Philippa Ballantine - Wrayth

To all the librarians in my life.

You opened up a world of knowledge

and adventure in my mind

that helped bring these stories to fruition.

Thanks are always necessary when a book is finally birthed, because no author is an island, and no story is written in a vacuum. To Danielle Stockley for helping to shape Arkaym and keep Sorcha under control. To my agent, Laurie McLean, who held my hand as I ventured out into the publishing world. To Jason Chan, who has always brought my thoughts to life with his amazing covers. To all my kind, generous and supportive podcast listeners—these books wouldn’t have happened without your backing. To my wonderful, talented husband, my captain who helped me set out on this adventure, and keeps me paddling. Finally, to my daughter, who might find writing “boring” but hopefully will enjoy these books when she’s older.

In the time when the earth bucked and heaved, many secrets were revealed—some were for good; some were most definitely for ill.

As Caoirse followed her partner into the darkness, she could only wish that the situation they were walking into was the former. It had already been a long day for both her and Klanasta. Against the moonlight he was only a gray shadow on a horse before her, but they shared much more than moonlight. In her mind, her Active burned like a warm ember—something to hold on to, something to put all her trust in when surrounded by a perilous world. It was the real joy of being a Deacon: never being alone. It couldn’t make up for the dangers of hunting geists, but it came awfully close.

She tucked damp curls of her reddish hair away from her face, pulled her green cloak tighter and shivered. Her mount, Tilin, was a Breed horse, and a fine creature to ride, but she’d been in the saddle going on three days now. It was enough to make anyone tense, so Caoirse kneed him up to walk alongside Klanasta’s horse.

“How much farther?” she asked with a sigh.

Klanasta’s long nose was the only real detail she could make out in this dark and fog. “The tunnel isn’t far away, and Goine and Leontis should have a nice stew waiting for us.”

Since they were two young lads just out of the novitiate, Caoirse had severe doubts about their abilities with a pot, but she stayed silent on the matter. Instead she opened her Center and spread it out all around them, looking for their compatriots.

Caoirse frowned. Everything was laid before her: the snake sleeping in its underground lair, a vulture with his head tucked beneath his wing and a vixen snuffling her way through the undergrowth.

She didn’t need to tell Klanasta what was missing; they shared the Bond and her Sight.

“No Deacons,” he whispered. The Active Deacon’s hands instantly sought out the Gauntlets he kept tucked in his belt. When he slipped them on, Caoirse felt better. Her partner was no wet-behind-the-ears novice. If there was a geist waiting for them, then it was the undead that should fear, not them.

She did her part too. As the Sensitive Deacon in the pair, she probed deeper into the mist and swamp with greater focus. All she uncovered were more hungry predators and frightened prey. No geists and no Deacons.

It was only when Tilin’s large hoof clattered into a tin plate that she realized that they were at their fellow Deacons’ camp. The fire was long dead. At least two days of rain had dampened the area considerably.

Together she and Klanasta slipped down off their horses, landing with a wet slap in the mud. Her partner did not have to ask. Caoirse brought her Sight to bear on the camp. Activating Aiemm, the Second Rune of Sight, she let her mind run back in time, back to when two Deacons were sitting at this campfire talking about the things young men talk about—even those from the Order of the Eye and the Fist.

She did not listen in to their conversation until they rose to their feet. Certainly their expression said they’d heard something, but it wasn’t something that she could perceive. Very odd.

The lads gathered up their cloaks and the foci of the Order, the Gauntlets for the Active and the Strop for the Sensitive.

“They heard something,” she said to Klanasta, “and went this way.”

He followed her, as she in turn retraced the path that Goine and Leontis had taken. “They went down toward the temple.”

Her partner groaned with ill-concealed frustration. “They were told to wait for us.”

A chill ball of dread made itself known in Caoirse’s belly, but they went on. The temple was not much to look at, a scattering of old rocks covered with faded writing. No one had ever been able to decipher the language of the Ancients, but that didn’t stop scholars of the Order from trying.

An earthquake a month ago had opened up the side of a hill, near the temple. On hearing of it the Mother Abbey scholars had almost frothed at the mouth. Maybe there were untouched artifacts or unmarred writings down there, they clamored. Through weirstone communication, they demanded someone be sent to investigate. Goine and Leontis were the closest, being Deacons of the nearest Priory, and their mission was only to secure the site. Caoirse and Klanasta had been sent for, from further afield, to make the actual examination.

“This way,” she hissed to her partner as she pushed aside branches and followed the path the foolish young Deacons had taken.

A large part of the small hill had indeed broken away and revealed an ancient tunnel.

“I’ve yet to meet a lad who can resist a tunnel.” Klanasta rolled his eyes. “It was bound to happen.”

“They should have sent someone with more experience,” Caoirse agreed, “but it is what it is. Come on.”

They scrambled up through mud and broken vegetation to the entrance. A lantern was perched on a nearby rock. Klanasta raised an eyebrow. “Looks like they expected us.” He opened the lantern, struck a match, and lit the wick.

He went first though, a faint shimmer coming off his Gauntlets, as if to remind Caoirse that she was safe.

The tunnel dipped down, and Klanasta jumped back in irritation. The rain of the last few days had collected in the depression, making a wide pond of the passageway. It was impossible to see the other side, or if the tunnel rose up again.

Then suddenly that became the last thing on the Deacons’ minds. It was as Caoirse feared; the bodies of Goine and Leontis floated facedown in the water.

Klanasta shook his head. “I suppose they were trapped down here when it flooded. By the Bones, when will the young learn some sense!” Bunching up his cloak in one hand, he began wading out to them, grumbling all the time. Deacons deserved a proper burial—even if they were fools.

Caoirse didn’t have any real desire to see the boys die, but some sense of duty propelled her to watch the rest through Aiemm.

Klanasta reached the first body, and rolled it over. “That’s strange,” he called as he began to pull it back toward her. Caoirse’s eyes widened, as the image of what had been laid over what was currently happening.

“Klanasta!” she screamed, while her Center wrapped around him. At the same time, something exploded toward him out of the water.

It was not a geist, and she would have sworn her Center had not seen it until a moment ago. Her partner was hampered by the body and slow moving in water. To her horror, she caught a flash of legs, long and sharp like a crab’s, but much, much larger, dart out from under the water. They wrapped around Klanasta and jerked him off his feet and into the seething pond.