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.