“I assure you, my Lords, my Ladies, my devotion to Roden is full,” Daval said. “That’s exactly why we must press forward with our offensive against Khale.”
“We could do both.”
Winter watched, almost with disappointment, as all eyes turned to Cova Amok.
“What do you mean, daughter?”
“We can rebuild here and begin our offensive simultaneously.”
Kuglen laughed. “I’m sorry, princess, but we don’t have the resources for such a—”
“I’m sorry, Kuglen, but I wasn’t finished.”
Winter smiled. She liked this girl already.
Cova continued. “We need to put effort into rebuilding here, that much is true. So why not involve the citizens in the effort? They can rebuild the dome. We don’t need the Watch or the army to do that, nor do we need them to increase morale.”
“Without a sense of security,” Kuglen said, “we can’t increase morale. My forces provide that security.”
Cova rolled her eyes. “We wouldn’t take all your forces, Kuglen. We would leave sufficient for the needs of Izet, but we could use a number of your cohorts to bolster our Imperial Contingent. We can marshall the forces of Andrinar and the Island Coalition, but I’m afraid that will not be enough. Besides, what more would increase the sense of security, and the morale of our citizens, than a successful offensive?”
Other heads nodded slowly around the table. The high priestess remained silent; it seemed she did not think it worth the effort to voice her concerns further. Rowady was the odd one out in this group. Winter wondered how much longer the Denomination could expect to have any influence in Roden.
“I believe the princess has the beginnings of a solid plan,” Girgan said, smiling at his wife.
“It sounds feasible to me,” Dagnatar said.
Daval, too, smiled. “It does, indeed. Cova, would you mind drafting a proposal, showing us the details?”
“Of course, Father.”
“Have it ready for us within the week, and we can vote on the motion. I believe it will be for the best of Roden.”
The meeting progressed, but the items of business grew less and less interesting, and Winter found her mind wandering. She was vaguely aware of some of the Council members staring at her, but she did not care. Let them stare, she thought. Perhaps, in the near future, I can give them even more reason to do so.
* * *
When the meeting had ended, Winter and Urstadt escorted Daval through the corridors of the palace. Winter was fully aware that her presence was nothing but a formality. Urstadt was the only one who could really defend Daval. A part of Winter hoped something might happen, just to see Urstadt in action. Winter had heard many things about this warrior in people’s thoughts as she traveled through them during her captivity. She felt the same curiosity, the same draw that had drawn her to Kali: Urstadt had strength. Winter wanted what Urstadt had.
“That was a productive meeting, don’t you think?” Daval asked as they walked.
“I suppose,” Winter said.
“Your response was perfect, I must say.”
Winter nodded. She was still not sure how to act around this man. Was she his captive? Just a weapon? Surely he did not think of her as his equal?
“That is what you expect of me, then?” Winter asked. “To stand by your side and look intimidating?”
“Close enough,” Daval said. “People fear what they don’t understand and can’t predict.”
Yes. She wondered, momentarily, whether such a tactic might even work with Daval.
“Luce is a problem,” Urstadt said.
“Luce is a controlled problem,” Daval muttered. “The only reason I’ve let him live is to set an example for the others.”
“An example of what, Your Grace? I would think swift justice would have been the most effective response.”
“But not the most effective,” Daval said. “I have other plans at work.” He glanced at Winter. “What do you think of that poem we discussed—‘Wild Calamity’?”
Winter shrugged. Daval had explained it to her, something about the process of creation, and how love and destruction were inherent parts of that process. It all sounded like nonsense to her.
“I find it interesting,” Winter said. Might as well play the part.
“Consider those words as we prepare to take action against Hirman Luce. I think you will find them invaluable.”
I doubt that.
“How would you feel if I were to grant you the use of your powers?”
It took all of Winter’s control to hide her excitement. She cared far more about psimancy than silly poems. She stared at him, trying to keep her face expressionless. “How do you know I wouldn’t use them against you?”
“It is a simple thing for me to drop the blocks I’ve placed on you,” Daval said. “And just as simple for me to raise them up again. I would grant you temporary access, but if you used your powers against me, you’d lose them again. Permanently.”
Permanently. Winter was not so sure. Daval didn’t know she had access to acumency. She doubted he knew enough about her to take away her psimantic access completely.
And yet.
She craved the feel of using telesis again almost as much as she craved frost. Frost was not the same when she couldn’t use her powers. It would feel so good to feel powerful again.
“What do you want me to do?” Winter asked.
Daval smiled. “I want you to make an example of Hirman Luce.”
* * *
Hours later, when the woman has been shown her new quarters in the imperial palace, she finds herself lying on her bed—her new bed, stuffed and covered in smooth sheets and thick quilts, in the middle of her new room, modest by the palace standards, she is sure, but larger than any room she has slept in before. Two pouches lie on a carved table. One is filled with gold, the other with faltira. The woman ingested one of the frost crystals only moments before, and now lets herself drift with the sensation. As she lies on her bed, looking up at the canopied top, her mind leaves her body, and she finds herself jumping from mind to mind once more.
This time, however, the woman almost immediately finds herself in the place of drifting star-lights. The transition to this place of darkness, interspersed with millions of tiny lights, was much easier this time. In fact, what she realizes as she walks through the darkness, each step sending ripples of light out into the black, is that the lights around her feel very similar to the minds in which she travels. Each of the lights, she thinks, might be one of those minds. Perhaps she has been traveling through this space for some time, but is only now beginning to see it.
While this place of darkness and stars holds a certain wonder, she is not sure what she could, or should, be doing here. Then she hears sound where there wasn’t sound before. Voices whispering in the dark. She can only make out a word or two.
Murderer.
Harbinger.
The voices echo in her mind, but she ignores them as best she can. Eventually, just like the last time, she sees the figure. A shape formed of the darkness between lights. This time, her fear is less pronounced.
Who are you? the woman asks.
The figure does not respond.
Tell me who you are, the woman says again, making the voice that emanates from her mind firmer. I demand it.
The figure stops advancing. The shape of shaded darkness stops, blending in with the stars, and the woman suddenly wonders whether it is there at all.
Who are you? she asks.
Winter?
The woman’s eyes open wide. Yes, she says. Who… who are you?
The figure draws closer once more, and for the first time the woman discerns details. The figure’s shape is thin, feminine, with long hair.
The woman’s hand immediately moves to her neck, looking for a black stone necklace that is not there. Who are you?
Winter, the figure says, getting closer and closer. The woman can now see ripples of color spr
eading through the blackness from the figure’s footsteps.
And, as the figure approaches, the woman can finally see. The figure has long blond hair, she is small and lithe. Then she is taller, with short black hair and eyes the color of a clear winter sky. Then she is someone different altogether, someone the woman does not recognize.
“Welcome to the Void, Winter,” the figure says, not in the language of the mind but with words, words the woman can hear, and the figure smiles a smile that remains constant, despite her shifting features. A smile the woman remembers.
“Kali,” the woman says.
The figure’s smile broadens. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
INTERLUDE: INTO THE VOID
Six months ago, Izet
“WHO ARE YOU?” LATHE asked.
Kali laughed. “Of course,” she said. “After all this time, you do not know. My name is Kali.”
Then Lathe was rushing towards her, sword drawn. In a fraction of a moment she knew.
She was about to die.
Lathe’s elbow slammed into her nose, snapping Kali’s head back in a burst of pain and dark color, and his sword quickly followed, burying itself in her chest. Kali looked up at Lathe in surprise. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. She tried to breathe, but could only gurgle. Time moved slowly, and Kali knew what she needed to do. She had her sift prepared and ready to send. She only needed a receptacle, a lacuna. The boy elf might do, his mind was malleable enough. If she only had more time…
Kali snapped her hand up, the hand holding the dagger, hoping to buy herself a few more moments as she reached out with her tendra toward Lian. But Lathe ducked, and Kali felt a burning tear as the sword was yanked from her chest.
“Lathe,” Kali rasped, falling to her knees, frantically reaching out with her tendron, the tendron that carried the precious package of her life, the way she had resurrected herself three times before, searching for Lian.
“I’m s-sorry… I was only… following…”
“My name,” Lathe said, raising his sword, “is Knot.”
Then he lunged, and Kali’s vision faded, her tendron still extended, fading, extending, fading, extending into darkness…
* * *
When Kali awoke, she could not breathe. She tried to fill her lungs, but felt nothing. She was in darkness, and she was darkness, and she was nothing at all.
She could not breathe, but she did not need to breathe. Kali tried to stand, but nothing happened. Was she paralyzed? She tried to remember, tried to think of the last thing she had seen. Something about a fountain. Nash had been there. And Lathe.
Kali, remembering, raised a hand to her neck. Lathe had stabbed her. Twice.
She should be dead.
She remembered reaching out a tendron with her sift, towards Lian. But she did not remember reaching him. And besides, Lian had not been wiped, so the results could have been disastrous. She should be dead. Her body had died, her sift had not found a new receptacle.
And yet, here she was.
Kali’s first instinct was to reach for the pocket at her breast, for that slip of paper. Then she remembered how that paper had been lost in Navone, but even more worrying was the fact that she couldn’t feel her body. She looked down but it was too dark to see anything. She moved her hands frantically, trying to find her face, her neck, her chest, her legs. She swiped her arm through where her head should be, where her vision should begin, and there was nothing.
This is a nightmare, Kali thought. This is not real.
She screamed a silent scream, and only the darkness heard her silence.
* * *
She had been in the darkness for what seemed like millennia. She felt nothing, could see nothing, seemed to be nothing.
But it was not a nightmare. It couldn’t be. No nightmare lasted this long. No nightmare had such vivid sensation, and yet no sensation at all. And no nightmare was this constant. That, Kali knew more than anything.
This is death. Kali could remember, could almost—almost—feel the sharp stab that seared through her neck, killing her. That must have killed her.
But, if she was dead, why was she here? She was in darkness, but she was not here. Perhaps, Kali considered, she was in Oblivion.
There are worse things than Oblivion.
Then she noticed, in the distance, a tiny green light.
A light was good. A light was not Oblivion. Kali moved towards the light, surprised to find that she could indeed move, although not in any way that made sense to her. She did not walk but somehow shifted through the darkness towards the light. The closer Kali got, the more lights she saw. Hundreds, then thousands, and then beyond number.
The Void, Kali thought, a hint of hope blossoming somewhere in her—where? Her heart? Her mind? Neither seemed present, neither seemed able to house any sort of feeling, and yet there it was, blossoming in the space she occupied.
She was in the Void. The countless star-like lights around her blinked and burned, illuminating the darkness. One light in particular, a light that was somehow both a light and a pit of darkness at once, drew Kali towards it. This was a light she had never seen before. It was a dark, immolating mass, black and pulsing. She did not know who or what it was, but it pulled Kali towards it, as if she were caught by an ocean riptide.
Kali smiled, or at least she felt the way she would feel if she had been smiling. She did not know how she got here. She did not know why, or how she had become incorporeal. But she was not, it would seem, dead. She had hope. Perhaps she could find a way out of this place, make it back to another body. Another lacuna.
Kali eyed the dark-light warily. She would have to find out about that. But she was alive, in a manner of speaking, and she would do anything she bloody had to do to survive.
Four months ago, in the Void
Later, the amount of later Kali couldn’t possibly comprehend, her hope had begun to fade. She had tried visiting other lights, had tried reaching tendra into them, had tried prying into their minds, their bodies, had tried using them as tools, but she felt powerless. She was nothing but a shade.
The dark-light was the only thing she felt a remote connection to, and that connection was powerful. Kali resolved that her only option was to explore the phenomenon. Moving towards the dark-light was easy; Kali only had to remain still, and the thing drew her towards itself. And it seemed that many of the other lights were drawn to the dark-light too.
The closer Kali came to the burning mass, the faster she moved. She moved so quickly she felt as if she were expanding, as if she were elongating past a point that made rational sense. When she finally reached the dark-light, the size of which Kali couldn’t possibly determine—in one moment it still seemed the size of a pin-prick, then the size of a mountain—she felt herself pulled into the thing, bit by elongated bit.
And yet Kali was not afraid. She felt curiosity more than anything, a need to understand the dark miracle within the Void.
Quite suddenly, everything shifted around her. The color of the star-lights in the distance, the immolating dark of the thing that had Kali in its grasp, all swirled together, and she felt herself shifting, moving, coalescing.
Kali opened her eyes. Eyes that were real, eyes that could see. She raised her hand before her face, saw her fingers, long and slender. She tried to touch her face, but felt immediate disappointment. She felt nothing. But at least she now had some idea of herself.
As her eyes focused, Kali realized she was floating, looking down on something. Someone. Kali was in a cell. And below her, lying in the straw, was a figure Kali knew well. So well she swore, in rage and confusion and elation and triumph, in question and in wonder and in jealousy and in love.
The Harbinger.
Three months ago
Kali had watched Winter lying in her cell for only moments, and then she’d been jettisoned. Kali couldn’t describe the experience otherwise. It was as if she had been on the tip of a massive whip that had lashed forward, cracked, and was then flu
ng rapidly back into the Void.
And yet, that brief moment in Winter’s presence had changed Kali. She was still incorporeal, but she could now move about the Void more easily, and, most importantly, she could now interact with the other star-lights. While she still had no tendra to speak of, she could approach the lights, see shadows of what they saw, hear fragments of conversations that they had, even discern whispers of their thoughts.
The Void, Kali had come to understand, was organized geographically. Distant lights, when she drew closer to them, usually expanded into great clusters of thousands of tinier lights. Cities. There was a cluster in Cineste, in Maven Kol, in Alizia, and many, many others. The biggest cluster of all, of course, was in Triah. But Kali found herself occupying the cluster of Izet. That made sense; that was where she had died.
Had nearly died. Didn’t hurt to be optimistic about things.
But Kali had grown bored of Izet, of the overheard conversations. Other than the dark-light of Winter—a force Kali now realized she understood far less than she ever thought she had—she had no reason to stay.
She was going to escape. She would find a new lacuna, a new body to inhabit, and enter the Sfaera once more. But Izet was a dead end; she needed to make her way to Triah. She doubted she would be able to contact anyone in her current state—she was not that naive. But she could, perhaps, discern what the Nazaniin were up to, what their intentions were. After all, it seemed other things had happened, things beyond the scope of what Kali had ever expected. She heard whispers about Daemons returning, and the Scorned Gods of Roden.
And there was something else off about the Void in Izet, in all of Roden, besides Winter’s strange dark-light. There was a presence, or an absence, or something affecting the darkness. Whether it was new to the Void since Kali had made her transformation, or whether it was something she could only notice now, she couldn’t say.
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