Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

Del Rue touched her hair. “So many uses for a little royal like you. Blood, breeding or leverage. You didn’t imagine you could be so useful did you, Grand Duchess? All that time trying to guard your brother and you never really thought about yourself.”

His gloating was cut short by one of those figures throwing back his hood. “Are we getting on with it?”

Del Rue glanced up, a flicker of annoyance passing over his face. Zofiya saw at once that he was a man that both enjoyed his moments of power and did not like to be interrupted while having them. “Yes Master Vashill,” he hissed, “I believe we are.”

The other hooded figures stepped back once more into the shadows. Del Rue pushed himself up from the floor and made way as the machine was rolled forward. The Grand Duchess ran her eye over it. Immediately apparent was the gleam of a weirstone seated within the gears and cogs of its inner workings. It sat there with blue and white light flickering over its surface. The Grand Duchess had been privy to many curious and wonderful devices brought into the Court for her brother to admire, but she had never seen anything like this.

The man called Vashill let his fingers trace the device, and pride shined from his face. “My mother said that it could not be done.”

“I am glad we could prove her wrong, but do not forget this would not be possible without my assistance,” del Rue growled. He turned and stage-whispered to Zofiya. “He is quite mad you know, but the results of combining our runes, raw geist power and his tinkering have been most impressive.”

Vashill opened up the side of the device and Zofiya could see several tall vials of liquid within. He was not comforting her with his rabid muttering. She’d also seen her fair share of madmen in her time—she just didn’t like them this close.

She wetted her lips. “What exactly is it you plan to do with me? I assure you torture will not break me; you would be a rank amateur compared to my father. If I can take his years of abuse—”

“Yes, yes, I am sure.” Del Rue waved his hand dismissively. “Compared to him I imagine I am almost a…saint.” He seemed to find some amusement that she did not in the statement. When he finally recovered from his own private joke he went on. “It is not my intention to break you merely for my own amusement.”

Vashill was apparently satisfied with the inner workings of his machine, because he closed it up. “All is well.”

Del Rue shot him a withering look that he completely ignored. Yes, Zofiya thought, completely mad.

“You brother is easily swayed. Too soft, really, for an Emperor.” Her captor brushed hair out of her eyes. “You are quite another story: strong, determined and far more charismatic than Kaleva.”

The Grand Duchess did not like where this was going in the least.

“If you can be taught, you would make an excellent Empress.”

“Why don’t you just sit on the throne yourself?” she spat.

He laughed at that. “Perhaps…perhaps I will. However for the moment I will be occupied in other ways, and besides, first we must tear down the Empire, and then rebuild it. If need be, your brother will go with it. Then when the Circle arises out of the ashes with a new Empress to offer to the people, we will be fully accepted.”

“A puppet? For you?” Zofiya felt the kernel of worry begin to grow, but she would not let it show to this man. “You are as delusional as he is.” She jerked her head.

Del Rue’s hand rested on her forehead in an almost paternal gesture—not that her own father had done any such thing. “It really is a shame you are so strong, but never fear…we shall get there in the end.” He nodded to Vashill, who from behind his back produced two long thin needles.

Zofiya closed her eyes and turned her head away; she would give them no screams or tears.

Sorcha existed in her bubble of silence and stasis, cut off from the world and mortal cares. It was awful. The crew of the Dominion , even Aachon now that he had his compass, ignored her. These were people that knew her—at least a little from their time in Ulrich—and yet soon enough they regarded her as they did a piece of furniture.

Thanks to the Prince of Chioma she didn’t even have the mortal discomforts of the privy to worry about. She was as perfectly preserved as a bug in amber. So on the morning of the second day, when someone new entered the cabin and sat at her side, Sorcha was hungry for company and distraction.

Straining her eyes to the right, she was able to make out the shape of a man at her side. Her brain, as always teetering on the edge of utter madness, believed for a moment that it was Merrick or Raed; her beloved and dear, come to free her from this invisible prison and punish his crew.

However when she discerned it was not, she was able after a moment to identify him as Serigala, the man who had helped carry her aboard. He was young, with blunt features that matched his rather large frame. At least, that was his physical appearance.

Cut off from her powers as she was, there were still some that remained unaffected—namely her latent Sensitive Sight, and something about this man sitting beside her set it all aflutter.

Her gaze drifted to the wound he had talked about, a dog bite he had said.

“Ah yes,” Serigala rubbed at the spot on his unmarked flesh where it had been. “Quite amazing how a little salve cured that.” The grin he shot her was wide, full of teeth, and not at all comforting. “I am joking of course, but let’s not waste time on words—especially if they happen to get overheard.”

He grabbed hold of her arm, hard, and despite her condition she felt it clamp down on her flesh like ice. She wished she had a scream to let loose, but before she could mourn that, the real world flared white and disappeared.

Sorcha blinked. She was standing on a shifting stretch of sand, and she knew this place. The kingdom of Chioma—where she had battled a geistlord masquerading as a goddess. The place she had stretched her powers too far without her Sensitive and been lost.

Slowly she raised her arm and stared at it as if it were a great prize. Movement—after so long. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a ragged breath, trying to calm herself.

“I wouldn’t become too excited if I was you.” The voice made her start and spin around. A coyote the size of a large pony stood eyeing her with sharp intelligence. It had long shaggy beige fur, the brightest green eyes she’d ever seen, a sharp muzzle and frighteningly long bone-white teeth.

Her abrupt joy at this returned freedom froze in an instant. “Where am I, Fensena?”

Yes, Sorcha knew immediately that this was no place on the mortal plane, and she even recognized the geistlord. Certainly there were precious few of them to know, and their names were drilled into the initiates of the Order. His name stood out: the Fensena, also called the Oath Bender, the Widow Maker, the Broken Mirror. No one had seen him for a hundred years, and yet here he was standing before her.

“So generous of you to remember me.” The coyote’s head tilted in a frighteningly human way. “I would have thought by now mere mortal memory would have forgotten my name.”

Cautiously she circled around him. She was wearing her clothes, but was stripped of weapons. “Believe me, it was written down and every initiate memorizes it faithfully.”

“Very kind, I am sure.” The geistlord sank down onto his haunches and watched her intently. “As to where we are…why, inside your mind; the plain of your inner self, if you will. Not the most elegant of settings, but it will do for my purposes.”

Purposes. The way the geistlord just threw out that word made Sorcha break out into a cold sweat. It might only be an imagined one, but it felt very real. She had experienced the might of the Rossin, been humbled by his strength, and now here she was with a geistlord inside her very own mind. Her immediate reaction would have been rage, but several things held her back from that; she was still cut off from her power, and she was without Merrick.