“Really?” she gasped, licking her lips in an attempt to make her voice not come out as a dire croak. “You cannot know how much that pleases me.”
The Wrayth seemed not to hear her, as she began to pace back and forth. “You have all the makings of the final weapon, and yet you remain aloof from us. We cannot connect with you.” She stopped pacing and stared at Sorcha. “The fault lies not with your father, so it has to have been your mother who—”
“It is too late for recriminations now,” a familiar voice spoke. He had stood out of Sorcha’s line of sight, concealed behind the table she was strapped to. As he walked around into view, Sorcha felt her anger begin to boil, rising over the dull ache of helplessness.
Derodak, Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars, stood next to the Wrayth and watched Sorcha rage. She strained against the bonds, calling out a stream of profanities that would have earned her stern retribution in the Order.
He was the maker of all Arkaym’s misery . . . all this death and destruction. He had brought down the Order of the Eye and the Fist, the only protection for the people of Arkaym. He had caused the Empire to fall into civil war, and now Sorcha saw that he was working with the Wrayth. All these things he had done for his own profit, so that he might rule the world as his Ehtia race once had.
He waited until she was done before turning to the Wrayth. “So, since she is of no use to you, I take it our agreement still stands?”
The pale woman raked her eyes up and down Derodak, her face now devoid of any emotion. “If there was time, we would try again by breeding off her . . .”
Derodak raised a finger and wiggled it at her as if the Wrayth were a recalcitrant child. “Now, now, we all know there is no time for that. You have failed to make your weapon, so our original agreement remains; I shall give you the west to do with as you please. Raise the humans as cows for all I care, but this thing you made is now mine.”
The woman’s eyes said she would have murdered him if she had the chance, but eventually she nodded.
Sorcha tried to think of anything to say to stop what she was witness to, but what could be said to two immortal geistlords intent on the destruction of her whole world? He would enslave the geists that came through from the Otherside and rule the humans, while the Wrayth would have the western edge of the Empire to harvest.
Instead, Sorcha tugged on her bonds for a time, and offered no words for them to enjoy. Even the Bond was a dark, empty thread; nothing came along it to comfort her. She was alone again.
Yet her whole life she had tried not to be alone. In the embrace of the Order, she had found peace, purpose and friendship. Her partners and her colleagues had filled her life. Her mission to help those endangered by geists had given her something worthwhile to strive for. Now, she was watching the destruction of all of that from captivity. It was enough to break her. Hopelessness rushed in, and she had no Merrick to save her from its icy grip.
The Wrayth woman left the room, head held high, not acknowledging Derodak or Sorcha again. Now it was just the two of them in the room.
Sorcha turned her head away. She had no desire to see the triumph on his face. Could it really be just yesterday that she had driven the geists from the city and claimed the title of Harbinger? It felt like a lifetime ago.
She raised her head slightly to glare at Derodak. “Why are you really doing this? You are causing so much pain and misery to everyday folk—”
“My people ruled this world before the coming of the geists.” He stared down at her for a moment, then bent and clasped her chin hard in his hand. “We were mighty and terrifying, because no one else could do the things we could do. When we fled, this place became as a wasteland of insects scrabbling to survive. I will show all of them the way to live. Show them all how to harness the geists and become mighty once more.”
Sorcha realized it was worse than she thought; Derodak was no madman—he genuinely believed in his course. An immortal life span had not taught him anything but the value of control.
When she remained silent, he smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of his lips. “The first Order was my Order, and all that you have tried to build here was but a reflection of what I had already done.” He flicked her chin aside and stepped back. “You may not be the weapon that the Wrayth hoped for, but I think you will suit my purpose very well.”
Something about the way he said it, lingering over the words like each of them was a ripe fruit, sent a shock through Sorcha’s system. She had not fought so damn hard to pull together the new Order just so that he could destroy it. Her mother had fought for her, and now she was going to fight for the rest of it.
“We shall be on our way,” he said, bending and unlatching her bonds. “Vermillion is waiting for her leader.”
Derodak could not be all that good of a Sensitive, because he did not expect his prisoner to throw herself up and on him. She grabbed him around the head and neck, throwing her whole weight against his throat. Her vision was dancing with black spots, but it felt very good to finally have her hands on him. All of the dangers she had faced—the Murashev, Hatipai and the Wrayth—could not compare to this man. He had made it happen. It was an easy thing to let all of that flow through her. She was going to choke this man out and then beat his proud head with a rock until it was pulp. Let him show how immortal he was then.
They struggled together; Sorcha’s one arm wrapped around his throat from behind, while her other hand sought out the knife on his belt. Her addled brain would have been happy to slit his throat. If he had taken the runes, then she would do it the old-fashioned way.
However, apparently Derodak didn’t need the runes as much as she had expected. He jerked, and the back of his head connected with Sorcha’s nose. The sudden explosion of pain disorientated her, but she held on. So he slammed her backward against the rough stone wall. The wind was knocked out of her, and her grip on his neck loosened just enough so that he was able to get a hand under hers. In one smooth move, he dumped her off his back to land on hers in the dirt.
The green flames of Shayst enveloped her, sucking away the strength from her muscles. In the flickering green light, Derodak smiled. “We have enough time yet, so that you may learn a lesson, Sorcha Faris. I am rather afraid it will be a painful one.”
She struggled to rise, but nothing was working.
Derodak took his time, putting on a pair of fine leather Gauntlets. “The Patternmaker is a turncoat.” He tilted his head, reconsidering. “Or rather he is the ultimate survivor. When he was in my possession, he created some new runes for me . . . and now I think I will show them to you.”
He bent and clamped his Gauntlet on her arm. As she spiraled into agony, she knew that as an immortal, Derodak had learned a great deal about the application of pain.
TWENTY-ONE
Sibling Reunion
“There he is,” Deacon Petav said, pointing out to port. “Your brother is indeed waiting for you as agreed.”
Zofiya hoped the clenching knot in the pit of her stomach was not reflected on her face.
Captain Revele appeared out of the bridge of the Summer Hawk. She snapped to attention in front of the Grand Duchess and offered up her spyglass in one hand without comment. Zofiya saluted and took the brass instrument from her.
She trained it toward where the sun was progressing toward the horizon, and saw the Winter Kite ahead of them just in front of the mountain known as the Sky Tower. It was not alone either; twenty or so airships floated nearby. They gleamed and fluttered in the light breeze.