world. Blood was in the offering, and he was there to claim it.
Raed’s clothes were torn from him and his sword dropped heedlessly away.
“Get through,” Sorcha bellowed to the stunned crew members, and in the face of the Rossin they obeyed her without question. The heat of the great cat filled the room as he spun and ripped peons down with tooth and claw. The Deacon scrambled and grabbed up her lover’s tossed-away sword, catching a glimpse of Tangyre Greene’s face.
It had gone from savagery to horror in an instant, but it was too late to turn back. The Rossin, his jaws and teeth already stained with blood, snarled at her, then let forth a great booming roar that reached even the primitive brains of the peons in the thrall of the Wrayth. They scuttled back in terror. Sorcha watched transfixed as he bunched himself and sprang at Tangyre. It was terrible and mesmerizing at the same time.
Her sword flashed, cutting across the chest of the cat, but it was a glancing blow that only served to enrage him further. He twisted and landed atop her with both paws. The sound of breaking bones rose above the cacophony of howls from the Wrayth. It was hard to say if she was still alive when the Rossin bent and engulfed her head with his jaws. Sorcha still watched, even when they closed with a snap and ripped it free. He chewed, cracking the skull of Tangyre Greene once contemptuously, before spitting out the remains.
“By the Bones,” Aachon breathed behind her, his voice tinged with awe. He must have seen the Beast many times before, but there was something about its strength in the sea of Wrayth chaos that demanded reverence.
As if in acknowledgement, the Rossin let out a roar that pumped up from his huge chest, echoed out of his jaws and filled the nest of the Wrayth completely.
Sorcha could barely feel her heart beating in her chest, but she had the sense that her mouth was dry. She was aware that she stood on the other side of the tunnel, one hand on the stone that was the connection to the fortress. She needed to shut the passage down, but Raed was there, somewhere within the pumping heart of the Rossin.
The huge feline head turned toward her.
Sorcha had spent all of her remembered life fighting the geists, but when this one asked her to hold, she did just that. The peons and higher slaves of the Wrayth scattered as the Rossin leapt toward her. Vaguely she could hear the people behind her, including Aachon and Fraine, scrambling backward in a vain attempt to get out of the way.
Sorcha remained transfixed.
The Beast passed through the portal to the other side. The Deacon closed her eyes. He smelled of warm fur and blood, and his muscular flank pressed against her. In a half daze she moved the Phia stone out of position in the braid, and then, wrapping her fingers about it, plucked it from the wall entirely. No more Wrayth would be coming through this entrance.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. The only sound was the low rumble deep in the chest of the Beast that filled the tunnel with his bulk. Without Merrick at her side, she knew she had no chance of holding the geistlord back. If she was to die, then Sorcha would at least feel that which would take her. Under her hand the fur was warm and thick, the kind of coat that a rich lord would have loved to decorate the floor before his fireplace with. Sorcha buried her fingers deeper within it.
The Rossin swung his head around, those golden-flecked eyes fixed on her with an intensity that held her still. She knew what a mouse felt like when pinned to the spot by a house cat.
Then the muscles under her hand began to shift and move with the powerful magic of the geistlord. Within a heartbeat she was standing with her palm against Raed’s chest. He was breathing rapidly, staring at her, completely naked. More for her own sensibilities than his, Sorcha took off her cloak and, for the second time that day, draped it around him. Neither of them could speak for a while.
“Welcome back my prince,” Aachon said, giving voice to the horrified faces of the crew, but Sorcha saw that his hands were trembling where they were clenched on his jacket.
Raed glanced back at the tunnel, worked his mouth once, before managing to get out, “Where are we?”
“Vermillion,” Sorcha breathed. “Back to the capital.”
“I couldn’t even move them,” Aachon whispered in a tone that approached awe as he indicated the weirstones in the tunnel. “How did you do that?”
Her mother. The Wrayth. All the answers clamored in her head, but she let none of them out. Instead she shrugged and tried to divert his attention. “Lucky I guess. Let’s get to the Mother Abbey as soon as we can. I can protect Raed from—”
And then the world was ripped away from under her feet. Every nerve ending sprang alive, and she cried out. Sorcha didn’t feel the ground come up and hit her, but she found herself lying on the floor, staring at the feet of everyone else. Her mind felt scrambled and madness seemed to be the best course. Her breath struggled in her throat, and she felt the Bonds, all her Bonds to the Order spin away from her.
“Sorcha!” Raed was on his knees, helping her up. His grip on her felt like it was happening to another person. “What’s happening? Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer him, but brushed him aside so that she could get to her Gauntlets. Pulling them onto her lap, she stared at them, unbelieving, uncomprehending. Yet, there it was.
No power flowed through the leathers, and the runes were broken and blasted. Devastated. The Gauntlets that she had worked with so much care and precision were ruined. She could vividly remember sitting in the sun in the courtyard of the Mother Abbey of Delmaire, etching the first rune, Aydien, into the leather with great care. It had been her proudest moment—and now it was gone.
She looked about, searching for answers in the walls, in the air, in the fabric of reality. Finally, she turned to Aachon. “What can it mean?”
The first mate stared at the Gauntlets, and shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
On the floor, Fraine began to laugh. Soon she was gasping for breath. Apparently she was enjoying Sorcha’s horror just a little too much. “The Deacons of your Order are done for.”
Before Raed could stop her, Sorcha threw herself atop his sister and shook her by the shoulders. “What do you know? Tell me, or by the Bones I’ll smash it out of you.”
It took Raed and two crew members to pull her off Fraine. “Sorcha!” Raed grabbed her hands. “Sorcha! She’s just goading you. Shouldn’t we go to the Mother Abbey and get help from there? Surely they know what’s happening.”
Sorcha swallowed hard, and then closed her eyes. It was hard to focus, impossible to find her Center. Garil was back at the Mother Abbey; he had sent her away because he had known that she would heal if the Fensena could find her. Had he seen this too?
She nodded. “I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right, Raed.”
He put her arm around him and led her along the tunnel. The others followed in their wake, carrying the still-giggling Fraine along with them. Despite her mirth, it was a somber procession.
TWENTY
Shadows of Bones
As they moved along the corridor, Raed felt Sorcha shiver like a horse about to give up after a long run. She was hanging on by the thinnest of threads, and he kept his arm around her as if that could hold her together. He even found himself murmuring, “It’s all right, it’s all right…” but she didn’t say anything at all in response.
Fraine had finally and thankfully ceased her giggling and was silent between the two crew members. Now and then she lapsed into choked sobs. Tangyre Greene had been undoubtedly the most unwavering point in her life. Their father was no one to pin childish hopes and aspirations on. He was a cruel coward of a man who blamed his mistakes on everyone around him. Then the Rossin had killed their mother, and Raed himself had been sent to sea at a young age.
However his sister’s tears did tear at him. Tangyre had been his friend too, until the moment he’d realized
