“It is a beautiful day,” Zofiya remarked, and she was right. The Summer Hawk had the wind at her back as she traveled east, and there was nothing to indicate, in either the sky above or the rolling green hills passing below, that they were flying toward death and danger.
“Vermillion is three days away?” Merrick asked.
Zofiya nodded slowly. “Yes, but only if we burn precious weirstones to get there.” When she looked up at him, a slow smile dawned on her face. “I guess in this world they are really not that precious . . . after all we could all be dead in three days.”
It was not a happy thought—but perhaps a profound one. Merrick chose not to answer it, instead clasping the Imperial hand as covertly as possible as they sailed toward the end.
TWENTY-FIVE
A Necessary Spectacle
When Raed took back the flesh that he’d been born with, it was a shock to find himself, leg to naked leg, with Sorcha. The only warmth and comfort they had in the cell was each other—which had always done good service for him. He nestled down and drew Sorcha as close to him as he dared. There was no pillow on this cold stone, but they had lived with much the same before.
The truth of it was, he wanted more time with Sorcha . . . he was greedy and only regretted that they had not met sooner. When the end came, in whatever form Derodak had planned for them, that would be his only regret.
“Raed?” Sorcha’s voice came out muffled as she turned to him, naked skin dragging against naked skin. “How are you here with—”
“Just lucky I guess,” he said, and in many ways it was true, he needed to be with Sorcha—and even in this situation he was glad of it. He would not have wanted her to go alone into this darkness. “Either that or Derodak wants both of us just as much.”
He felt, rather than heard a sigh go through her. “I imagine he thinks once he has control of the other geists he will be able to take the power of the Rossin too.”
Raed nodded. He’d already thought of that. “But what does he want from you?”
Sorcha licked her lips. “It has something to do with the Wrayth. They were trying to breed a person . . . a thing really . . . that could connect all the humans to their hive mind. Apparently they came close with me—but not close enough. So Derodak thinks he can use me to help the Maker of Ways.”
They both shivered in the darkness and contemplated that possibility.
Raed rubbed Sorcha’s shoulder; a blind human gesture of compassion that he knew was little to hold up against the dark. She snuggled in closer.
“You won’t do it,” the Young Pretender whispered to her. “You won’t do what he wants.”
Her breathing became, for a moment, very ragged. “I can say that all I like, Raed, but how can I stand against the whole geist world—against all of the Otherside?”
His mind raced. She had done amazing things, helped destroy two geistlords and mend the shattered remains of the Order, yet he knew that every person had a breaking point. So he lied to her to fill the gaps where uncomfortable truth resided. “You can. I know you can.” Raed wrapped his arms around her. “Perhaps you can do that trick with your fingertips so we can have some light.”
She held up her arms, and he saw that some kind of silver paint was covering the runes. “I’ve tried rubbing this off, but it won’t budge.” She swallowed. “I can’t reach the runes at all.”
They didn’t say anything to each other after that. Huddled in the darkness, they kissed softly, to reassure each other that they were still human and still alive, more than anything else.
Sorcha might not have her runes, but the Rossin was still inside him. Raed tried to hold the waves of despair at bay with that thought. It might have been amusing that he was pinning his hopes on the Beast when most of his life had been spent terrified by it.
Eventually they drifted off into a shaky sleep. When they were jerked awake, it was impossible to tell how long they had actually been unconscious. Cloaked Deacons of the Circle of Stars were kicking them, apparently unbothered by the threat of the Rossin. Sorcha was dragged away, and he could hear her swearing and lashing out as best she could at these newcomers, but it didn’t last long.
“Sorcha!” Raed howled, unable to see her through the press of people in the cell. No reply came.
Their captors turned on him, and he too struck out, blind with rage. It felt good for his fist to connect with a few stomachs and a couple of jaws. Deep down he called to the Rossin, demanded he rise to the surface and rip these people into bloody little shreds. The Beast was reluctant for some reason, but Raed could feel him swimming toward the conscious world.
The Deacons did not seem to understand the danger that they were in, and Raed was glad of it. He let go and dropped away, like a child falling into a cool pool where there were no responsibilities. Let the Rossin do as he would. Let him kill them all.
* * *
The Rossin twisted and took form once more. The back of his throat was dry with the desire for flesh and blood, and it would be sweet to take them from the cursed Circle of Stars. However, as he reworked the body of the Young Pretender to his pard shape, there was a moment where the Circle Deacons made their move.
As he straightened and roared his renewed anger into the tiny dungeon cell, he felt something dropped over his head. A thread of weirstones, but it felt too light to hold him.
They did not have time to work the stones on him. He flexed his back legs and made to toss his head to free himself. That was when the device tightened on him. The Rossin had forgotten the deceitful makings of the Ehtia. Derodak had never been a machine maker, but he had apparently found one in this time that knew some of the lost tinkering arts.
The links of the collar they had placed around him tightened, burying themselves into his fur and cutting into his muscles. The pain that went with it was not just physical, it also flayed itself deeper still, in the dark places the Rossin lived. This was the between state, where he kept the kernel of his self, the bit that persisted when his host held the body they shared.
The pain of it was exquisite, as if he were being torn and shredded.
Derodak’s voice was the last thing that he wanted to hear, but it did intrude through the pain. “It is good to hear your howls, old friend. It reminds me of the beginning of these things. It pleases me to know that you will be there at the end of it too.”
The Rossin shook his head, climbing back from the agony, and realized that he had collapsed on the floor. The mighty cat leapt to his feet—he found he could do that—and snarled. His voice echoed impotently in the tiny room. None of the cloaked figures seemed moved—least of all Derodak.
The loathed Arch Abbot looked him up and down, before bending and taking up the trailing leash attached to the metal and weirstone collar. “Come,” he said and turned, before waiting to see if the Rossin followed.
At first he set his paws against the stone, but then the collar twitched and tightened on his muscular neck. It was a momentary reminder of his position, and it was a bitter, humiliating one. It spoke to the Rossin too much of the horrors on the Otherside, and that in turn reminded him that they were not done yet. The geists might be waiting, but the Maker of Ways had not yet been summoned. So, there was still time . . . even if it was just a little.
With a slight growl, the great cat allowed himself to be led from the dungeon cell.
Out of the corner of one eye, the Rossin saw that Sorcha Faris was being bundled up by Circle Deacons and carried with them. The Bond between them was so fractured he could not tell if she was conscious or not. He hoped she wasn’t, because then at least she would be spared some of the coming humiliation.
Derodak led this sorry procession to a tunnel on which was drawn the familiar braid of the Wrayth portal. Last time the Arch Abbot had tangled with the Rossin he had not had this trick up his sleeve. It was disturbing that such an Ancient human could still learn new tricks.
When Derodak pressed his hands against the stones and began to shift them,
the Rossin flinched. He already knew where they were bound. A scene began to resolve itself in the area described by the circle, and he knew it well. The sun was just rising over the gleaming canal, and with the flat-fronted buildings directly placed against it, it could be nowhere else but Vermillion.
The Rossin had not spoken yet, but he could not resist it now. “No way to take us straight to the palace and the rift then?” he growled low in his chest.
Derodak’s gaze darkened. They both knew full well that he might have been able to make a portal from the palace to wherever he liked, but because of the cantrips and the water, he could not make one go the other way. “I built Vermillion too well,” the Arch Abbot said, tilting his head. “The islands and the swamps I created now work against me. Never mind. It will be good for the people of the city to see who is the true master of the Empire now. With their Emperor gone and the geists overrunning them, they will turn to me.”
The Rossin was not terribly knowledgeable as far as human emotions and actions went; mostly he was used to the taste of their flesh. However, he had the terrible feeling that Derodak was right. It was after all how he had risen to dominance in the first place—and used the Rossin to power the Imperial family.
The great cat hung his head, and did not reply. Instead he was led through the portal and into the city where it had all begun. The show would begin soon enough.
TWENTY-SIX
Back in Chains
Sorcha emerged from the darkness of unconsciousness and was unhappy to do so. She was being shaken back and forth, so that her head felt as though it might break. It seemed to take a long time for her to lever her eyes open. What she saw was dreadfully familiar.
Vermillion. It was the capital city and her former home. Even more frightening, she could identify the part they were passing through: the Imperial Island. She was strapped onto a wagon lurching its way up the hill toward the palace and seemingly hitting every rutted cobblestone on the way.
The next thing she noticed was how everything hurt. She was bent over at the waist and pinioned in a stock, such as might have once been found in a village square for the display of criminals. Sorcha rattled her hands back and forward but they were securely fastened. Not a good thing. The silver paint remained on her skin with the burning sensation digging into her and still denying her the runes.
As Sorcha strained her head to the left, she saw the rubble of her former home. With impeccable timing she had managed to return to the waking world just as they passed the Mother Abbey.
Despite all the pain and fear that filled Sorcha, she still could not look away from the tumbled ruins that had been the center of her life. The devotional building that had once soared toward the sky now resembled nothing so much as an Ancient hand clawing at it.
The Order had promised so much to her: a place of sanctuary, fellowship and training. It had been able to give her some of those things for some of the time, but eventually her blood and history had claimed her. Deep down a small voice whispered that she might have helped destroy it.
Perhaps it was the Wrayth having the last cruel jab.
Wind whipped down from the top of Imperial Island to counterpoint her bitter contemplations. Before tears could fall, Sorcha jerked her head away, instead concentrating on what else was happening around her.
On examination, she noted the wagon she was on was being pulled by two animals, two creatures that should never have been shackled to such a mean creation. They were Breed horses—thankfully not Shedryi or Melochi, but other of their kin.
As she turned her head to the right, she saw that she was not alone. Beside the cart, Derodak and three more of his Deacons were riding. They were also on horses of the Breed. She hoped savagely that the animals would toss their passengers and trample them.
They did not.
Around her, Sorcha could now make out the sounds of a crowd. Darting little looks on each side, she saw that the procession she was so unwillingly part of had drawn attention from the citizens of Vermillion. They stood in near silent lines on the street, watching Derodak’s triumph. Sorcha recognized their hollow-eyed and beaten looks. Geists had certainly worn down the arrogance many had previously accused Vermillionites of possessing.
She thought of the procession the Emperor had taken to Brickmakers Lane. It seemed a long time ago and wonderfully festive in comparison. It was horrible to consider that those had been her best days.
Though Sorcha worked her mouth a few times, she could not find enough moisture. Her voice would undoubtedly come out a ragged croak. What exactly she had been going to say, even she did not know.
It was when Sorcha dared another glance to her right that she spotted a dark, shaggy form moving between the horses and standing nearly as tall as they.
The Rossin, wearing a brass collar, walked alongside Derodak, and the leash attached by the collar was held by another Deacon. If the use of the Breed horses was outrageous, the sight of the Rossin, head bowed, being led like a puppy through the street was terrifying.
It was over. No sight in the world could have convinced her better than the great cat padding along next to Derodak. Sorcha could not feel her Sensitive or the runes that now ran like welts on her arms. She knew where they were going, and her death beforehand would have been preferable.
The end had to come at the same place as the beginning.
Somehow in the darkness of that thought, Sorcha had a moment of light—just a glimmer. It was a rune. Cautiously, so as not to draw attention, she glanced at her left wrist. A trickle of power, like Raed’s finger brushing on her skin, was what had alerted her.
Sorcha averted her eyes quickly, but she’d seen what was happening. Where her skin there had rubbed against the locks, blood had dribble out, and the strange silver paint that Derodak had coated over her rune marks had been cleared just a fraction.
As the wagon lurched on up the hill and toward the palace, Sorcha sawed, as covertly and quickly as possible, at her wrist. The wound stung, but as more blood dribbled from it, she could feel the rune it was exposing grow clearer in her mind. It was Seym, the Rune of Flesh. It was a lucky thing because it was the rune she was most likely to be able to control without Merrick at her side.
Derodak was watching the crowd, and actually waving as he rode past, as if he were some kind of hero. Perhaps immortality made a person immune to normal human interactions, because he didn’t seem aware of the effect he was having on the people. It was like a dark wave; expressions on the citizens tightened and grew angry. They knew a tormentor when they saw one.
The Circle of Stars might have been able to wipe away much of the memory of what they had done in the past, but something residual remained. If this was Derodak’s attempt to win over the population, he was not doing a very good job of it.
Sorcha determined to give the crowd something more impressive. A few more quick, hard rubs of her arm on the wood and the rune Seym suddenly bloomed in her head. Her body—which had felt beaten and exhausted just a moment before—was flooded with strength. Sorcha’s head buzzed, and suddenly a little vengeance did not seem an impossible thing.
Planting her feet, Sorcha pushed hard. Her muscles, filled with runic power, bulged and flexed, ripping the stocks apart as if they were made of string. The snap of metal and wood attracted people’s attention. The citizens standing and watching the depressing parade showed signs of life by screaming and scattering.
The Deacons surrounding the wagon did neither of those things, and the Breed horses didn’t even shift under their riders. Sorcha knew she didn’t have much time; they would be on her in a moment—so she did the only thing that made sense.
She leapt down from the wagon and struck the Deacon who was holding the leash of the Rossin. The impact of her fist striking his jaw was most satisfying. Even better was that he was thrown clear across the street.
In a frozen instant, it was just the Rossin and Sorcha, eyes locked—then she grabbed at the golden chain of weirstones with both hands. The
pain was instant and blinding. It was as if she were grabbing molten iron—but, breathing through her teeth, she hung on.
Derodak, though, had done her a favor; she was used to pain from her time with him. Ignoring the agony, she yanked as hard as Seym would allow her. The brass links snapped and pulled apart, showering over the street in sharp metallic shards.
Sorcha fell to her knees and gasped out one word: “Run!”
The Beast did not need her encouragement. Bunching his legs together he sprang away, even as the Deacons around him spun in his direction. Sorcha watched through blurry eyes as the great pard disappeared into the streets and alleyways of Vermillion.
Then she saw nothing but green, as the power of the rune Shayst enveloped her. All the power that had fueled her body was drawn away with a searing pain in her bones. One of the Deacons stepped toward her and drew more of the power over her runes.
Severed from everything, she sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Derodak’s hands wrapped around her hair, and she was dragged upward. Sorcha scrambled, but it was a fruitless, weak gesture. They tied her hands behind her back and threw her over the saddle of the Arch Abbot’s Breed stallion.
When he got up behind her, he patted her on the back like she was some kind of pet. “That really was a waste of time; by the end of today the Rossin—in fact all the geists and geistlords—will be under my control.”
Sorcha hated the sound of his voice and hated to think that he was right. “You reach too far,” she gasped, tasting the sweat of the horse and his rider in her mouth. “The geists are much too powerful for you. You cannot control them all at once—no one can.”
His hand now rested on her head. “That is why I have you.”
She had no answer for that, because he did have her, and she knew what she had felt from the Wrayth. That connection was what he meant to use. If she could have wriggled free and dashed herself against the cobblestones, she would have. However, Derodak had left her with no opportunities for self-sacrifice.
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