Wrayth

dreams.”

“All the women?” Sorcha swallowed hard, turned and looked up the line of cells. Around each doorway, she could see other thin hands wrapped desperately around the bars.

At Sorcha’s side, Raed levered himself upright, away from her. He looked as frail as a newly hatched bird, but none of the other women were any better. They were all trapped in a real living, breathing nightmare. Each of them had the tattered aura of members of the Order, and each of them had the dead eyes of a long-term prisoner.

“We can’t leave them here.” The Young Pretender staggered, holding himself upright as best he could. That was the trouble with Raed Syndar Rossin; in his presence Sorcha found herself doing things that weren’t particularly sensible.

She tilted her head, and closed her eyes for a second—not to reach out to Aachon—but to consider her options. Usually she would have gone to the nearest Abbey for support, and to clean out this damn nest of undead horror. That was not a choice she had here. The logical part of her mind said that they couldn’t possibly get all these emaciated, pregnant women out of this place—not when she was weak and underpowered.

Then she looked at Raed. In those hazel eyes she wanted to be better than logic permitted. Sorcha sighed, “Yes, you are completely right.” Activating Voishem once again, she thrust her Gauntleted fist through the bars and toward the woman. The once Deacon however stepped back, shaking her head. “Too late. I told you too late!”

“Don’t be a fool,” Sorcha hissed waving her phased arm. “Come with us.”

The woman folded herself into the dank corner of the cell and continued to shake her head violently. “You don’t know how powerful they are. There is nowhere you can go where they cannot.” She jammed her tiny fist into her mouth as if to block out any more words that might escape her.

Sorcha pulled her hand back and turned to Raed in despair. “I can’t make her come, but I can…” She shook her head in frustration. “This is so—”

“Then we move on.” The Young Pretender clasped her hand. “Find if there are others.”

Merrick had spent hours with Sorcha when she was locked in her own body, telling her what had happened to him when he’d gone missing from Orinthal. He’d also spent a bit of time talking about Raed, and how he had left her. Merrick had emphasized how he suspected Raed’s disappearance had something to do with the Young Pretender’s sister.

Sorcha heard the crack in his voice, and didn’t need to be a Sensitive to understand how important it was for him to save a young woman—even if he had given up on his sister.

“Raed,” she said as gently as she could manage, “we can’t force these women to come with us. We can’t save everyone…”

“I know that,” he snapped. “Fraine’s different—she’s trying to start a bloody civil war. I have to stop her.” His expression was so tormented that Sorcha reached out to him. “We have to take her,” he repeated, and she knew that look. Raed could be funny, jovial and gregarious, but when he put his mind to something that was it.

“Fine,” she whispered, “then let’s get moving.”

Like two old men after a hard night drinking, they staggered farther up the hallway, heading gamely in the direction Sorcha could feel the tug of Aachon. As they went, they passed more women in the same state as the previous ones, all of whom turned away and hid their faces when Sorcha reached for them. It was by far the most ghastly thing the Deacon had ever seen in her time hunting geists, and yet she found herself walking past her colleagues with a masklike expression.

We’ll get them later. We’ll go back to the Mother Abbey and bring a contingent of Deacons back here to clean this nest out. We’re not abandoning you.

It was the best she could do, but it didn’t make it any easier to walk past these fellow Deacons—these fellow women.

They reached the end of the cells with people in them. These last few were only full of shadows. When Sorcha propped Raed up against one of these, she leaned back to take a few breaths herself.

Darling.

The chill voice ran up her spine and made her spin around.

“What is it?” Raed’s fingers brushed hers. “I hate it when you see things I can’t.” He was trying to be amusing, but it fell flat in the darkness and shadows of the hive.

“I heard someone’s voice. It sounded familiar, but…” She stopped, uncertain, and peered into the empty cell. Was it truly empty? She narrowed her eyes as shadows flickered in the rear of the cage.

Beloved.

“We should go.” Now it was Raed tugging at her, but she resisted. The voice was feminine, soft and pleading. It broke with longing and sadness. A part of her twisted when she heard it; a deep primal muscle that jammed her breath in her throat and brought tears to her eyes.

Daughter!

“Sorcha?” Raed turned her head so he could meet her eyes, and flinched back when he saw her crying. Though she choked back sobs, the tears kept coming. Such a visceral reaction caught her completely off guard.

Her training told her that some tiny shard of a person remained here—most likely a rei. It would have taken nothing to dismiss such a tiny geist. Rei were the least kind of shade. While shades could sometimes be seen by normal folk as they repeated what their human selves had done, rei were emotions. They reflected a specific feeling that a person had felt when they died. They were in essence little capsules of the moment of a person’s passing.

Their effects were limited to an icy feeling on the back of the neck, or a touch of sadness for no reason. Most Deacons did not bother to dismiss them, since there were many worse kinds of geists in the world that were far more important to get rid of.

As a member of the Order, Sorcha should have been able to brush its effects off easily, but instead she was almost unable to see out of her eyes for the tears. Reaching out, she pushed against the cell door and it opened with a slight creak.

Raed tugged her cloak tighter about him, and stepped in after her. “It’s very…chilly in here.” Even he could feel it, the difference to the oppressive heat in the rest of the fortress. “But shouldn’t we be going?”

Sorcha didn’t answer him for a moment, but cautiously examined the room. It, like all the others, had a small benchlike bed, and a waste chute. It also contained a set of shackles, though these were rusted and ill cared for. Standing over the bed, Sorcha examined it. This was the seat of the rei. She could tell by the great well of sadness that was threatening to choke her.

She was certainly getting an appreciation of what Sensitives dealt with every day. It was no wonder that they had to train just as hard as Actives. Sorcha was having difficulty understanding her own reaction to this one room. A rei should not have had this effect. She had no Runes of Sight to rely on, but she did have her Center.

It told her there was blood on the bed, and that knowledge made her feel quite ridiculously ill. Her hand hovered above the marks for a while—trembling in fact.

“Raed,” she whispered over her shoulder, “I have to experience this rei. It’s…it’s like nothing I’ve felt before.” She thought back to what the Fensena had said on the Autumn Eagle; he had promised answers ahead. The odd thing was, she hadn’t really had questions…until this moment.

Now her hand was only a few scant inches from the ancient blood on the stone. She was deathly afraid, but it drew her nevertheless; blood to blood.

“Is it dangerous?” Raed asked, touching her back lightly. She appreciated that he wasn’t stopping her, trusting her judgment. Just as Merrick would have.

“I don’t think so.” She glanced back at him, having great difficulty holding back her tears. “I have to do it though.”

“Then don’t hesitate on my account.” He smiled, a memory of his wicked smile that had undone her in the first place. “I’ll watch over you.”

Spreading her fingers wide, Sorcha placed her hand on the blood. The effect was like no other rei she had ever known. It jerked her beyond thought, and into the memory of flesh. It took her away, until she was a person she had never known, but sometimes wondered about in idle moments.