Geist

by Philippa Ballantine

  “Let them see how they like Chityre,” Aulis growled, yanking her Gauntlets out of her belt.

  “What do you mean?” Sorcha actually grabbed hold of her superior, stopping her before she could put them on. “You cannot use the runes against civilians!”

  Turning the power of the Order on the locals could ruin all the work the Mother Abbey had done. In the falling dark, the Deacon and the Prior stayed locked in a tableau of tension. Merrick knew what his partner meant; the powers were never to be used against people, only against the unliving. Aulis must have been half-maddened by her terrible situation to even contemplate it. Sorcha’s fingers stayed locked around the Prior’s wrists.

  Shots rang out now. Wealthier townspeople often had guns, for hunting and protection. Merrick, for one, had hoped Ulrich was a poor town. The snaps of bullets reported off the stone, while Aulis and Sorcha went through their silent battle of wills. If either of them managed to get her hands on her Gauntlets, bullets would be the least of anyone’s worries.

  If it came down to it, Merrick realized with surprising calm, he would give his Center to Sorcha. Then they would be battling a Prior in her own jurisdiction. Another first for the Order, one that would rock its very foundations. Merrick held his breath.

  “Venerable Aulis,” Sorcha hissed in a voice that had not an ounce of deference in it, “let me deal with this.” A long moment passed, and Merrick was not sure which he was more afraid of: the two women or the mob screaming for blood outside.

  Finally, Aulis let out a ragged sigh and gave a short nod to the tense Deacon. Sorcha rose cautiously to her feet and slid on her Gauntlets.

  Still crouched on the parapet, Merrick touched her leg, afraid of the sudden expressionless glaze over his partner’s features. “Sorcha?” It was a personal address that he hoped might snap her back.

  She looked down at him, and he recognized the gleam of something in those vivid blue eyes; he’d seen it on the stairs in his father’s castle, just before everything had gone mad.

  “Trust me,” Sorcha said through a grim smile. “You have to trust me.”

  Slowly, Merrick let his hand slide away from her. Despite everything—or maybe because of it—at this moment, he did.

  Thrusting on her Gauntlets, Sorcha opened a tiny pinprick to the Otherside and summoned Chityre. Her hands lit up like popping fireworks in the half-light, flashing and burning like embers snapping from a brilliant fire. Stepping to the very edge of the parapet, Sorcha held up her hands as they writhed with power. Against the dying sun, her form was dark with only her Gauntlets burning. Glancing to his right, Merrick saw Raed’s face outlined by the light. He could tell by expression alone that the Pretender had not seen an unveiled Active up close like this. The air prickled with heat, as if a storm was coming. In a way, one was.

  With a jerk of her hands, Sorcha let a surge of power break from Chityre into the sky. It ripped through the air like the boom of a cannon, accompanied by a flurry of bright fire. It was a display that would not have been out of place at one of the Imperial celebrations, and it had the desired effect.

  Below, the crowd was suddenly silent. Merrick wanted to stand up and see the expressions on their faces, but he made do with reaching out with his Center. The waves of anger washing off the mob were fluctuating, replaced with eddies of fear.

  Sorcha let another explosion flow through her Gauntlets; this one was louder and seemed to rock the wall. Merrick’s ears rang and through his Center it was like a pulse of light that momentarily blinded him. When he recovered, he feverishly checked; still no sign of the unliving.

  “I hope you get my point!” Sorcha yelled from the parapet, her Gauntlets still pulsing with Chityre.

  The crowd below muttered, but at least they weren’t screaming.

  “You may have a couple of guns,” Sorcha continued, the air around her warm and smelling faintly of almonds, “but you are attacking a Priory full of Active Deacons. How many different ways do you think we have of killing you?” She gestured with one burning Gauntlet.

  The night sizzled, warm now despite the wintry chill only minutes before. And just as suddenly, the mood of the crowd also changed, its rage dissipating into the night. A mob, Merrick considered, was an ethereal thing that could turn on a heartbeat, and the unveiled power that Sorcha was displaying was enough of a catalyst.

  “We’ll be back,” one last brave soul screamed at them, and then they turned and descended back down the road. Merrick got to his feet, while at his side Sorcha stifled Chityre.

  “They’re only retreating,” he observed. “They’ll take some time to get their bravery back, but at some point they will.”

  His partner stripped off her Gauntlets with a terribly grim expression. He felt through the Bond that even this empty display had cost her. It had cost him too. It seemed that there wasn’t a rule that couldn’t be broken.

  Aulis was still crumpled against the wall, perhaps waiting for someone to help her up. After a second, realizing that no one was going to, she started to get to her feet. “You see now,” she said in a low, angry voice, “what we have had to deal with these last few weeks. Unconscionable.”

  No one answered.

  It was the Pretender who found his voice first. “I don’t care about your impotent Deacons—my crew are in danger.” Raed’s expression dipped away from rakish, toward deep concern. Merrick could understand; no one could see the harbor clearly from up here.

  “The townspeople won’t let you leave the Priory.” It was now Aulis’ turn to grin; a hard, bitter expression. She pointed to the road and it did indeed seem that the mob had retreated only to the bottom of the hill. The Prior gave a short laugh. “It won’t matter to them one little bit that you aren’t a Deacon. You’ve been in here; our taint has rubbed off on you.”

  Raed let out a sharp oath, took a half pace and then jerked around. “I will get back to them, you know—whatever it takes.”

  Sorcha ran a hand through her hair. “This is an old castle, no doubt with many secrets. No self-respecting lord would let himself be trapped up here.”

  The Prior tucked her hands into her long sleeves. She remained silent for a moment, as if she wanted to hold on to something. Finally she let out an annoyed sigh. “There is an underground passage—an escape route that the Felstaads built.”

  “That’s all I need.” Raed turned and took the stairs down into the yard once more.

  “I will go with him,” Sorcha said bluntly, tucking her Gauntlets away.

  Merrick couldn’t believe what his partner was saying. “You can’t!”

  Her blue eyes were pools of darkness in the drawing night. “You were the one who made the bargain, Chambers. The Order does not go back on its word.”

  “Deacon Faris is right,” Aulis chimed in, apparently having recovered some of her commanding nature. “Much as I dislike your companion, he should not be abandoned to those evil townspeople, or to the unliving.”

  Merrick was glad at least to hear something like compassion from his superior. “Well, then, we should get after—”

  “Not we.” Sorcha caught his arm before he could follow Raed. “Just me.”

  “But we’re partners—we shouldn’t get separated.”

  “Would you leave the Prior undefended?” Aulis snapped. “You are the sole Sensitive left!”

  “Deacon Faris could run across this geist that attacked you—”

  “I will manage on my own Sight. By the sounds of it, even I should be able to See the cursed thing.” Her eyes locked with his, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She knew she had him beaten.

  Merrick’s mouth worked, but the two women pinned him with their stares.

  Sorcha gave him a nod. “It won’t take us long to get the Pretender’s crew to safety. Keep your Center wide-open, and you can still reach me.” She clapped him on the shoulder.

  She was the senior partner, more experienced than he—this time he would have to trust her instincts. The Priory could not be lef
t blinded. However, Merrick could not let her get the last word. He leaned over the wall and called after Sorcha. “Just remember, Deacon Faris—no Teisyat. Absolutely no Teisyat!”

  TEN

  Rites of Passage

  Deacon Sorcha Faris looked down the ladder that disappeared under the floor. She held the lantern in her right hand while her gaze clouded over. Raed stood to her left and watched with interest. Aulis and a very unhappy-looking Merrick had gone back into the main keep. The distressed lay Brother had lifted the hatchway for them under instruction from his Prior, and was now lurking in the shadows behind them; he too had seen Sorcha’s impressive display.

  The clouds faded from her blue eyes as she stood, and she sighed. “It seems clear.” She made to swing herself down the ladder.

  Raed caught her elbow, so that her movement turned her around to face him. “I need to know one thing: why exactly are you doing this?”

  Her lips crooked in a wry smile. “You saved my life, Captain Rossin, and I believe in repaying all debts.”

  Raed knew he was playing with fire, but he said it anyway. “Are you sure that there isn’t any other reason?” His raised eyebrow and broad grin were deliberately goading.

  Sorcha favored him with a long look and then sighed. “You do enjoy testing my patience, Captain Rossin. Now, let us go.” She clambered down into the cool tunnel.

  He joined her below, and the Brother dropped the hatch above them with a loud clang. Now it was just the two of them, standing in a rough hewn stone chamber lit only by the flickering light. It was cold and slightly damp.

  Sorcha handed the lantern to him. “If I am here to protect you, then you’d better carry this.”

  And the woman accused him of trying to irritate her. Raed snorted, but took their illumination into his care.

  “How long do you think this tunnel is?” he asked, suddenly aware that he’d spent a long time avoiding dry land. Now here he was, surrounded by it.

  “Not frightened of enclosed spaces, are you?” Sorcha asked, pulling her dark blue cloak tighter about her against the cold. “If you become hysterical, I may have to slap you.” It was hard to tell if she was serious or not.

  “I think you would like that,” he whispered to himself as she peered down the tunnel once more, her clouded eyes indicating the use of her Center.

  Sorcha did not laugh. “Considering your . . . problem, I shall go first.” Her voice bounced commandingly off the walls.

  Aachon was the only person whom Raed was used to having keep an eye on him, and even that rankled. Still, it was impossible to argue with logic. With a mocking bow, he swept his arm before him. “By all means, my lady.”

  She brushed past him in the narrow confines, the faintest scent of jasmine tickling his senses. Did Deacons wear perfume, or was it his own tormented imagination? He’d been a long time at sea, after all.

  The tunnel was very tight, and at certain points it ran with water. Raed and Sorcha had to bend low in several portions, and gained a few bruises at tight bends. “Whoever this was built for, was obviously not a tall man,” the Pretender commented with a wince after knocking his head on the ceiling.

  “Don’t worry. I can give you a kick if you get stuck,” Sorcha quipped, glancing over her shoulder. In the glow of the lantern he could tell she was definitely smiling.

  He’d not expected a Deacon to be so witty, so prickly, or so pretty, and he was very glad Sorcha Faris was not much of a Sensitive. He would not have liked her to know that he was watching the fiery glint in her hair, or the sway of her hips ahead.

  She’d mentioned to one of the crew and gossip had brought it to his ears: she had a husband. Thinking disreputable thoughts of a happily wed Deacon . . . That was a complication he did not need. One curse was more than enough for him.

  Raed was so busy contemplating that he almost stepped on Sorcha. The Deacon had stopped suddenly, and his heart began to race; luckily, it had nothing to do with the closeness of the lovely woman. They had come to a slightly wider portion of the tunnel. They were actually standing side by side and perfectly straight. Raed’s back appreciated that last bit.

  “Do you think there are rats in this tunnel?” she asked, taking the lantern from him and swinging it around. As Sorcha turned her head back the way they came, her eyes were as milky as cataracts. This, combined with the weird tilt to her head, poured ice down his spine.

  “Why?” he asked, his mouth dry as drought.

  She raised a finger to her lips. “I hear scampering,” she whispered after a moment.

  “And do . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do the unliving scamper?”

  The film on her eyes cleared, until they were that clear blue that he’d first been struck by. Her little laugh eased the clenching feeling in his stomach. “Generally, no. They tend not to have any feet. I do believe, however, that we are about to have some company.”

  Raed stood stock-still, and now he could hear them tumbling nearer; a wave of chattering rodents pouring down from the direction of the Priory. He saw Sorcha slam her eyes and mouth shut before bracing herself against the wall, so he did the same. The bodies streamed about them, squeezing past and over the motionless humans. Certainly the sensation was shudder-inducing, and the flow of bodies was horrifying, but it was over quickly. The feeling of furry bodies sliding over him would give his nightmares plenty of ammunition, yet none had even paused to bite him.

  Finally, when they had passed, Raed shook himself. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

  “Not just unpleasant,” Sorcha whispered. “Confusing. Why would—”

  They both felt it, an unsettling breath of cold air pouring down on them from the same direction as the rats. The Deacon’s eyes were once again covered and white. “Not unliving . . .” she assured him. “Just water. They must be flushing something up there—explains the rats.”

  She might have just thought it was sewage, but Raed knew otherwise; not because he could See as she could, but because he could feel it in his bones. The water was from deep in the earth, ice-cold and shocking when it smashed into them. If that had been all it was, Raed would have been delighted. But something lived in that water, something geist that stirred what lived in him.

  The Curse was uncoiling itself from his core, wrapping its dark tentacles through bone, blood and flesh. Light flared in the back of his brain, blinding him for an instant. His worst fears were being realized and yet he managed a gasp from his tormented throat. “Run Sorcha—run now.”

  Then his body was drowning under the Curse. It sucked away logic and control, and yet Raed clawed desperately at it, trying to at least slow the Change so that the Deacon could escape. Trapped in the tunnel with the Rossin, she would have no chance. Swinging his head around felt like a monumental task, and he was horrified to realize that she was still there. She’d put the lantern into a niche and was shoving on her Gauntlets. The Order had tried once to tame the Rossin, and those deaths were still deeply etched into his conscience. However, his human voice was gone, so his attempt at a shout came out as a primal howl. He managed to get his Changing body to turn and run a little. In his heart he knew he wouldn’t get far, and sure enough, after a few staggering steps he collapsed. The Change was now wrapped all around him.

  That was the worst of it: he was well aware and conscious, trapped in the body of the growing animal. Primitive function took over, and he could only watch in disgust as he was wracked by the demands of the shift.

  It should have been painful; muscle and sinew dancing into new forms, skin rippling as fur punctured it from within. However, the Change felt very, very good; shamefully good. The ripple of his own Changing flesh was as sensual as any feeling he’d had in bed with a woman. The howl from the Rossin’s mouth was not one of pain.

  The clothes on his back ripped and the lacings on his boots snapped and broke apart as Raed’s form doubled in size. His body gained the bulk of the Beast while hands became paws and his head twisted into a jaguarlike snarl. The Rossin’
s earth form, the great cat with patterned fur and long mane; he’d seen it as a young boy, painted on the ceiling of his bedroom. It was a beautiful thing. It was also a thing that the artist had never seen, only read of.

  The Rossin was indeed a great patterned cat, but what a painter could never capture, what no one understood, was the hunger. The flame of it burned so deep in Raed that it consumed all. The Rossin had to feed, had to live on the blood and fear of others.

  In this tight corridor, there was only one person that the hungering Beast could feed on. With a snarl, the Rossin turned and crept toward where Sorcha still stood. The closeness of the corridor meant that its shoulders were constricted slightly, but in the wider portion of the passage it could still pounce upon her.

  Through the golden eyes of the beast, the Deacon burned like warm embers just stirring to flame. While it would take many normal humans to sate the urges of the Rossin, a Deacon would drown them for a while. Raed, buried deep within, tried to halt the great cat’s advances on her, but it was like trying to claw his way out of a sand trap. The Rossin had him, and now it would have her too. He could only watch. In these close confines and against the Beast, her sword would be nigh on useless. Even gunshot had no effect on the creature. She had to know that.

  The Rossin liked fear—that too fed it—but there was little of that coming from the woman. As a Deacon, she must have seen many horrors, so the great cat stalking toward her couldn’t have been the most dreadful. However, unlike a geist, the cursed Rossin was more than capable of ripping her body apart to feast on the fire within.

  “Hello, kitty.” Sorcha was actually taunting the creature a little, but green light was dancing on her Gauntlets, throwing her features into eerie angles.

  The Rossin snarled, making the tunnel shake with its rage. It did the taunting, not any foolish mortal. Raed screamed inside, but the Beast was utterly in control now. He could feel the muscles of its great legs bunching. Sorcha was going to be shredded and he could do nothing about it but watch in horror. The feeding would be the worst bit, the sensual joy of it that he would be unable to avoid. Raed remembered everything from the previous nightmare, when it had been his mother beneath the beast’s claws.