Spectyr

EIGHT The Wakened Dark

After getting the appropriate paperwork, the Sweet Moon sailed up the Saal without much ceremony, but Raed couldn’t shake the memory of the blood-soaked woman holding her kin in a dripping bundle and screaming to an impotent goddess. Tangyre had tried to distract him to little effect. The surroundings of a slaver ship, even an empty one, were not that conducive to laughter.

Only Raed and Tang were above deck on the third morning, while the crew breakfasted below. The Young Pretender had felt very little like eating since leaving Londis. Instead he watched the riverbank slide away from the ship.

Despite it being over a season since he had been tormented by the Rossin, Raed was still wary of being this close to land. The urge to turn about and head for the open ocean, as he had done for most of his adult life, was powerful. Only the thought of his sister Fraine somewhere out there kept him on course.

The land they were sailing deeper into was unfamiliar to him, hotter and more parched than any he had seen. Yet it was part of the Empire and by rights should have been ruled by him. His grandfather, he knew, had sailed this very river heading north to Orinthal. Naturally, it had been with considerably more pomp and ceremony than their current circumstance called for.

Raed gripped the railing of the ship hard. “Life is never quite how you imagine it.”

“Indeed, my Prince”—Tang leaned on her elbows next to him—“but how we overcome adversity is the ultimate test of who we are.”

Raed swallowed hard. “I just hoped—well . . . I hoped that—” He stopped short, realizing the words he was about to say were ridiculous. His hopes were ridiculous. This world had to live with the geists, and more powerful men than he had tried to change things to no effect. Instead of letting out words that would make him sound like a petulant child, Raed shrugged. “I just feel as if something is waiting for us. For me.”

She squeezed his shoulder. Neither of them mentioned the Rossin and the fate of his mother, who had died beneath the geistlord’s claws.

“No one knows we are coming.” Tangyre turned around and said the next few words in an offhand manner that he did not buy for an instant. “Perhaps you are merely thinking of distant places—distant people?”

Raed arched an eyebrow, glad of the distraction from thinking of his sister or the Rossin. “I did not realize that Aachon had time to spill all my secrets to you.”

Captain Greene grinned broadly. “You just have to know which handle to crank to get everything out of him.”

Raed laughed.

“You are still not very good at hiding your emotions, Raed.” Tang was relentless. She knew him far too well—probably even better than Aachon, since she was not as lumbered with the first mate’s belief in the royal hierarchy. She fixed him with that hawklike stare. “This Deacon got under your skin.”

“In more ways than I can express,” he replied, thinking of their days on the Imperial Dirigible. “But the situation is complicated.”

“I can imagine. A Deacon, a married Deacon?” She laughed and slapped him on the back. “Would a simple tavern wench not have been a smarter choice?”

Raed grinned ruefully. “Everything else in my life as it is—I wouldn’t know what to do with something simple.”

Apparently just getting him to laugh had been her entire goal. “Then things are normal, my Prince.” Her voice dipped into quite a wonderful mimic of Aachon. “I better go find myself a spot of breakfast before the crew devours all there is.”

She left him alone on the deck but actually in a better mood. The scorched land looked less dire.

When the hatch to the slave quarters banged open, Raed did not move. Only when an unfamiliar voice spoke to him did he turn around. A strange woman stood on the deck, and apart from not knowing who she was, the Pretender was struck by one thing—she was impossibly beautiful.

It was not merely that her body was long and lithe, or even that her honey hair curled and gleamed down to her waist—she glowed. Even in the warm, sunny morning weather, she was the brightest thing about. Her lips spread in a smile that would have driven men mad, and her eyes were gold—a color never seen in a human skull. As Raed frowned and took a slight step backward, he noted something else strange. Her skin, gleaming and beautiful as it was, was also strangely patterned, almost like quilted-together remnants. Some pieces were pure white, others caramel colored. It was odd yet strangely compelling. A curl of displeasure filtered up from inside Raed, a flicker of awareness from the long-silent Rossin.

The woman’s hand fluttered to her cheek. “Yes.” She smiled, and it was like the grin of a wolf. “I am not as I once was. Perhaps I am not as practiced as I once was either—but I will remember eventually.”

Her tone was light and almost pleasant, but Raed did not mistake this for kindness—for her eyes were those of a predator. “I am dreadfully sorry,” he said, this time taking a step toward her, which also drew him closer to the hatch to the cabins, where his sword and gun were lying. “I don’t think we have been introduced.” Whatever this creature was, he was certain there was no way she could be a geist. They were on moving water. And yet, and yet—his mind slipped back to the destruction he had witnessed on the Imperial Navy ship earlier in the year. It was apparent that for every rule there was an exception.

Her head tilted, and her hands clenched at her side. “I was not talking to you—I was talking to him.” Her chin lifted, and the contempt in her eyes froze Raed for a second.

No, she was not addressing the Young Pretender. She was addressing his Curse: the geistlord within. Fear flooded up through Raed, and his thoughts darted to those belowdecks. The danger to his crew was real, and he had to do something.

“Raed?” The hatch to the cabin popped open, and Tangyre emerged carrying a tray. For one frozen moment the three of them stood facing one another in an unlikely tableau.

Then the stranger moved. Raed wascloser to ure what was going to happen, but what he certainly was not prepared for was the woman charging at him. He was suddenly caught in a tangle of arms and hair, and her strength was unexpected. Raed found himself tumbling over the gunwales with the woman clawing at his face.

They hit the water hard. It was warm, murky and choked with silt and weed. Raed inhaled in shock and drew an unfortunate draft of it into his lungs. The woman’s hands were now on his throat, and there was nothing the Young Pretender could do. Her grip was like iron, and though his fingers scrambled at hers, he could not pry her loose. Raed caught a fractured glimpse of his attacker. She did not seem to worry about the water; instead, her gleaming eyes focused solely on him.

A peculiar lethargy stole over Raed. A long second passed where just giving up felt like the easiest course. But then he thought of them. Fraine, his little sister, lost somewhere in the Empire, abandoned to a bloody and cruel fate. Sorcha, the redhaired Deacon, who he had said good-bye to on a pier. Her words had been strong, but her blue eyes had been soft. He’d been certain they would see each other again.

For those two, he would not give up. Yet he was falling—spiraling into darkness. What other choice did he have but to call out to the Rossin? His Curse. His enemy. His only hope.

Down in the depths of blood and bone, the Rossin stirred as his host called. Life was fading around them both, smothered in dank river water and under the golden eyes of the woman.

It could stay quiet and let their attacker have her way. By the time that twisted geistlord had crushed the Young Pretender, the Rossin would already be far away inside the body of Fraine—next in the bloodline.

Yet that powerful entity did not like to give in to another of his kind, and the royal line was not as large as it had once been. Hatipai may have been a shadow of her former power, but he was not. The Rossin called on his shape.

Raed’s body was his material, and the geistlord stirred and molded it to his own purposes. Sinew and muscle snapped, twisting out of the woman’s unnatural grip even as her hands clawed deeper. The Rossin’s mer-shape, the one that was emblazoned on the flag that flew over the Dominion, sprang into being; the front a great pard, all claw and tooth, while the rear of it a coil of mighty scales and fins. The muscle-bound shape flicked its tail and dived deeper.

Hatipai’s hand was wrapped around its fin, and she would not let go. The Rossin roared into the water and snapped at her with long teeth.

It was beginning to recall how it felt to have a real enemy. Those of its kind that had relied on the faith and worship of humans had faded and withered. He had never expected to face another.

Yet here she was, in a form stitched of stolen bodies, glaring at him with radiant hatred.

You helped them imprison me. You betrayed me to humans! After all these generations her voice was the same, as beautiful as broken stained glass.

You wanted to destroy my bloodline, my home, he replied as he swam deeper, all the time twisting and turning to shake her off, but not quite able to reach her with his teeth.

It didn’t matter. She wore a human body. It could be a useful thing but also a liability—especially when stolen and stitched as hers was. It told the Rossin one important thing; she had to be on the very edge of nonexistence to form such a worthless vessel.

Yet, as the Rossin swam deeper and deeper, he realized something else—so was he. The battle with the Murashev had taken much of his power, and he had not been able to consume any more blood and flesh since then.

The Rossin could feel his enemy’s grasp puncture his flesh. He turned in ever decreasing circles, snapping with his teeth, but she was faster. She swapped her hands, yanking her body out of the way just in time. They were nearly at the bottom of the river, and both wrapped in slimy riverweed. Terrified fish and crocodiles swam away from their thrashing bodies, which churned the water.

Hatipai would take the remaining power for her own—thus had it always been between their kind—only the strong would survive and feed off the lesser. He spun and twisted, but now rocketed up toward the surface.

Hatipai laughed, triumphant. Revenge is indeed as sweet as humanity says.

Yet the Rossin was not as he had been when last they tangled. Deep down was the Bond, the connection that ran invisibly between the geistlord and the two most powerful Deacons in Arkaym. Just as his attacker pulled the Rossin down to take everything that remained, the Bond bloomed. The power of the Active and the Sensitive filled him—sweet and delicious. It fueled his depleted muscles, giving the Rossin enough strength to complete his last hope.

The great mer-cat leapt clear of the river’s surface, a lion’s roar breaking the quiet of the morning. This time Hatipai’s human body did let her down. She slipped and lost her grip as he tumbled through the air.

The Rossin dived back in, turned savagely about, and fell on her like the beast it had chosen to be.

In an instant it ripped apart the flesh and bone she had taken such pains to construct. Though it felt very good to tear and rend, he had to be quick. If he could get to her core hidden in the soft meat and devour it, her power would instead become his.

Yet it was a long time since he had fought another geistlord, and Hatipai was unfortunately too fast. She gave up the rent shell of flesh, leaping away skyward, where he could not follow without great risk. Her voice floated down to him. I know what you are doing, old friend. I am not as foolish as the humans.

The Rossin was left bobbing in the river, his thick tail wrapped around the remains, while his eyes followed the trail of her flight. He knew that she would not give up so easily. Geists, most especially geistlords, were creatures of infinite malice and infinite determination. Hatipai would come again—but first she would regroup and find more power.

Deep within the Rossin he felt Raed struggle, pitting his useless strength against a foe he had never won against. First we must feed. Discarding the now flavorless corpse, the Rossin ducked under the lapping waves of the river. This place was full of humanity, and he would not be caught unawares like that again. He would take blood and wreak havoc in the villages—only then would he surrender the reins of control back to his host.

Let him do his weeping and wailing once it was over. Grief and kindness were not emotions the Rossin knew. He did, however, have a sense of self-preservation—and Hatipai had been a fierce opponent in the Dark Time. He would not be this weak again.

With a snarl, the Rossin flexed his scaled tail and made for the shore. Blood and flesh would fill him. Let the humans of Chioma run screaming; it only added flavor to what he needed. Their laws and fears were of no concern to him.