Geist

TWO Pleading Kyrie

Raed, the Young Pretender. He heard the courtiers whisper it behind their enameled fans. It was not warm in the castle of Prince Felstaad, so the ladies of his court only used their fans to muffle their gossip; not very effectively, as it turned out. Raed could feel their appraising gazes all over him like warm, wet hands.

Pretender he might be, but he was conscious of his battered clothes in the finery of the castle. It was certainly not the Vermillion Palace, but it was still far more civilized than he was used to. One of the younger ladies giggled, “He’s almost handsome,” before she was hushed by her elders.

Raed smiled wryly and rubbed his neatly trimmed beard; this had been his one attempt at civilizing himself. Perhaps he should have docked in the town farther down the coast and sent the crew ashore to shop, but part of him bridled at being forced to bow so low before someone like Felstaad. He might not be handsome by fashionable standards—standards that had apparently strayed toward fey, willowy men, if this court was anything to go by—but his blood was still more royal than that of any here.

The seneschal, who had been watching him out of the corner of one disapproving eye, nodded slightly in his direction. Taking his cue, Raed stood up, straightened his frock coat and strode to the towering gilt and oak doors.

Footmen on each side swung them open as he was announced. “His Highness, Lord Raed Syndar Rossin, Second Vetch of Ostan and Heir of the Unsung.”

He was impressed with the seneschal’s boldness. The island of Ostan had been reclaimed by the waves in his grandfather’s time, so was inoffensive, but to add mention of his exiled father verged on the daring; the man had not set foot in the kingdoms since Raed was a babe. Raed’s heart lightened; perhaps his mission here was not so improbable.

Prince Felstaad’s court was smaller than those impressive doors suggested, but it was bright with decoration and beautiful ladies. The Prince himself was dressed in charcoal gray, a tall esotericlooking man among so many fluttering birds. It was undoubtedly an affect that was well studied. This prince had a reputation for calculation, and when he turned his bright eyes in the direction of the Young Pretender, Raed remembered it was well deserved.

A chain of office glittered around Felstaad’s neck. The chain, Raed knew, had been presented to Felstaad’s father by Raed’s own grandfather. It was the Prince’s only ornamentation and no doubt had been chosen with care. Raed would have to tread with caution.

Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to give a low bow. After all, he outranked a mere minor prince, even if his current home was a ramshackle ship and his subjects a collection of the continent’s castoffs. Raed therefore inclined his head, with no sign of bent knee or flourish.

Felstaad was too much of a master at the art of politics to let any expression darken his face. The correct form would have been to bow, but he made no indication of giving one of those.

All right, then. Raed filed away that pointed insult.

“Lord Raed.” Felstaad smiled in an almost kindly way. “Your presence once again brightens our court. What boon do you come to ask of us this time?”

Evil old bugger. It had been four years since he’d last been here, and it had been no boon he’d been asking. Raed had been requested by a neighboring prince to mediate a border dispute. That particular incident, like so many others, had ended in a stalemate, and merely eight months later the Assembly of Princes had agreed to ask Magnhild, King of Delmaire, to send his second son to be their Emperor. They had considered calling back Raed’s father, the Unsung, from his island exile, but in the end he was considered too divisive.

Raed knew that factions within the Assembly had worked against his father. In the end it was purely the fact that they knew nothing of then-Prince Kaleva, whereas the Unsung was of a line of kings who had riled and annoyed generations of those warring rulers.

The Prince’s attitude grated on him, but he spread his hands and tried to look as inoffensive as possible. “I need a safe harbor, Prince Felstaad. My crew must have fresh supplies. My ship requires urgent careening and repairs.”

“Fueled no doubt by a desperate need to remain faster than the Imperial Fleet?” The old man grinned thinly. The joke was in poor taste, but unfortunately very close to the mark. The bounty on his head fluctuated with the times, but it remained somewhat of a problem. Raed smiled smoothly rather than deny it.

“I know that your familial association with my family has cost you dearly in the past, but all I ask is a little time. Your court is far from the Vermillion Palace . . .” It had been years since he’d been in a princely court and yet he could hear himself dipping once more into the language and cadence of its speech. Raed hated that.

Felstaad’s eyes narrowed only slightly. “But the new Emperor’s reach is long. Brought up in that sweltering court of his father’s, he is always looking for the knife lurking behind the curtain. None of us can afford to be complacent.”

Raed took a breath, letting his eye wander over the audience chamber. Felstaad was indeed far from the glittering center of the Empire, yet around him he saw signs of opulence; a jeweled clock here and a very fine portrait there.

Such little clues made the Pretender consider the uncomfortable possibility that this prince was doing more than making gestures of obedience to the Emperor; he could be in his employ. To be certain, the bounty on Raed’s head was lower this year than last, but perhaps the Prince needed to buy a new toy for his mistress. Anything was possible, yet he had no choice but to take the chance.

Raed gestured to the side, a little away from prying ears. Felstaad paused a second and then joined him in his walk to the window. The Prince was not quite as tall as the Pretender, and off his dais he was forced to look up a little to meet the other’s steady hazel eyes. Raed enjoyed that little moment.

“Lord Prince,” he whispered under his breath. “The Empire is still new, the usurper on my father’s throne still struggles with the Assembly, and all I am asking is a small harbor in one of your out-of-the-way villages to make repairs.” He fixed Felstaad with a calm look. The Unsung might never leave his island of exile, but Raed wanted the Prince to know that was not true of himself; he would not be so easily dismissed.

His host was a political beast and a fence sitter by his very nature. Those sharp eyes measured the ill-dressed man before him; Raed hoped they saw more than his clothes. The Prince smoothed back his small mustache carefully before answering the request. “In the far north there is a fine little town called Ulrich, with a good-sized fishing fleet. The place itself is inhospitable to any but the locals and perchance there you could make good your repairs.” He shrugged. “It is also too small a place for me to keep a representative, so I am unlikely to hear of any unusual visits until well into the spring . . . if at all.”

It wasn’t the answer that Raed had been seeking. He knew of Ulrich only by reputation. Other trading vessels avoided it, as the waters were rough in winter and the harbor was not an important one for fishermen. It was also near the Imperial Dirigible way station, one of the new Emperor’s experiments to bridge the vast distances of the continent. Raed had been hoping for a warm-water port in the very south of Felstaad’s dominion; his crew deserved it. Yet, by the look on his host’s face, this was going to be the only deal on offer.

Repressing a sigh or indeed any sign of his disappointment, Raed nodded. It was nearing late autumn. Snow was already on the ground in most places that got it. If he wanted to make Ulrich before winter truly set in, there was no time to waste.

Felstaad was about to return to his courtiers when he raised one finger to his lips and spun back to Raed. The nasty smile he wore boded ill. “I do hope,” he half whispered in a slightly exaggerated fashion, “that this little stay on dry land will not prove inconvenient . . . considering your unfortunate condition?”

Raed’s back stiffened, but out of long practice, distaste did not reach his face. The Prince had heard the rumors and wanted confirmation: Raed would give him none. “I can assure you, Felstaad, that my health is not your concern. I shall manage as I always have.”

The Prince’s jaw clenched a little on such an abrupt dismissal. It was something he was not used to, but what he was referring to went beyond the bounds of good taste and he knew it. The lingering possibility that Raed might one day be a force to be reckoned with held back any further questions. It usually did with these petty princes.

Moving back to his courtiers, Felstaad brushed his coat as if some of Raed’s presence had caught on it. “I am sorry that I cannot help,” he said somewhat loudly for their audience’s benefit.

Such a shoddy dismissal made the Young Pretender want to slap the ignoble Prince right in the face. In the old days, before the foolishness of his grandfather, such an insult would have been met with steel. But those days were well gone, and Raed had to live in these new ones.

He did not bow as he left the perfumed audience chamber. He did, however, wink at the prettiest of the young ladies-in-waiting, the one who had called him “almost handsome.” If he ever managed to return in splendor and with the right clothes on his back, he might just change her mind on that particular score.

“Can I get you anything, Deacon Faris?” Arch Abbot Hastler, despite his rank, always asked that question of those who were lucky enough to gain an audience with him.

Lucky was not something Sorcha was feeling right now. She looked up blankly from the embroidered stool on which she sat in the Abbot’s inner chamber. “Sweet tea if you have any, Reverend Father.”

He nodded and gestured for the waiting novice to fetch some from the kitchens. It didn’t take long. Soon warm liquid was poured into tiny white china bowls, emulating a quaint, friendly domestic scene that was at odds with the dire circumstances of the moment. Steam chugged out of the pot and collected on the lavender-colored stained glass window, making intricate and tiny wet patterns. The scent of sugar and roses should have calmed Sorcha, but it instead disturbed her, coming on the heels of yesterday’s madness.

After he had poured them each a bowl, the Abbot sat opposite her and they drank in silence. Sorcha felt at any moment she might drop the fine china from her bandaged hands. His chain of office, with each link bearing one of the ten Runes of Dominion and seven Runes of Sight, reflected the weak sunlight into her eyes, occasionally blinding her. His Gauntlets and his Strop rested on a velvet stand atop the marble mantelpiece. He was the only member of the Order allowed to practice both disciplines—even the members of the Circle of Abbots could have only one. It took quite a man to handle that sort of power.

As such, he was a formidable person to be seated opposite. Though Sorcha knew Hastler’s methods, she still cracked under them. She broke the quiet first. “So . . . when is the Episcopal inquiry due to start?”

His bright blue eyes were suddenly aimed right at her and any pretense of kindliness was swept away. When he had been tested as a Deacon, it was rumored that Hastler had ranked so high as an Active and Sensitive that it had been a close call which he would choose. In the end Sensitive won out, and it was only when he was raised to Arch Abbot that he had taken up the Gauntlets. Sorcha felt intimately aware of this fact as she sat pinned under that gaze. She understood he could literally see right through her—a talent no doubt very useful in his position.

“Perhaps you should be asking about your husband, instead of the consequences of activating Teisyat?” His voice remained quiet, as if they were discussing doctrine rather than the likelihood of her dismissal from the Order.

She tried to keep her tone as level as possible. “I was with Kolya all night, Reverend Father. I know he will be fine.”

“Eventually, perhaps. But he will not be suitable for duty for several months at least. The geist exacted a terrible toll on him.” The Arch Abbot set down his half-empty bowl and folded his hands, waiting for her to reveal all.

If he wanted to, he could see everything anyway. Kolya had mentioned once that sometimes what people didn’t reveal was more telling than what they did. What concerned her, apart from her husband’s injuries and her possible dismissal, was the nature of the geist responsible for both.

“It wasn’t a normal unliving entity,” she began.

“Obviously.”

“For its size, it should have been immediately apparent, but it took Kolya and I together to sense it.”

“Such things are not unknown.”

“But it read our Bond, Reverend Father. It read my thoughts, and then it turned on Kolya almost as if it could make conscious decisions. That is supposed to be beyond anything from the Otherside!”

The Arch Abbot sighed and leaned back in his chair, and this time it was Sorcha who waited for him to speak. Outside, birds could be heard chirping in the orchard, along with the low murmur of novices filing off to their classes and chores. Finally he turned back, his face furrowed with worry. “This, too, is not without precedent.”

The fragile bowl in Sorcha’s hand rattled as she tried to set it carefully down. She cleared her throat. “I know I am not privy to all the information you receive, Reverend Father, but I would think that such information would be valuable to the Deacons working in the field.”

He did not reply immediately, but got to his feet and crossed to his desk. Placing a long dispatch box in Sorcha’s hands, he took his seat once more. Looking down, she saw the gold-embossed sigil of the hand grasping many ribbons, the symbol of the Emperor.

“This was delivered before dawn this morning. Don’t read it now; the details can wait for you to ponder over, but the essence is that there is a major surge in unliving attacks to the northeast.”

“Then the Abbey rides to . . .”

“No.”

The bald reply confused Sorcha beyond measure. The Order had spent the first two years of the Emperor’s reign darting from hot spot to hot spot. With this continent’s own Priories having long fallen into ruin, the land had been overrun with the unliving. The Deacons who had come over with the Emperor had been pushed hard to keep up, but it had been their primary mandate. Yet now, here was the Arch Abbot saying that they would not be venturing out to take care of the matter. For a moment Sorcha was completely lost for words.

When the Arch Abbot spoke again, he didn’t add to her understanding. “I am sending you to the focus of the attacks to investigate: a little town called Ulrich. His Imperial Majesty and I both agree that this is the best course of action.”

Sorcha blinked. Deacons received their missions from the Presbyter Secondo; to take direction from the Arch Abbot directly was highly unusual. An honor to be sure—but not one that Sorcha felt she should welcome.

She now wished that she had asked for something a little stronger than sweet tea. “But Kolya could take weeks, maybe even months to be fit for duty,” was the best she could manage through a suddenly dry throat.

“That’s why I am assigning you a new partner before you go.”

Sorcha slumped back, nearly embarrassing herself before recovering her balance on the embroidered stool. “A new partner? But no one ever gets a new partner unless their Bond is broken, or . . .” Or if their partner was dead.

“There is precedent for this, too.” The Arch Abbot was acting as calm as ever, which was more distressing to her than anything. “And the situation will only be for this assignment. By then Kolya should be recovered.”

Arguing with the Head of her Order would be a foolish move, yet Sorcha could feel a tightness inside her stomach and a taste of bile bubbling inside her throat. Her bandaged hands began to ache. Forget that sending an untested team into a hot zone verged on the insane. Never mind that partners trained for months to get perfectly in tune with each other. The Arch Abbot was dropping her into a situation he seemed unwilling to explain.

Hastler was an evenhanded man, one who inspired trust among his Deacons. He was respected by them and by the Emperor. As one of the top-ranked partnerships in the Order, Kolya and Sorcha had always felt in the Arch Abbot’s confidence. Yet as she sat across from him, she could see he was physically tight-lipped. What this could mean, she didn’t know. She ached for a cigar at this point but decided not to argue. Her husband would have been very surprised.

Still she kept her voice calm as she went on, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Perhaps if we were allowed to take one of the Imperial Fleet dirigibles, we could accomplish this so much—”

“The Order’s ability to demand that one of the Emperor’s valuable new contraptions change its route is limited.” Hastler’s eyes flicked from friendly to flinty in a heartbeat, reminding Sorcha that while he might look like a kindly grandfather, he was far from it. “Only in extreme circumstances would I suggest such a thing.”

Sorcha cleared her throat, and glanced longingly down at the empty cup next to her. Her mouth had gone suddenly bone-dry. “I would like to be able to wait until Kolya is conscious at least, if that is allowed, Reverend Father?”

Hastler nodded and tidied the bowls and pot on the tray. At this point, Sorcha didn’t have the strength to ponder what exactly could be causing his unusual behavior.

“Go, sit with your husband.” The Arch Abbot kept his back turned, staring out the window at the last few stubborn leaves of late autumn as they fell. “Read the report, as well. I’ll arrange a meeting with your new partner for first thing tomorrow.”

“And the Episcopal inquiry?” she asked.

“There will be none. The matter is being dealt with in a more private manner. Another thing, Deacon Faris.” His tone grew distant. “I would prefer it if you and your husband did not speak of the . . . unusual nature of your encounter.”

Compared to the strange things she had heard in this room, that was the very least. The calm of the previous day seemed a very long way off. Her only problems then had been an argument with her husband and the overeager Gent.

At the door she paused and turned back for a moment. “Am I permitted to perhaps know the name of my new partner?”

The Abbot’s voice contained something she might have interpreted as sadness. “Deacon Merrick Chambers. A bright young man and a highly ranked Sensitive.”

She didn’t know the name, but if he had been recently elevated from novitiate, then she wouldn’t. Sorcha itched for something to smoke or drink, but duty as always took higher priority.

As she left, she passed three other Deacons seated in the antechamber ready to see the Arch Abbot—so many audiences so early was enough to pique her interest. Sorcha recognized Durnis Huntro and gave him a quick smile. The somber man looked even less likely to smile back today, and she wondered what his business was with the head of the Order. However, her own issues were more pressing, and she did not stop to ask.

Stepping out into the corridor, she discovered she still had one more audience to pass. Presbyter Rictun, wrapped in his blue cloak, was lurking in the shadows, waiting for her. If Hastler was the kindly center of the Order, then his second in command was the enforcer. It was he who usually gave out the assignments to those Deacons on duty, and his glance down at the dispatch box in her hand was sharp enough for even an Active to interpret. He didn’t like it—not one little bit. He was a young man for the role; there were only five Deacons of Presbyter rank in the Order, and yet he was not much older than Sorcha herself. How he had managed to attain such giddy height was a mystery to her.

It could have been his golden hair and good looks; it was most certainly not his charm. “Off on assignment so soon, Faris? You really know how to go through those partners of yours. I would have thought you might be a little kinder to this one, since you married him.”

Four partners was indeed above average, but one retirement, one death and one gone mad could not be all put on her doorstep. Sorcha smiled thinly, the lack of sleep and the shock of the Arch Abbot’s audience leaving her with very little endurance for the Presbyter’s mocking ways. “Kolya will be all right in time.”

Rictun raised one eyebrow. “Terrible to get caught in a riot like that.”

His fishing was always pretty blatant but this time it was just a little too far for Sorcha. Holding up her orders, she glared at the Presbyter. “Would you like to have a look, is that it?”

His eyes locked with hers, and she remembered all the other times they had argued. Rictun rubbed her the wrong way at the best of times. Perhaps he saw the impatience in her, as his gray eyes flicked away over her shoulder toward Hastler’s rooms. “No, you’d better obey the Arch Abbot. But when you get back . . .”

“I’ll report straight in,” Sorcha snapped, turned on her heel, and indulged in a little tooth grinding as she strode away down the corridor.

This Chambers, whoever he was, had better have a thick skin, because right now she needed someone to take it out on.