Merrick saw his father on that stone staircase, burning with the power of the Deacons. Raed saw his mother’s face, the horror as she was pulled down into the Rossin’s talons while he, buried so deep, was unable to do anything about it. Sorcha heard the siren cry of the Otherside, the one she had tried to ignore for so long; had tried to pretend held no attraction for her.
Ripping and tearing, the Merge was tested to its ultimate limit. The Murashev wanted
She could not get in. Outraged beyond measure, the Murashev resorted to brute force. If she could not have the body she wanted, then she would destroy them and find another, but she would leave no geistlord behind to challenge her. The strand of the Rossin was too powerful, but the humans were weak. She turned her might upon them. Flesh and mind caught fire under her assault; the strands howled in agony. As long as they were together —they would all burn together.
Finally human spirit could not take any more pain—they let go of the Bond and fell into brightness.
Sorcha staggered out of the light of the dissolving Merge, feeling as though her mind and body were still in pieces. Merrick was on his knees to her right, shaking his head like an animal emerging from hibernation. To her left, Raed—more experienced in shifting than the others—was getting up, his hand already going to his saber.
There before them was the Murashev, the bright creature of every Deacon’s nightmare. And she did not look at all happy. Her tendrils danced and her tail lashed, and Sorcha was sure she had indeed smoked her last cigar. Ruefully she patted the remaining one in her pocket. Despite knowing that it was useless, she raised her Gauntlets.
Then Nynnia appeared, leaping out of the shadows like a cast spear. She attacked the Murashev, the light spilling from her in a very similar way to that of her opponent. Sorcha knew what that meant. Her form was too fast and lethal for her to be anything but from the Otherside. Merrick staggered to his feet and made toward the whirling females, struggling and howling as Sorcha tried to hold him back. The light flared around them, knocking them off their feet once more.
Within the bright globe, Nynnia and the Murashev fought while the flocks of geists spun around them. It was hard to see anything, but what she could make out gave Sorcha pause. The Murashev’s form was flickering— without a mortal body, it could not last long in this realm. Nynnia had the advantage of a physical form, but it was also a hindrance. Flesh burned where they touched, but she did not flinch or slow.
“And they die for it.” Nynnia’s hair, scorched and burned in some places, stuck to her pretty face. “This is not our way.”
The two females clashed again, sending showers of light cascading over the humans—four humans. For a moment Sorcha had forgotten Arch Abbot Hastler. She had wanted to forget the shock of seeing the head of the Order standing at the side of the great enemy. It had been easier to imagine him kidnapped.
However, she could not afford to hide in ignorance. Summoning the Murashev was a task that would drain any Deacon. She needed to act now. Sorcha’s brow furrowed, and she took a careful step toward the Arch Abbot. Bile choked the back of her throat.
Raed made to go with her, but she shook her head. “This is my fight, my Abbot.” His hazel eyes locked with hers; then one finger lightly touched her cheek and he let her go.
Hastler saw her coming, and his face, which she had once thought kindly, twisted into rage. As she strode toward him, her stomach twisted with fear, Sorcha called out. “I think you need to come in, Hastler. You really need to face an Episcopal inquiry.”
“Weak,” the Arch Abbot replied. “You always were a weakling with far too much power.”
“And you relied on that when you sent us north.” Sorcha’s ear was tuned to the raging battle between the Murashev and Nynnia. “You moved us like pieces on a board.”
His lips split in a cruel smile. “The Knot is tightening, and you may have slipped it twice, but it will find you again.” His Gauntlets were already on, but as she got closer he tied on his Strop as well. The tooled leather turned him from a maddened old man into an eerie creature whose eyes were replaced by runes. Sorcha hoped he was more exhausted by the summoning than he appeared; Hastler was more than her equal. By the Bones, she hoped he didn’t have it in him to open Teisyat.
She reached out along the Bond for Merrick, and it was like hitting a raw nerve. Merging had made the Bond as sensitive as a newly pulled tooth, but the world bloomed bright. Hastler was glowing in this world, but not as strongly as he normally would have. Blue tinges were emerging; he was reaching for Yevah. She had to act quickly—she summoned Seym. Her body filled with power.
Sorcha ran, and before Hastler could get his rune shield up, she was on him. When she wrapped her arms tight around him, she found him as cold as a piece of ice—dealing with the Otherside could do that to a person. A lesser Deacon would probably have died from such a summoning, but she had no time to compliment her superior on his fine achievement. Yevah was of no use to the Arch Abbot now—not while Sorcha was so close—but he still had plenty of reserves.
“By the Bones,” Sorcha grunted. For an old man, Hastler was strong and hard to get a handle on. She twisted and grabbed at his Gauntlets before he could bring the burning power of the rune to bear on her. She had no desire to find herself a piece of crumbling toast hanging on his back.
It felt wrong, and yet deeply good, to smash a fist into his face. Normally, punching an old man would have been the lowest of the low—but this was the man who had summoned the greatest danger to her city, made them outlaws and, above all, lied to her. But even as Sorcha tried to hold on, Hastler broke away from her; residual strength from the Murashev must have been aiding him. Once free, he turned the fire starter rune on her.
It was the rune that drew power from a geist, and as far as Sorcha knew it had never been used on a human before. But then, Hastler was only borderline human now, anyway. With a yell that contained all her rage and frustration, Sorcha summoned the rune of drawing and shoved her green-lit hands onto the Strop that girded the other’s eyes. The sensation was like fire pouring into her head. Dimly she was aware of screaming, and realized that it was coming from both of them.
Her body was flung aside. She slid across the floor and smashed into the far wall of bones, but she barely felt the impact. Weakly, she struggled up out of the debris of the dead to see Raed charge the Abbot. His first blow was only just caught by Hastler as the Abbot raised Yevah, the edge of the Pretender’s blade slicing through the top layer of the cloak that Hastler had no damn right to wear.
He seemed to have been slightly blinded by her drawing of his power; he clasped one Gauntlet to his Strop, and the delivery of the shield rune was awkward. Still, by the time Raed spun and made a second strike, the Arch Abbot had recovered enough to summon Deiyant. The Pretender was shoved backward as if caught by a great wind. Sorcha struggled to her feet, her head buzzing with an unfamiliar energy. Traditional weapons, then. She rolled to her feet, though every muscle screamed a protest, and ran toward the Abbot as he advanced on the stunned Pretender.
She had time to spare a glance back toward Nynnia and the Murashev. The women were now impossible to see, their blazing light a sun in the ossuary. Merrick was standing nearby and Sorcha could feel him feeding his energy to Nynnia—though it would not be as effective without a Bond. Still, he turned and looked at Sorcha. Their gaze, only a heartbeat long, pinned her with a realization.
By the Bones—he meant Hastler. It made sense; without a physical body capable of holding her, the
