They had, it seemed, bought themselves some small amount of time. Zofiya raced to the gunwales and grabbed hold of the rigging, leaning over to observe what was happening. The rest of the airships were following the flagship’s lead and rising into the clouds in pursuit, but they had to keep out of range of the mad blue lightning.
Deacon Petav joined her at the railing, his eyes scanning the scene with a slightly glazed look. “They seem to be having some trouble with their technology,” he said, with a slight twist of his lips.
“Good,” she replied, clenching her hands on the rail. “That gives us some time.”
The blue lightning finally flickered off, and now her brother’s airships could maneuver without restriction. They were angling upward, heading swiftly after the
The Emperor’s machine could quite possibly rip the
Deacon Petav reached into his robe and withdrew a small weirstone. It did not seem like much against all that was arrayed against them. “I think I have an idea that just might work.”
That smile was rather off-putting, but the newest regent of Arkaym had to trust he knew what he was doing.
TWENTY-TWO
Coyote’s Call
“Whatever gods you pray to, they are indeed mighty,” said a voice filled with infinite sarcasm.
Merrick’s mind locked on it. Consciousness swam toward him, but there was icy-cold water filling his lungs. By the Bones, he was drowning!
The Sensitive turned his head and coughed spurts of frigid river water onto the stony bank he was lying facedown on. Once he was able to suck in mouthfuls of air instead of liquid, his mind was able to focus on where he was and just who was talking to him. His complaining body, as it warmed, was telling him that he had been beaten like laundry on a stone.
Carefully, Merrick slid his hands underneath his chest and with an effort of will rolled over. The sun was still high in the sky, so it could not have been long since he leapt into the void.
“It must be nice to be able to be so idle while the world is ready to tear itself apart.” The voice came again, and just as cutting in its delivery.
Merrick closed his eyes for a second, gathered his strength and craned his neck to see who was speaking so rudely to him. When he took it in, for a moment he wondered how badly he had been struck on the head.
Upside down, it looked like a huge coyote was addressing him. He rolled over and managed to get to his knees.
“I am afraid you have lost your weapon,” the Beast commented, as the Deacon’s numb hands fumbled at his waist for his saber.
The Sensitive opened his Center and saw the unfortunately familiar silver blaze of a geistlord. Considering its shape he knew immediately who it was.
“The Fensena,” he groaned, pulling himself to his feet. “The Broken Mirror, the Master of . . .”
The coyote’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, yes . . . all that and also, since you were asking, your savior.” He shook himself, sending spray all over Merrick as if to make a point.
“Thank you,” Merrick stammered. He felt he should be polite considering his predicament—even more so since his life might depend on it.
As the weak sun’s rays warmed him a little, he was trying feverishly to recall what he knew about the Fensena. Apart from the fact he was a geistlord and not to be trusted, Merrick had never heard that the beast was a killer. He usually left his victims alive, though exhausted. Was this what the coyote was planning now?
The geistlord bent his front paws in a strange copy of a human bow. “My Lord Ehtia, it was a pleasure.”
“Ehtia?” Merrick asked, trying to surreptitiously locate where he might run. Above him on the cliffs, he could see the dark shapes of Melochi and Shedryi making their way down to him. Breed horses were especially loyal and intelligent, and luckily also remarkably unafraid of geists. However, they would not reach him before the Fensena could rip his throat out. “I am not Ehtia.”
The coyote tilted his head and sat back on his haunches. He did not look worried about the approach of horses in the least. “Humans really are the most stupid creatures,” he remarked. “How do you think Nynnia of the mists found you? Do you think she can rip just anyone through time and space? Only blood will out.”
Merrick’s attention snapped sharper all of a sudden. The fog of his descent lifted from his mind. “How do you—”
“I am the Fensena.” The coyote’s pink tongue lolled out of his mouth before he licked his nose. “I gather secrets and knowledge. The Scavenger of Wisdom, the Order of the Golden Spider once called me. I don’t suppose you remember them?” He looked expectantly at Merrick.
As he slowly shook his head, the Deacon tried to come to terms with the fact that a geistlord knew so many of his secrets.
The Fensena let out a strangely human sigh. “It was a very small order that died out three hundred years ago in Delmaire, so I don’t suppose I should be surprised. Ehtia used to train their young better.”
Merrick had grown up hearing rumors and gossip that there was Ancient blood in his family on his mother’s side, yet he’d always assumed it was just a way for them to make themselves seem important.
“Is that why you saved me?” he asked cautiously.
The Fensena made an odd yipping noise that Merrick though might be a kind of laughter. “The Ehtia brought us here with their meddling with weirstones . . . but that is because the Maker of Ways sent the weirstones in the first place. It knew that curious humans could not leave them alone. Yet still that is not the reason I saved you.”
Merrick had seen the Ehtia fleeing when he’d been transported to the past by Nynnia. They had told him about the weirstones—but to find out they had been tricked cut deep. He wondered if Nynnia knew. Something told him that they had discovered this fact when they reached the Otherside; it would certainly explain why Nynnia always looked so melancholy.
Merrick sat back on a large riverbed stone and took in a long, deep breath before asking, “So what is the real reason?”
“You have a purpose.” The Fensena’s gold eyes flickered, as if he too were examining Merrick with his Center.
“I don’t believe in the little gods or fate, geistlord. I find it strange that you do.”
“I do not, but I do believe there is only one person in this realm who can help Sorcha Faris halt the Maker of Ways and stop this world being ripped apart.” The coyote twitched his tail sharply.
Merrick stood and began wringing out his silver fur cloak. It seemed to be water-repellant, but still he didn’t want it ruined. His suspicions were up, but through the lens of his Center he could see no suggestion of deception in the geistlord. It was certainly an unusual situation for a Deacon to be in. He could not recall many conversations between his kind and the Fensena’s. Usually there were runes, fire and screaming. If he had not just seen his partner ripped away by another geistlord, he might have been interested in discussing many, many things with the Fensena.
However, he had just lost Sorcha, his friend, and his Bond. He could feel a faint flicker of her life in his perception, but it was receding.
“Then help me find her,” Merrick asked, desperately. “I almost lost her once to the Wrayth without even knowing it. I can’t let them have her.” Sorcha’s fear of the voices in her head and the image of what her mother had endured filled his mind. He could only imagine what a nightmare she had been taken into. They could not want to breed off her; there was no time with the Maker of Ways coming soon.
