Harbinger (28 page)

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.

“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.

The Grand Duchess wouldn’t have minded that so much—since she had brought her own fleet—but they were not tied up together in the usual way for airships suing for peace. They circled behind their flagship the
Kite
, but looked like at any moment’s notice they might go into a more combative formation. Yet, from the prow hung the white banner of truce, and all of the cannons were rolled back from their positions.

Captain Revele took the spyglass when it was handed back to her. “Are you certain this is the correct course, Imperial Highness? We could communicate with weirstones instead from the safety of the
Summer Hawk
 . . .”

“No,” the Grand Duchess shot back and then immediately realized her rudeness. “I am sorry, Captain. It is just that I must see my brother, face-to-face. Weirstone communication is very limited, and I must make my point very, very clearly to him. A great deal rests on that.”

The captain nodded, but offered up another suggestion. “At least take a platoon of marines with you. I would feel . . .”

She shook her head again. “One platoon would not be enough if things go badly, and it would only give the impression of a threat. I do not know how broken the Emperor is, so I can take no risks upsetting him.”

Zofiya understood that none of those around her were comfortable with what she was doing. They would have preferred she retreat to Vermillion and begin approaching the rebel Princes to join her side. They had said as much in the days after she’d returned to the palace. The pretender who claimed to be the sister of Raed Rossin was losing battles, and many now suspected her for what she actually was.

However, that would do no good; the fighting would rage just as long, and then Zofiya would be waging war on her own brother.

So seeing that her commander’s mind was made up, Captain Revele did as she was bid and instructed the pilot to draw the
Summer Hawk
up to dock with the
Winter Kite
. She did not look happy about it though.

As they came within twenty feet of the other ship, Zofiya decided now was the time that she would drop the bomb on her other companions too. “Deacon Petav, I must insist you stay here on the
Hawk
while I converse with my brother.”

Part of her was amused by the look of shock on his face. He certainly hadn’t seen that one coming—and it must have been quite the sensation for a Sensitive Deacon.

When his mouth opened to let out some pointed argument, she held up her hand. “My brother is trembling on the very edge of sanity, but Derodak has infected him with an utter hatred of any kind of Deacon. If you set foot on his flagship, then there is a very strong likelihood that he will kill us all.”

The hooded heads of the Deacons turned slightly to each other, but after a moment Petav spread his hands. “Very well, Imperial Highness. We will make sure to keep ourselves out of sight, but we will be watching.” He leaned in close to her, his hood almost touching her face. “Just remember, at some point you may have to come to terms with the fact that your brother is a lost cause.”

The audacity of his words caught Zofiya by surprise, yet she could not offer a rebuttal in the open. Instead, she glared at him. He had only spoken her deepest fears, but she wouldn’t acknowledge them.

“I could expect no less,” she replied for all to hear. The Deacons quickly glided below, and then all she had to think about was the approaching meeting.

The
Winter Kite
was the very first airship that the Imperial Air Fleet had started with. She was impressive, with her scarlet envelope and long lines of cannons running from prow to stern.

Zofiya frowned, suddenly wishing she had not already dismissed the Deacons, because there was an odd square, squat machine sitting right next the gunwales of the
Kite
. It looked ugly and out of place on the deck, and what’s more, she had no idea what it was.

As head of the Imperial Guard she had been in charge of armaments. She racked her brain to try and shake out any memory of the experimental weapons they had worked on, but still there was nothing to be had. She had not seen her brother for many, many weeks—he could have been up to anything.

The two airships gracefully slid together, and a boarding ramp was lowered between the two. The
Winter Kite
’s deck was full of people, mostly Imperial Guards in scarlet uniforms and a scattering of councilors, but there were a few others out of uniform that she did not recognize. One of the Guards whistled her announcement on a tin pipe, and Zofiya stepped forward until she was poised suspended between the two ships. “Permission to come aboard, Imperial Majesty,” she called out.

That was when her brother emerged from among his soldiers for the first time. Kal looked better than when she had seen him last, fleeing from the Rossin with the Mother Abbey falling down about their ears. He wore a golden helm and breastplate as if he were off to war, though neither looked much more than decorative. He could have been the brother that she had thrown to the ground to protect from a sniper only a season before—except for the look in his eyes. No warmth gleamed in them, and he did not hold out his arms to her.

“Permission granted,” he said, his voice ringing between the two airships.

It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath, as Zofiya took her fateful step forward onto the
Winter Kite
. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a couple of the Imperial Guards shifting fractionally. Among their ranks were faces she recognized, and each one she filed away into memory.

While part of her noted such things, another sectioned-away part wailed that she had to do such a thing. However, she had built walls around that vulnerable portion and would not let it out—especially not here.

Kal was watching her approach, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Previously, she had always been able to read her brother’s moods. He had been a kind child and a ridiculously kind Emperor. Zofiya’s jaw clenched as she thought of a hundred painful things to do to the one who had brought this all to pass, Derodak.

Finally, she stood six feet away from him, and after a breath to steady herself, sunk into a low curtsey. Perhaps much of the spectacle of doing it was marred by wearing a uniform and not a Court dress, but that was not its purpose.

A low bow meant her head was exposed to whatever the Emperor wanted to deal out. She stayed down for a long time—or at least it felt like a long time—and the back of her neck itched. At any moment she expected to feel the kiss of steel, or maybe a pistol barrel placed against her head.

“Welcome . . . Sister.” Kal’s voice broke the tension of the moment, and she straightened back up to her full height. This meant that they were looking eye to eye. The Grand Duchess’ gaze flickered to the right. She spotted Ezefia among those standing behind her brother, and had to stop herself from making comment. Her brother’s wife had a large swollen belly and eyes hollow with horror and misery.

Zofiya had never had cause to spend time with the Empress, because they really shared only Kal in common. Ezefia liked to dance and gossip and make merry. Her sister-in-law liked more serious pursuits. Now however, Zofiya wished that they had spent more hours together, because it looked like both of them could use some support in this moment.

“You have not offered your congratulations.” Kal’s tone was light, and yet strung through with a hint of menace. “Look,” he said, grabbing Ezefia by the arm and yanking her forward. The woman—or rather the Empress—stumbled and nearly fell. Zofiya instinctively stepped forward to catch her, but Kal pulled her upright and away from his sister. “Can you not see we are blessed? What do you think it will be . . . a boy or a girl?”

It was worse than she had imagined. The crack in her brother’s voice went all the way into his soul. She knew that within just a few moments—she’d been with him every day of his life.

Yet, she couldn’t afford to put a foot wrong. She’d heard nothing about the Empress’ pregnancy and felt ill prepared when confronted with it. So much for all the Sensitivity of Deacons! “I . . . I am just—”

He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway—whatever it is, it shall be a bastard!”

Silent tears were now rolling down Ezefia’s face from her peerless green eyes. Her sister-in-law knew how she felt. She’d been in a situation where she had been afraid to make noise, to draw attention. Every part of the Grand Duchess wanted to grab her and hustle her off this cursed airship and onto the
Summer Hawk
. Yet, she could not. More was at stake than the Empress’ fears. So she remained still and tried to merely distract her brother from Ezefia as best she could.

“Then take another to wife, dear Brother,” she said as calmly as she could. “Denounce her before the Court and choose again. There are plenty of Princesses still aching to be your Empress.” It remained unspoken that the field had undoubtedly narrowed since last time they had searched, but there would be some Princes that would willingly fling their daughters at Kal even at this juncture.

Her brother gave his wife a sharp shake and then threw her down. She landed on the deck with a thump and kept her eyes riveted to the deck of the airship.

Just who exactly had bedded the Empress—or even if it was a crazy delusion of the Emperor—Zofiya could not tell. She did not want to ask and risk inflaming the situation.

Kaleva began pacing back and forth between his wife and the lines of Imperial Guard at his back. He was like some mad puppet darting around, with the rest of the people present merely the backdrop to his performance. Zofiya had her answer confirmed. Her brother was indeed mad, and not just angry.

Derodak had broken him, and if he could be fixed remained a mystery. The fate of an Empire with a mad Emperor was well documented, and though Zofiya might not like it, she would have to do what others in history had done: take the throne for the benefit of its people. She decided in her head in that moment she would indeed be regent.

The fact settled in her mind like a stone. Yes, she would be regent, and she would have the best lay Brothers of Sorcha’s Order examine her brother. Perhaps they knew a way to heal him of his grave mental injury. After all, they had been dealing with hurt Deacons for centuries and—