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.