Captors…of the Rossin? It seemed impossible, but there it was. Someone or something in this fortress had imprisoned the terrifying geistlord. Why was he even still here? The Rossin devoured, sated itself on blood and then retreated, leaving Raed in charge of his own body once more. However it seemed this time was different.
The creature was burning both himself and his host up. A geistlord gained many things from claiming a foothold in a human, but it remained a complicated relationship. No one frail human body could contain the power of a geistlord all the time. Even a common geist could burn out the flesh of their host, and that was what it felt very much like the Rossin was perilously close to doing to Raed Syndar Rossin.
But why would he do such a thing?
“Raed,” Sorcha whispered into the soft fur of the Rossin’s ear. “Raed, it’s me. Come back.”
The Beast stirred, opening one of his eyes. His characteristic rage was indeed burning low, because she saw nothing of the hatred and hunger in him that she had seen all the other times they’d encountered each other. A low growl was all there was, and even that was felt through her hand rather than heard.
The Rossin swung his head about and inhaled a breath, tasting the air with all the intensity of a predator trying to smell a piece of prey. Then he turned awkwardly on his back and closed his eyes once more. The fur around his thick neck twitched and spasmed. Sorcha knew the signs and stepped back. Her heart was hammering far too fast, and she clenched her hands tight.
The change took a long time—much longer than she had ever seen. The outline fluctuated between man and beast in drawn-out madness. She was completely unable to do anything to assist but felt the helplessness deeply. It must have been painful because both Raed and the Rossin were wracked by spasms. They arched their backs, their mouths stretched in silent screams of pain—but somehow they managed not to make any noise. It was an impressive feat.
When it was finally over the Young Pretender was left curled up, naked on the floor, his skin pale and waxy looking. He looked thin and very vulnerable—and her breath caught in her throat at the sight. Finally, the Deacon unclenched her hands, letting her breath out in a long gasp. Part of her couldn’t believe it was him and dared not touch him least he evaporate and spin away from her like mist. At last, gathering up her courage, Sorcha bent and wrapped her cloak around him.
Under her fingers his skin was chill but somehow still covered in a layer of sweat.
“Raed, please get up,” she whispered, cradling him in her arms, and rolling him over gently. For a long few heartbeats she was afraid he was dead from the strain of the change, but then the Deacon discerned his chest moving slightly. Sorcha couldn’t help it; she bent and kissed his cheek. “Come on, please Raed. We have to get out of here.”
He groaned and opened his eyes. They were the same beautiful hazel eyes that she’d craved seeing for months. All Merrick had told her about him leaving after the disaster at Hatipai’s temple did nothing to remove her feelings for him. He must have had his reasons. Now holding him in her arms, she just wanted to protect him and make him smile again. It was strange to see the normally strong and brash Raed as weak as a newborn kitten.
“Sorcha,” he managed to croak out her name through parched lips as she took off her cloak and draped it around him. It was not the first time she’d done so.
“Yes.” She smiled and pressed a hand to his cold skin. “What trouble have you got yourself into, foolish man?”
He blinked at her, and then that handsome mouth twitched upward a fraction. “Oh you know…the usual business where I need you to help me out of it.”
She tried to glare at him.
Raed Syndar Rossin’s smile broadened. “Now,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around hers, “why aren’t you kissing me?”
It didn’t matter the situation, there was none so dire that she could deny him a kiss. Sorcha pressed her lips against his, and for a second that was quite enough. Once again, she told herself this time there was no way she was letting this man out of her sights.
When she’d quite thoroughly kissed him, stolen both of their breaths, she pulled back. “No more cross- country jaunts for you,” she growled. “I don’t care if I can’t move…next time take me with you!”
Raed’s eyes went distant for a moment, then he looked back at her. “I stand…or lie…corrected. I won’t do it again.”
Taking him at his word, Sorcha helped him to his feet. She dare not use Voishem on him in this weakened state for very long; that rune was a terrible strain on anyone, let alone a person under strain from the change. She would need to find Aachon and the others and get him out that way. Along the fragile weirstone Bond, she pushed the image of a hurt but alive Raed to him. Hopefully he received it and understood.
Then Sorcha wrapped her arms around him and pulled Raed through the bars of the prison. Even just that small moment caused the Young Pretender to wince in pain.
“Hold on,” she whispered to him, while keeping her shoulder under his arm. Sorcha glanced left and right up the corridor. It was hot and it stank down here, and it was a smell she was familiar with: the wretched odor of unwashed and uncared-for humanity. It often came with the presence of geists. They were not able to control human bodily functions very well.
Holding Raed up was proving difficult too. At full strength it would have been awkward, but as she was currently, it wouldn’t be long until they both ended up on the ground.
“A little help please, Raed,” she grunted, maneuvering him as best she could down through the cells, in the direction of where Aachon and the crew were.
“Sorcha,” he stumbled over her name and shuffled his feet, desperately trying to get them under himself, “where are we going?”
“To safety,” she said, hauling him higher. “Haven’t you heard? Wherever you are, I need to be. Some call it fate.” Despite the whole sorry situation, she squeezed his arm. Hopefully it conveyed reassurance.
He worked his mouth a few times, gathered some strength and pressed on. “You seem to be short one Deacon. Where is Merrick?”
The Young Pretender was always one for the questions. “We got separated, but I have Aachon with me. We’re using a weirstone so I can see, and we’re going to get you out of this.”
That got Raed’s attention. His head rose fractionally, and his face shifted into something that was a strangely concerned expression. “I have to get to Fraine.”
She’d had quite enough of him throwing his own safety to the wind so that he could chase his twisted sister. “She’s lost, Raed. You can’t save her.”
“No”—the Young Pretender tugged on her arm—“I know I can’t—but she is getting ready to start a rebellion. It will tear apart the Empire.”
Sorcha swallowed. This was just the kind of news she really didn’t need to hear, but it was also the kind she could do nothing about right now. As a Deacon her area of expertise was the unliving—not Pretenders to the Imperial throne.
So she murmured, “We’ll see, Raed, once we find Aachon.”
As she moved down the corridor supporting him, Sorcha saw they were not alone. She stopped, stock- still.
The rows of cells that lined the corridor were not empty. Her gaze locked with a woman in the cell next to the one the Rossin had been in. Sorcha had seen plenty of dead-eyed people in her time in the Order; it was pretty much a standard for the possessed souls who were the prey of geists. This was nothing like that. She could see no sign of the Otherside in the woman. All that despair and hopelessness was very real and very human. The way her twiglike hands clutched onto a far-too-swollen belly was not a protective gesture; it was almost a pleading one.
“Deacon,” the woman’s voice was barely a whisper. “By the Blood, a Deacon.” She gave a little laugh, one that sounded like a mockery of amusement. “I waited for a fellow Deacon to find me. I dreamed about it, and now here you are—but far too late.”
Sorcha stopped dead still in her tracks. “You…you’re a member of the Order?”
The woman glared at her, taking a step back from the bars and standing up as tall as her condition allowed. “I was. A Deacon of the Phia Abbey, only a year ago I was brought here, and now look.” Her trembling hands sketched the devastation of her body. “I dreamed of being an Abbot one day. All the women here like me had
