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.
NINE
Into the Hive
“Are you aware that no one actually knows how ancient the city of Orinthal is?” Sorcha had already noticed with some amusement that there were certain subjects that revealed Merrick’s youth.
He certainly made her feel old, leaning over the edge of the airship with unmistakable glee—ready for whatever came his way. His curly dark hair was fluttering in the breeze, so that when he glanced back, he did indeed appear like a young boy. “Bandele says that I may find in the Prince’s library many things that not even the Imperial Palace has.”
Whatever he saw when he looked down at the jumbled array of red buildings, she did not. Sorcha wanted to be there now, not observing it from above.
She was well aware impatience was one of her faults. Her tutors in the Abbey as a young Initiate had repeatedly pointed that out to her—sometimes with willow lashes on her open palm. However, they never cured her, and neither had a little age.
Even though they had completed a journey that would have taken months riding, right across the Empire in a mere week—it still felt ridiculously slow. At least on horseback there were things to do; trapped in the dirigible she had spent the last week looking at miles of clouds.
So she tried to appreciate the city below. It was already far warmer than Vermillion. Spring was just giving way to summer in the north, but in Chioma it already had a warm, sticky grip on the country. Sorcha wiped a thin line of sweat from her forehead. They had not yet landed, but she could tell this kingdom was going to make her suffer.
Captain Revele was bringing them in slow to the port city, probably showing off for Merrick’s benefit—or to keep him on the dirigible for just that little bit longer. Revele’s feeling for Sorcha’s partner apparently sailed right past her target, though. He could have spent a week having fun with the captain, at least at night—yet he had not availed himself of the opportunity. Sorcha found it curious.
Merrick had, like most Deacons, been in the Order from childhood, but he had somehow missed a vital part of growing up that was certainly available even in the confines of the Abbey. He was utterly unaware of his effect on women, and Vyra Revele could not say anything, because a Deacon was, strictly speaking, higher in the chain of command than she.
As if summoned by the wandering of Sorcha’s thoughts, Captain Revele appeared out of the wheelhouse, adjusted her jacket in a sharp, telling little gesture and strode toward them.
“We’ll be landing in a few moments.” Her voice was almost as disciplined as a Deacon’s. “The Navy only has a small tether port here, but we have been instructed to wait for your return.”
Merrick didn’t say a thing, still too entranced by what was below. Sorcha tapped his leg, and he jerked upright. “Thank you, Captain.”
She gave him a tight smile and then returned to her post. The crew brought the Summer Hawk down with absolute precision—so much so that even Raed would have barely noticed when they finally landed. The recollection of the Young Pretender’s nervousness around the airship was both amusing and painful. Sorcha was used to being her own person, and yet here she was chasing after a man. How Kolya would have laughed.
Te ground crew scurried to secure the dirigible, while the sailors on board threw out ropes to them. Eventually the Summer Hawk was as tightly wound to the ground as a fly in a spider’s web. Ramps were thrown out, and the passengers disembarked.
The Deacons got off first and waited for the deputation to organize itself. The relentless Bandele began shouting at his men as they moved grumpy donkeys and angry oxen out of the hold. Sorcha knew if she watched the whole painful process of reassembling the caravan she would probably chew her fingernails off. So instead she wandered away for a little, while Merrick stood talking to Captain Revele. His thoughts, however, were tightly locked away, so Sorcha concentrated on her surroundings.
At first Orinthal did not look that different from any other city in the Empire Sorcha had seen on her travels. The tether station was the only one in the principality and tacked onto the edge of the wharf area. Sail and rowing boats skidded around on the dark water of the Saal River like so many water insects.