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.