47

Adimora

WINTER KNOCKED QUIETLY ON the door of Darrin and Eranda’s home. It was after dark, and she hoped the children were already asleep. Facing Darrin would be difficult enough; she could not look at Sena, Lelanda, and Tohn, and tell them their mother was dead.

Fortunately, some of her riders had finally procured faltira for her, one of them going all the way back to Cineste to get it. Her withdrawal symptoms had all but faded now that she was taking the drug semi-regularly again. Her shoulder wound was well on its way to full recovery, and even the node of pain in her head from the blow she’d taken at the battle of the Canaian Fields was fading.

Nevertheless, she needed as much courage as she could get right now. She took a crystal, and the fire began to burn in her veins.

Darrin opened the door, bleary-eyed, his hair unkempt and his clothes disheveled. His eyes met Winter’s, and his weary, vacant stare did not change in the slightest.

He already knows, Winter realized.

“What d’you want?” Darrin asked.

“I… I wanted to speak with you,” Winter whispered.

Darrin’s eyes slid over Winter’s shoulder, staring off into the night. For a moment Winter thought Darrin might not say anything at all, but finally he turned, walked back inside, and looked over his shoulder.

“Come in,” he said.

Winter walked into the hut, out of the autumn chill. Darrin walked directly to a wooden chair in a corner of the room and sat down. Winter stayed standing, unable to bring herself to do anything else.

“I have something to tell you,” Winter said.

“Gord already did.”

Winter stood still. She should have told Gord not to say anything so she could tell Darrin herself. And yet, that would have accomplished nothing but delaying Darrin’s suffering by a day, maybe two.

“Ain’t you got some coronation tomorrow?” Darrin’s voice was raw and gravelly.

“That… that doesn’t matter,” Winter said. The Druid elders, along with the Cracked Spear leaders, had agreed to crown Winter queen of the tiellan people the next morning. Agreed, perhaps, was a strong word, but both groups of leadership could not go against the will of the people. More than that, they could not go against their fear of Winter.

“Ain’t that the only thing that matters?” Darrin asked. “You’ve done nothin’ but order people around since the moment you came back.”

Winter shifted her weight, unsure what to say. Anger did not surprise her. She could remember feeling that way herself, in her cell in Izet, after realizing Knot was dead.

She straightened. Best say what she came here to say. “Darrin, I am sorry for what happened to Eranda. She was a good woman, and deserved better than she got.”

Darrin snorted. “We agree on that,” he said. Then, he looked up at Winter. “Did she die because of you?”

Winter’s breath caught in her throat. “I… Eranda died a courageous death in battle,” Winter said after a moment, “fighting for the tiellan cause.”

“I hear she died protecting you,” Darrin said. “Sounds a lot like she died protecting your cause, whatever in Oblivion that is.”

Winter said nothing in response—what could she possibly say that would help?

“You’re the one that allowed tiellan women to join the Rangers in the first place,” Darrin said quietly. “Way I see it, ain’t nobody more responsible for my wife’s death than you.”

Winter could not deny what Darrin said, and his words pierced through the apathetic shell she’d made for herself.

“You’re right,” Winter whispered. “I am sorry, Darrin.”

Darrin was silent for a moment, and then he stood. “Your sorry ain’t worth shit to me.” He did not show her out, but walked into the room he and Eranda had shared without another word.

Winter’s breaths came quick and shallow. She feared if she breathed any deeper she might break down, and she did not want that. Not here. She moved to the door, and then heard Darrin’s voice behind her.

“She’d want you to have this.”

Winter turned to see Darrin holding out the white swaddling cloth Eranda had kept for her. It was folded neatly into a long, thick rectangle.

“I…” Winter reached out, but stopped before her fingers touched the cloth.

“Bloody take it,” Darrin said, voice broken, in the first show of emotion Winter had seen from him since she came to his doorstep.

Winter willed herself to grasp the white cloth, and then turned and rushed out the door.

* * *

Hours later, Winter sobbed on the floor of her own hut in Adimora, the white swaddling cloth clutched tightly to her chest.

She cried for Darrin and his children, for the pain they felt now but especially for the pain they would feel in years to come, as Darrin watched his children become tall, as Sena became more and more like her mother, as little Tohn’s last memories of Eranda would inevitably fade.

She cried for the many thousands lost, for the many families without a mother or father, for the orphaned tiellan children.

She cried for her people, defeated and dwindling, and foolishly thinking that making her their queen would solve any of their problems. They did not know what they were doing.

And yet, she thought with bitterness, you will not refuse them.

She cried for herself, for the illusion of her own indifference. After Knot’s death, she thought she would never feel again. She thought she was immune to such things. But being back with her people, and being irrevocably responsible for Eranda’s death among thousands more—holding the white cloth she’d received as a gift at her Doting on the day of her wedding—she realized the lie she’d been telling herself.

The pain had always been there. Only now had it grown too powerful to push down, bury, or ignore.

As Winter’s denial turned to acceptance, her sobs faded, and as her sobs faded, acceptance became anger. Winter had her own part in all that had happened, but there were others at fault, too. Riccan Carrieri. The Khalic Legions. The people of Khale themselves, and every human on the Sfaera, save Urstadt and Galce, as far as Winter was concerned.

And, lest she forget, Mazille and her psimancers.

Winter’s vengeance would find them all.