‘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.’