Geist

twice in less than a day.

He glanced over at the woman as he slipped on his breeches and shirt. Her bronze hair had come loose and was full of dust; some of it flew in the air as she argued animatedly with her partner. Sorcha looked tired but unbent. By the Ancients, she was beautiful. Beautiful, powerful . . . and married, he reminded himself, as the faint moonlight glinted off the runes on her Gauntlets.

A very salient point. He was used to postbattle shock, and even the aftereffect of the Beast was familiar; what he wasn’t used to was having a building narrowly avoid falling on him. The rumble of that event was still affecting his ears. Raed shook his head, like a diver trying to remove water from his ears. Hopefully, the ringing would clear eventually.

While the Deacons conferred with each other, he decided to make absolutely certain that the Prior and her remaining minions were, in fact, dead. In too many battles, he’d seen men cut down by foes that they assumed had been dealt with. The human body was remarkable; a man could still pull the trigger of a pistol, even if he was destined to cough out his last breath a second later. What a Deacon could do in their final moments, he really didn’t want to find out.

Strapping on his saber, and thankful to once more be in clothes, Raed turned to this mundane task. Dust and smoke clawed at the back of his throat as he struggled to locate their enemies among the debris. Whatever Sorcha and Merrick would finally determine had protected them from the destruction was immaterial to him; it was a good turn by someone, and that was enough.

Unfortunately for the Prior’s Deacons, that same someone had not been so kindly inclined toward them. He found their two initial attackers beneath a massive column that had managed to crush both of them, like some giant skilled hand. One glance was all that was required; they were well and truly dead. Bugs crushed against a window had a better chance of stirring than these two poor fellows. Victory allowed Raed to be somewhat charitable in his assessment of them now. For the one who still had a face, he even bent and closed the dead eyes. The Pretender muttered a prayer to the little gods, though he had no way of knowing if they had been believers.

Now he had to find Aulis. Just as the whole building had come apart, he’d caught a glimpse of her making a run for the rear exit, and this was indeed where Raed found her. A buttress had given way, flinging rocks down on the Prior just before she would have reached the relative safety of the door. However, there was still life in the old girl. She might have been pinned beneath the rocks, undoubtedly dying, but her bone-white fingers were reaching out for the shredded Gauntlets that lay tantalizingly close.

Raed was taking no chances; he kicked the remains of the cursed things out of the way and crouched down next to the dying woman. The pain had to be significant, yet her eyes were clear and full of rage when they locked on him. “Traitor,” she spat, blood giving extra emphasis to her spittle.

He’d seen this sort of final vigor from many dying men, but he didn’t know how to treat a dying Deacon. Her fine red robes were torn and a silver disc around her neck glowed in a way that froze Raed’s blood. He knew that he had found the foci Sorcha had mentioned. Quickly, as if it burned, he jerked it off Aulis’ neck and threw it away into the rubble.

The fading Prior grinned at him crookedly. Raed might have called Sorcha or Merrick over, but something about her stare stopped him in his tracks.

“Traitor to the Emperor?” His laugh was short. “I am no more his—”

That grin was turning his skin to ice. “Not the Emperor, fool—to that great gift you carry.”

A thundercloud of a frown crossed his forehead. “You have no idea what you speak of—if you had any idea what it is like—”

Looming death had obviously devoured her manners, because Aulis cut him off again. “But I do . . . I do have an idea.” Her smile flickered beatific for a moment, as if she could see something he could not. Raed nervously glanced behind him as he realized that she was looking through him. He felt a sudden, strong urge to pick up a rock and finish her off then and there. Anyone who worshipped the Rossin had to be both mad and dangerous.

She stretched out one arm, bent and twisted as it was, toward him. “The pocket prince sent you, and our lord supplied the rest.” Scarlet boiled up from between her stretched lips. Her last words were, “So close . . .”

Raed crouched still for a moment, processing what she’d said. She may be mad, but he knew truth when he’d seen it in her smile. No further confirmation was needed—Felstaad had deliberately sent him here. But the Pretender doubted very much that the Prince had been able to predict that Raed would pay a visit to his court. No Diviner had been known for four generations. A far more likely scenario was an informant in his own crew—that idea was one he hated to contemplate.

“By the Blood.” He pushed his hand through his hair and stared down at the dead Prior. “Another complication I don’t need.”

“We seem to have found nothing but complications.” Sorcha was standing above the newly minted corpse, her Gauntlets twinkling with green light. “Perhaps we can still wring some answers out of this traitorous bitch.” She gestured, and a very pale-looking Merrick came to stand at her shoulder under the moonlight.

Raed was silent but his skin prickled. The mythical Deacon Bond was obviously working hard, because the glance the two of them shared was loaded with significance.

“She’s dead.” The Pretender rose to his feet, feeling a wave of exhaustion pass through him. “The only answers she will be giving are to the gods.”

Merrick shook his head. “No . . . Not yet, she won’t.” His tone was flat and colder than this winter night. “If we use necromatic cantrips and I use Kebenar to its fullest extent . . .”

“Necromancy?” Raed’s stomach churned and he glanced at Sorcha with a concerned frown.

She brushed away his concern. “We are trained. We are not some peasants foolishly playing with what they cannot understand.”

Raed glanced at her partner, expecting his support, but Merrick shook his head sharply. “We must find out what they are planning. This is only the beginning of the skein.”

“Move,” Sorcha barked, “before the shade escapes.” A wan light was flickering over Aulis’ remains. Sorcha snorted as if something amused her, and green fire leapt to life on her fingertips. Drawing a pattern over the corpse, she seemed satisfied.

“Now,” Sorcha said, her voice ripe with delight, “you shall answer our questions, Aulis.”

Raed had heard of such rituals, but had never witnessed one. Necromancy, the ungifted called it, and despite all his study and reading, the Pretender had to agree with them; it went against the natural order.

Merrick slipped the leather Strop over his eyes and the dark symbols writhed like poked snakes; the effect was both entrancing and disturbing. The younger Deacon inhaled, drawing a great deep breath that seemed to go on forever. The weakened shade wavered, struggled, but could not resist; it was drawn into the Deacon. Most sane people wouldn’t have taken a shade into their body willingly, yet Merrick had the demeanor of confidence that made Raed more curious than worried for his safety. Certainly there was a beautiful irony in the lad sucking down the shade of the person who had meant to kill him.

The twisting symbols on the surface of the leather flared blue-white for a second, and then the light flared again, but this time behind the Strop as if something was looking out on the world. Raed was glad that Merrick did not remove the Strop—he had a sinking suspicion that if he did, Aulis would be looking back.

It was disconcerting enough when Merrick spoke in her voice. For a good minute the only thing the recently departed woman was capable of saying was, “Fool, fool, fool . . .” Though whether this was directed at herself or any of them was hard to tell.

Eventually she ran out of steam, and Merrick’s voice took control. “Name the creature you were trying to summon.” His tone was amazingly commanding and Raed was strangely sure that if the young man asked him a question in that tone, he would automatically answer it. This lad had untapped depths.

Sorcha moved to stand at her partner’s back and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Her expression was concerned rather than grim.

“Can’t.” Aulis’ voice was pleading and desperate in a way none of them had ever heard it in life. Obviously death had robbed her of some of her confidence.

“Name it!” Merrick’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Don’t know. We didn’t know. We only took instruction.”