Spectyr

TWENTY-FIVE The Eye and the Fist

Sorcha let Merrick lead the way mainly so she could keep an eye on her young partner. They had to avoid the main thoroughfares, which made getting back to the palace a rather laborious process. Everyone not on the streets was slamming shut their doors—barricading them if they could.

“The pull of the geistlord”—Merrick shot a glance over his shoulder—“is only felt by those true believers.”

Sorcha’s laugh was so sharp it could have cut. “I always knew faith was a bad habit.”

“It may be that all gods are not geists.” The alleyways were strung with washing lines so that Merrick had to push through someone’s dirty linens merely to make headway.

Just how her partner could say such a thing with such confidence was a mystery. He had returned with more secrets than was right. She was just about to demand some sort of explanation when Merrick flicked two sheets aside and saw a scene that neither of them could walk away from—even if they wanted to.

Abbot Yohari was the last person Sorcha would have expected to see in the back alleys of Orinthal, especially bleeding on the ground holding up the blue fire shield of Aydien while being attacked by his own Deacons.

Merrick stood there for a moment, horrified by the sight of those attackers Delie and Jey. The older partner saw Sorcha and smiled—a smile that sank reality into the Vermillion Dacon’s heart. She was not wearing her Gauntlets—the other Active most certainly was.

It was not the first time she had faced off against one of the Order, so she moved a little faster than Merrick. Grabbing him by the back of his robe, she yanked him hard, sending them both tumbling, just as the lightning of Chityre filled the alleyway. It danced over the Abbot’s waning shield before flicking and spitting up the mud walls. Seldom had Sorcha had the opportunity to experience the rune from the other side of the Gauntlet—it really was most impressive.

Still, finally she had a target for her rage. Sorcha had her Gauntlets on in a heartbeat, rolled to her feet and wrapped her own Aydien around them. No Chiomese turncoat Deacon was going to best her. Even the idiot Arch Abbot Rictun had never brought into question her own talent or power. Her shield pulsed brighter, moved faster and enveloped Abbot Yohari before his could drop away. Together Merrick and Sorcha went to his side.

She could not, however, spare a glance down; it was not that holding Aydien up was hard, but she watched Delie carefully as she dropped Chityre. The older woman whispered a word to her Sensitive, who looked as calm as a rabbit before a polecat.

At her side Sorcha heard Merrick tending to the Abbot, though her partner’s Center still remained open and shared with her. He will live. Merrick’s voice in her head was hot with outrage.

“You’ve attacked your own Abbot—a cardinal offense whichever way you cut it.” Sorcha cocked her head and addressed the two rogue Deacons through the flickering blue of Aydien. “As representative of the Mother Abbey, I demand you surrender your Strop and Gauntlets to me and prepare to be escorted to Vermillion for trial.”

Delie’s lip curled while her hands flexed—Sorcha already knew the answer before it came. “Never! The Order is a hollow nothing now that the Bright One has returned.”

The idea that anyone would place the Order of the Eye and the Fist below a little god made Sorcha bark out a laugh. “You break your oath to the people of this land for a childish imagining? I did not know fools were so easily let into the Chiomese Order!”

“Perhaps not the best reply—” Merrick’s warning was cut short as Delie shoved Jey out of the way and raised her Gauntlets. The green light of Shayst flickered on the Chiomese Deacon’s Gauntlets, and Sorcha felt her rage flare at the same time. She had to let it out.

If these Deacons thought that they could drain power from her with the very same rune they used on geists, they were about to be disabused of the notion.

“Take out that damn Sensitive!” she snarled at Merrick while calling Seym to her. A giddy rush and then the Rune of Flesh filled her muscles with strength, giving her the power of one possessed.

Kill her? Merrick’s question made her head ring with his horror.

Not unless you have to. Reaching the older Active, she sprang upon her with vengeful glee. Delie’s eyes widened as she realized that Shayst was not taking power away from Sorcha nearly quickly enough. The depth of the triple Bond was unique, but the Deacon from Vermillion did not give Delie time to ponder it long.

Gauntlets were seldom used as a weapon of physical attack—but that did not mean they could not be put to that purpose. Sorcha delivered a strong left hook into the other Active’s stomach, knocking her back and leaving her gasping for breath.

However, she too could draw on Shayst, and when she did, she came at Sorcha with as much rage as the Vermillion Deacon. They had no time to spar or take each other’s measure; the runes could not be held indefinitely, and this was no competitive boxing match.

Merrick and Jey were fighting nearby, their strikes fast and more accurate than those of the Active. Yet none of them were drawing swords. Despite falling on one another like brawling children, not one of the Deacons would draw their blades on another.

Though she might be angry, somewhere in the back of Sorcha’s mind lurked the suspicion that Hatipai had done something to her fellow Deacons. Unlike the traitors in Ulrich, these two had a bemused air about them, as if they were not quite all there.

Still, they could do plenty of damage. Sorcha took a good uppercut blow from Delie and reeled back. The Rune of Flesh dulled pain and swelled muscles, but she would feel the damage all the same when she let go of it. The next blow the Chiomese Deacon hammered down at her, Sorcha caught fast with her left hand. Pivoting on one foot, she caught Delie in a wristlock behind her back.

“Give up,” she hissed in the other’s ear. “Remember your training and your loyalty.”

Her opponent struggled. “My first loyalty was always to the Bright One—there can be no greater calling than to obey her will.”

Sorcha dared a glance at Merrick. His eyes were shadowed with pain, even as he kicked out and knocked Jey from her feet. It was not surprising that he took no pleasure from attacking a fellow Deacon and a woman. The female Sensitive looked up at Merrick and for a second there appeared some clarity in her vision.

“Delie,” she gasped, “please—let’s just go.”

Her partner struggled briefly and then sagged in Sorcha’s grasp. She was wise enough to know she was outmatched. Sorcha pushed her away hard, using her arm as leverage. When Delie turned about, her eyes were hard and bitter. Whatever force had the Chiomese, it had sunk its claws deeper into her than Jey.

Logically, Sorcha should have drawn her sword and dispatched the two of them, because they would undoubtedly bring back reinforcements to finish the job—but she hesitated.

Her training had taught her sympathy and care for those possessed—and though Sorcha had never seen anything like this kind, she knew it was something similar. Though her hand caressed the pommel of her sword, she did not draw it.

“Come, Jey,” Delie snarled, yanking her Sensitive to her feet. Tears looked ready to spring to the young Deacon’s eyes as she followed her Active away down the alleyway.

That was when lightning struck out of the clear blue sky. It smashed the three-story wall above the Chiomese Deacons with a deafening boom of thunder that filled the tiny space and knocked Sorcha and Merrick off their feet. For a moment everything was white.

When it finally cleared enough for her to see again, she turned to see Abbot Yohari propped up on the street behind them, his Gauntleted hand raised with the remains of Chityre still dancing on it. His dark, handsome face was twisted in pain and rage for a heartbeat before it was quickly smoothed away in a wash of trained discipline.

One glance back to where the tumbled remains of the building stood told Sorcha that no one was climbing out of that wreckage. Still, she looked to Merrick. His shake of the head was the final confirmationidtv>

Standing over the Abbot, she released her breath slowly before pointing out to him, “They were retreating.”

His expression would have suited a statue. “They strayed from the path,” was his only reply.

Sorcha couldn’t decide what to make of this implacability. The Order had plenty of rules that she was sure she didn’t care to know about.

Yohari stripped off his gloves, tucked them under his belt and then imperiously held out a hand to Sorcha. Their gazes locked, and for the longest moment Sorcha didn’t move. Finally it was Merrick, faithful, dependable Merrick, who darted forward and helped the injured Abbot to his feet.

Every muscle that Sorcha owned, as if on cue, began to ache—but it was highly unlikely that she would have time for a soak in a hot bath. Not for a very long time. Despite the pain, she did not remove her Gauntlets.

“Take me to the Prince.” The Abbot leaned against Merrick and glared at Sorcha. “We must get to the Prince.”

She would have loved an excuse to leave Yohari—but somehow the Bonds of loyalty still held her to the path of the Order—and she couldn’t let Merrick shoulder all of this burden. Taking her place under the Abbot’s right arm, smelling the tang of blood and incense, Sorcha found herself agreeing with him.

“To the Prince, then—and by the Bones, it had better be a short, uneventful walk.”

They reached their destination in the sullen cold of the evening. Raed had long ago given up trying to outlast Zofiya and had dropped back to sleep in the swaying carriage. If life on the run had taught him anything, it was that you were always best to take rest where you could.

So when the carriage rumbled to a stop, he jerked awake and reached automatically for his sword. The sheath was empty at his side, and his hands remained tied firmly with the weirstones.

Zofiya, on the opposite seat, smiled at him almost coyly, then, leaning forward, she yanked on the cord that bound him. For a second Raed contemplated putting up a fight but then decided his energy was best preserved. If the Grand Duchess got her thrills leading him around like a tame animal, then he would let her grow accustomed to that illusion.

“I hope we haven’t kept everyone waiting,” he muttered as he stepped out of the carriage.

Zofiya’s laugh was low and delighted. “They would wait for you, Raed Syndar Rossin, because you are the guest of honor.”

It was not exactly a cheery comment, so Raed decided to ignore it.

They were still out in the sand—hardly surprising, since they had been traveling with the setting sun on their left, which meant only more desert. The heat had long dissipated; instead, a freezing cold wind was blowing off the dunes. Raed shivered and looked about him. A long row of flaming torches led somewhere in the dark, though he could make out a hump of some kind on the horizon—it blocked out the stars. It could be just another sand dune, but some deeper awareness, something from the Rossin, most likely, said it was not.

“I do hope this isn’t another ‘we need royal blood’ ritual.” He sighed in mock boredom. “Because I already went through one of those recently.”

“The Murashev in Vermillion?” Zofiya’s voice was tny in the vast desert. “That was a geist—this is for our Bright One.”

“It’s not royal blood they want, Brother”—a second female voice came out of the dark—“else they could have had some of mine.”

For a long beat of his heart Raed remained frozen, certain that somehow his mother’s spectyr had found her way here. It was her voice, light and sweet but still full of the command of a royal lady. Tears leapt to his eyes in an instant as the last image he had of her flashed before him—her beautiful face twisted in agony, just before the Rossin took her life.

The Young Pretender spun around. A form, tall and shapely, stood by the closest torch. It was hooded, but as he watched, delicate hands pushed aside the cowl. Curls of bright gold hair tumbled down her back but were held away from her face by a string of gleaming pearls, and Raed took a step away in shock. His sister was the living image of their mother.

“Fraine?”

His sister stood by the torch and made not a move toward him. It had been nearly ten years since he had seen her, but her face held not one ounce of joy. Nor was she bound; however, as he looked closer, there was something missing in her eyes—they were as blank as a blyweed user.

Raed shot a glance back at Zofiya, who merely smiled. “Fraine”—Raed ventured cautiously forward, his eyes darting into the darkness—“what have they done to you?”

“That isn’t the right question you know, Brother. You should be asking what I have done to you.” Her voice was strangely flat.

Raed felt his spine run with ice water as a terrible sensation of unreality crept over him. This couldn’t be Fraine! It had to be some cruel illusion of his beloved sister. He couldn’t have traveled all this way to find this.

“Fraine?”

“Do stop using my name!” she hissed, finally moving forward. Dimly, Raed realized that his sister was as tall as he. “Don’t tell me you honestly thought I had been kidnapped?”

Everything was still. Even the wind off the dunes had died down. Raed’s mouth was dry. He did not know what to say.

“But Tang said . . . ” He was grasping at anything—any facts.

“I am not as blinded by old loyalties as I once was.” Tangyre Greene walked into the light to stand next to Fraine.

This was like some sort of grotesque stage play. Raed had always prided himself on his quick wits, and yet, though everything was making a kind of cruel sense, he still couldn’t bear to accept it. He shook his head. “What would make my family do this to me?” It was whispered under his breath, but the two women heard him well enough.

Tangyre glanced at her Princess but saw that for the moment she had the floor. At least Captain Greene had enough loyalty to look guilty. “It’s not about you, my Prince—but about what you have failed to do.”

Raed managed to find some dull anger. He glared at her. “And what is that?”

“Protect your family.” Her jaw clenched. “You have been happy to leave your father and sister to rot on that stinking island.”

“I had no choice.” He turned to Fraine, pushing aside the shade of their mother that hung between them. “You have to know that.”

The corner of her lips twitched. Her repthaen it came, was finally full of some kind of emotion—it was just a pity that it was real anger. “I’m still young, Raed—and that place is filled with the old and broken. You just left me there.”

That was when the Pretender knew and understood why his sister had turned on her own kin. He knew, because he was responsible. He knew, because he had chosen to leave the Dominion and take the chance, since they were close, to reunite with his family. They rarely visited the mainland, but a loyal lord, who lived on a remote peninsular, invited them to celebrate the harvest with him. The risks were very low—at least from their enemies.

Back then the Rossin Curse had been merely a quaint legend—something that they chuckled about over family dinners. It was sheer chance that he had spent his youth from the age of ten aboard a ship, learning to lead and to fight and surrounded by the open water that geists could not traverse.

When the Rossin took him, right during just such a meal, there had been no more laughter. Raed remembered the tearing sensation deep in his flesh, hearing the baying of the Beast and the screams of those around him. He even recalled the feeling of the bullet’s strike as the more quick-witted of his father’s guards tried to stop him. The worst memory, however, was of the jaws of the Rossin closing around his mother, the scent of her fear and the taste of her blood.

Raed clenched his teeth, ravaged again by those sensations, as if they had occurred only yesterday. He had awoken aching, screaming and covered in the lifeblood of the one who bore him. His father had been destroyed, but out of some kind of guilt of his own had sent his only son out onto the world’s oceans. They had all learned that day the true sting of myth.

And now here was Fraine, looking at him with the same rage but untempered by any remorse. Raed could have spoken in his defense, said something about the Curse or the Beast or how he had no choice. Instead he remained silent, his jaw locked around any reply.

“You robbed me of my mother,” Fraine said, as Tangyre squeezed her shoulder. “And then you abandoned me. I wanted a life, but instead I was trapped with Father.”

At five there would be only flashes of memory for his sister, but he suddenly could see through her eyes: an island full of the elderly and damaged. Zofiya was silent, swaying slightly, and barely taking any notice of the little family drama being played out.

“You were safe there,” he finally croaked out. “And we thought it was better you were safe than—”

“What I had there was not worth saving.” Her hand went to her sword hilt, and abruptly Raed realized she was dressed for war. So mesmerized had he been that he had not noticed her Imperial dress. The dress of purple and dark blue of their family, including the Rising Star Crest of the Rossin heir.

“This is insanity, Fraine! Why are you wearing that?” Raed lurched forward, only to have his feet knocked out from under him by Zofiya.

But it was Tang who replied, “As heir to the Rossin name, Fraine will have excellent marriage prospects. Especially once the Empress stands on the throne. She will cancel the price on her head.”

The thing behind Zofiya’s eyes shifted, and Raed felt himself plunge deeper into madness. “Empress?”

The smile on her face was stretched. “With your sister’s backing, the rebel Princes will fall into line. I will rule, and in return my Bright Lady will help your sister by taking care of the Rossin. Once the faithful have gathered tomorrow, you will die; he will die with you and not be passed on to her.”

Raed pressed his lips together lest a cry escape him. When suicide had tempted him, it was the thought that Fraine would suffer the Rossin if he did, which stopped him. Apparently none of this mattered to her—he was simply the man who had killed her mother and any chance of a happy life.

“I want to watch you suffer first. I want you to know real loss.” Fraine got up, brushed off her pants and gestured to the guards waiting in the darkness. Raed managed to struggle to his knees just as his crew was dragged through the sand dunes; all were bound, and many looked as though they had put up a fierce fight.

Abruptly he knew what their fate was. “No!” Pulling his feet under him, he charged at the guard nearest him holding the silent and bruised Snook. The Young Pretender never reached them.

Other guards sprang from the shadows. Raed fought back with forehead and shoulder, but they knocked him down quickly, and with rifle butts and fists kept him down. The Young Pretender swore, snarled and wished for the Rossin to take him, but nothing happened. He had the wind knocked out of him, and when they were done, he was left staring at the stars.

“Get him up.” Fraine’s voice reached him like he was underwater. It should have come as no surprise to him that it was Isseriah who tugged Raed back up onto his knees. Under the rule of a new Rossin Emperor it was certain that the rebel had been promised his earldom back. Raed had no more venom, but he spat at the traitor’s feet.

Bruised and heartsick, the Young Pretender looked at his five crew members: Snook, Laython, Balis, Nyre and the young blade Iyle. They looked back at him with clenched jaws, dark eyes and resignation. They knew as well as he what was coming.

“It has been a pleasure to sail the waters with you, my Prince.” Snook tilted her head up, the light washing over her narrow, sweet face. She had never used his title as Aachon was wont to do. That she did so now poured cold horror through him.

“Long live Prince Raed,” she cried, and the other four crew members repeated her call as if their lives depended on it—but it made not one jot of difference.

“It’s been my honor,” Raed choked out.

He was held tightly as, in one practiced move, all five guards slit all five throats. Not one of them cried for mercy. The gushing of blood flooded over the sand, and then they let the bodies drop. Like that, they were no longer human, just bundles of meat he had once known, loved and sailed with.

Raed bellowed, reaching for the rage of the Rossin, not caring what happened after—but all he found was emptiness. This was his crew. They had followed him for years, and he’d taken them to their deaths far from the oceans they loved. Like everything else, it was his fault.

“I see now, Brother”—Raed glanced up as his sister’s words fell on him like rough stones—“that you do in fact have a heart. That is, until they cut it out of you.”

What could he say to his sister? No matter how many times Raed told himself that it was the Curse, the Beast, the Rossin that had torn their mother to shreds, he could not shake the guilt that it had been him in some way.

For Fraine, the Young Pretender could find no words. She was not the little sister he had carried on his shoulders, but neither was he that carefree lad anmore. The Rossin had killed both of them along with their mother.

Fraine and Tangyre looked down at him for a second. Raed wanted them to stop looking at him, wanted it to be over with. Every bone and muscle ached in his body, but it was not as terrible as the pain in his soul—if he had a soul.

His sister looked across at Zofiya. “Will it be painful?”

The Grand Duchess hummed a little tune under her breath, her eyes on the looming mound that blackened the horizon. “They will all be gathered tomorrow, and the Bright One will descend.”

Zofiya’s laugh cracked halfway through, and even in his pain Raed could hear there was less and less of herself in her voice. He knew all about being eaten up from the inside. “Oh, it will hurt. The Bright One will devour his heart and brain and through them the Beast inside.”

In the firelight Fraine swallowed hard, for a moment looking pale, but she regained her composure and nodded. “Good . . . I want him to suffer just as our mother did. I want him to know pain and fear before he dies.”

“That you can be guaranteed.” The Grand Duchess sketched a little mocking bow. “Now, get you to the north and rouse the Princes there to our cause.”

Then the two women who had brought him to this fate turned on their heels, and quickly the darkness took them.

Raed shook himself, feeling the blood of his crew beginning to pool around his knees. He knew he had to stop Zofiya—she would tear the Empire apart. Even if she did manage to claim the throne, it would mean death and war for years—maybe generations.

“Zofiya,” he said, twisting around, “what are you thinking? You will have to kill your brother to take the crown. Everything I have seen says you love him dearly!”

Her eyes, when they looked at him, were confused, as if the spirit of the Grand Duchess was down there somehow, swimming desperately toward comprehension but unable to find it.

Sensing a chance, Raed tried to throw her a lifeline. “You swore to protect Kaleva! He is your brother—your blood.”

A flicker of horror passed over her finely carved face, the look of a sister who did still love her sibling. Yet even as hope surged in Raed, the expression passed, and she was once more a statue of calm. “The Emperor has always despised religion. He will never accept the Bright One as I have. I will show them the proper path.”

“You will bring about chaos!” Raed tried to surge to his feet but was held down by three guards.

Zofiya’s mouth formed a smile that was not her own. “And that will serve my mistress well.” She turned and faced the darkness on the horizon, the place where no stars burned. “Bring him—we go to make ready for her.”

Raed struggled weakly, but it was now only a primitive survival instinct. He had never felt more beaten and broken. It was almost enough to make him yearn for the next day. Almost.