Spectyr

TWENTY-ONE Interview in a Library

Raed knew a palace in uproar when he experienced it. As they passed through the corridors and atriums, he was reminded of the Unsung’s house in exile. His father always had a flair for the dramatic. He could send servants scuttling and his put-upon valet running about as if the Otherside was opening again.

They were lighting little cones of incense in sconces on the wall, and the scent was floral, thick, and though Raed knew it was supposed to be welcoming, he found it too cloying. It remained to be seen what the Grand Duchess Zofiya would think of it.

She was the second in line to the throne of Arkaym, and no one as close to the ultimate power in the Empire had been to Orinthal since his grandfather. It was a big event for Chioma.

“I wish they’d just get out of our damn way,” Sorcha grumbled. He wanted to hold her hand again—but this time he restrained himself.

Fraine was out there, and Sorcha had managed to find a lead when everything Isseriah found had come to nothing. Yet they had to hurry. The shade of that girl had stirred every fear in his body. It could have been his sister.

Sorcha stopped and turned. Her blue eyes focused on him with that intensity he found both amazing and a little scary. “We’ll get her back, Raed.” Then she leaned forward and whispered for his ears alone, “If we have to pull down every brick of the Hive City to do it.”

In another’s mouth that might have been a joke—but the Deacon was deadly serious. “Then let’s start with the brick we know about,” he replied.

She shot him a little smile, tight and slightly wicked, and then strode on toward the women’s quarters. Outside the door stood one guard, a eunuch who must have been at ast six and a half feet tall, with arms crossed. He appeared not nearly as impressed with the Deacon standing before him as he should.

“No entire man can enter,” he rumbled.

“I stand surety for his behavior,” Sorcha replied, crossing her own arms. “I and my Order.”

The eunuch shifted slightly.

The Deacon took a step forward. “Or I could return to your Prince and tell him you have stood in the way of the investigation he charged us with . . . ”

The mountain of a man glanced around as if he expected someone to relieve him, but finally even he gave way to Deacon Sorcha Faris. He unlocked the door and stood aside.

She was not done with him. “I want a full assembly of every blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman in the harem. How many will that be?”

The eunuch glanced her up and down, and after a moment gave her a little bow of his head. “The Prince chooses his women almost exclusively from Chioma—there are only three women who fit this description, my lady.” It was not the proper honorific for one of her standing, but the guard undoubtedly didn’t have much contact with the Deacons of the Order.

Raed observed Sorcha’s tiny flinch, but she nodded. “Then we will need a room to interview them.” The guard directed them a small antechamber just off the cloistered area, where a small library was housed so the harem would have something to do other than gossip and sew.

While he lumbered off to get the women, Raed looked askance at Sorcha. “So how are we to tell which of them are responsible for that girl’s death?”

The Deacon pressed her lips together. “If Merrick were here, it would be easy. But since he is not . . . ” She paused, eyeing him in a calculating fashion that Raed did not appreciate. When she did that, the woman who entranced him was washed away, and he caught a glimpse of the Deacon the Order had made.

She shook her head. “I guess that method wasn’t the best for the shade—we will just have to rely on my limited Sight and manipulating them into revealing themselves.”

The eunuch had obviously taken her orders to heart, because he appeared with the three women and even knocked courteously on the door. The ladies smiled at Raed—but he didn’t feel particularly flattered—after all, they saw very few men who still had their balls.

They were all indeed blonde, blue-eyed lovelies, and he couldn’t help smiling back at them. However, a second afterward he felt Sorcha stiffen at his side. No matter how intelligent or disciplined the female of the species was, competition was a part of their makeup that they could never shake.

These women were a little different—they were used to sharing a man, and it was obvious that Onika of Chioma enjoyed the trappings of his rank to the utmost. Each of them was delightfully curvy, with varying shades of honey hair and blue eyes, and being in the harem, they dressed to emphasize these attributes.

“Ladies.” He gave them a little bow, slightly more awkward than it might have been. “Thank you for your attendance.” Part of him couldn’t help wondering what Sorcha would look like dressed as these women were. The twitch in his pants at the thought was slightly distracting.

Two of them beamed at him, while the third and most beautiful looked far less impressed.

Sorcha tilted her head, looked at him askance, and raised one eyebrow as if to say, “I am interested to see where you are taking this.” Yet she remained silent, her fingers resting on the Gauntlets at her waist.

“You pulled me away from a game of trange,” the least amused one snapped. “I was about to win a pretty fortune from Lady Moyie.”

Raed tried not to take offense. “I am sorry, Lady . . . ”

The woman let the sentence dangle in the air for a second before folding her arms over her chest and replying, “Lady Gezian.”

“Well”—Raed pulled out a seat, and offered it to her—“Lady Gezian, my Deacon friend and I are terribly sorry to have taken you away from your game—but the Prince himself has sent us here on a mission.”

“Really.” One of the other two women beamed. “Lady Lisah and I would love to help.”

“Speak for yourself, Jaskia.” The other pouted. “I have never cared for Deacons.”

“I know,” Sorcha spoke up, her voice light while she directed her response with ruthless efficiency, “we are such a bother, what with protecting everyone from geist attack. Terribly dull of us, we know.”

Lisah opened her pretty mouth, struggled to find something to say in response, but coming up with nothing, snapped it shut instead. She sat meekly on the chair next to Lady Gezian. Meanwhile, Lady Jaskia continued to beam at Raed.

He wasn’t quite sure if she expected him to throw her on the table and have his way with her right away, but it was actually a little unnerving after a moment or two.

Luckily, Sorcha stepped in with her usual bluntness. “We are investigating the deaths that have been happening in the palace—and more specifically the Chancellor’s.”

“You know very little, then,” Gezian interrupted. “The Chancellor died of old age . . . or boredom.”

“Oh really.” Sorcha pointedly pulled her Gauntlets from her belt and slapped them down on the table directly in front of the three other women. Jaskia gave out a little squeak and jumped. “That’s not what your Prince thinks.”

Suddenly all traces of amusement, lust and irritation were washed from the ladies. It had to be the conditioning of the harem to instantly take very seriously anything that fell from Onika of Chioma’s lips.

“What did Father have to say?” Jaskia asked, and Raed, taken by surprise, turned on his heel to look at her. She certainly did not have the Prince’s coloring, but it was naturally impossible to tell if they had the same features compared to him—thanks to that damned mask.

“You’re the Prince’s daughter?” Sorcha leaned forward, resting her hands on the table and pressing the whole weight of her attention on the girl.

Jaskia blanched a little. “Just one of them in the harem—maybe ten or so. We remain here until we are married off.”

No tone of bitterness lingered in her tone, giving the impression that she had no resentment over that. Something had sparked in Raed’s mind—he recalled his grandfather’s journal and the mention of the peculiar breeding habit of that Prince of Chioma.

“And the heirs? The male children—where are they kept?” he asked, pressing his hand against his beard.

Jaskia shrugged. “I don’t know—obviously they are not ept in the harem—so I have never seen one.”

Which sounded perfectly normal, except the words of his grandfather echoed in his head. None have ever seen the heirs to the throne of Chioma.

Sorcha cleared her throat. “Well, regardless, your father deputized us to get to the bottom of these murders—and as daughter and”—her gaze fell on the other two women as she obviously struggled to find the right term—“loyal citizens of Chioma, you will be glad to help, I am sure.”

Lisah sat up straighter in her chair. “Naturally—no one wants a murderer loose in the palace. What do you need to know?”

“Where were you and what were you doing on the day of the Chancellor’s death?” Sorcha said bluntly, and Raed inwardly winced. Active Deacons were taught a lot of things—cantrips, runes and history—however, what they were not taught was tact. He knew that mostly the Order turned up, fought geists and sent them packing. They dealt with the undead—not usually the living.

“You suspect us?” Lady Gazian slammed back her chair and rose to her feet while her face blazed bright red. “How dare you come in here and suggest that we have anything to do with these murders!”

Lady Lisah replied in a slightly calmer tone. “We are confined to the harem. How do you think we could have even gotten out of it to go and murder the Chancellor?”

“You could easily go outside if you had help from one of the eunuchs.” Sorcha folded her arms. “I am sure that even without the lure of sex, you ladies all still know how to wind men around your little fingers.”

“But how could we—” Jaskia held her hand up to her mouth. “How could we do such terrible things? None of us could possibly do that . . . ”

Gazian rolled her eyes. “We were at the trange tournament, if you must know—it is held once a month, and all of us were playing that day.”

“I presume others of the harem can vouch for you being there?” Raed sat on the table and smiled pleasantly at Gazian, who had trouble not smiling back.

“Is my word not enough?”

They might be cosseted and locked away, but these women were like Court females all over the Empire: they expected to be treated with respect. They demanded it, in fact.

He had to be careful. Though the Prince wanted them to find answers, Raed doubted he would appreciate his women complaining. “Normally, yes—but this is serious, and my partner here”—he gestured to Sorcha, who tilted her head—“is the kind of woman who goes on hard facts.”

It was the tactic used all over the Empire—from city guards to politicians—one nice person, one angry one with the stick. When faced with that, people always chose to turn to the pleasanter person—well, at least those not used to the technique.

Gazian glanced at the other two women. “Both Lady Jaskia and Lisah were at the tournament—we can vouch for one another.”

Lisah gave out a little chuckle. “Yes—of course we can . . . but”—she paused, a tiny frown bending her flawless forehead—“but Jaskia wasn’t there in the morning. She—”

What exact excuse the daughter of the Prince had given was never to be found out. The room shook and rumbled as if thunder was bearing down on them. That was impossible, since thunder in Chioma was restricted to the rainy season.

The smell of spice and sweat filled the room as shadows swallowed up its corners. Jaskia screamed, her mouth flying far too wide for a human body to bear, and the sound that came out of it was far too large for her tiny body. Then she began to stretch upward, flesh pulled impossibly long. The sound of it grated on the ear and turned the stomach. Sinews popped, and bones poked from her joints in unnatural angles. Something was coming through her.

Lisah and Gazian screamed as if their lives depended on it, bolting for the door, but Raed was rooted to the spot. He knew there was no point in him running. He had enough experience with geists that he recognized a powerful one when it loomed over him.

At his side he heard Sorcha shout something, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the geist. It looked like a perverse hand puppet of the Lady Jaskia, stretched around something else—something that was pushing up through her.

The Deacon at his side summoned her blazing rune Shayst; green light licked her fingers as she held her Gauntleted hand toward the creature. It was the rune designed to pull power away from a geist, but her face by the light of it was twisted—not the usual calm mask. Without Merrick, Raed realized, she was still struggling.

Then fire ran up his spine, his vision blurred, and everything became irrelevant. Raed clutched his stomach, feeling panic consume him along with the pain. “Sorcha!” he yelled as his flesh turned against him. The Rossin would not stand for this. It was roaring its way up from inside him.

Please, no, please. Not here. Not with her. His mind called out hopeless prayers to the unforgiving Rossin.

He caught a glimpse of the Deacon turning toward him and felt a faint tug of the Bond between them like the end of hope—but it was far too late. The control slipped away from her—without Merrick in the Bond, she wasn’t strong enough to hold the Rossin.

Raed managed one more strangled cry to Sorcha, and then he fell toward the Curse, hearing his own scream turn into the geistlord’s cry for blood.

It was one of her creatures. The Rossin flew toward reality on wings of utter rage. She had tried to destroy him, first by direct attack and now by sending one of her minions, her lesser creatures, to take what was his—to break this flesh that he treasured.

Yet the Rossin had strength that Hatipai had not really explored properly at their last meeting. She hadn’t taken full notice of the changes time could produce among humans—let alone known the power of the Deacons. Her lack of knowledge was the Rossin’s advantage—one that he seized upon.

Since she had been contained, the various Orders of Deacons had come to power, and as he ruptured into the world, he felt it again—the rune-fed strength that flowed from the redhaired one. The Deacon’s foolishly constructed Bond was still in place—it constrained him, but it was also a source of unexpected strength.

As he took over Raed’s body, he drew on it with great satisfaction: fur rippled and broke through skin, jaws lengthened and grew teeth as sharp as razors, flesh twisted. The Rossin was once again breathing in the world of humans. He announced his coming with a roar that sent humans screaming in blind panic.

Unlike Hatipai, his enemy, he was confined to one person, his essence tied to a single bloodline, and he could not construct a body from scraps of flesh. It had advantages and disadvantages. As the great lion shape snarled his rage into the confines of the library, he felt the advantages particularly strongly.

Muscles stretched and popped, and he shook himself. Human females squealed and tried to run, but his bulk blocked the door. The Rossin did not bother to swipe at them but leapt at the ghast snapping in the corner of the library.

This creature was made of human flesh as well, but it was merely a meat puppet compared to a fully realized geistlord. The thing’s curved, needlelike teeth shattered on the Beast’s hide as it lunged forward. Its smell was something dried and moldy—an odor not to the Rossin’s liking. The human trapped within the ghast screamed in pain as her flesh buckled in the ghast’s control. Unlike the Young Pretender, she was feeling everything her inhabitant did.

It was almost mercy when the Rossin’s jaws closed like a trap around its throat. He shook the ghast hard, like a cat with a particularly vile rat. The thin thread of human life was broken and the focus of the geist destroyed. It was sent howling back to the Otherside, and the flood of human blood in the Rossin’s mouth was untainted.

It poured over his long, rough tongue and filled his throat with sweet, sharp flavor. Blood and power—they had always been tightly bound. This is what had brought him here to this world.

The Rossin spun on his paws, his great size making him awkward in the confines of the library. A shelf fell and smashed the window with a tremendously satisfying clatter that sent the humans into another massive screaming panic. It drew the Beast’s attention to them.

The Deacon was nearby, standing still against the far wall. She had her Gauntlets on, but her hands were limp at her side—for there was no rune in their lexicon that could draw power from the Rossin. He was as grounded in this world as they were.

“Shut up,” he heard her hiss, presumably to the terrified females sobbing in the corner, smelling of urine and sweat. They were jammed in between two tumbled shelves of books. “Stay very still,” the contemptible Deacon instructed them, and the Rossin felt her trying to take hold again with the Bond. Yet she was weak. The Bond was weak. Somehow the foolish creature had lost her partner.

The Rossin’s lip curled back and it inhaled. The other Deacon was not dead; that would have left this female completely exposed to him. No, the Otherside was close, and he had gone through there. Such a thing had not been attempted by a flesh human for generations. The Rossin was almost impressed.

However, should the male Deacon make a miraculous return, then the Bond would be restored to its strength—the Rossin had to move quickly.

The great cat snarled and lashed his tail, but he had no time to wreak havoc upon these quivering females. She was out there once again seeking to overcome him. All she had to do was find a body strong enough to contain her, locate the Ehtia device, and then even he would have trouble overcoming her.

When he roared at the female, all curving fangs and hot spittle, it was to show the Deacon that he would deal with her later. Soon she would feel his wrath. That quite unhinged the other two women, and they bolted from the fragile safety of the tumbled bookshelves toward the imagined safety of the door.

In reflex the Rossin lunged, his massive paw catching one around the torso, ripping her open, spilling blood and gore over his fur and the floor. The other he snapped at, enjoying the tiny scream, and then the crunch of her backbone between his jaws. He enjoyed aw more satisfying chomps before dropping the broken thing to the ground.

The Deacon yelled, her Gauntlets now flaring bright red with a rune that could not touch him. If she was protected from the ravages of the geistlord, then he was just as protected from her. The fire flowed over and past him as if he were her, which in a way he was.

It must have cost her to do that—foolishly loving his host as she did. With great contempt the Rossin bunched his hindquarters, leapt clear through the window, and landed on the roof of the lower palace. It was a feat no mortal creature could have performed.

Behind he could hear running and shouting—but such sounds were no longer his concern—all that mattered were those sounds of horror that lay ahead. His mouth was already watering as the prospect.