Adimora
WHEN WINTER MADE IT to her chambers in the underground city, her back, feet, and legs felt as if they were on fire on the inside. She, Urstadt, Rorie, and Kali—still in Vlak’s body—had ridden hard for the last few days, hardly sleeping, purchasing extra horses along the way. Winter was looking forward to a warm bath and a hot meal before she announced her intention to attack Triah.
She had just closed the door and was removing her boots when a knock echoed throughout her chambers.
Winter swore. What was the point of being queen if she could not have a quiet moment to herself?
One of her guards, Dreya, a Ranger who had been with her since Cineste, waited on the other side of her door.
“My apologies for intruding, Your Majesty. Ghian desires to speak with you. He says it is urgent. I would not have let him through, but he insisted.”
“Fine,” Winter said, looking over the guard’s shoulder to see Ghian standing sheepishly in the torchlit stone hallway. Goddess, what time was it? The torches were a sad reminder of the real sun that shone above ground.
“Let him in,” Winter said.
“Would you like me to stay—”
“That will not be necessary. Thank you, Dreya.” She waved the guard away.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, my queen,” Ghian said, hovering just inside the door to her hut. Despite the tiellans making her their queen, she had not yet had the time or will to change her living situation. What was the point, when she would be leaving again so soon?
“Make this quick, Ghian.”
“Of course, Your Majesty, of course.” Ghian looked over his shoulder. “Your guard… what was her name? Dreya? She is rather protective of you. Said she would make my face bloody if this wasn’t something important.”
Winter collapsed onto a large chair. “My guard is protective of me, yes, thank you for the insight. Was that what you came here to say?”
“I came here to discuss two things.”
“The first?”
“The first is Triah.”
“I will march on Triah soon.”
“And you’re just taking Rangers? No one else?”
A brief flash of the vision Winter had seen through Vlak burst into her mind. Thousands of tiellan bodies on a cold, snow-swept plain of death. Adimora itself destroyed and gone. She was suddenly grateful Galce was still in Cineste; she’d thought about recalling him, lately, Chaos’ direction be damned, but in Cineste he might be spared should these visions come to pass.
“Just Rangers.” Two thousand fighters for the campaign, and a thousand to defend Adimora, but she had no intention of discussing specific tactics with Ghian. “And the second thing?”
“You have a question for me.”
Winter swore. She did have a question for Ghian. As much as she despised what he had done and what now influenced him, that very influence was a source of valuable information.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“Eventually the Daemons are going to take their physical forms,” Ghian said. “It is inevitable.”
“And when that happens, you’ll cease to exist, won’t you?”
Ghian hesitated.
“The Daemon will take its true form through your body. It will tear right through you as it enters this world; I saw Mefiston do it at the firestone. The body he’d possessed did not survive.”
For a moment the confidence that had made Ghian’s eyes bright since he’d joined with Azael snuffed out; they were all fear.
“You didn’t know? You thought you would… what? Coexist with him when he took his true form?”
Ghian’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.
“Bloody bones,” Winter muttered. “You poor bastard.”
As quickly as the moment of vulnerability had befallen him, Ghian straightened, the confidence back in his eyes. He spoke, but the voice did not belong to him. Winter could sense, ever so faintly, a deep, rolling tone, like the rush of fire, beneath Ghian’s normally high, reedy voice.
“Ghian will serve me faithfully, and he will be rewarded,” Azael said.
Winter rolled her eyes. “He’ll be rewarded with a timely death.”
“While Ghian’s body will be destroyed, there are other options for him, if he chooses to continue to serve the Nine.”
“The Nine?” Winter asked, sitting up. “Don’t you mean the Eight? What happened to Mefiston, anyway?”
Azael—she could almost see the blackened skull through Ghian’s face—frowned. “As far as I am concerned, you killed him. Be thankful I am not more vengeful about it.”
“Seems a bit unfair. He died because some of you failed, clearly. I opposed him, but I didn’t kill him.” Winter cocked her head to one side. “Can any of you even take physical form if one of you is dead?”
“We can, and we will,” Azael said. “Mefiston’s death is a part of the cycle. You of all people should know that.”
“What do you mean, me of all people?”
“You are the Harbinger, are you not? Inevitability is your watchword.”
Winter stared at Azael for a moment. Kali had once told her that the Triad, the group who ran the Nazaniin, thought she was “The Harbinger”—though Kali said the Nazaniin didn’t know enough about their own prophecies to agree on whether the Harbinger would usher in the Rising of the Nine Daemons, or simply bring death to the Sfaera, or perhaps do nothing at all—and she had heard whispers in the Void that called her both harbinger and murderer.
“What is the Harbinger?” Winter asked. “Will you tell me?”
The black skull’s natural grin broadened. “The Harbinger is a herald of Canta. Its relationship with the Nine is only tangential. Insomuch as we are tied to Canta, the Harbinger also is loosely tied to us.”
“A herald of… Canta?” Winter did not like the sound of that, but could it be much worse than being a harbinger for the Nine Daemons? She had given up any semblance of faith in Canta long ago; Winter had lost everything she loved in life, and as far as she was concerned, Canta was as much to blame as anyone else. Why would she be a harbinger of a goddess she did not care for, let alone believe in?
“The Harbinger, of Canta’s Last Advent, I believe they used to call it. Or the Harbinger of Canta’s Destruction, sometimes.”
“Canta’s Destruction? Canta will die?” That was slightly better. If she was a herald to the destruction of the old hag that dominated the Sfaera, so be it. She’d accept that role gladly.
“Oh yes, She will die,” Azael said. “Just not in the way She thinks. The Destruction will not happen, because we will take power. We will remake the Sfaera in our image, and Canta will become nothing but an old, dusty mortal. Her death will be as meaningless as that of the tiniest insect.”
“What does that mean?”
“You will learn more when we reach Triah. We will all find answers there.”