Three sets of empty, dark eyes locked on her, and the words that formed in her mind were like pools of ice.
Unbelievably, she was hearing the geists in her mind as clearly as she heard Merrick. Just when she’d thought that the world could not get any more broken and strange.
Merrick was there, though, and louder than the undead could ever hope to be.
It was beaten into her to obey her Sensitive when he called. His judgment was not be to questioned. She thrust out her right arm, and the green light of the sixth rune ran widdershins up it. The pain of the wari and the rune combined until it felt like her head was about to turn itself inside out.
The geists were all connected to her; their bodies were inside her, and they had no time to escape the ravages of Shayst as it reached into their very being. They had come from the Otherside to rip her soul free, and instead it was she doing the ripping. Sorcha tore their very substance apart. She did it quickly so that there was no way that they could poison her mind with more terrifying words.
The two Deacons stood there a moment, panting slightly, their minds and Sight tangled together. Sorcha was not sure how much her partner had seen of those moments of chaos, but she hoped he had not caught any of it. She didn’t know what they meant and she didn’t want to hear—at least straight away—what he might think had happened.
Merrick straightened and pulled back his Center. For some reason, this time she felt bereft. Her partner didn’t say anything to her, but strode off the balcony, back into the Great Hall, and began throwing the heavy furniture away from the door. After taking a deep breath, Sorcha went to help him.
The flood of angry and worried Deacons surged into the room. They looked about them, and Sorcha did not need to share Merrick’s Sight to know they were horrified. The scene was a little dramatic; blood, bodies and the dissipating fetid smell of the Otherside.
“It is lucky that we hadn’t decorated the citadel yet,” Sorcha said, motioning to the burned stone and pools of blood drying on the floor.
Then, pushing aside the dark thoughts that had been born in the carnage, she began helping them tidy up. In this new world, they couldn’t afford to merely let the lay Brothers clean up the mess. Now, they all had to pitch in.
THREE
The Beast Walks
Raed fled the citadel, holding the Rossin off by only the scantest breath. His throat was choked, so that as he ran up to the sentry at the entrance, he could only manage a few garbled words before shoving his way past him and into the night. Luckily, the man had instructions to keep watch for dangers without—not within. He bowed, and stepped aside as the Young Pretender ran out into the rock-filled valley that was one of only two entrances into the citadel.
Staggering, Raed sprinted as fast as he could, the image of the Rossin running amok in the confines of the fortress burning in the back of his brain. He would not do that to Sorcha. She had worked so hard to bring them to this place of refuge that he could not allow it to become a one of slaughter.
The night was cold and as desolate as his thoughts. His breath, which came in ragged gasps, froze before his straining eyes. None of that registered, though, as he stumbled on, catching his feet in the cracks and fissures of the scree slope.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was what was going on inside him. The Rossin, that great cursed Beast that had taken up residence within him, was laughing. At least that was what it felt like.
He had, months before, made a pact with the creature. It was one born out of survival, and a desire to save a sister, now lost to him anyway. The geistlord had given him control over the change, in return for the Beast living closer to the surface. It was an arrangement that had allowed him to pass through some of the most hostile environments in Arkaym, and track his sister to the farthest ends of the Empire.
It had been a ruse by the Beast.
Raed clutched at his throat. It felt as though the Rossin were clawing its way up from down there, an image of ferocious rage that almost dropped him to his knees.
Once, the Beast had been confined deeper in his consciousness and only risen to the surface when the presence of other geists had given him power. Now, it seemed the Beast would have its way whenever it wanted.
He had reached the lakeshore where the iron gray waters of the waterfall pounded into a seething cauldron at the bottom of the mountain. Everything around him was shades of blue and black, and even the moon had hidden her face from him.
It was as if the days he had spent with Sorcha had been nothing but a bright, hopeful dream.
“This wasn’t how it was meant to be,” he gasped, clutching onto a boulder. “You promised.”
The Rossin’s voice in his head was seductive; a rattle of power and strength that promised it would share everything with him. Raed wondered if that was how the Beast had sounded when he made the deal with the first Deacon, who Merrick had informed him had become the first Emperor.
He slid down the rock and leaned his back against its chillness. From here he could just make out the jutting form of the citadel.
“She will know,” he rasped out to the Beast slithering within him. “Sorcha will know when you come because Merrick will tell her.”
Raed let his head drop back against the rock as despair welled over him. Exhaustion was overrunning his defenses, and he wasn’t sure if he could muster any strength for another fight. He knew the way things were and had been here far too often. Still, it would be a shame to waste his clothing. With numb fingers he stripped off his shirt and pants, and then as fresh pain washed over him, huddled on the ground. He was as weak as a kitten in this moment.
Ever since Sorcha’s new Order had come to the citadel the Rossin had been stirring, but at first Raed had been able to ignore the sensation. He had thrown himself into the joy of actually being able to be with Sorcha, even if it was at the worst possible time. When she wasn’t wrapped in Deacon business, they had stolen moments together, hungry for each other. It had meant that he was out from under the watchful eye of Aachon, his first mate on the
It was—quite naturally—the precise moment when he needed a conscience and a friend the most. Yet every time Raed had opened his mouth to share what was happening to him with Sorcha or Aachon, his voice locked in his throat; the Rossin would not let him.
His body was moving; that horrible crawling sensation that preceded the Rossin taking the reins. Blackness wrapped itself around him, and tore him away from reality.
The Rossin sprang into the cool night with an unrestrained snarl. The great cat looked back over his shoulder at the citadel hanging on the granite rock face like an unnatural growth—which it was. It was full of Deacons, every one of them scurrying about, replete with all sorts of concerns. A small breach was opening up there, and the true nature of what they had unleashed was apparent. The smell of blood and sweat reached his sensitive nose even here.
Yes, the foolish humans were realizing only now that things had changed. Geistlords on the Otherside were stirring, and the hated Derodak, first of everything, was the instigator. The Rossin’s jaw, which could crush a man like a fly, opened wide, displaying his saber teeth, and a growl rumbled in his chest.
