When I meet with Arch-Cardinal DiCrimio, it is in the cloying, damp heat of the hanging gardens in the upper tiers of the Ecclesiarchal Palace. Insects thrum their wings here, thronging around thriving plant life the likes of which I have never seen on any other world. Not even the wild ones. I pass by banks of wildflowers, twisted trees and thick, glistening swathes of algae on water, all tended by semi-artificial constructs of metal and bone that walk on spider-limbs, crooning to the plants as they trim and cut and tend them. The overhead lumens are glaring and artificial, and the air strangely clear. It feels lacking to me after months of breathing the rest of the Throneworld’s exhalations.
When I find DiCrimio, he is tending cloud-lilies. Seeing him cutting away their leaves, I am momentarily reminded of Dagra Thul and his choir. Just as with the Master of Dreams, this meeting place is a display of power, and of wealth. Unlike Dagra Thul, though, I am not here to intimidate the arch-cardinal. Some bridges are better off unburned.
‘You must not cut the weaker leaves away until they have curled and died,’ DiCrimio says, as I join him by the bank of lilies.
‘You aren’t concerned that the weakness will spread?’ I ask, as he makes another deliberate, careful cut with the silver-plated secateurs in his gnarled hand.
Marius DiCrimio looks at me. The arch-cardinal is old, even as high priests go. Much older than any mortal man has a right to be. His face is all hollows and creases, his eyes replaced long since with very expensive gold and silver bionics that click and whirr as he focuses on me. His hair is white and thin, sitting atop an age-marked scalp like mist around a mountaintop. DiCrimio’s crimson and white robes hang loose from his body, weighed down by icons in gold and silver and platinum. By bleached skulls and parchment scrolls. When he smiles at me, the arch-cardinal’s teeth are the characteristic grey of those who spend their lives under the Throneworld’s skies.
‘Not if the plant is tended correctly,’ he says. ‘The leaves too weak to thrive will feed the rest of the structure, and the next blooming will be all the stronger for it.’
I put out my armoured hand and run my fingers over one of the blooms. It comes away yellow with pollen.
‘That seems a dangerous philosophy, cardinal,’ I say.
DiCrimio smiles again. ‘Who said anything about philosophy, inquisitor? You asked me about plants.’
That is DiCrimio’s truth. He is not just a holy man, but a politician of considerable merit. One does not reach the heights of the Holy Synod without that sort of skill.
‘But you are not here to speak of such things,’ he says, going back to cutting his lilies. ‘You are here in search of one amongst the Adepta Sororitas. The one you call the eagle, ablaze.’
I nod. ‘I believe that she is the key to establishing a bastion of light beyond the Rift.’
‘And what makes you think so?’
‘I have dreamt it,’ I say. ‘You know that my dreams are not to be taken lightly, cardinal.’
The secateurs close with a click.
‘No,’ he says. ‘They are not.’
‘Tell me where she is.’
DiCrimio turns to look at me. His mechanical eyes are incapable of expression, but I still feel as though he is trying to divine the truth of me. He isn’t the first to try, and he won’t be the last. Only one soul has ever seen the truth of me, though, and she is resting in the depths of the Fortress Meridia, surrounded by stars I made for her.
‘First, tell me why you seek her,’ he says.
I hold his mechanical gaze. ‘I already have,’ I say. ‘Because I believe that we have a chance to strike back at the darkness. To wrest back what the Rift has taken from us.’
The arch-cardinal’s eyes whirr again, and then he nods and turns back to his cloud-lilies.
‘She is already on her way here,’ he says. ‘A transmission was received only hours ago from a ship that translated into the Sol System after journeying from Ophelia VII. It is said that one amongst the combined commandery of Adepta Sororitas on board was burned, but not broken. Marked by His favour.’
‘Burned, but not broken,’ I say, echoing his words. My father’s words. ‘Why do you say that?’
DiCrimio’s eyes hiss. ‘Because her coming is prophecy,’ he says. ‘Seen by the most pious and powerful of Telepathica scryers. This Sister Evangeline will be the one to recover the Shield of Saint Katherine from the darkness beyond the Rift. According to the transmission we received, she has already been blessed with a vision of the Shield’s whereabouts.’
‘And where does she believe the Shield to be?’ I ask.
‘Dimmamar,’ DiCrimio says.
My ears ring in the wake of the name. I have to resist the urge to put my hand to the place where my pendant rests beneath my armour. Rebirth. The Resonance, built by those who believe as I do. Thorians, on Thor’s own world. I could curse myself for a fool. Of course it is Dimmamar. How could it be anywhere else?
‘When will the commandery arrive?’ I ask.
‘Within the day. Their weapons will be replenished, their voyage blessed and then they will go into the Rift.’
‘And I will go with them.’
DiCrimio sets about putting away his secateurs in a case made from oakwood and trimmed in gold. Another display of wealth.
‘If that is where your dreams must take you, inquisitor.’ He shakes his head. ‘Though it will not be an easy journey.’
‘They rarely are, if they are worth it.’
DiCrimio chuckles. ‘Now that is philosophy,’ he says.
Somewhere far above, the Convent Prioris’ bells begin to ring. It is a doleful, melodic sound. Beautiful and old.
‘That is my calling,’ DiCrimio says. ‘Unless there is anything else?’
‘The name of the ship,’ I ask, before he can go. ‘What is it?’
DiCrimio looks at me one last time.
‘The Unbroken Vow,’ he says.
Then the arch-cardinal turns and shuffles away, leaving me alone with the cloying smell of cloud-lilies and the ringing of bells, and the name of the ship echoing over and over in my ears because of what I have always said to Sofika, especially since Hellebore.
We do not break vows.
When I return to the Fortress Meridia, I find Efrayl sitting in a folding chair outside Sofika’s chambers. The medic is asleep sitting up, his head lolling and his arms folded tightly across his narrow chest.
‘Efrayl,’ I say.
He startles awake and looks up at me. Efrayl was an uphive noble’s house medicae before I took him into my service. He is tall and thin and greying, with expensive haptics laid into the fingers of his right hand that he has a habit of clicking against one another when he talks.
‘What are you doing sleeping here?’ I ask him.
‘Waiting for you,’ Efrayl says, getting to his feet.
Efrayl is still talking, but I’m not listening. All that I can hear is my pulse rushing in my ears because now that the medic is standing I can see the blood spattered on his apron. Dark, old blood.
Sofika’s blood.
I turn to the door and give my clearance. The locks disengage and the lumen over the door blinks from red to green.
‘Inquisitor,’ Efrayl says, urgently. ‘Lord, please. Wait.’
I ignore him and rush inside, convinced that I will see Sofika’s machine sitting empty. That I will have lost her for good this time. But the machine isn’t empty. Sofika is still there, coiled in its cables. She doesn’t wake at the sound of me approaching. Her skin is pale as mountain snow.
‘Sofi,’ I say softly.
She is so still. I put my hand out and touch her face and say her name again, and only then does she stir. Only then does she raise her head and look at me. Her eyes are artificially dark, the pupils swollen to swallow the blue. I can’t help but think of Thul’s wretched choir of dreamers.
‘Ahri,’ she says. ‘You were gone so long.’
I let my hand fall away. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Did you find her?’ Sofika asks. ‘The eagle, ablaze?’
I nod.
Sofika’s face lights with a broad smile. ‘You did?’
‘I did,’ I tell her, smiling too, despite myself. ‘Now all we need to do is follow her.’
Sofika nods, a lolling motion.
‘We will find the Conduit,’ I say. ‘You will see the Rebirth, just as I promised.’
She blinks slowly, her eyes misted by distance.
‘Inquisitor, please,’ Efrayl says, from behind me. ‘You must let her rest.’
I hold my hand up and Efrayl falls quiet as Sofika stirs again.
‘Ahri,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘You were gone so long,’ she says, as if I have only just arrived.
It takes me a moment to answer her.
‘I know,’ I tell her, softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Have you come to see them?’ she asks, her words blurred by sleep and whatever Efrayl has given her.
‘See who?’
She smiles absently and I realise that she isn’t looking at me, really. She is looking through me. ‘The stars,’ she says. ‘It feels as though you can see them all from here.’
I have heard her speak those exact words to me once before. It was before we set sail for Hellebore. Before we knew what a mistake that would be. We were sitting together on the observation deck of my system-runner, the Pandion, watching the stars turn through the armaglass. She wore blue that night. The same blue as her mountain-sky eyes.
‘Every single one,’ I tell her, because it’s what I said all that time ago, too.
She nods, slowly, and her eyelids flicker and then drop closed. Her head lolls again and then I turn to look at Efrayl.
‘What have you done to her?’
‘She was in distress, so I gave her something to stop it. Pain relief. A little kalma.’
I take a step closer to him, my blood boiling. ‘You have her drugged like one of Thul’s psyker-mules.’
‘I saved her life,’ he snaps at me. ‘She was delirious, Ahri. Pulling at her cables and drips, trying to get clear of the machine. She would have died if I’d let her.’
His words sting as though he’s hit me, and my heart does what it always does when it hurts. It shrinks in response.
‘Lord,’ I say.
Efrayl frowns. ‘What?’
‘You will address me as lord.’
He blinks, and I hear him start clicking those haptics together. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Lord.’
‘I want you to prepare Sofika to travel,’ I tell him. ‘We leave Meridia by nightfall.’
Efrayl pales. ‘Travel,’ he says. ‘Where?’
‘We are going through the Rift,’ I say. ‘To Dimmamar.’
I start to leave the room, but Efrayl puts out a hand. He stops just short of touching me.
‘You aren’t listening to me. Sofika cannot possibly leave Meridia.’
‘Use the cradle-casket,’ I tell him. ‘Rebuild the machine aboard the ship.’
Efrayl shakes his head. ‘You are not listening to me,’ he says. ‘It is not about the machine. It’s the stress of it. It will kill her.’
I don’t lay a hand on him. I don’t move at all. I just fix him with a stare instead.
‘No, it won’t,’ I say. ‘Because you will make sure of it, or you will die with her. Do you understand me?’
Efrayl’s throat works and his eyes fall to the Marleyan blades I carry.
‘Understood,’ he says. ‘It will be done, lord.’
I find Zoric and Yumia in the mid-level training suite. It is an open space made from the same muted stone as the rest of Meridia. It almost swallows the sounds of Yumia’s movements completely as she runs through her blade rites on the rubberised mat in the centre of the room. Stretches, handsprings and balance poses. Zoric is sitting cross-legged on the floor at the edge of the chamber with his kit arrayed in front of him, etching prayer words into the solid shells he uses with a microtool, a lho-stick hanging from his lips. When I enter the room, he stops working and looks up at me. His left eye is circled with a darkening bruise, and his nose looks even more broken than it did before.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask him.
Zoric exhales a thin coil of smoke and nods towards Yumia. ‘Your Illithian doesn’t know what the word sparring means,’ he says.
Yumia drops out of the hand-balance she is holding with easy grace and wipes her chalk-dusted hands on her training clothes. ‘We do not spar on Illithia,’ she says, with a pointed smile. ‘We only fight. Perhaps if you were quick enough to avoid being hit, it would not matter. Perhaps you would have fewer scars.’
Zoric snorts a laugh. More smoke. ‘Perhaps,’ he says.
Yumia laughs with him. Perhaps under other circumstances I would too, but not today. My blood is still burning too badly from seeing Sofika.
‘Enough,’ I say, and they both stop.
‘What’s the word, lord?’ Zoric asks. ‘Did you find our mark?’
I nod, and tell them what DiCrimio told me about Sister Evangeline and her imminent arrival on Terra. They both become very still. As muted as Meridia.
‘How long do we have?’ Zoric asks, when I have said all I have to say.
‘Until the night cycle,’ I tell him. ‘The commandery won’t be here for long, and we must be ready to go into the darkness with them.’
‘Through the darkness,’ Yumia says, and she puts a hand to her side absent-mindedly. It’s the place she was cut badly on Hellebore. I remember the way the wide circle of blood grew wider on her dun-coloured tunic as she helped Zoric and I carry what was left of Sofika back to the Crypsis in the wake of my mistake.
‘We will find the Conduit on Dimmamar,’ I tell her. ‘Then the darkness will have to answer for everything it has done to us. Everything it has taken.’
‘Aye, lord,’ Zoric says.
He gathers up his ammunition kit and gets to his feet, before grinding out the stub of his lho-stick on the training suite’s floor. Yumia doesn’t move, though. She just stands there looking at me, the flat of her hand still pressed to her side. I don’t need my gifts to sense that she has something to say.
‘Speak,’ I tell her.
Yumia presses her lips together. ‘We will find the Conduit on Dimmamar,’ she says. ‘That is what you said.’
‘That is what I said.’
She shakes her head. ‘You said the same of Hellebore,’ Yumia says. ‘But we found no Conduit there, lord. Just blood and darkness. Just death.’
A long moment of silence stretches out between us. First Efrayl challenges me, and now this. I lock Yumia with a stare, just as I did my medicae.
‘Do you doubt me?’ I ask her.
Yumia is still for a moment, her hand still pressed to that old wound.
‘Answer me,’ I say coldly.
Yumia lets her hand fall away slowly. ‘I do not doubt you, inquisitor.’
‘Then why speak at all?’
She isn’t frowning at me now. There’s another kind of expression on her face that I can’t quite place. This time, when she speaks, it’s softer.
‘I think you wish for this as much as you believe in it,’ she says. ‘And I think that kind of desperation is dangerous.’
Silence falls again in the wake of her words. Zoric shakes his head. Yumia holds my gaze with her narrow face uptilted. Unafraid, as always. It is part of the reason I recruited her in the first place.
‘And you?’ I say to Zoric. ‘What do you think?’
He exhales slowly. ‘You didn’t recruit me to think,’ he says. ‘You recruited me to hunt and track and kill, and because you knew I’d jump for the chance to make good on a bad life.’
Yumia scowls and shakes her head at him. She mouths the word coward.
‘But,’ he says, ignoring Yumia with a marksman’s patience, ‘I can tell you what I see.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Something is eating away at you,’ he says. ‘Whether it’s guilt, like Yumia says, I don’t know. It’s not my business to.’
He looks down at his hands. At the patchwork of old burn scars criss-crossing them that he earned long before he took up service with me. Back when he made his way as a killer for hire, and a gunrunner, and he made powerful enemies. The sort of enemies that don’t kill you to make their point, but kill everyone you care about instead. For Zoric, that was Idoney, the woman he’d sworn himself to.
And their son, Tian.
‘There’s no undoing what’s been done,’ he says. ‘But you can level the scales. Make rights out of wrongs. That’s the best hope to stop whatever has its teeth in you from tearing you to pieces. From swallowing you whole.’
They both speak to me as if they know what’s best. But they haven’t dreamed my dreams, or seen what awaits us.
They aren’t the ones with a vow to keep.
‘This is doing right,’ I tell them. ‘What we do here could change everything, and I will not turn away from that.’
I look at them both in turn.
‘This is where you make your choice,’ I say. ‘Follow me, or don’t, but know the alternative if you choose the latter.’
It’s presented as a choice, but both of them know it’s an ultimatum. I was honest with them when they swore to serve me. They both know full well what it means to turn away from the Inquisition.
‘I’m with you, lord,’ Zoric says.
I look to Yumia. ‘And you?’
She is quiet a moment longer than Zoric, but I can sense the answer in her bearing well before she speaks it.
‘I swore to you my blades,’ she says. ‘I will not break faith, no matter the torments we must go through.’
In that moment I come the closest to telling them the truth. To walking them down to Meridia’s depths where Sofika is sleeping. But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. They wouldn’t understand.
‘Swear it anew,’ I tell them. ‘That no matter what we might face or what we might need to do, we do not stop. We go onwards, until it’s done.’
There’s a charged pause, but then they both nod.
‘Aye, inquisitor,’ they say together. ‘Until it’s done.’