Harbinger

TWENTY-FIVE A Necessary Spectacle

When Raed took back the flesh that he’d been born with, it was a shock to find himself, leg to naked leg, with Sorcha. The only warmth and comfort they had in the cell was each other—which had always done good service for him. He nestled down and drew Sorcha as close to him as he dared. There was no pillow on this cold stone, but they had lived with much the same before.

The truth of it was, he wanted more time with Sorcha . . . he was greedy and only regretted that they had not met sooner. When the end came, in whatever form Derodak had planned for them, that would be his only regret.

“Raed?” Sorcha’s voice came out muffled as she turned to him, naked skin dragging against naked skin. “How are you here with—”

“Just lucky I guess,” he said, and in many ways it was true, he needed to be with Sorcha—and even in this situation he was glad of it. He would not have wanted her to go alone into this darkness. “Either that or Derodak wants both of us just as much.”

He felt, rather than heard a sigh go through her. “I imagine he thinks once he has control of the other geists he will be able to take the power of the Rossin too.”

Raed nodded. He’d already thought of that. “But what does he want from you?”

Sorcha licked her lips. “It has something to do with the Wrayth. They were trying to breed a person . . . a thing really . . . that could connect all the humans to their hive mind. Apparently they came close with me—but not close enough. So Derodak thinks he can use me to help the Maker of Ways.”

They both shivered in the darkness and contemplated that possibility.

Raed rubbed Sorcha’s shoulder; a blind human gesture of compassion that he knew was little to hold up against the dark. She snuggled in closer.

“You won’t do it,” the Young Pretender whispered to her. “You won’t do what he wants.”

Her breathing became, for a moment, very ragged. “I can say that all I like, Raed, but how can I stand against the whole geist world—against all of the Otherside?”

His mind raced. She had done amazing things, helped destroy two geistlords and mend the shattered remains of the Order, yet he knew that every person had a breaking point. So he lied to her to fill the gaps where uncomfortable truth resided. “You can. I know you can.” Raed wrapped his arms around her. “Perhaps you can do that trick with your fingertips so we can have some light.”

She held up her arms, and he saw that some kind of silver paint was covering the runes. “I’ve tried rubbing this off, but it won’t budge.” She swallowed. “I can’t reach the runes at all.”

They didn’t say anything to each other after that. Huddled in the darkness, they kissed softly, to reassure each other that they were still human and still alive, more than anything else.

Sorcha might not have her runes, but the Rossin was still inside him. Raed tried to hold the waves of despair at bay with that thought. It might have been amusing that he was pinning his hopes on the Beast when most of his life had been spent terrified by it.

Eventually they drifted off into a shaky sleep. When they were jerked awake, it was impossible to tell how long they had actually been unconscious. Cloaked Deacons of the Circle of Stars were kicking them, apparently unbothered by the threat of the Rossin. Sorcha was dragged away, and he could hear her swearing and lashing out as best she could at these newcomers, but it didn’t last long.

“Sorcha!” Raed howled, unable to see her through the press of people in the cell. No reply came.

Their captors turned on him, and he too struck out, blind with rage. It felt good for his fist to connect with a few stomachs and a couple of jaws. Deep down he called to the Rossin, demanded he rise to the surface and rip these people into bloody little shreds. The Beast was reluctant for some reason, but Raed could feel him swimming toward the conscious world.

The Deacons did not seem to understand the danger that they were in, and Raed was glad of it. He let go and dropped away, like a child falling into a cool pool where there were no responsibilities. Let the Rossin do as he would. Let him kill them all.

The Rossin twisted and took form once more. The back of his throat was dry with the desire for flesh and blood, and it would be sweet to take them from the cursed Circle of Stars. However, as he reworked the body of the Young Pretender to his pard shape, there was a moment where the Circle Deacons made their move.

As he straightened and roared his renewed anger into the tiny dungeon cell, he felt something dropped over his head. A thread of weirstones, but it felt too light to hold him.

They did not have time to work the stones on him. He flexed his back legs and made to toss his head to free himself. That was when the device tightened on him. The Rossin had forgotten the deceitful makings of the Ehtia. Derodak had never been a machine maker, but he had apparently found one in this time that knew some of the lost tinkering arts.

The links of the collar they had placed around him tightened, burying themselves into his fur and cutting into his muscles. The pain that went with it was not just physical, it also flayed itself deeper still, in the dark places the Rossin lived. This was the between state, where he kept the kernel of his self, the bit that persisted when his host held the body they shared.

The pain of it was exquisite, as if he were being torn and shredded.

Derodak’s voice was the last thing that he wanted to hear, but it did intrude through the pain. “It is good to hear your howls, old friend. It reminds me of the beginning of these things. It pleases me to know that you will be there at the end of it too.”

The Rossin shook his head, climbing back from the agony, and realized that he had collapsed on the floor. The mighty cat leapt to his feet—he found he could do that—and snarled. His voice echoed impotently in the tiny room. None of the cloaked figures seemed moved—least of all Derodak.

The loathed Arch Abbot looked him up and down, before bending and taking up the trailing leash attached to the metal and weirstone collar. “Come,” he said and turned, before waiting to see if the Rossin followed.

At first he set his paws against the stone, but then the collar twitched and tightened on his muscular neck. It was a momentary reminder of his position, and it was a bitter, humiliating one. It spoke to the Rossin too much of the horrors on the Otherside, and that in turn reminded him that they were not done yet. The geists might be waiting, but the Maker of Ways had not yet been summoned. So, there was still time . . . even if it was just a little.

With a slight growl, the great cat allowed himself to be led from the dungeon cell.

Out of the corner of one eye, the Rossin saw that Sorcha Faris was being bundled up by Circle Deacons and carried with them. The Bond between them was so fractured he could not tell if she was conscious or not. He hoped she wasn’t, because then at least she would be spared some of the coming humiliation.

Derodak led this sorry procession to a tunnel on which was drawn the familiar braid of the Wrayth portal. Last time the Arch Abbot had tangled with the Rossin he had not had this trick up his sleeve. It was disturbing that such an Ancient human could still learn new tricks.

When Derodak pressed his hands against the stones and began to shift them, the Rossin flinched. He already knew where they were bound. A scene began to resolve itself in the area described by the circle, and he knew it well. The sun was just rising over the gleaming canal, and with the flat-fronted buildings directly placed against it, it could be nowhere else but Vermillion.

The Rossin had not spoken yet, but he could not resist it now. “No way to take us straight to the palace and the rift then?” he growled low in his chest.

Derodak’s gaze darkened. They both knew full well that he might have been able to make a portal from the palace to wherever he liked, but because of the cantrips and the water, he could not make one go the other way. “I built Vermillion too well,” the Arch Abbot said, tilting his head. “The islands and the swamps I created now work against me. Never mind. It will be good for the people of the city to see who is the true master of the Empire now. With their Emperor gone and the geists overrunning them, they will turn to me.”

The Rossin was not terribly knowledgeable as far as human emotions and actions went; mostly he was used to the taste of their flesh. However, he had the terrible feeling that Derodak was right. It was after all how he had risen to dominance in the first place—and used the Rossin to power the Imperial family.

The great cat hung his head, and did not reply. Instead he was led through the portal and into the city where it had all begun. The show would begin soon enough.