The yearning and love he put into that plea were heard by Sorcha, but did not move her to action. His kindness and good soul were very far off, and directed at some creature that she could never be again. Sorcha didn’t move. Derodak took up her whole vision.
“What am I?” she whispered and only he seemed to hear her question. Sorcha stepped nearer and circled the man as if they were dancing some strange alien steps.
Through her shared Center the man was an enigma, and yet as fascinating as the night sky above. She felt if she kept looking she might fall into him, and not be anything at all.
“You are…” He pursed his lips and stopped himself from continuing. Instead he said, “Why don’t you come with me and find out? It could be most interesting.”
Merrick had run to the Grand Duchess, and was crouching over her still form. What he found, Sorcha did not know, but he hauled her into his arms and backed away from the other man. “You can’t have either of them.”
Derodak laughed at him. “Have the girl, I am done with her. She served her purpose when she pointed the finger of accusation at your foolish Order. I have better things to occupy myself with now.” He tilted his head and regarded Sorcha with a small smile playing around his lips. “I don’t think I will even need Vashill’s machine for you.”
Sorcha felt herself the center of his attention, and in the state she now occupied she liked it.
When he opened his palm, she saw three gleaming weirstones rested in his fingers. He held out his hand again. “Come with me. I am the only one who can understand what it is to be you, and I can teach you many things.”
He threw the stones down on the ground and immediately the triangle they described began to shimmer. It was as if the earth herself grew soft at his touch. With awe, Sorcha realized he was making a tunnel before her very eyes. Not just redirecting the stones as she had done, but bending the Otherside to his will.
Sorcha moved toward him. His words made sense. She did not belong with human or Deacon. She was something else, and Derodak would show her what that was.
As she did so though, she felt the Bond with Merrick suddenly burn bright. She would have turned to tell him to let her go, but the young Deacon was faster than she would have thought possible.
He too was more than he seemed, and Derodak had failed to fully grasp that. As Merrick threw himself at Sorcha, he gathered up all the emotions around him. Every feeling of loss, despair and fear that hundreds of Deacons had felt that night. An accumulation of lost dreams, battered determination and the best of intentions, all brought to nothing. It was a terrible night, like few others in history, and Merrick was there to use those feelings for Sorcha’s benefit.
His wild talent channeled all of them, and directed them at Derodak. The man had many shields. Sorcha glimpsed how many years he had worked to protect himself against runes of all kinds, but this talent was not a rune, not hard-won from the geists. It was a totally human power, and consequently one Derodak was not fully prepared to repel.
Derodak howled, as those emotions poured over him like a tidal wave, battering at him in an almost physical fashion. He twisted back and forth, trying to escape them, but they were not runes and he had no defense. Sorcha knew he had grown chill living so long, insulated from his own mortality. These feelings cut to his core like the sharpest of knives. His own talents crumpled under their weight as he clawed at his own face.
At last, desperate to escape, he activated the weirstones and, stepping into the triangle, disappeared into the earth. It was the last thing Deacon Sorcha Faris saw for a little time.
When she finally came back to consciousness, it was to find herself cradled in Merrick’s arms. He was weeping, while Zofiya, completely unconscious, lay a few feet away.
Sorcha touched his face. “I certainly hope those tears are because of what you just did, and not for me.”
He brushed them away, and smiled crookedly at her. “Yes…that’s what it is…”
Together they clambered to their feet. Sorcha surveyed the devastation while Merrick went to tend the Grand Duchess. Fire had spread to the other buildings, and she knew that come morning the Mother Abbey would be but a smoldering memory.
Merrick returned, half carrying Zofiya. She looked pale but was coming around. When she found out what had happened here, Sorcha was sure there would be hell to pay.
“What now?” Merrick asked, though he could now see the seed of a plan she’d been mulling over since they found the Patternmaker.
“First we regroup at Vashill’s…then we go our own way.” Sorcha sighed and put her shoulder under Zofiya’s arm. She could already feel Raed in the city, back to himself and heading in that direction. They had much to do.
“We have work to do,” Merrick muttered. He probably didn’t even realize he had done it, but once again her young partner was stealing her thoughts from her head. Strangely now, it was a comfort.
The Bond held her together for now. Later would come soon enough.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Scattered Remains
The widow Vashill’s house had not been a good place to stay, and Sorcha had moved the remains of the Order on as soon as they had all that could be gathered. Vermillion was a shaken city, full of panic and disorder, and fallen into utter chaos. With no force of Deacons to fight geists, they were coming back. Vermin can always tell when the cat of the house dies. Sorcha recalled her beloved Pareth telling her that—but she had never thought it was a warning for Deacons.
Then there was the Emperor to deal with. He had survived somehow the destruction of the Mother Abbey, but lost none of his blind and foolish hatred of the Order. The Deacons had no doubt that he would come looking for them as soon as he regained control. After only two days, they got word he was hunting former members of the Order down.
So the Deacons and their companions filed out of the city in small, unremarkable groups, and formed up, once on the road, beyond sight of Vermillion. They marched for many days, covering their tracks and checking the ether as they went. Half of them had managed to take Breed mounts, and they carried what few provisions that they’d scavenged. The sooner they got into the hill country the better.
By the fourth day, everyone, man and horse, was exhausted, dirty and at the end of their tether. Sorcha gave the order to make camp off the road at the foot of a thickly wooded hill, and it was there finally that they were able to take stock of what had survived the mad escape from the city. They could also eat.
The Arch Abbot was not among them; dead or captured, it was impossible to know. Three of the Presbyters had however managed to escape: Thorine Belzark, a battered Melisande Troupe and most surprisingly the elderly Yvril Mournling. They were the most shocked of all of them, and barely spoke to each other let alone anyone else. Merrick commented that they only needed some time.
None of them could be sure how much of that they had. Sorcha sat in the grass and finally forced herself to count who was not with them. Garil was not among the ragtag group of leftover Deacons, but the stark raving Patternmaker was. Kolya had quietly taken up a place within the group, but kept to himself. Lujia and Sibuse, battered and bleeding, proudly took up guarding the rear of the caravan, since they still had some faltering runes at their disposal. The Patternmaker’s marks were, however, fading. A dozen of the crew of the far-off Dominion were still with them, along with a silent and brooding Aachon.
In total, sixty people, some once Deacons, some not, surrounded her on this grassy spot in the late autumn sun. It was not large enough a number to be an army, but not small enough to pass easily unnoticed.