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.