Her partner sketched a bow before her, gesturing toward the portal. “I will take that. Now up you go.”
He watched her go, saw her arrive, and then knew that this was his turn.
Wrapping his hands about the lip of the dark portal, Merrick pulled himself up and into the unknown.
TWENTY-THREE
Between the Jaws
The geistlord landed softly in the darkness of the cellar and inhaled a great whiff of air. That was the wonderful thing about a body; it brought him so much more information than when he’d been a creature of ether—or even worse, in between, trapped in Raed’s mind.
Immediately, he knew that the cellar was full of old things, a dead rat or two in the forgotten corners, the scent of rusted metal, and somewhere, the odor of humanity.
However, there was nothing like the smell of another geistlord—which was what the Rossin had been hoping for. The cat’s huge head swung from side to side and his annoyed growl filled the space. He’d been aiming to catch one of his kin by surprise, and devour them before the humans arrived to spoil things. The Rossin had hoped all this might be another geistlord’s doing, setting himself up as ruler in the guise of a god, as Hatipai had done. It was a favorite ploy, and one that might have suited the great cat, if he’d been clever enough to devour said geistlord. He would need all the power and strength he could gather in the days ahead.
Much as he hated it, his future lay with the humans—at least for now. He’d had to stomach much worse—especially in the early days—but it was galling to have to put up with their company after all this time. He would abide them for a while, and see what the winds of change brought him.
So as the rest of his human retinue scrambled through the portal behind him, the Rossin concentrated on the one scent that rose above those of earth and metal. It was no geistlord smell. It was most definitely human. However as he drew the air through his nostrils and over his tongue, the Rossin let his mouth open a little. A drone of a growl began in his chest as he began to sort the mix of odors out.
When the geistlord finally did, the realization of what he had found took him by surprise. It was not anything he would have expected.
Two scents; both were vaguely familiar—but one of them in particular had his full attention. It was the Tormentor. The one who had cheated him and cast the Rossin down into the depths of the family that belonged to him. The geistlord had spent generations lost in the state between life and death…unable to form into anything while the heir of the family continued to be born in Vermillion. It had been a thousand years before rule turned into legend and they bore a child beyond the city.
Somehow the Tormentor had not died but had cheated death. It had been a thousand years, but the Rossin’s rage still burned. It was lucky indeed that the Deacons were currently unable to read him through their Bond. They might have sensed his plans. The hatred was so deep-seated and ancient that even their pitiful senses would have been able to discern it.
While the geistlord digested this stunning new reality, the Deacons and the rest of the ragtag crew scrambled into the cellar, trying to be quiet and yet making a racket that disturbed his sensitive hearing.
For relief, the great cat padded to the door. He didn’t need to sniff to ascertain what was behind it; the smell of overripe, unhygienic human filled his nose. Generations and hundreds of years in an animal’s body had changed the Rossin’s perceptions of many things, but one thing that had not altered had been his impression of people. As far as he was concerned they were sweaty, undisciplined, foul creatures—good for little except for providing blood.
What he detected behind the door did not change his mind in that regard, nor did it make him anything like hungry.
When Sorcha came to the door, the Rossin stepped back and let her open it. Her reaction was most amusing. The Deacon staggered back a couple of steps, clapping her hand over her mouth.
“By the Bones,” she gasped to the little Sensitive behind her, “I think something died in here.”
Humanity’s sense of smell was not that accurate. Still when they went into the room there was much excited yelling, but no sign of the enemy. They had missed him by some little time. The Rossin could smell his odor lingering in the corners of the room even over the smell of excrement.
When the mortals finally emerged from the cell, they were dragging a sorry excuse for a man. Even among humans he would have been dismissed as refuse. They must have broken him free, because he had the end of the smashed chain still secured about his neck. He was covered in his own filth and wearing only the barest of clothes.
The Rossin was about to dismiss him as merely another worthless scrap when he stopped and narrowed his eyes on the pathetic creature.
The smell of excrement masked the man’s real scent, and it was probably meant to do that. A hot anger began to grow in the Rossin’s chest. He knew this man—or whatever he had claimed to be.
The cat’s massive claws clenched in the dirt, and he almost leapt upon him there and then. The Maker glanced at him from under a matted crown of hair, but said nothing. There was no flicker of recognition for the giant cat glaring at him.
It was greatly worrying that the Tormentor and the Maker would be in the same place—though they were often together in the early days, the geistlord thought they had fallen out. The Rossin crouched down on the floor and waited to see what would happen.
The humans were all chattering among themselves. They offered the Maker water and food; one of them even gave up her cloak to hide his near nakedness.
“What’s your name?” Sorcha asked as she gently tried to wipe away some of the grime with a handkerchief. It was of little use; the dirt went all the way through as far as the Rossin was concerned.
The Maker looked up at the Deacon and recognition flickered on his face. So even he saw it—the change in the Deacon—but he was sensible enough not to point it out. As always, the Maker was a cunning creature. Instead, he worked his jaw a little, and whispered, “Ratimana.”
The Rossin tensed. The foul man had not bothered to change his form nor his name—even in all these years. It was no wonder the Circle of Stars had been able to find him.
The Sensitive Deacon, Sorcha’s favorite, jerked. “I know that name. It is the one Nynnia told me to seek out.” He looked the filthy human up and down, and his confusion was easy to read. “But why?”
“Not all gifts shine,” the taller, older Sensitive, the one who smelled like old books and frustration, said.
“Did you see her?” Merrick bent down and asked their new companion. “The Grand Duchess? A woman with dark hair, very beautiful. Was she here?”
The Maker did not answer for a while. His gaze was now leveled at the Rossin. The flicker of cunning in the man’s eyes drove the great cat mad with anger, but he had lately learned to temper his rage.
He noticed that the Maker, as was his nature, had been busy creating. Limited by resources trapped in this cellar he’d not had much to work on apparently. A broken sliver of wood was the only thing he’d been able to find, and he’d drawn a pattern on it in blood.
Still it was a thing of power, and the Rossin snarled at it, causing all the humans to jump in their skins in a most pleasing manner. However, he did not leap on the man, a supreme act of will. The Maker was not his friend, but the Deacons would need him, and without them the Rossin knew his chances at destroying the Circle were not good.
At first Sorcha and Merrick flinched away from what the Maker held up. After all, it reeked of blood and excrement like everything about this twisted remnant of humanity. After a moment, however, they looked more closely at what he had made. They began to see the truth of it.