Harbinger

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.

Blood . . . it was always about blood. Sorcha did not want to die, but she was grateful that if she did, she would not have to see what would come after. Though, if the Otherside had direct access to this world, then would human souls still travel there? Or would they be caught and used by the geists?

She needed Merrick. She needed Raed. Yet Sorcha was very glad they were not here.

Finally, they reached the walls of the Imperial Palace. Hands grabbed at her, uncaring about any hurt they caused her, and bundled her down off the horse. Sorcha’s feet were unsteady under her, but she made a great effort to remain on them.

Derodak and his Circle of Stars stood around and smiled. They were looking at the palace with the expressions of zealots, as if they were coming home. Through her hair, Sorcha saw the cannons and soldiers on the wall. Human defenses gave her no hope, even as the soldiers lowered their weapons and made ready to fire.

“Prepare the way,” Derodak ordered his Deacons. His children hustled to obey him: some faded away into Voishem, phasing out of the world and dashing toward the walls, while others claimed Pyet and walked toward the walls wreathed in flame.

The screams of the palace defenders were the only sounds to be heard in the palace square for quite some time. It was a macabre music, accompanied by the occasional gunshot.

Then when all grew silent again, Derodak and the ranks of his Deacons marched toward the palace. Two of his Circle pushed open the main gates and let them in; thus was the palace taken, in a matter of moments.

Sorcha could not help but think that if the Order of the Eye and the Fist had not been crushed, things would have been very different. However, that was why Derodak had made sure to dispose of them first.

The sounds of more gunfire gave her some hope, but they were distant and up ahead of them in the depths of the palace. Sorcha could only guess that some doughty souls were fighting a rearguard action in there.

They had to step over bodies as Derodak led them deeper into the palace, but it was not to the throne room he was aiming—which surprised Sorcha. His grip on her arm was now firmer. “We must hurry. I am about to show you something very special,” he whispered.

Sorcha made no reply. They were on the central staircase now. Above, many flights of stairs went up, or to different wings of the palace, but again that was not the direction that they went. Derodak directed them down.

They had to step over one more body on the way, and it was the one body that could have reached Sorcha. Garil lay on the first landing, half of his face burned off and his hand clenched in agony. He might have been afraid of Sorcha and what she was, but he had been her friend for many years before that. She was not surprised he had died defending the palace.

“You are so proud of yourself,” Sorcha screamed, twisting around and spitting her words in Derodak’s face, “killing old men and women! How does that make you a leader of men?”

She got no answer from the Arch Abbot; he merely pushed her down the stairs more quickly. Sorcha wondered if her old friend had seen his death coming. She also wondered if she was really about to be the peril that he had warned Aachon about months ago. It was looking more and more likely that he had been right.

That thought gave her pause. She swallowed back tears for Garil and all the rest to come. Sorcha would not let Derodak see her cry.

As they went, the trail of Deacons following them diminished as Derodak posted more and more of them as guards in the corridors or landings they passed. Eventually there were only five of them, plus Sorcha and the Arch Abbot.

Though she’d never been down this deep into the caverns, she made the connection to what Zofiya had told them had happened when she freed the geistlord that had caused so many problems in Orinthal.

In fact, they passed a section of a wall that had been brought down in one of the side corridors. Derodak paused. “Hatipai would have made a fine sacrifice for this . . .” He sounded almost regretful.

Then pulling her on, they continued deeper down. The walls went from carved to smooth rock, until they came to a doorway. The carving of the many-tentacled creature guarded this doorway, and she knew immediately who it was: the Maker of Ways.

She planted her feet, struggling for a moment, but Derodak summoned the Rune of Flesh and yanked her forcibly in. The rest of his Deacons remained outside. It was just Sorcha and him in a small cave. Her eyes were drawn to the strange little door in the middle of the floor. It looked like it had been hammered out of some kind of silver material.

Derodak did not seem at all pleased by this. “By the Bones!” He forgot all about her for a moment, dropping to his knees to examine the hatch. Strangely however, he didn’t touch it.

Something displeased him, because he began yelling at no one in particular in a language Sorcha did not understand. She watched him curiously wondering if he might fall dead of apoplexy right there and then. It could only be hoped.

Unfortunately he recovered after a few minutes, pushed his hair out of his eyes and turned on her with a smile. “Don’t worry, my dear, everything is still on track.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “I know you are not a Sensitive, but you must be able to feel it!”

Sorcha hadn’t wanted to mention it, but she did. Even to her weakened and damaged Center the pulse of the place was unnerving.

However, what was even more so was his grip on her arm. She had already seen the runes he had made for himself. When she glanced down at the marks on his arms, she saw the silvered forms were shifting on the surface of his skin like undersea creatures. Her breath was stolen as they crossed over to her flesh.

Where he touched her, she felt as if hot irons were being applied, and she screamed. Derodak shoved her down against the floor, and Sorcha found her legs couldn’t hold her. Now Derodak wrapped his arms around her, until they were pressed as close as lovers. Worse than these new runes on her was the sensation of him drawing something from her.

Sorcha’s voice cracked in her throat and then died. The real world no longer mattered. Derodak was guiding her Wrayth heritage, pushing it out into the world, wider and wider.

Sorcha felt as though she might crack under the pressure, but somehow she did not. Her mind blurred, struggling to hold on to some vague sense of self as she became a vessel for human experience. She was being forced to take in the whole world of humans. Women, men, children, young, old, the newborn and the dying; she reached out and touched them all.

Though Sorcha could not control them as the Wrayth had wanted, she could draw a tiny portion of them into herself. Derodak fed on that piece, fed on it and then used it in his own way.

Dimly she realized he was speaking in the language of the Ancients, the language of the Ehtia. The Otherside was so close now. The room plunged into icy chill, the kind that even Sorcha, floating and distant, could feel in her bones.

Then he began to cut her, spreading her blood on the sand. It didn’t hurt because she was barely there, but Sorcha understood now. This sand was here for a reason, carefully protected. This was the front door of the Otherside. The sand was from there, not from this world.

As she managed to look up, Sorcha saw the thing that was written about in all the history books. The Break.

The moment when the Otherside opened was the greatest terror of all people—the one event that all cultures, all civilizations had felt the agony of.

Now Sorcha began to appreciate what those ancestors had seen; the world was ripping apart and beyond it was the Otherside. She and Merrick had traveled there once, but their mind—at least hers—had forgotten the details.

Flames, emptiness and eternal hunger waited there. Linked with her Sensitive they had flung their souls into it once, but their minds had carefully hidden it from them. Now it was displayed in its full glory and horror. She recalled all the pain, flames and danger they had risked. It was no place for a human. It was the realm where the Ehtia had their very bodies ripped from them. None could survive there. She felt the alternating cold and heat on her worn-out body.

That was not her greatest fear anymore, because something else was coming. As Sorcha lay back in the sand, bleeding, a giant gray tentacle was pushing apart the breach, ripping a hole through the roof of the cavern and into the world.

Sorcha wanted to scream, to do something to release the pressure, but she had nothing—no choice but to experience the true horror of it all. Derodak was laughing in triumph, sure that he was about to become the greatest being in any realm.

Then he lowered his gaze, pulled out the knife and began to slowly dissect Sorcha Faris on the sands of the Otherside as fuel for the Maker of Ways.