Wrayth (14 page)

It was a tiny space for the massive feline, and he could barely turn around. The door was slammed shut behind him, and the Rossin let out a roar that shook the vile nest of the Wrayth. Yet, he would not release the form. If he did, then his host would become like the women, used for their breeding.

“How long can you wait?” a peon spoke. His face was slack, his eyes unfocused but the voice that came out was high-pitched and unnatural. “How long can you burn before you have to give us what we want?”

The Rossin snarled and crashed against the bars, but they were built strong—stronger than anything a human would make.

“Eventually you will give us what we want,” the peon intoned, and then stepped back away from the bars.

Soon all of them departed and the Rossin was left to the sound of weeping and screaming women. His roars of outrage merged with theirs of despair.

Zofiya drew in her first conscious breath, and felt her body react with violent disagreement to this event. If her stomach had contained anything she would have thrown it up immediately. She twisted about, spitting and choking on her dry mouth. It was then she realized that she was tied, tightly and effectively, in place.

“Yes, unfortunately the phase effect on simple folk is rather unnerving.” A voice to her right gave her reason to open her eyes. “However in your case I think it is something else as well.” It was a voice she recognized, and her stomach clenched. Lying on a simple iron-framed bed her bones ached, her mouth was parched, and she knew she was in great peril. It was not the peril she was used to: a blade in the night, a conspiracy of minor nobles or an angry servant.

Del Rue, or whatever his name was, smiled at her. He was crouched down, hands on his knees, grinning at her as
she lay bound more tightly than a spring roast. “Very interesting. Something about you is more…open shall we say…than your average plain stupid human. I wonder how that happened.” He sounded genuinely curious.

She ran her tongue around her mouth to loosen it, since it was as dry as a pile of Orinthal sand. “Keep wondering,” she replied as tartly as she could, “and while you wonder, I shall enjoy, as my brother executes you in front of the whole Court.”

“Now, why would my good friend do that?” The older man spread his hands as if in great shock. “It was those pesky Deacons of the Order of the Eye and the Fist that kidnapped you. Why one of them was even in your bed.” He waved a finger at her. “You naughty girl, I hadn’t expected that, but it nicely took care of that Merrick Chambers. It was very helpful of you.”

Zofiya swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the dark chamber. It looked like a cellar somewhere, perhaps in the Edge section of Vermillion—the damp smell clogging her nostrils suggested that. Surely they couldn’t be farther away than that. She was certainly grateful that she’d not been conscious for the portion of the journey that involved phasing through walls. She was no coward, but her experiences in Orinthal had made her leery of anything that involved runes or undead powers. It seemed that she was going to have to deal with them now.

The man crouched down next to her oozed a terrible charm. From what Merrick had told her, del Rue was quite willing to sacrifice anyone to get what he wanted. He’d wanted to murder Japhne del Torne and her unborn child—and she was sure that was not the end to his foul deeds. The idea that her brother had been locked in his privy chamber for months with this man left her raging beyond sensible thought. Yet, she had to be sensible and calm as well.

“I am not prone to kindness,” she replied conversationally, “and I suspect neither are you. Since you have my
brother wound around your finger, you don’t need me. Therefore you can dispense with the formalities altogether and get to the killing.”

Del Rue smoothed his mustache, and stared at her before letting out a little laugh. “My dear Grand Duchess, if I wanted to murder you I would simply have left you embedded in the walls of the palace.”

Despite her inner strength, Zofiya shivered at that. The idea of becoming part of Vermillion forever was not a pretty one. She’d seen strange creatures and bones trapped in rock, and despite her outrage, she would have not wanted to end up like that.

“I won’t help you destroy my brother,” she blurted out as bravely as she could.

“Oh,” he replied mildly, “we don’t need your help at all since we have him quite in hand. Your brother is not as strong willed as you.” He wagged his finger at her, as if it were Zofiya’s fault somehow.

Then something moved just out of her line of sight, and she flinched, straining. Hooded figures slid out from the shadows of the room, bearing a device she could not quite make out.

Del Rue touched her hair. “So many uses for a little royal like you. Blood, breeding or leverage. You didn’t imagine you could be so useful did you, Grand Duchess? All that time trying to guard your brother and you never really thought about yourself.”

His gloating was cut short by one of those figures throwing back his hood. “Are we getting on with it?”

Del Rue glanced up, a flicker of annoyance passing over his face. Zofiya saw at once that he was a man that both enjoyed his moments of power and did not like to be interrupted while having them. “Yes Master Vashill,” he hissed, “I believe we are.”

The other hooded figures stepped back once more into the shadows. Del Rue pushed himself up from the floor and
made way as the machine was rolled forward. The Grand Duchess ran her eye over it. Immediately apparent was the gleam of a weirstone seated within the gears and cogs of its inner workings. It sat there with blue and white light flickering over its surface. The Grand Duchess had been privy to many curious and wonderful devices brought into the Court for her brother to admire, but she had never seen anything like this.

The man called Vashill let his fingers trace the device, and pride shined from his face. “My mother said that it could not be done.”

“I am glad we could prove her wrong, but do not forget this would not be possible without my assistance,” del Rue growled. He turned and stage-whispered to Zofiya. “He is quite mad you know, but the results of combining our runes, raw geist power and his tinkering have been most impressive.”

Vashill opened up the side of the device and Zofiya could see several tall vials of liquid within. He was not comforting her with his rabid muttering. She’d also seen her fair share of madmen in her time—she just didn’t like them this close.

She wetted her lips. “What exactly is it you plan to do with me? I assure you torture will not break me; you would be a rank amateur compared to my father. If I can take his years of abuse—”

“Yes, yes, I am sure.” Del Rue waved his hand dismissively. “Compared to him I imagine I am almost a…saint.” He seemed to find some amusement that she did not in the statement. When he finally recovered from his own private joke he went on. “It is not my intention to break you merely for my own amusement.”

Vashill was apparently satisfied with the inner workings of his machine, because he closed it up. “All is well.”

Del Rue shot him a withering look that he completely ignored. Yes, Zofiya thought, completely mad.

“You brother is easily swayed. Too soft, really, for an
Emperor.” Her captor brushed hair out of her eyes. “You are quite another story: strong, determined and far more charismatic than Kaleva.”

The Grand Duchess did not like where this was going in the least.

“If you can be taught, you would make an excellent Empress.”

“Why don’t you just sit on the throne yourself?” she spat.

He laughed at that. “Perhaps…perhaps I will. However for the moment I will be occupied in other ways, and besides, first we must tear down the Empire, and then rebuild it. If need be, your brother will go with it. Then when the Circle arises out of the ashes with a new Empress to offer to the people, we will be fully accepted.”

“A puppet? For you?” Zofiya felt the kernel of worry begin to grow, but she would not let it show to this man. “You are as delusional as he is.” She jerked her head.

Del Rue’s hand rested on her forehead in an almost paternal gesture—not that her own father had done any such thing. “It really is a shame you are so strong, but never fear…we shall get there in the end.” He nodded to Vashill, who from behind his back produced two long thin needles.

Zofiya closed her eyes and turned her head away; she would give them no screams or tears.

ELEVEN

Sorcha existed in her bubble of silence and stasis, cut off from the world and mortal cares. It was awful. The crew of the
Dominion
, even Aachon now that he had his compass, ignored her. These were people that knew her—at least a little from their time in Ulrich—and yet soon enough they regarded her as they did a piece of furniture.

Thanks to the Prince of Chioma she didn’t even have the mortal discomforts of the privy to worry about. She was as perfectly preserved as a bug in amber. So on the morning of the second day, when someone new entered the cabin and sat at her side, Sorcha was hungry for company and distraction.

Straining her eyes to the right, she was able to make out the shape of a man at her side. Her brain, as always teetering on the edge of utter madness, believed for a moment that it was Merrick or Raed; her beloved and dear, come to free her from this invisible prison and punish his crew.

However when she discerned it was not, she was able after a moment to identify him as Serigala, the man who
had helped carry her aboard. He was young, with blunt features that matched his rather large frame. At least, that was his physical appearance.

Cut off from her powers as she was, there were still some that remained unaffected—namely her latent Sensitive Sight, and something about this man sitting beside her set it all aflutter.

Her gaze drifted to the wound he had talked about, a dog bite he had said.

“Ah yes,” Serigala rubbed at the spot on his unmarked flesh where it had been. “Quite amazing how a little salve cured that.” The grin he shot her was wide, full of teeth, and not at all comforting. “I am joking of course, but let’s not waste time on words—especially if they happen to get overheard.”

He grabbed hold of her arm, hard, and despite her condition she felt it clamp down on her flesh like ice. She wished she had a scream to let loose, but before she could mourn that, the real world flared white and disappeared.

Sorcha blinked. She was standing on a shifting stretch of sand, and she knew this place. The kingdom of Chioma—where she had battled a geistlord masquerading as a goddess. The place she had stretched her powers too far without her Sensitive and been lost.

Slowly she raised her arm and stared at it as if it were a great prize. Movement—after so long. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a ragged breath, trying to calm herself.

“I wouldn’t become too excited if I was you.” The voice made her start and spin around. A coyote the size of a large pony stood eyeing her with sharp intelligence. It had long shaggy beige fur, the brightest green eyes she’d ever seen, a sharp muzzle and frighteningly long bone-white teeth.

Her abrupt joy at this returned freedom froze in an instant. “Where am I, Fensena?”

Yes, Sorcha knew immediately that this was no place on the mortal plane, and she even recognized the geistlord.
Certainly there were precious few of them to know, and their names were drilled into the initiates of the Order. His name stood out: the Fensena, also called the Oath Bender, the Widow Maker, the Broken Mirror. No one had seen him for a hundred years, and yet here he was standing before her.

“So generous of you to remember me.” The coyote’s head tilted in a frighteningly human way. “I would have thought by now mere mortal memory would have forgotten my name.”

Cautiously she circled around him. She was wearing her clothes, but was stripped of weapons. “Believe me, it was written down and every initiate memorizes it faithfully.”

“Very kind, I am sure.” The geistlord sank down onto his haunches and watched her intently. “As to where we are…why, inside your mind; the plain of your inner self, if you will. Not the most elegant of settings, but it will do for my purposes.”