All those suppositions vanished, however, when the geist burst through the surrounding flagstones and erupted into the crowd. Sorcha envisioned some clerk in the Abbey working overtime to do a rewrite of the textbooks—this geist seemed not to care that its presence was breaking all their rules.
“Now, Gent!” Sorcha barked as she vaulted the railing to where her husband was just turning to face the threat. “Get these people back!” Shoving her way through the still-unaware protestors, she flexed her fingers within her leather Gauntlets—letting the crowd become aware of just what they were dealing with.
Each leather finger was carved with one of the ten Runes of Dominion. Sorcha called on Aydien, and blue fire chased itself widdershins around her hands to finish with a surge on each palm where her sigil was carved.
Actives were sometimes accused by Sensitive Deacons of being overly flashy. Sorcha did find it somewhat embarrassing; all the lights and surges of energy that even the ungifted could see. However, it did clear the space around her rather effectively. Those not yet possessed stumbled out of her way, screaming in shock. After three years the locals had developed a healthy respect for the dangers of a Deacon wearing Gauntlets.
Aydien was the rune of repulsion and worked well on both mortals and lower-level unliving. The crowd was scattering in a most satisfactory way, yet the geist was still pouring out of the ground, ready to possess anyone it could. It would obviously require a more powerful rune to affect it.
Letting the first rune flicker out, Sorcha reached for Shayst. The green surge of energy trickled into her palm. With it she touched the essence of the geist, drawing some of it for herself—much safer than taking from the Otherside. Ten faces in the mob turned toward her immediately, pale and slack. The sheen of sweat was already on them; geists could seldom manage the fine mechanics of the human body.
Behind them Kolya’s green cloak billowed, standing out brightly against the snow and gray paving stones. He had, as their training had taught them, refrained from the natural impulse; his saber remained sheathed. It was a weapon of last resort and of very little use against a geist. Wind sprang up and whipped his fair hair about him, but his expression remained calm even though this geist was acting as no other the Deacons had ever recorded. With Sorcha now on the scene it was unlikely to threaten him. Actives blazed in the ether when they wore the Gauntlets, while Sensitives barely disturbed it as long as they did not wear their equivalent, the Strop.
The geist-possessed stumbled about, drool falling down their chins, eyes rolling in their heads and wordless groans squeezed from their chests. Already Sorcha could smell the faint odor of shit; another faculty that geists could not control. Overall, being possessed, if one survived it, was an unpleasant and embarrassing experience. Old thin women, pigeon-chested boys and ragtag men were now the geist’s weapons in this world.
“Unacceptable,” the Deacon muttered to herself.
Watch yourself. Kolya’s unneeded warning leaked across their Bond.
His confidence in her abilities, even after all these years, was so reassuring.
Through the enhanced Sight Kolya fed her, Sorcha could make out the swirling vortex of the geist as it embraced the humans. It was growing larger rather than smaller. The power required to control even this many people was immense—in fact, off the scale. Once again, the paper shufflers were going to get a headache over this.
With so many geist-possessed advancing on her, Sorcha decided to draw more power away from the vortex and hopefully release a few of them. With her second Gauntlet she called on Shayst once more.
She bucked backward as the power slammed into her spread hands and raced up her arms. Biting down an involuntary groan of pleasure, the Deacon tried to get past the intoxicating sensation. It was like the euphoria of being slightly drunk without the lack of coordination. Her vision sharpened while her limbs filled with strength. Nothing seemed impossible. It was this rush of confidence that could bring down an inexperienced Deacon.
Sorcha held the power lightly, letting it wash over her but never take control. Shayst had drawn a lot of energy, but the vortex was still growing. And the air was getting colder around her, so cold that her face was numb and her teeth ached. It was impressive that she could be aware of such sensations, wrapped as she was in geist-power.
“Unholy Bones,” she swore and, unlike Kolya, she drew her saber. The possessed were now only ten feet away. They had nearly the whole Square to themselves. Gent’s men had done their job. In the time it had taken them to clear the crowd, however, another dozen had been touched by the geist. Still, it could have been worse. A crowd of five hundred controlled by the unliving didn’t bear thinking about.
Her husband’s Sensitivity held her to the ground, sharpened her vision and senses enough to make the right choices. Without him she would be blind.
At this thought her husband smiled slightly; certainly there had been precious few kindly words spoken in recent months. He opened his Center wider so that she could now see right into the swirling mass of the geist. The vortex was large, but she could make out its tail, apparently rooted to one spot on the ground.
Sorcha barely had time to register this odd feature among odd features before the geist shifted its attention. The possessed raised their heads, eyes now gleaming pits of blackness. She could have almost thought there were sly smiles on their slack faces. Then the expanded funnel of power rushed out once more—but not toward Sorcha.
Without him she would be blind. She blinked in astonishment, her throat abruptly dry and raw.
Geists were mindless things. They were intent on their own purposes, which generally involved wreaking havoc on the real world. They reacted only to Actives, never Sensitives, because Actives engaged them. A Sensitive remained almost invisible unless he did something foolish, like trying to use his lesser Active power. Kolya was too well seasoned for that.
Certainly he had seen the geist turn on him, but he must have not quite believed it. Sorcha shot him a warning as well, but there was nothing in the training of a Deacon for this eventuality. In three hundred years of the Order, no Sensitive had ever been attacked. Even in the battle for the Heights of Mathris, when Sorcha had been just newly ordained, there had never been such an event.
She couldn’t reach him. Desperation and helplessness welled up inside her. The possessed were pressing in on her; hands grasping, mouths-turned-weapons stretched wide to bite. The geist filled them with as much strength as Sorcha had received, yet she could not afford to spill their blood. Instead she deflected their blows, sliding out of the way of their attacks in the fluid Abbey style of defense. Rolling away as best she could, she felt their fingernails rake her face and hands. Her mind was full of Kolya. She could not see him beyond the ruckus of the possessed, but in horror she realized that he had gone Active. Her heart hammered while her mind shot desperate queries across their bond. A Sensitive relying on their lesser power was like a fine swordsman resorting to clumsily wielding an ax.
Unlike her husband’s Sensitivity, her Active power could not be shared with him to boost his own. That was another thing Sensitives accused her kind of: selfishness. At this point, she couldn’t help but agree.
Unholy Bones, he wasn’t answering. Gent’s men would still be busy with the people—besides, she had warned them about bloodshed. Blood and souls would only feed the geist. The soldiers would be standing well back with their hands full of a terrified crowd.
Her own smaller mob had reoriented itself on her. Catching one of the possessed old women in a shoulder lock, Sorcha managed to pitch her backward into the swarm. This brief respite allowed her to catch a glimpse of her husband.