The Rune of the Past consumed the young Deacon as he saw through del Rue’s eyes. No, not del Rue: Horris, Cristin, Melloir, Hjan. Hundreds of names, places and memories rolled over Merrick, until only one remained. Pulled back from the ocean of the past—Derodak. Merrick plunged down desperately after that name.
The world was new, and he was an Ehtia; a creator of magic and machines. Like Nynnia, he had fled with his people to the Otherside so that the world might not be destroyed by the geists that hunted the Ehtia after the Break. However, also like Merrick’s lost love, he had chosen to be born back into this world with many of his powers stripped away—but not for the fine and good reasons that had motivated Nynnia.
A world he felt had failed him. A world he now wanted to control. He had lived too long, been too many people: first Deacon, Emperor, saint, rebel and destroyer.
“Derodak,” Merrick whispered to himself. It literally meant “the first” in Ancient. The Conclave was forming around him again, seeing what he now saw, the real person behind the mask that was del Rue.
However, they were not alone. Kaleva and his remaining guards could now be seen through the clearing dust. The ceiling high above still held, and the stones had only wounded a few of them, yet the Emperor’s rage was reaching apoplectic proportions. The calm leader Merrick had been introduced to was long gone. His etheric presence was pulsing, indicating he’d passed the point where sanity had any hold on him. All the bonds that held him, his sister, his love of the Empire, his determination to be a good ruler, were blown away under the assault of so much chaos. Derodak had done his work well and had now pulled the trigger.
“Demons are trying to kill me!” he screamed. “Kill them all! Whatever it takes.” The Imperial Guard needed no urging to take action. They’d been witness to many unleashed powers this day, come close to death themselves, and were now ready to unleash some of their own.
Merrick, scrambling to hold all the straining powers of the Conclave together, saw their rifles come up, and called again for Aydien. The blue fire ran widdershins around the Conclave, dancing off flesh and lancing out. Bullets zinged around them, even as the power of the rune pushed back against the guards, sending them flying like chaff in all directions. Still some of their aim held true, and Leonteh and Quannik crashed to the ground, choking on their own blood. Horror and disbelief flooded the Bond, and the rest of the Conclave threads began to unravel between them. He only held Lujia and Sibuse with himself and Sorcha now. It was barely enough to be called a Conclave now.
The Imperial Guard kept firing, but underneath Merrick heard the sound that he had been fearing: the growl of the Rossin. In all of this, they had forgotten Raed. He had stood with them, but apart, and now whatever control the Young Pretender held over the beast disappeared. Merrick had known it would happen eventually. Perhaps, if he was honest, it was the reason they had brought him with them. The Rossin was always the wild card in the deck.
Raed shared a look with Merrick and Sorcha, his hazel eyes already turning to gold, but he had no time to remove his clothes or spare them a word.
The great cat leapt into existence, snarling, and ready to do what his nature dictated. He glanced once at Derodak, shook his head and then sprang among the guards. The sound of their screams was painful for Merrick to hear, but they had opened fire on the Order.
However once he had cleared the Devotional of soldiers firing at them, the Rossin did not turn back. A rear guard of soldiers tried to keep firing to cover their Emperor’s escape, but the Rossin pursued. The scattered remains of the Conclave could do nothing to stop him.
Keeping his head down, Merrick saw with great disappointment that Derodak was untouched. He rose from among the bullets and debris, still with that damnable smile on his lips, and held out his hand to the Grand Duchess, who took it. She looked no more than a piece of furniture, still Merrick felt relief wash over him.
Del Rue took no notice of her however, instead focusing on the Deacons. “How very unexpected of you, Faris and Chambers! Looks like you’ve managed to cobble together something akin to a Pattern—so you must have found him then?” His brow furrowed. “How did you do that though, I wonder?” His eyes drifted to Sorcha, piercing her through with Sight. “Something we did not count on then…” He did not appear afraid, but rather intrigued; as if Sorcha were merely a piece he had to fit into his game board.
Being examined so, did not improve Sorcha’s mood. Merrick felt her raise her hand, but even in the Conclave he could not hold her back; she was far too strong for that.
She plucked Pyet from the ether, screaming in rage and pouring fire down upon Derodak like some mythical dragon. The heat was so intense in the confined space that Merrick, Lujia and Sibuse staggered back, falling to their knees. Merrick thrust his face into the crook of his arm so that he might have a chance to breathe. It felt as though every hair on his head was going to catch fire. They were all going to die. Against the flame, all he could make out was the outline of Sorcha. Her skin was wreathed in blue flickering lights that wrote out the runes on her flesh. High above them, the stained glass succumbed to the heat, and then it was raining red-hot molten drops—blues, greens and reds—down on them all.
Merrick was going to have to use Ticat on her, the last-resort rune held by the Sensitives. By the Bones, he didn’t want to, but if she didn’t stop he would have to.
Sorcha! Come back!
It was a near thing, but somehow she pulled herself back. The flames died away under her command. What was left behind was a scarred and pitted Devotional that would never be the same again. The smell of burned wood and stone filled the survivors’ nostrils.
Sorcha herself was sobbing, shaking and staggering on her feet. Yet out of it all, emerged Derodak, only the hem of his cloak singed, with one arm still around the pale and staring Zofiya.
He glanced once to his right, and smiled bleakly seeing the Imperial Guard fleeing before the Rossin, taking the Emperor with them.
“Kaleva was always the weakest of the siblings, but luckily I don’t need him anyway”—Derodak shrugged—“I have his sister.” With that, he grabbed Zofiya by the arm and pulled her in the opposite direction her brother had run. Merrick realized none of them could use Voishem, because of the protective cantrips worked into the walls of all the Abbey buildings to prevent geist infiltration.
What exactly his plan was, Merrick couldn’t fathom, but Sorcha spun on her heel, her eyes wild with rage. “We can’t let him get away or we might never find him. By the Bones, come on!” And then not waiting for his reply, she vaulted over the tumbled rock and chased after him.
Lujia and Sibuse were bleeding, injured, still capable of movement but not much else. The Conclave was broken. Merrick fixed them with a sad gaze, realizing they could well be the only members of the Order still capable of using their runes. He wasn’t sure how much that mattered now, but there was the faint chance it did. “Get out of here, and go back to Widow Vashill’s. You’ve done all you can here.” Then he turned his back on them and followed his partner into the dust and confusion of the end of the Order.
TWENTY-SIX
Alliance and Victory
The Rossin ran, following the guards out of the building and out onto the cool grass. It didn’t matter where they were; he tore them apart with great relish. Human blood was so much more satisfying than anything the Wrayth could give him; primal and run through with fear.