Harbinger

dipped his head.

Even living off your scraps, my lord, has always been a fine way to dine.

The Rossin stepped back and allowed the Fensena to climb back onto all four feet. The coyote shook himself as if he had just emerged from a very dark and cold pool. I promise you, great lord, that soon enough you will be free of both the family and the troublesome Bond. I must seek out one more detail for you, and then we shall move.

And these priests that have all the answers, will they die with all their secrets? The Rossin did not like the idea of anyone else finding out his weaknesses or what he was up to.

The bright pink tongue licked once more over the coyote’s nose. I will leave their monastery in flames and their bones scattered in the dust.

Good. We do not have much time to bring this all about. I feel the Wrayth moving in that cursed Bond we share. They are planning something—probably with Derodak—and it will ill suit this world. You must be quick about this task.

The Fensena dipped his head—for once choosing the safer path of not arguing. I will travel swifter than thought, there and back.

Both geistlords stood still for a moment looking up at the stars, judging the turning of the world. The Rossin thought to himself that they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Nothing in the Otherside compared to the gleaming ice blue jewels in the night sky. However, in a constant battle for preeminence, he had never had much chance to look up.

The Fensena tilted back his head and let out a wild, screeching yelp. It was not as magnificent as his own roar, but the Rossin understood what it was: a mark on the world. It was a promise that he was going nowhere.

Hold on to the pelt. The coyote’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. I will bring you news of the rest that is required.

It is my own pelt! Do you think I would lose it? The Rossin growled softly.

The coyote performed his little routine of making a bow, and then loped off into the underbrush. Alone, the Rossin hunkered down on the rock once more, the pelt still lying at his feet. For once the urge to take blood did not touch the geistlord, and he feared what that might mean. The Otherside was closer than it had ever been since the Break. He recalled the joy he’d felt that last time the two worlds intersected, but he’d been on a different side then.

He’d come to appreciate the joys of this realm, and he would not give them up. For now, he would watch the stars, and muse on what might lie ahead.

* * *

The morning sun woke Raed with a start. He was naked, lying on a rock, looking up as clouds skidded across the sky. He shuddered with the chill and, wrapping his arms around himself, sat up. Unfortunately, he had a lot of experience waking in such situations, and now, as in every other time, he felt terrible. The blinding pain behind his eyes and the deep aches in muscle and bone were a particularly favored gift of the Rossin. Reflexively he checked himself over, and was surprised and delighted that he was not covered in blood. It felt damn good to have a mouth that didn’t taste like iron and guilt.

As Raed stood up, however, his heart slammed into his throat; not two feet from him lay a bundle. The Young Pretender frowned and cautiously padded over to it.

“Curious,” he whispered, even as a deep shudder ran through him. This rock was definitely cold and exposed. He was used to waking up aching and miserable, but the Rossin had never left him a gift.

Carefully, he leaned down and examined it before opening it. It was a large piece of fur, wrapped in red string. After he had checked from all angles, he took a chance, unraveled the fur and spread it on the rock.

It was a thing of great beauty. The sunlight gleamed on the tips of the strange silver fur, and Raed leaned forward to run his hands through it. It had to do with the Rossin, of that he was sure. Despite that, the Young Pretender scooped it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. Instantly warmth enveloped him. He wanted to throw it away because he was sure that there was more to this gift than it appeared. Yet, it was protecting him. The Young Pretender was caught in the middle. The pelt was seducing him, a deep part of his being understood that but could not fight it.

Still Raed turned back toward the citadel, and began walking, clutching the warmth and softness of the pelt to himself. Hopefully somewhere along the way he would find his clothes.

That search however was going to be nothing compared to having to explain to Sorcha where he had been. She was bound to have felt the Rossin appear, and was certain to have questions. Those he feared facing, because at this stage he really didn’t have any answers.

FOUR A Blown Leaf

In the wake of the attack, there was no time to even take a breath. Zofiya stood in the doorway watching Sorcha and Merrick talking quietly to each other while the smell of death was ventilated from the room. Something had just happened, something that shook them to the core, but she found herself hesitant to interrupt.

While she helped clear the debris out of the Great Hall, stepping over pools of scarlet blood, a lay Brother appeared at her elbow. He was tall, thin and pale faced, but his hand was not trembling as he passed a roll of paper to her. “Imperial Highness,” he said, and she managed not to flinch at the use of her title, “you asked if we could find any news of your brother’s activities to the north. We have been able to secure this.”

Zofiya’s hand clenched on the scrap, but she managed to remain calm. “Where is this information from? Can we trust it?”

“Indeed yes! It is from a lay Brother who escaped a Priory to the north of Vermillion.” The young Brother dropped his eyes. “Like many others he managed to get out with a weirstone and has been sending in what reports he can.”

“Thank you,” she managed, while her eyes darted over the short message. It felt like ice water flooded through her veins. What she read there made up her mind immediately—she had to get out of the citadel.

Without a word to anyone, she spun on her heel and made her way back to the room she shared with Merrick.

In the city of Vermillion, she’d slept on a bed carved like a boat and had whatever material possessions she had wanted. In the citadel, they had a narrow camp bed with a thin blanket to cover them both.

Shutting the door behind her, Zofiya leaned on it for just a moment. “I am the Grand Duchess of Arkaym,” she whispered to remind herself, before snatching up her rucksack and starting to throw the few items she had into it.

Merrick had saved her, and it had been a relief to give herself over to that fact for a time: to be a follower rather than a leader. However, the appearance of geists tonight had merely underscored what she had already known. Her brother was part of this, and she had to do something about it. Now, she must leave and not think about how doing so would hurt.

“Zofiya?” Merrick had slipped in the door behind her without her noticing. He was capable of great silence when required—certainly, he would have made an excellent spy or assassin.

She looked up at him and into those brown eyes that were the most reassuring she had ever seen in any human. In them, for a few months at least, she had been able to rest and recover. Yes indeed, it had been a dream, but now it was time to wake up.

When she could no longer take Merrick’s puzzled look, Zofiya thrust the piece of paper with the dire news on it into his hand. She didn’t wait for him to finish taking it in.

“I have to go,” Zofiya said, turning her back on him and rolling up the final few clothes. “I am who I am, and I can’t pretend I am just some camp follower any longer. I need to speak to my brother immediately. You know I am the only one he might listen to.”

She heard him let out a long sigh, presumably after reading what she had. When he spoke, his voice was