Will he be all right?
What do you care? Luceraf responded. You ought to be thanking me, not worrying about the people I just protected you from.
Luceraf was right. Cinzia would not have been able to defend herself in that situation, not without help. And Canta was certainly not helping her at the moment.
Thank you.
The Daemon didn’t reply immediately, and when it did speak, it sounded a little surprised. You are welcome. Just pay more attention next time. Yours is not the only life at stake when you’re in danger.
The cowed guard led Cinzia toward the center of camp where a couple of hundred of the Beldam’s followers had gathered around a small wooden box. On it stood the Beldam, preaching. The guard attempted to slip away, but Cinzia blocked his path with the bludgeon. “Stay here until I speak with her.”
The Beldam’s voice carried well, though it quivered with age. “The time has come for us all to choose a side,” she said, “and the choices are clear.” She extended an arm, palm up. “On the one hand, we have light. Canta is the light, as are her doctrines and her teachings, and her creations as well. Life is light. The Sfaera, humans… we are all beings of the light.”
The Beldam extended her other arm, palm facing down this time. “On the other hand, of course, there is the dark. The Nine Daemons, and all they represent. Fear, rage, death, pride, gluttony, lust, madness, deceit, and envy, these are all of the dark. The domain of the Daemons and their creations, their progeny—the tiellans—are of the dark as well. We all know this. The Prophetess has not seen this truth yet, but she will, just as each of you have seen it. Just as I have.”
Cinzia gripped the bludgeon until her knuckles turned white. This was precisely the reason she and Jane had denounced the Beldam; her teachings were racist and divisive, in a time when they were trying to promote equality and unity.
But clearly the woman still had an audience. “One day soon, the line will be drawn. Humans will fight for Canta, and tiellans for the Daemons. The conflict will decide the fate of the Sfaera. My hope and prayer is that each of you choose the right side. For though the conflict will be fierce, and there will be many casualties, we already know the victor. Canta will always succeed against the Daemons. She has done it before, and she will do it again. I stand as a testament of her power and glory, and each of you can, too. Imass.”
She has done it before, and she will do it again?
Luceraf laughed sadly. You need to study up on your history, my dear.
The Beldam descended from her box. Her followers flocked around her, but she caught Cinzia’s eye, and made straight for her.
“Come, Disciple Cinzia,” she said. “Let us speak somewhere more private.”
* * *
The Beldam shooed her followers away from her tent, until she seemed sure they were alone.
“You are not the Cinzia I knew before.” The Beldam’s eyes glittered with malice. “You’ve chosen your side, and it isn’t mine.”
“That’s why I’ve come to speak with you,” Cinzia said, not minding at all that she wasn’t on the Beldam’s side. “I need help, and I—”
“You have a Daemon inside of you, Cinzia,” the Beldam quavered. Cinzia caught the briefest flash of compassion in the woman’s eyes. “There is no coming back from that, I’m afraid.”
“That cannot be true.” There was no conviction behind Cinzia’s words. She was asking the Beldam for help, for Canta’s sake. She must truly be out of options.
“Besides,” the Beldam continued, any trace of compassion evaporating, “you are compromised, now. You and I can never be on the same side, Cinzia. It was difficult enough before; it is impossible now.”
“How do you know it is irreversible?” Cinzia asked. If there was not a solution, perhaps she could at least discover the reason behind what had happened to her.
“The same way I know anything about the Daemons,” the Beldam said.
Cinzia stared at the Beldam. “You learned about the Nine Daemons when you were a high priestess.”
The Beldam frowned. “Of course I did. But—”
“Where?” Cinzia asked, a tiny seed of hope nestling inside her.
“In Canta’s Fane, of course.”
“The sacred texts? There is a partial translation of the Nine Scriptures there, is there not? What else?”
The Beldam held Cinzia’s gaze for what seemed a long time.
“The Denomination will not let you access them,” the Beldam finally said. “They must have excommunicated you by now. You will never see the sacred texts. Where are you going?”
Cinzia paused, already halfway out of the tent. “You have given me just what I need, Beldam. Our business here is done. For now.”
“Our business is done? We still—”
“You have made your choice.” She left the tent and the Beldam, speechless, behind her.
What is it you think you’re going to do, my dear? Luceraf hissed.
Cinzia smiled for the first time in a long time. You will just have to wait and see.
10
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.”
11
The Citadel, Triah
SUNLIGHT BURST IN THROUGH windows all along the twisted passageways of the Citadel, and Code hated it. There was a time for sunlight, and that time was summer. Code walked quickly, too preoccupied to acknowledge the dozens of students that greeted him as he passed.
He had too much on his mind. Who had sent Alain and Morayne to Triah? He’d asked them to lie low and not stray too far from the Blessed Storm until he could find out. It must have been someone in the Citadel, but without suspects he couldn’t accuse anyone.
And he had his own troubles. He had not long returned from his most recent mission, which had been to aid King Gainil Destrinar-Kol with the Daemon situation in Mavenil. The Triad had not been happy at the unexpected death of the monarch, who had been a graduate of the Citadel and thus something of a puppet for the Nazaniin. The even more unexpected shift from monarchy to democracy had angered Triadin Kosarin even more. But despite the mixed results of Code’s mission, he was due some down time. He’d accepted his assignment in Mavenil directly after returning from Arro Isle, and Oblivion knew they had both been harrowing experiences.
The Triad had recently awarded Code tenure at the Citadel—which, in Nazaniin speak, meant he was now in the upper echelon of psimancers in the organization, the small group of a dozen or so agents the Triad sent out on their most important missions. Sometimes these psimancers traveled in cotirs, or groups consisting of one member of each of the three psimantic arts: telesis, acumency, and clairvoyance. Other times, they were given leave to travel alone. Beneath the tenured were the Citadel associates: psimancers who had great potential, but were still learning, splitting their time between teaching at the Citadel and taking smaller missions.
And beyond the walls of the Citadel, scattered across the Sfaera, were the lesser Nazaniin cotirs—groups of field officers that comprised one acumen, one telenic, and one voyant where possible—though voyants were so rare nowadays that often cotirs were made up of only two psimancers.
The Nazaniin had claimed the Citadel after the King Who Gave Up His Crown vacated the palace. It still retained much of its former layout and style. The great hall was now the assembly hall, where the Citadel’s five hundred students met for meals. Much of the original artwork from the Age of Revival monarchs remained in the palace; tapestries, sculptures, and paintings lined the corridors and halls. Suits of armor in all styles, from all ages and nations and parts of the Sfaera, lined the assembly hall, backed by tapestries depicting the history of the Sfaera. The many large bedroom chambers had been converted to classrooms, with dozens of chairs, desks, chalk and chalk-panels set up in each. Servants’ quarters had become quarters for lower level students who were too young to live on their own out in the city. The Citadel prided itself in not employing any servants directly; the younger students divided their time between their studies and assigned chores and tasks, cleaning and serving as needed. It was quite the sight, sometimes, to see a foreign prince or princess or local noble on garderobe duty.
Code made his way through the students’ quarters now. While the initial structure and setup of the palace had more or less been kept intact, the Nazaniin had made other additions that outsiders, and even most of their own students, knew nothing about: a half-dozen subterranean levels had been added to the Citadel, and these basement levels constituted the true headquarters of the Nazaniin, including the lowest level, the Heart of the Void.
Code’s route wasn’t the only way to access the lower levels, but it was the fastest for him. He sidestepped a flock of students, and then pushed through the entrance of a little-used stairwell, shutting the door behind him.
The stairwell spiraled downward one level, ending at a blank wall. He gently placed his hands on two of the stones in the wall, and pushed. The stones grated inward, and the entire wall began to move. When the way was open, he went below into the darkness, pressing another button-stone to close the passage door behind him.
The dark only inhabited the first anteroom, as
it did with every entrance into the lower levels of the Citadel. Through another door, he was greeted by torchlight.
The austere halls of the Nazaniin headquarters did not remotely compare to the grandeur of the Citadel. Many Nazaniin agents despised the absence of art and light below, but Code welcomed it. There was a certain neatness to it all, down below, a feeling of equality. No hall was greater than any other, no chamber more grand. They were all the same, and they all maintained the same precise lines. But, more than the clarity, Code loved the dark. He found himself growing angry, more often than not, at the seemingly constant sunlight that bombarded the city of Triah—more recently than ever before, it seemed. He had never loved the sun; he preferred the clouds, and the gray, and the dark. He did his best thinking in such conditions. The lower levels of the Citadel offered his only refuge when the sun refused to hide itself.
The corridors below the Citadel were not as crowded as those above, but they were not empty, either. Code recognized almost all of the agents that crossed his path, some on missions, some with messages, some working in the library, and others on patrol, looking out for curious students.
The Heart of the Void was at the very bottom of the basement levels, six stories below the Citadel.
A Nazaniin guard waited for him outside the iron double doors that served as the main entrance to the chamber. The door on the left was lacquered black, while the one on the right lacquered white, and the stone arch surrounding them both was painted a deep crimson.
Kosarin’s taste was more than a little brash.
Code was sure Sirana and Rune, the other two members of the Triad, had little to no input in the matter. Kosarin, the acumen, still acted as point of the triangle, while Sirana and Rune formed the base, as telenic and voyant, respectively.
The guard who greeted Code was one of the newer recruits, recently graduated from the Citadel. Farnid was a variant telenic, just like Code, which meant he needed to use the drug faltira to access his abilities. From what Code had seen, the lad’s power was not anything special, but he seemed dedicated enough.
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