aggressively. A ghast.
A gleaming set of ethereal fangs, the stench of sulphur, and a wave of nausea confirmed Sorcha’s suspicions. Yet it was not the humans who were the target of the attack.
The shade screamed, screamed louder than she would have when she was killed. Her shadowy hands reached out toward Raed, the person who had promised her the one thing she wanted.
He started forward, as if she were a mortal creature, as if he could do anything to help. The Rossin within him was writhing—inflamed by the danger to his host.
Sorcha grabbed the collar of the Young Pretender’s shirt and yanked him back; he could not be allowed to follow the shade. Her reaction was so swift that he stumbled and fell against the desk. Sorcha was already releasing him and letting the fire of Yevah flare from her Gauntlets. The shielding rune sprang up before them with a roar like a gout of flame.
The room distorted through it, but still enough to see the final howls of the girl’s shade in it. The ghast was outlined in fire, the dark orb of its eye fixing on the Deacon, but then it faded back into the ether.
They stood there for a long moment, panting, Yevah enclosing them. Merrick, by the Bones, she missed Merrick.
Finally and with caution, Sorcha let the Rune fade from her Gauntlet. The gagging smell of rotten eggs and a faint burn mark on the carpet where there had once been blood was all that remained to say anything had happened.
The geist had only come to destroy the shade—not, it appeared, to take on one of the Order. Sorcha let out a ragged breath and turned to Raed.
“Are you all right?”
His face was pale, his jaw set, but he nodded tightly. “Yes, but by the Blood, I have not seen a geist so close without the Rossin”—he cleared his throat—“appearing.”
Sorcha reached out along the Bond, twisting past the coil of Raed’s fears and deeper into the Rossin. The geistlord was close to the surface, and she caught a glimpse ohis great muzzle, yet he did not venture out.
It was not just unusual—it was against the very nature of the geistlord. The Rossin was designed to feast on both human and geist. It reveled in destruction, blood and pain. Now it was something odd indeed: cautious.
“He’s afraid.” Rossin’s shoulders were tense. “Only the Murashev has ever made him feel like this. It . . . it can’t be another one, can it?”
She would have loved to deny it—but she didn’t have enough information to be sure. “I hope not. I am not much of a Sensitive, but I can tell this much—something was controlling that ghast.” She touched the back of his hand lightly, just enough, she hoped. “I think it is about time we went back to the harem and find out how many blue-eyed women it has.”
“I wish Merrick were here.” It was good for him to say it—it meant Sorcha didn’t have to. She merely nodded in reply.
As they stepped out into the corridor, they were almost knocked down by a flood of young bureaucrats racing down the hall. Raed put an arm across Sorcha and held her back against the wall as half a dozen footmen dashed in the other direction.
It was as if they had stepped into a completely different palace from the one they had entered. Something was most assuredly up.
Sorcha exchanged a glance with Raed, and together they grabbed a passing servant who was laden down with a stack of books.
“What’s going on?” The Young Pretender inquired, managing to sound both commanding and kindly at the same time.
“The Grand Duchess,” the boy gasped, struggling to keep his pile straight. “Word came from the port—she is making her way to the palace this very minute.”
Sorcha closed her eyes for a second, trying to balance this new information, but like the boy, she was failing miserably. Zofiya—of all people!
“What is she coming here for?” Raed, who had only briefly met the Grand Duchess when he was saving her in Vermillion, could not possibly comprehend how much trouble the cursed woman was.
“No one knows,” the boy squeaked, trying to tug his arm free and keep his pile from falling on the floor at the same time. “But nothing is prepared, and she may want to see the Kingdom’s tax records.”
“Thank you, lad.” Raed released him, and the poor thing scampered off to join the melee. By the Blood, those papers better be in order!
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Sorcha hissed into her lover’s ear. “Zofiya isn’t the type of person prone to flights of fancy—and there was no word of her visiting here when I left Vermillion. She could have come with the Ambassador, and yet she didn’t.”
Raed closed his eyes for an instant. “The ossuary wasn’t everything, then.”
It wasn’t a question, and Sorcha knew they had better hurry. The Grand Duchess meant not just panic for the palace, she also created a delicious target for whoever was manipulating geists in Orinthal. The mess had just gotten larger.
TWENTY
A Grand Arrival
Zofiya stepped off the dirigible to be immediately bathed in sweat. They had burned four weirstones to get here in th days, and two engineers had been injured replacing the last one. The curious mathematics of this did not matter. She was here as her goddess had commanded.
“Perhaps the Grand Duchess would like to change into Chiomese silks?” The minor official who Orinthal had managed to rustle up on short notice was bent in an appropriately low bow.
Zofiya took a long breath and let the warm air fill her lungs. The nights it had taken to get here had been sleepless, and she was fully aware that her mood was less than perfect.
Still, she had been born to royalty and managed to control the outward display of her emotions—occasionally. Luckily for the trembling official, this was one of those times. “That will not be necessary—I will, however, require transportation to the Temple of Hatipai.”
The man’s eyes flickered behind her, and Zofiya concealed a smile as he took in her pitifully small entourage: only half a dozen Imperial Guards. Even when she was traveling without her brother, Zofiya should have by rights been accompanied by ten times that number.
However, when your goddess calls, you do not linger to gather what is proper. She could sense that the official was dying to ask more, full of questions he could not quite work out how to get answers to. Let him squirm, she thought; there would be plenty more Chiomese who she was bound to unnerve.
“The Temple is not far, Imperial Highness, but we have to assemble the proper carriage and honor guard. It will take us an hour or two.” He actually winced.
The image of her goddess’ Temple burned in Zofiya’s mind. “We shall walk then and enjoy the views of your fine city.”
The man’s eyes widened, but he dared not deny her. “If I may be so bold”—a trail of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down the side of the man’s face—“may I ask what has brought this great honor of your visit to Chioma? The Prince will be most . . . surprised and delighted.”
The movements of the Emperor’s sister were always of the greatest interest to everyone—not least the hornet’s nest of quarreling Princes. Yet Chioma was the seat of the worship of her goddess and the Prince of the kingdom was known for his reclusive nature and iron will. Zofiya anticipated no problems with him.
She had an excuse ready for just such an inquiry. “I have come to meet the charming Princess suing to become my Imperial brother’s Empress.”
It was at least a half-truth. When she had stood before Kaleva, he had not believed it. They knew each other too well, and he was able to read the look in her eyes enough to know her trip was connected to Hatipai.
It was one of the few things the siblings argued over. He had never felt the righteous burn of the faith she had found so early in her life. Zofiya loved her brother more than anything in this world, but there remained
