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The vizier continues speaking: “While we understand the urgency of your request,” he says self-importantly in the melodic, high-pitched voice I’ve come to discover is common to most aviax, “we the citizens of Ilarong have long held a policy of noninterference with all the other sentient races. This is the same for all aviax across the Southern provinces, whose representatives, as you know, are also in attendance. It is the decision of our combined councils that this is not our battle to partake in. Especially given that you now wish to change the timeline so precipitously.”
He glances pointedly at White Hands as he says this.
After what I informed her about the shadow vales, she now wants to move the first offensive up to weeks from now, instead of the months we were planning.
“So everythin’ he just said adds up to a no, doesn’t it?” Britta, standing beside me, quietly queries.
“Basically,” says Adwapa, who’s flanking my other side. She tsks. “Too busy polishing their jewels to take their heads out of their arses.”
Her sentiment matches mine precisely. It’s clear the aviax have no true understanding of what’s happening in the world around them, nor do they want to gain one.
Lord Kamanda, to his credit, betrays none of the annoyance gleaming in his eyes as he calmly smooths his robes. “With all due respect, honored personages, while you may not wish to engage in the coming war, the war will, eventually, come to you. It is only a matter of time. According to the Angoro, we have only a matter of months—perhaps even mere weeks—before the shadow vales bleed permanently into this realm and set the stage for its ultimate destruction. We need to act now, mount an offensive. We already have troops all across Otera waiting to begin the first wave of skirmishes.”
Somehow, I’m not surprised when the vizier waves away Lord Kamanda’s words with an annoyed pfft. “Hidden continents, shadow vales, a new pantheon of gods—meaningless fluff,” he sniffs dismissively. He turns to White Hands. “Your war with your goddesses has altered your comprehension of reality, War Queen Fatu of Hemaira.”
White Hands responds to this insult with a mild smile. “I prefer White Hands.”
The vizier dismisses her words with a wave. “Very well—White Hands—not that your name should matter, given how far you have fallen.” The vizier looks up at the monarchs, visibly seeking permission before he continues: “Once, you were the right hand of the emperor. Now you are a traitor twice over—not only to the Oterans, who were once your allies, but to the goddesses you called mothers. And now you wish to bring us into your madness.”
“Ufff,” Britta whispers, shaking her head. “He’s really stepped in it now.”
That he has. I can see the expression on White Hands’s face, so bland it’s as if she’s not even bothered at all. But then White Hands doesn’t get angry. She gets even.
“I would say we leave,” Asha whispers, “see how these idiots deal with the vales on their own. But I want to see how this ends.”
“Badly,” Belcalis says. “This will end badly. For them.”
White Hands does not seem to hear our whispered comments as she graciously inclines her head, as calm as ever. She ignores the vizier and looks up at the monarchs. “I understand your reasoning, honored majesties. You are the caretakers of your flock. You must protect them, especially against those who might not see the world in a way that is…how do we say, logical? That being said, I humbly ask that you allow me one last consideration.”
The vizier harrumphs, annoyed at being ignored. He truly does have an incurable case of self-importance. “As if we would—”
“We’re listening,” the queen interrupts, holding up a delicate, feathered hand. The entire hall falls silent, including the vizier, who swiftly snaps his mouth shut.
White Hands puts a hand to her chest and bows in gratitude. “My thanks, honored Majesty.” Then she turns to where I’m standing with my friends and nods at me.
I immediately tense. Here comes the favor she spoke of.
“I would like to introduce you all to someone important: Deka, the Angoro, slayer of the gods.” She beckons to me. “Step forward, Deka.”
Nodding, I slowly walk over, trying to project as much confidence as I can, given that the aviax are very literally looking down on me, including that odious vizier.
Once I stand beside White Hands, the king squints at me. “Rather small for a killer of the gods, don’t you think,” he murmurs thoughtfully, although that’s easy for him to say, considering he’s quite literally a giant.
The queen shrugs, an elaborate fluffing of the feathers. “Perhaps,” she says, “but stranger things have occurred.”
“Indeed,” White Hands agrees. “Please do hold on to that sentiment. Now then, I’ve told you of Deka’s recent adventures. Of the shadow vales…”
A tingle of foreboding goes through me, but the vizier, as always, doesn’t notice the danger. For a being related to predatory birds, he doesn’t seem to have much in the way of survival instinct. “All mindless fluff,” he repeats disparagingly. “All mindless fluff.”
White Hands ignores him. “There is one thing, however, I failed to tell you. Deka learned a new ability during her travels. One I wish to share with you. I suspect it might prove illuminating.”
She turns meaningfully to me, and now I notice the mist that’s creeping into the throne room, mist that’s making everything darker, blotting out the sun. It’s accompanied by the tingling that signals the arrival of other children of the goddesses.
I shudder quietly, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.
“I want you to open a door to the last place you were, Deka,” White Hands says. “I want you to show them what they’re risking.”
“But—” I glance at Lord Kamanda, sitting there unwittingly in his chair. At the vizier, perched on his roost just a few lengths above him.
