than frightened. At least his fatal bravery would have a fitting epitaph.

  “Raed!” Sorcha’s voice was nearby; he increased his effort to hold back the Change. The pain was making it hard.

  He wasn’t so far gone that the rumble didn’t reach him. Somewhere below the fountain, something was moving; the cracking was like gunshots. Now the screaming began in earnest as the crowd realized there was more going on than a madman’s attempt on the Grand Duchess.

  “Imperial Highness.” Merrick’s voice was calm as he appeared over Sorcha’s shoulder. “Please get to safety.”

  Zofiya opened her mouth to protest, but then her retinue surrounded her. Gloved, urgent hands pulled the Grand Duchess away, despite her protests, using their own bodies as shields. They had their orders. She disappeared in a sea of scarlet uniforms, hustled away.

  “It is too late.” Nynnia was out of his narrowing cone of vision, but her voice was full of sadness. “You tried your best, mortal, but it was too late. There is no safety left for anyone.”

  Raed coughed on his own blood as Sorcha pulled him up into her lap. “Damn that,” he spluttered, barely able to make himself heard through shock and the shivering edge of the Change. “I saved the bloody Duchess.”

  Sorcha had her hands pressed to the wound in his side, staunching it as best she could. The world seemed to be tilting. No one was explaining this phenomenon to Raed, and breathing was taking all his concentration.

  “He did it; Zofiya is safe!” Sorcha was practically screaming to be heard above the wrenching of rock; she was as outraged as he at the unfairness of it.

  “They needed royal blood.” Nynnia shook her head, dark curls coming loose to spill down her cheek. Her eyes widened. “The fountain!” She pointed to it, the stone tilted at an angle. “It is draining into the ossuary.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sorcha pressed harder on Raed’s wound, but the pain was distant now.

  “The Emperor and the Pretender share much of the same lines . . . Ancient blood to wake the Murashev is pouring into the White Palace.”

  It was cruel to be dying and know it was for nothing. “It is rising,” Merrick said as the ground again rumbled. “They must have connected the pipes to some sort of summoning circle below.”

  “I believe the expression is, Done”—Raed spat out a great clot of blood and grinned weakly—“and dusted.”

  “Do something!” Sorcha’s expression was dark and dangerous under the wave of her copper hair, and it was turned on Nynnia. “He’s dying.”

  “I can’t heal without my foci,” Nynnia said, her voice cold even while reality seemed to be getting hotter. “There is only one lord who can save him.”

  Raed felt the impact of her words and he knew what she meant immediately. Sorcha, however, was distracted by the madness around her, the groan of the underworld rising up to meet them.

  It was Merrick who grasped it first. “The Rossin—by the Bones, you mean to use him.”

  “He has his part to play, as we all do.” Nynnia shifted in his vision, for a second looking bright, like a glimpse of the sun. Raed knew he was dying, but by the Blood, he was going to die as himself, not as some raving beast. He tried to shake his head, but there was so very little strength left in him.

  Out of the corner of h
is wavering vision, the Pretender saw Sorcha shoving her Gauntlets on in a sharp gesture. Her face was like stone. “Then we Merge.”

  Never been done with so many Bonds. Even Merrick’s thoughts were hurried and full of fear. Images filled the Pretender’s failing mind. To Merge and become one entity was the final act of desperate Deacons—ones who didn’t expect to live.

  Raed’s mouth was full of the taste of iron. “What part of desperate do you not see about you, Merrick?”

  The young Deacon was pale, and it was hard to tell if the shake of his hand was due to the tremors of the earth or his own inner fear. Yet he smiled back, a sharp flash of grim humor, the kind that Raed had seen plenty of times on other young men in the heat of battle. Courage was filling him: reckless understanding that this was the end.

  Sorcha placed her Gauntlet-encased hand on his head; it was warm like her skin. I cannot say how this Merge will go—the Rossin is unpredictable.

  No need to tell me. Raed closed his eyes. I’ve been living with him my whole life.

  White light burned through his eyelids and the Pretender realized he should have been terrified—yet there was a moment of bliss as he let it take. He surrendered to it, as he never had to any battle in his life.

  Four strands of base metal twined together in the forge of the Bond’s making. The fear of being lost within one another was overcome by the giddy rush of joining. Flesh and mind were flayed open in pain and ecstasy until only one creature remained. One creature created out of four. The wild core of this being was the Rossin, the geistlord trapped for so long in the bodies of the line of kings. But the others were there; the young and brave Sensitive, the angry power of the Active, and the ancient strength of the Pretender. The Bond wrapped them tighter than twins or lovers, holding mind and flesh together. It not only had the power of the Rossin—it had the vision and runes of the Deacons.

  The massive cat towered over Nynnia so that she had to tilt her head back to meet its eye. Standing larger than any feline that had ever walked, its hide was tawny rather than the black of the Rossin, but it was patterned with the runes of the Deacons—even the feared Teisyat. Its eyes flickered from blue to brown to hazel and then gold in a spiral of sparks. As the White Palace erupted around it, there was no fear in the Great Beast. The ground shook as the bones ruptured paving stones and houses, destroying all that humanity had built with shards of what they all eventually came to.