It wasn’t really a choice. Without hesitation, Merrick ran toward the edge of the cliff. The thunder of the waterfall pounding over rocks filled his ears. He had no time to think—only to act. It had to be the last thing he heard, as he leapt forward into its embrace, expecting to see Nynnia very soon.
NINETEEN
The Touch of the Sea
Raed woke with a pounding headache that threatened to blind him before he had even opened his eyes. He lay still on the ground for a moment, using the tactics he had come to rely on when dealing with the Rossin: sit still, take in details and assess the situation.
The ground underneath his hands was smooth, and when he dared to crack an eye open he realized that they were tiles, beautifully crafted and decorated tiles. Then his nose brought him a very strange scent, and one that was totally unexpected but very familiar; it was the salt of the sea.
Raed ran his hands over the tiles for a moment, then he shook his head, and levered himself upright. If they were near the ocean, then maybe things were not that bad; Mother Sea had always looked after him.
The only days of his life that had been any good—at least before he found Sorcha—had been accompanied by the rocking of the waves. He held on to that knowledge until his eyes were able to adjust and focus. The room was dimly lit but startling. He was once more in a cavern, but where exactly that cavern might be was the real question.
As he looked around and made out what was lighting the space, his mind did a quick turnaround. He saw windows, thick gleaming windows in the cavern, made of something that he suspected was weirstone, since it shone and occasionally shot through with blue, as those dangerous stones were wont to do. However, they were opaque enough to make him realize where the smell of salt water was coming from. Beyond the glass were floating strands of seaweed, thick castles of coral and shoals of brightly colored fish. This then wasn’t merely an underground cavern where secret doings were accomplished, but an underwater cavern.
As Raed leaned on his knees, all thoughts of his own danger were washed away by this amazing sight. He had always loved the sea, but had never had the pleasure of observing it like this. He leaned closer. Truly it was a wonder.
After a moment, though, someone breathing and moving fractionally in the dark made Raed aware that he was not alone. The figure that finally emerged from the shadows was not unfamiliar to him either. Derodak, the Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars, stepped toward him with a disconcerting smile on his lips. “Welcome, Young Prince. I hope your journey didn’t leave you feeling too unwell?”
The effects of traveling through a weirstone portal were unpleasant, but livable—but it seemed that they were compounded when forced to do so with extra weirstones touching his skin.
In what he hoped was an insulting gesture, Raed remained seated on the floor and looked up at his captor. From what Zofiya had told them of her imprisonment by this man, he was both unpleasant and quite happy to apply pain when it was needed. However soldierly the Grand Duchess was, Raed had endured more pain and torment than she could imagine in his role as host to the Rossin. It gave him a shot of confidence.
So he got to his feet and dusted himself off. “I’ve felt worse after a hard night out with my crew members. How are you feeling? The mad Emperor and Deacon Sorcha Faris are people I wouldn’t want to have at my back . . .”
His eyes darted around the rest of the room; he saw nothing that he could use as a weapon. In fact, the room was entirely barren—just the eerie light of the weirstones spread out over the floor.
Derodak drew closer, and Raed observed that the man was wearing a cloak very much like Sorcha’s, but it was held closed by a jeweled circle of stars brooch. The material was also far finer than any he’d ever seen the Order of the Eye and the Fist wearing. It shifted and gleamed like some exotic fish skin with all the colors of the rainbow. It reminded Raed of the way the people of his father’s small Court dressed like peacocks. It was desperate and flashy.
His jailor came close, but not too close. He ended up perching himself on the edge of the weirstone window. The strange blue glow illuminated him well enough, but revealed nothing of his emotions or plans.
The man looked to be in his later years, with gray staining his dark beard, but his eyes gleamed with vigor and arrogance. Raed had seen that look many times when he was growing up. His father, the Unsung Pretender, had plenty of it—though he had never done anything about pursuing his claim to the Imperial throne. He generally assumed that the Princes of the Empire would come crawling back to him, howling that they needed him. Now the Unsung was more irrelevant than ever in this warring world.
Perhaps his father and this man shared more than just arrogance. After all, Derodak had exposed the everyday citizens to the predations of the geists. Raed guessed soon he would sweep down and show them how he had the undead under control. Naturally, many would die in the process, but he would be able to play the role of savior.
As Raed examined Derodak, he was in turn being examined. Finally, it was the older man that broke the silence. “Quite a disappointment,” he said, adjusting his odd cloak around himself. “Generations of breeding, and yet so very little of me in there.”
Raed clenched his jaw and only just managed to hold back retaliation. He wanted to smack that self-satisfied smile from his face, but years of dealing with the fear and the dangers of the Rossin had taught the Young Pretender restraint.
“I hardly think after all these generations there can be much of you left in my blood,” Raed returned. “It is the mark of a desperate man to think—”
“Yes, that would be the case,” Derodak said, inclining his head, “except of course, every now and then I just popped back to keep it topped up.”
The Young Pretender closed his mouth with a snap as a shudder ran through his body. He had a horrible vision of the first Emperor sneaking into the bed of his female ancestors. He would bet good money that they hadn’t known or had a choice about it.
“Yes, I believe it was your grandmother that spread her legs for me . . . of course she thought I was your grandfather.” Derodak’s eyes never left Raed’s face. “And like a good gardener I came back now and then to do a little pruning. I couldn’t let the family tree grow too large and thin the bloodline.”
Raed began to understand what Zofiya had said about this man. His joy in applying pain . . . it obviously included emotional torture.
“By the Blood . . .” Raed swore and then stopped. He said that so often that he hadn’t really thought about what it meant. The Blood. His blood. The Young Pretender took several unwitting steps away from him. “You sick twisted bastard!”
“Perhaps by your mortal standards.” Derodak stood and tucked his hands behind his back. “But I am far from mortal. The rules do not apply. When my people fled to the Otherside, only I was brave enough to come back. I saw another way that they did not agree with.”
He swiftly covered the distance between them, until he was only a foot away from Raed. His eyes darted over the Young Pretender’s face, still searching for something. “Your father was a mistake in the line, and your grandfather a traitor to it, but you may be useful.”
Where was the Rossin? Raed tried to plumb the depths of his soul, screaming for the Beast to rise and slice this evil thing that wore a human face from throat to crotch. Yet there was no answer; nothing seemed to be there but a distant memory of power.
“I won’t help you,” he gasped out, desperate to gain some time.
His captor laughed, as if they were discussing a change in the weather. “That is what that impostor of a Grand Duchess said to me, and you saw how well that worked out for her. And don’t think the Rossin will help you. I have many, many centuries of experience handling that particular geistlord.”