Wrayth

TWENTY-THREE Between the Jaws

The geistlord landed softly in the darkness of the cellar and inhaled a great whiff of air. That was the wonderful thing about a body; it brought him so much more information than when he’d been a creature of ether—or even worse, in between, trapped in Raed’s mind.

Immediately, he knew that the cellar was full of old things, a dead rat or two in the forgotten corners, the scent of rusted metal, and somewhere, the odor of humanity.

However, there was nothing like the smell of another geistlord—which was what the Rossin had been hoping for. The cat’s huge head swung from side to side and his annoyed growl filled the space. He’d been aiming to catch one of his kin by surprise, and devour them before the humans arrived to spoil things. The Rossin had hoped all this might be another geistlord’s doing, setting himself up as ruler in the guise of a god, as Hatipai had done. It was a favorite ploy, and one that might have suited the great cat, if he’d been clever enough to devour said geistlord. He would need all the power and strength he could gather in the days ahead.

Much as he hated it, his future lay with the humans—at least for now. He’d had to stomach much worse—especially in the early days—but it was galling to have to put up with their company after all this time. He would abide them for a while, and see what the winds of change brought him.

So as the rest of his human retinue scrambled through the portal behind him, the Rossin concentrated on the one scent that rose above those of earth and metal. It was no geistlord smell. It was most definitely human. However as he drew the air through his nostrils and over his tongue, the Rossin let his mouth open a little. A drone of a growl began in his chest as he began to sort the mix of odors out.

When the geistlord finally did, the realization of what he had found took him by surprise. It was not anything he would have expected.

Two scents; both were vaguely familiar—but one of them in particular had his full attention. It was the Tormentor. The one who had cheated him and cast the Rossin down into the depths of the family that belonged to him. The geistlord had spent generations lost in the state between life and death…unable to form into anything while the heir of the family continued to be born in Vermillion. It had been a thousand years before rule turned into legend and they bore a child beyond the city.

Somehow the Tormentor had not died but had cheated death. It had been a thousand years, but the Rossin’s rage still burned. It was lucky indeed that the Deacons were currently unable to read him through their Bond. They might have sensed his plans. The hatred was so deep-seated and ancient that even their pitiful senses would have been able to discern it.

While the geistlord digested this stunning new reality, the Deacons and the rest of the ragtag crew scrambled into the cellar, trying to be quiet and yet making a racket that disturbed his sensitive hearing.

For relief, the great cat padded to the door. He didn’t need to sniff to ascertain what was behind it; the smell of overripe, unhygienic human filled his nose. Generations and hundreds of years in an animal’s body had changed the Rossin’s perceptions of many things, but one thing that had not altered had been his impression of people. As far as he was concerned they were sweaty, undisciplined, foul creatures—good for little except for providing blood.

What he detected behind the door did not change his mind in that regard, nor did it make him anything like hungry.

When Sorcha came to the door, the Rossin stepped back and let her open it. Her reaction was most amusing. The Deacon staggered back a couple of steps, clapping her hand over her mouth.

“By the Bones,” she gasped to the little Sensitive behind her, “I think something died in here.”

Humanity’s sense of smell was not that accurate. Still when they went into the room there was much excited yelling, but no sign of the enemy. They had missed him by some little time. The Rossin could smell his odor lingering in the corners of the room even over the smell of excrement.

When the mortals finally emerged from the cell, they were dragging a sorry excuse for a man. Even among humans he would have been dismissed as refuse. They must have broken him free, because he had the end of the smashed chain still secured about his neck. He was covered in his own filth and wearing only the barest of clothes.

The Rossin was about to dismiss him as merely another worthless scrap when he stopped and narrowed his eyes on the pathetic creature.

The smell of excrement masked the man’s real scent, and it was probably meant to do that. A hot anger began to grow in the Rossin’s chest. He knew this man—or whatever he had claimed to be.

The cat’s massive claws clenched in the dirt, and he almost leapt upon him there and then. The Maker glanced at him from under a matted crown of hair, but said nothing. There was no flicker of recognition for the giant cat glaring at him.

It was greatly worrying that the Tormentor and the Maker would be in the same place—though they were often together in the early days, the geistlord thought they had fallen out. The Rossin crouched down on the floor and waited to see what would happen.

The humans were all chattering among themselves. They offered the Maker water and food; one of them even gave up her cloak to hide his near nakedness.

“What’s your name?” Sorcha asked as she gently tried to wipe away some of the grime with a handkerchief. It was of little use; the dirt went all the way through as far as the Rossin was concerned.

The Maker looked up at the Deacon and recognition flickered on his face. So even he saw it—the change in the Deacon—but he was sensible enough not to point it out. As always, the Maker was a cunning creature. Instead, he worked his jaw a little, and whispered, “Ratimana.”

The Rossin tensed. The foul man had not bothered to change his form nor his name—even in all these years. It was no wonder the Circle of Stars had been able to find him.

The Sensitive Deacon, Sorcha’s favorite, jerked. “I know that name. It is the one Nynnia told me to seek out.” He looked the filthy human up and down, and his confusion was easy to read. “But why?”

“Not all gifts shine,” the taller, older Sensitive, the one who smelled like old books and frustration, said.

“Did you see her?” Merrick bent down and asked their new companion. “The Grand Duchess? A woman with dark hair, very beautiful. Was she here?”

The Maker did not answer for a while. His gaze was now leveled at the Rossin. The flicker of cunning in the man’s eyes drove the great cat mad with anger, but he had lately learned to temper his rage.

He noticed that the Maker, as was his nature, had been busy creating. Limited by resources trapped in this cellar he’d not had much to work on apparently. A broken sliver of wood was the only thing he’d been able to find, and he’d drawn a pattern on it in blood.

Still it was a thing of power, and the Rossin snarled at it, causing all the humans to jump in their skins in a most pleasing manner. However, he did not leap on the man, a supreme act of will. The Maker was not his friend, but the Deacons would need him, and without them the Rossin knew his chances at destroying the Circle were not good.

At first Sorcha and Merrick flinched away from what the Maker held up. After all, it reeked of blood and excrement like everything about this twisted remnant of humanity. After a moment, however, they looked more closely at what he had made. They began to see the truth of it.

The old man had made a pattern of swirls on the wood. The designs were intricate and interwoven in incomprehensible ways so that even the Rossin could not follow them all. That was the art of the Maker, something that the great cat could not understand, but had at one time needed.

“Are those—” Sorcha paused, wetted her lips, and then went on. “Are they runes?”

The young Deacon leaned forward, careful not to touch the piece of wood. “I believe so, but I don’t understand the designs around them. Perhaps…” His voice trailed off. “Could this be…a Pattern?”

Really, the humans were incredibly slow. Ratimana, the Patternmaker, the liar and oathbreaker. Another geistlord, but trapped in a broken, aged body.

As if he could hear the Rossin’s thoughts the old man glanced over his shoulder. A flicker of a cruel smile passed over his lips revealing his dark, broken teeth. Time had not been kind to that body of his. He turned back and looked up at the Deacons. “The Patternmaker they called me. The first of your kind. The very first.”

He did not tell him the history of the Circle of Stars. He did not dare.

I need them, the Rossin reminded himself, the rumble of anger barely contained in his chest. And they need him…for now.

The great cat folded himself onto the ground and tried not to think too much about past betrayals. Let the Deacons put their trust in the Patternmaker. It did not matter to him, but someday there would be a reckoning.

“Have you tamed the Rossin then?” Ratimana pointed a crooked finger at the great cat. “Dare you turn your back on such a cruel creature?”

The Rossin snarled at the geist in a man’s flesh, incapable of doing anything else to register his displeasure. Time had not taken away any of the sly, devious nature of Ratimana.

“The Rossin is here with us, and his own creature. We hold back his rage, but he is still what he is.” That Merrick had certainly learned to lie as well as many older Deacons. It was quite impressive.

The Patternmaker looked away and nodded. He did a very good impression of an old human. It brought out the protective instincts of those around him.

“The woman,” Merrick pressed, his scent growing hotter by the minute, “did you see her?”

“Took her, took her away,” Ratimana muttered. “Broken and made again, they took her to the Abbey. They have the Emperor on his leash and mean to slay every last Deacon.”

His words stilled the cellar.

“He means to bring down the Order altogether?” one of the other Deacons, the one that smelled like dead roses, asked in a whisper. Her head was shaking back and forth.

Yes, it was certainly hard for those of the Order to believe what had happened to them. The divisions were, however, what the Rossin delighted in. The schisms and infighting among all the Orders was bliss to him—like the warm carcass of a recent kill. If he could not slay the Maker or the Tormentor then he would enjoy this.

“If he has convinced, and tortured Zofiya into saying our Deacons kidnapped her—then the Order is done for.” Merrick sunk onto the floor, desperation coming off him in delightful palpable waves.

“And there is no way we can defend ourselves without the runes,” one of the sweet-smelling Deacons whispered.

“Then we must defend the Order with words,” Aachon, that great man-mountain, broke in. “We must go confront the Emperor and show him the duplicity of del Rue.”

“What a fine idea,” Sorcha snapped. “We go in with guns blazing and a hungry Rossin at our sides and see what happens? Or shall we perhaps save the Circle of Stars the trouble and just slit our throats now?”

The argument devolved into a shouting match. Even Deacons, usually so controlled, gave themselves over to the desperation of the moment. The Rossin would have purred if he’d been able.

That was until the Patternmaker staggered to his feet and held aloft the item he’d been making. In the dimness of the cellar the words began to glow with soft white light. The Rossin remembered the first time he’d seen such a thing, the first time he’d taken form, and begun this journey in the physical realm. It was not necessarily a pleasant remembrance. The great cat lowered his head and growled.

The Deacons immediately stopped their yammering, which was a great relief to his ears. Instead they turned and looked at the ugly, broken little man, holding above his head the thing they wanted. Power.

None of them had ever seen a rune Pattern before, but it was the physical representation of all that they used every day so thoughtlessly. The secret of it was kept away from the majority of their Order, lest the vulnerability be revealed, but it was how the power they stole from the Otherside was channeled into their foci.

It was the Patternmaker’s gift, and the Rossin had helped him create the first one. Now he was forced to watch as the Deacons clustered around Ratimana like foolish moths. The smell suddenly did not seem to matter to them.

The Rossin saw that there would be no blood right now, and decided he did not want to watch what had to happen. He’d seen it once, and that was enough. He would return when there was killing to do. Let the foolish mortal Raed deal with this.

The Young Pretender came back to his body and tried to realign his brain. It felt different hearing and seeing things through the Rossin’s eyes, and it left him with more than a bad taste in his mouth. His blood surged with rage, and it took him a long time to look at the Deacons without feeling the need to beat them to a bloody mass.

“Raed?” Sorcha and Aachon approached, finally noticing that the massive bulk of the Rossin was gone. They smelled of the man who the Rossin had identified as the Maker.

“He leaves you now, just like that?” Aachon asked as he handed Raed’s clothing back to him. It was one advantage of this closer connection with the Rossin; the ability to know when the change was coming had saved him plenty of pieces of clothing and personal belongings.

“I think he was too disgusted to stay,” Raed replied as Sorcha helped him to his feet. Across the cellar, the Deacons still surrounded Ratimana—including the fascinated Merrick. “Something about that man distresses him. Sorcha, I think he actually has met him before.”

She gave him an odd look, as if she wasn’t quite sure if it was he or the Rossin saying these things. Not that he was entirely sure himself half the time now. “He can help us, Raed. He says he can make a temporary Pattern so that we don’t go into the Abbey with nothing.”

“How can you trust him though?” He leaned forward and grabbed her shoulder.

“He is the enemy of the Circle of Stars,” she said jerking back from him, “and that is enough for right now.” He couldn’t understand her look of disappointment and outrage as she strode back to join the group around the Patternmaker. It was a perfectly reasonable question.

“To have power snatched away is no easy thing.” Aachon’s hand spasmed closed, around the space where the weirstone had once been. “When I was cast out of the Order, it took many years for me to find peace. Do not judge them too harshly.”

They watched as the Deacons talked excitedly to the Patternmaker, who stood in the middle of them grinning from ear to ear. He didn’t speak much, but he held what he had made high, showing three or four runes.

Aachon understood the nature of Raed’s silences after so many years. “We are down to very few choices, my prince. It is trust him, or watch the Empire fall into war and the geists overrun the land.”

Put to him that succinctly, the Young Pretender sighed. “By the Blood, this reeks of wrongness, but I see your point.”

They both cautiously rejoined the group. His crew gave him little nods of recognition, but the Deacons didn’t even look up—so entranced were they by the newcomer. He was the sole focus of their attention.

Sorcha was crouched down in front of Ratimana, holding her arm out before him. “Can you work runes here, on my flesh?”

Just where she had got that idea Raed did not know for sure, but it chilled him to the bone. He wanted to stop her, wanted to say something, but what could he say to her to change her mind? He was still getting to know Sorcha, but there was one feature of her personality that had stood out about her from the first moment they met. She was the most stubborn, determined person he had ever come across.

Either he went along with her, or she’d do it anyway and he’d be left alone to wonder about the outcome. Better that he, and the Rossin, were there to assist. As hard as it was to do, he managed to keep his silence.

Two of the Deacons helped the old man to his feet as he nodded. It looked like the gesture alone might knock him down. His eyes raked over them. “Yes, I can do that, but there will be consequences.”

“And, what would those be?” Merrick was at least a small voice of sanity in all this.

Ratimana ran his tongue over his lips in what Raed interpreted as a calculating gesture, as his hands clenched on the piece of broken board, which still gleamed in the darkness. Finally he admitted, “Not sure. Could be many things.”

The Deacons drew closer, but there was no fear on their faces—it was expectation. They were trained to die to defend normal folk from geists, and Raed knew very well that there were few old Deacons. They were used to taking risks.

Sorcha glanced at her colleagues and then held out her arm. “Do your best and we will do ours.”

Slowly but surely, the rest of them rolled up their sleeves in an echo of her gesture.

Sorcha looked at Raed. “You best come up with a plan and soon, because you will soon have your weapons.” Such conviction should have reassured him, but a feeling of dread consumed him as thoroughly as the Rossin did.