hair. Yes, Kaleva was a fine-looking young man, the kind to inspire devotion from his citizens and probably send half the princesses in the realm running for their best dresses and most sparkling jewels.
His sister, Zofiya, was only slightly shorter, but a stunning beauty that gleamed like an exotic jewel at his side. Her ebony hair was elaborately tied and draped over one shoulder, standing in stark contrast to the scarlet of the Imperial Guard. Even on the open sea Raed had heard that the Grand Duchess was an excellent commander and a fine swordswoman.
They made a striking pair of siblings, and the Pretender finally understood what he was up against. Raed could hear his father’s voice in his head, reminding him that the usurper had stolen everything that once belonged to their family.
He let out a long breath through his nose and glanced over his shoulder as the Grand Duchess mounted the carved steps of the impressive fountain. Her brother pressed the flesh of the cheering crowd, surrounded by his Guard. Raed knew he would have to act soon.
The Rossin reminded him of the one fact that had stopped him jumping from the cliffs when he’d found his mother’s blood on his hands. He loved his sister, and had sworn that he would never willingly pass his onus to her, but this was about more than his family’s curse—this was the death of the realm itself. He couldn’t stand by while that happened. Aachon, to his left and two ranks back in the crowd, was shrugging. Everyone seemed happy, waving their flags and cheering. The Grand Duchess stood, hands clasped behind her back, smiling slightly and waiting for them to calm down.
“Good people.” Zofiya finally got their attention, and reluctantly the crowd grew silent. “Good people,” she began again, her sweet, strong voice only slightly tinged with a Delmaire accent. “When this vital water supply was destroyed by geist attack over a month ago, my beloved brother promised that it would be restored in record time. You now see how he keeps his word.”
In among the crowd, Kaleva turned and glanced back at his sister, but it was impossible to see his expression at this distance. The crowd, however, lapped it up.
It was hard not to watch the beautiful Grand Duchess—especially from the Pretender’s perspective—but he turned his eyes deliberately back to the crowd. The First Guard were hard to miss, standing stiffly, half-turned toward the mass of people. They were watching Zofiya, but it was obvious that the Emperor Kaleva was their major concern. Some had their eyes turned upward toward the tottering buildings—after all, a shot could come from anywhere. Raed knew good troopers when he saw them, and he was just about to resume scanning the crowd when a flicker caught his attention.
For just a split second something seemed odd about the Guard to the right of the Grand Duchess, on the far side of the fountain. Through the Bond, Raed saw a glint of light dance across his face, as if reflecting off of something above them, and then disappear. The trooper was possessed.
He began charging through the crowd toward Zofiya, while the Rossin laughed, low and wicked in his head. To reach the Grand Duchess in time, the Young Pretender had to tap into the Rossin’s power—at the same time holding back the Change as best he could. He had never tried this before, but the Bond with the Deacons gave him more control. The Guards facing the crowd barely had time to turn as he leapt over them, his body still between forms. The Bond was pulling him back, keeping him hanging right on the edge of Change, as the Pretender bent all of his will to reaching the Grand Duchess.
Out of the corner of one watering eye, he saw the possessed Guard raise his gun and fire. The Beast roared in Raed’s head as he leapt upon the slender figure of the Duchess.
Hot lead pounded through body and bone as the two of them tumbled backward in the cool waters of the fountain. The Rossin snarled, caught between Change and Bond, its instincts to hold together the body it had lived within for so long. He caught a glimpse of the Imperial Guard hustling the Emperor quickly away—as focused on his safety as they should be.
The water turned red in an instant. Zofiya and the howling Pretender were eye to eye, caught in surprise and shock. The distant screams of the crowd and shouts of the Guards were still a long way off. But the Change was so damn close . . . The Unsung might get his wish to hurt the imposter’s family after all.
Zofiya was looking around her at the blood now filling the fountain, realizing it wasn’t hers. Understanding dawned upon her face. Raed jerked, feeling crushing pain warring with the rigors of the Change. “Go, go!” he gasped to the Grand Duchess.
He howled in pain as, instead, Zofiya pulled him out of the fountain and onto the cool surface. “Raed Syndar Rossin.” She sounded puzzled rather than frightened. At least his fatal bravery would have a fitting epitaph.
“Raed!” Sorcha’s voice was nearby; he increased his effort to hold back the Change. The pain was making it hard.
He wasn’t so far gone that the rumble didn’t reach him. Somewhere below the fountain, something was moving; the cracking was like gunshots. Now the screaming began in earnest as the crowd realized there was more going on than a madman’s attempt on the Grand Duchess.
“Imperial Highness.” Merrick’s voice was calm as he appeared over Sorcha’s shoulder. “Please get to safety.”
Zofiya opened her mouth to protest, but then her retinue surrounded her. Gloved, urgent hands pulled the Grand Duchess away, despite her protests, using their own bodies as shields. They had their orders. She disappeared in a sea of scarlet uniforms, hustled away.
“It is too late.” Nynnia was out of his narrowing cone of vision, but her voice was full of sadness. “You tried your best, mortal, but it was too late. There is no safety left for anyone.”
Raed coughed on his own blood as Sorcha pulled him up into her lap. “Damn that,” he spluttered, barely able to make himself heard through shock and the shivering edge of the Change. “I saved the bloody Duchess.”
Sorcha had her hands pressed to the wound in his side, staunching it as best she could. The world seemed to be tilting. No one was explaining this phenomenon to Raed, and breathing was taking all his concentration.
“He did it; Zofiya is safe!” Sorcha was practically screaming to be heard above the wrenching of rock; she was as outraged as he at the unfairness of it.
“They needed royal blood.” Nynnia shook her head, dark curls coming loose to spill down her cheek. Her eyes widened. “The fountain!” She pointed to it, the stone tilted at an angle. “It is draining into the ossuary.”
“What are you talking about?” Sorcha pressed harder on Raed’s wound, but the pain was distant now.
“The Emperor and the Pretender share much of the same lines . . . Ancient blood to wake the Murashev is pouring into the White Palace.”
It was cruel to be dying and know it was for nothing. “It is rising,” Merrick said as the ground again rumbled. “They must have connected the pipes to some sort of summoning circle below.”
“I believe the expression is, Done”—Raed spat out a great clot of blood and grinned weakly—“and dusted.”
“Do something!” Sorcha’s expression was dark and dangerous under the wave of her copper hair, and it was turned on Nynnia. “He’s dying.”
“I can’t heal without my foci,” Nynnia said, her voice cold even while reality seemed to be getting hotter. “There is only one lord who can save him.”
Raed felt the impact of her words and he knew what she meant immediately. Sorcha, however, was distracted by the madness around her, the groan of the underworld rising up to meet them.
It was Merrick who grasped it first. “The Rossin—by the Bones, you mean to use him.”
“He has his part to play, as we all do.” Nynnia shifted in his vision, for a second looking bright, like a glimpse of the sun. Raed knew he was dying, but by the Blood, he was going to die as himself, not as some raving beast. He tried to shake his head, but there was so very little strength left in him.
Out of the corner of his wavering vision, the Pretender saw Sorcha shoving her Gauntlets on in a sharp gesture. Her face was like stone. “Then we Merge.”
