His childhood had been ravaged. Every happy memory had been stained by seeing his father killed on the stairs of their castle by a terrifying, still unidentified geist. So he had run, taken another name, taken refuge in the Order—because that was what they offered—order. And now, in one instant, he was beginning to doubt all that.
The whispering continued, as if mocking his uncertainty. It sounded harsh and demanding now—like all his worst thoughts were bubbling to the surface. Merrick’s head was spinning, and he had the horrible feeling that maybe he was going mad. No—he would not allow that. Surely madness was something that came on gradually, not as a sudden avalanche of half-heard voices. Perhaps the Bond that Sorcha had created with the Cursed Young Pretender was having consequences; maybe the Rossin power was finally corrupting him.
Then just as the whispers rose to the point where he could almost discern words—there was silence. Abrupt and total; the atmosphere went from tense to serene. Merrick stood very still and held his breath. His mind raced to find an explanation.
It had not been a geist. So what else could it have been? If only he were back in the Mother Abbey. He might have plundered their larger library or had a quiet word in Deacon Reeceson’s ear, because one explanation remained: a wild talent.
Shaking, Merrick sat on the nearest chair. He’d tried to block out all memory of the incident outside the jail. Just after they had rescued Raed, the three of them had been nearly torn apart by an angry mob. He had no clue how he had brought all those people to their knees racked by sorrow—but he had.
The wild talents, not sanctioned by the Order, were dangerous things to admit to. Even Deacon Reeceson, an elderly and venerable member of the Order, kept his gift of prescience to himself—sharing it with very few. So when Merrick thought of what these whispers might mean, what wild talent they might evealing, he shuddered.
He couldn’t give in to fear though. Deacons had to face the darkness. So he got up from his chair and stumbled toward the shelves—to where the sounds had come from. Naturally it was in the darker recesses of the library. Back here everything was covered in cobwebs, and the smell of dust competed with the odor of old books for supremacy.
The faintest echo of the whispers drew him to the carved rear wall. Follow. Follow.
Merrick ran his hands over the wood while putting his Center forward into the darkness. Hidden and secret. It was very like when he sensed the living things around him, but it tasted strange in his mind; dry and musty. The little click under his right fingertip sounded so very loud, but when he slid the secret compartment aside, it was as silent as a lonely grave.
The compartment beyond was packed with books, ones that judging by the amount of dust on them had not been touched for a very long time. He knew before even lifting them what they were about. The round shape of stars on the cover told him, and the shiver down his spine confirmed that these were books on the Native Order. Books that should have been destroyed with the downfall of that organization.
Certainly there were plenty of folk tales about the past—how the people had risen against the old Order, how the ruling Emperors of that time had hunted them down—but their books were burned, and their history had been deliberately destroyed and none in the Order of the Eye and the Fist knew anything of them.
It was not the first time Merrick had discovered that all was not as it seemed within the Abbeys. He let out a long, deliberate breath and then reached for the book. It was the Chiomese Abbott’s journal—but definitely not the current one.
As Merrick scanned down the entries, his blood began to run cold as he realized this was no record of geists destroyed or banished. Instead, he saw words like “captured,” “resistant” and, most chillingly of all, “useful.” It began to make sense. Unlike his Order, the native ones had taken a step down a darker path—a path that used geists for their own gain. It was, to put it mildly, terrifying: an idea that he knew his own superiors would not want even in the heads of their own Deacons. It was no wonder the voices said Hidden and secret.
“Merrick?” His partner’s voice made him jump. Sorcha was standing in the shelves, her hair damp, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. Even when slumbering, the Bond alerted her to his fear and confusion. “Are you all right?” While she rubbed her hair briskly, her partner tucked the journal under his cloak and clicked shut the compartment. With so much dust, he knew these were long forgotten.
Merrick turned and smiled. “Yes . . . just tired.”
“Well then, you should get some sleep.” She sighed. “Silly boy.” She said it with such affection that he couldn’t really take offense.
For a moment he considered telling her about the journal, but she had so much to think about that ancient history seemed a silly thing to bring up now. Still, he wouldn’t be sleeping well tonight, no matter what his partner said.
The crew of the Sweet Moon fished their naked captain out of the river the next morning. Raed lay gasping on the deck with the taste of blood and dirty water in his mouth. They stood around him in a somber circle. His fingers tightened into fists as he remembered other times like this. It had been many years, but the memories were still vivid and still cut.
“Captain?” Tangyre’s voice was soft and her hand gentle on his shoulder.
Raed closed his eyes and tried to recover what remained of his humanity, piece together the shreds that the Rossin had left him. The geistlord was like a leech—only once he had taken his fill of blood would he drop away. Raed had lived in the shadow of this parasite for far too long, but it still became no easier.
Finally, gathering his remaining strength, he levered himself up with every muscle and sinew aching.
Tangyre draped a blanket over him, helped him up, but barked to the crew, “We still have to get to Orinthal. Jump to it!”
Leaning against Tangyre, his limbs heavy, Raed let himself be led into the small cabin and tucked into the captain’s bed. Wordlessly, Tangyre washed him of the river water, examined the cuts and bruises and finally sat down to put salve on them. Her fingers were strong and sure, but her voice when she finally spoke was gentle. “One woman did all this?”
“I wish,” the Young Pretender whispered. “She must have been possessed by a geist. This is all the Rossin’s doing.” To Raed the concerns of his body were very far away.
His friend knew better than to pursue further questioning—there were answers best left unknown.
Raed kept repeating Fraine’s name in his head, conjuring up images of her face framed with curls and her wide blue eyes. They were hard to retain because as always the Rossin had left him with shattered images of the night before. It might not have been him who did the killing, but it had been his flesh—transformed, yes—but his all the same. Flashes of a woman, her white skirt gleaming in the darkness among the grass. Glimpses of a farmer standing before his house, sickle in hand, then nothing but frenzy and the feeling of thick blood in his mouth. Reflected emotions that were not his: hunger and delight.
Raed rolled to one side, heaving. Tangyre, who knew the way of things, had a pot ready. She rubbed his back while he vomited the contents of his stomach—but there was no blood to get rid of. The Rossin had taken that. It was only his own honest dinner from the night before that reappeared.
The Young Pretender slumped back on the bed.
“It was not you, Raed. Remember that.” Tangyre tidied away the soiled pot and handed him a glass of water. “It was that creature, the Curse—not you.”
He worked his mouth a few times before being able to speak. His throat felt raw, broken from too many Rossin snarls. “I know that, Tang . . . it doesn’t make it any easier.” He took a few gulps of the liquid, but the taste of blood was not removed.