by Ari Marmell
IT’S JUST …AN ANGEL? ARE YOU CERTAIN?”
“Just as certain as I was the last time you asked, Azrael,” Death said. “And the time before that. I don’t see the answer changing anytime soon, either.”
The trio of speakers—the grim Riders and the learned angel, in his traditional robes of verdant greens and blinding golds—stood gathered on a walkway not terribly far below the absolute peak of the Argent Spire. Everything was dyed in discordant blots of color, cast by the ambient light of the White City streaming through the panes of stained glass across walls of polished silver. It was oddly disorienting, on initial exposure, but more than sufficient to find one’s way around.
Or to read.
Beyond the platinum guardrail by which the Horsemen stood, the entire center of the spire dropped hollowly away, so that the uppermost third of the edifice formed a single extended chamber. All throughout that chamber, awash in preservative and defensive magics, stood the treasures of the library itself.
Everything from scrolls to bound books to graven tablets could be found upon those shelves, numbering not in the thousands but the hundreds of thousands. Cases that were effectively freestanding walls spiraled their way up, stretching floor to ceiling. They seemed almost winding columns of smoke, or intertwining serpents, petrified and put to practical use.
Numbering in their dozens, but still few and far between against the sheer length and height of shelves, the librarians and scribes of the Argent Spire went about their endless tasks. Some spent decades on end without ever leaving this chamber, cataloging, recording, altering, transcribing, protecting, repairing—and always studying, studying, studying.
Most simply flew to whatever section of shelving they required, but for the occasional guest, or for the rare angel who preferred to walk, the library offered a system of balconies and suspended walkways. These corkscrewed alongside the shelves, offering a path both twisted and awkward. For even the most clever outsider, the question was not if one would get lost trying to traverse these walkways, but when and how badly. Neither Death nor War believed the fairy tales of researchers who became so disoriented centuries ago that they walked the library still, desperately seeking a way out—but now that they’d seen the place, they could, at least, understand why such stories had spread.
That the library had some rigid, meticulous system to catalog and properly place every text, Death knew the nature of angels too well to doubt. So, too, did he know them well enough to know that only those who had been educated their entire life in that system would ever prove able to master it.
Thankfully, he’d been correct in assuming that Azrael would be here, attempting to discern the identity of Eden’s attackers. If he hadn’t been, the Horseman would have been utterly helpless to glean anything useful from the archives of millennia.
And this, according to what Azrael had proudly told them when they’d first arrived, was not even the angels’ greatest archive. “It’s tiny,” he’d said, “compared with its new sister installation. In one of our most distant outposts, where we watch over Creation from beyond the gates of the White City, we’re currently constructing another library—the Ivory Citadel—even more magnificent. My own personal collection will reside there eventually!”
The angel’s mood, however, had swiftly soured while the Horsemen spoke. “I’m sorry,” Azrael told them softly. “I have a difficult time imagining any angel willing to slaughter so many of his own, no matter what prize he thought Eden might offer. Is there no possibility that this was one of Abaddon’s faithful, seeking vengeance for War’s actions?”
“With the weapon that took Abaddon’s eye at Eden?” Death scoffed.
“Wait a moment,” War interjected, dragging his attention from the seemingly bottomless drop and back to the conversation. “Abaddon was constructing a weapon for use against Hell. It’s not beyond belief that he’d be interested in the Abomination Vault. Could he have faked the attack on Eden as part of a greater scheme?”
“No.” Azrael’s tone left no room for argument. “Abaddon can be devious, when necessary. It’s just possible that he might even be willing to permanently maim himself in pursuit of a greater goal. But he would not be responsible for the deaths of so many under his command in a ruse. If we truly number an angel among the allies of this …”
He glanced at Death. “Belisatra,” the Horseman reminded him.
“Yes, this Belisatra, then I can assure you that whatever else he may be, he is not Abaddon’s agent.”
“Then we’re back to figuring out who he is,” War grumbled.
Azrael nodded thoughtfully. “You said he called himself Semyaza?”
“I did,” Death said. “But if that’s his real name, I’ll eat Harvester. I can’t imagine he’d be that foolish.”
“Still, better to be sure.” Azrael spread his wings and drifted upward until he hovered directly over the meandering shelves. “Ecanos!” he shouted.
Instantly one of the angels—identical, so far as Death could tell, to any of the others, save for his golden robe and thin white beard—swooped up from below. “How can I serve you, my lord?”
“This is Ecanos,” Azrael said, floating back toward the Horsemen. “He’s one of our scribes, tasked with recording, in the minutest detail, the lives and deeds of our people. Ecanos, I trust you do not need me to identify our guests for you?”
“No, my lord.” If the scribe felt any hostility toward War for his earlier visit, he showed no sign. Of course, it was entirely possible that he’d been in the Argent Spire this entire time and had heard no word of it.
“Good. Do you know of Semyaza?”
Ecanos’s eyes glazed as he peered at something in the unknowable distance. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Second lieutenant to Mebahiam, commander of the Winged Lightning phalanx. There was also, of course, the first Semyaza, in whose honor the second lieutenant is named, who was slain at the battle of—”
“Only the living concern us right now. Do you happen to know where Semyaza is at this moment?”
“Unless he’s abandoned his duties—something that would, I should stress, be very out of character—he’s with the Winged Lightning as we speak. They are currently stationed at the shores of the Empty Sea, watching for any further Abyssal incursion from that region.”
“Hmm. Be so kind as to send a message to Mebahiam, confirming Semyaza’s presence.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Ecanos had just flexed his wings to dive when Death raised a hand. “See, also, if you can come up with anyone with a connection to Semyaza, who might have reason to use his name as an alias.” He shrugged, then, at the three pairs of eyes that turned his way. “It’s not probable,” he admitted. “Odds are, our friend chose the name randomly from among those angels he knew to be elsewhere. But as you said, better to be sure.”
Azrael nodded to Ecanos, who in turn nodded to Death, and then dropped from sight. “This will take some time,” Azrael said. “In the interim, I will assign some of the librarians to unearthing anything they can find of this Maker, Belisatra. With any luck, what we need can be found here, and you won’t be forced to travel to our new outpost.
“And you,” he continued, landing with a thump on the floor beside Death, “will fulfill your promise to keep me apprised of ongoing events. Starting with this Abomination Vault you mentioned. Creation contains very little that I haven’t at least heard of, yet the term is foreign to me.”
The elder brother turned briefly toward the younger, and only one who knew Death as well as War did could tell, despite the mask, what it was Death silently demanded of him.
I’m telling this my way. Do not interject!
So they walked, meandering along footways between the spiraling shelves, and War remained mute while Death spoke. He told Azrael no lies, but neither was he particularly forthcoming with the details. At the conclusion of his recital, the angel still knew nothing of the Ravaiim, or the precise nature of the Grand Abomin
ations. He knew that they were ancient Nephilim weapons of war, alive in their own peculiar way, capable of cracking worlds. That they were hidden away in a minuscule realm of their own. And that the enemy probably didn’t know the means of awakening them.
That, really, was more than enough.
“Your people,” Azrael growled when the Horseman finished, “have much to answer for.”
“They’ve answered,” Death said flatly. Then, when the angel drew breath as if to ask something further, “Change the subject. Now.”
Azrael, perhaps the wisest of the angels, was certainly wise enough to obey.
“This ‘hollow realm,’ ” he asked instead. “Are you certain it’s secure?”
“It’s utterly outside Creation, save for a single anchored portal. Yes, it’s secure. And no, I will not tell you where that portal lies.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Azrael frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder if a realm—I mean a full-sized one, a community, a nation, maybe even a world—could be locked away in a similar manner. Something to think about …”
He did just that, remaining silent until the peculiar trio came upon the first of the librarians and Azrael began issuing instructions.
“What about the Well?” Death asked at one point, when it became clear that Azrael wasn’t merely delegating, but planned to do much of the research himself. “Can you be away this long?”
“My duty,” the angel replied, “is to guard the Well of Souls from outside interference. It functions perfectly well without me, and until we’ve ended the threat of these Abominations of yours, the wards I’ve left behind will have to prove sufficient protection.”
The angels, Azrael included, remained at their hunt for a good long while. Death stood utterly still, as if he’d simply stepped out of his body, or even out of time, until the task was complete. War paced, first before this one section of shelving, then ranging farther and farther out into the library. Even his footsteps somehow managed to sound impatient.
“If you get lost,” Death called—the first words he’d spoken in hours if not days—“you’re on your own.”
War grumbled something and went back to pacing within sight of the shelf.
Ecanos returned with confirmation that yes, the true Semyaza was still with his phalanx; and no, the scribe could not come up with anyone who might have a particular reason for choosing that name to steal.
And still the angels searched.
IT WAS FINALLY AZRAEL himself—after a prolonged discussion with the other scribes, conducted while hunched over a tableful of heaped scrolls—who brought the Horsemen their answers. He glided over, bearing both a fretful grimace and a tattered parchment. Brittle, yellowed, it looked as though the slightest touch, or even a moderate breath, would set it to crumbling, yet it held up under the angel’s fingers without so much as shedding dust.
“We have something,” he announced, utterly unnecessarily, as he set down once more upon the walkway.
“And well past time!” War said.
“Absolutely,” Death concurred, casually turning to face the new arrival. “Much more pacing and I believe War would actually have worn himself shorter than he used to be.”
“Yes, I do apologize for taking so long,” Azrael said. “It turns out there’s very little written about her, and then only as a few passing references in the history of others …” He trailed off, shook his head. “Well …
“Belisatra, or so we have it written, was the apprentice of a Maker called Gulbannan.”
“I’ve heard that name,” the younger Horseman muttered. His brother nodded in agreement.
“I’m unsurprised. Gulbannan was one of the truly ancient Old Ones. He was a master of many crafts, many magics. Some even say that he combined the arts of the Forge Makers with those who focus on the genesis and shaping of the living.”
It was the elder brother who next interjected. “I cannot help but notice,” he said, “your consistent use of the word was.”
“Um, quite.” It was Azrael, now, who began to pace. War and Death exchanged worried looks at the normally imperturbable angel’s agitation. “Gulbannan was murdered, some ages gone. As best our records show, Belisatra was never again seen in the Makers’ Realm, nor ever heard from, after her master’s death. Which, the other Makers presumed at the time, made her either another victim, or …”
“Or the killer,” Death finished for him.
“The Makers never hunted her down?” War asked. “It seems that if he was ancient and a respected member of the race as you say, someone ought to have been seeking justice. Or at least vengeance.”
“Had it happened a few centuries earlier, they doubtless would have. At the time of his demise, however, Gulbannan was thoroughly estranged from the community and the company of his fellow Old Ones.”
Death lashed out with an arm, snagging Azrael by the shoulder and tugging his pacing to an abrupt halt. “All right, Azrael. This drag it out of me line by line routine isn’t like you. You’re avoiding something.”
The angel smiled, though he sighed through it. “You never were one for the gentle approach, were you?”
“I prefer to stockpile my patience rather than spend it frivolously.”
“All right.” Azrael shrugged the hand from his shoulder. “Gulbannan had taken up with a lover, until shortly before his death. The other Makers disapproved, vehemently, of his chosen paramour.”
“Who?” War demanded. But Death had already turned away, once again cursing in that language so ancient, even his fellow Horseman could not comprehend it.
“It would seem that your brother has already guessed.”
War turned, then, to Death, who was again absently picking at the wraps on his wrists.
“Lilith,” Death hissed at him. He didn’t bother even to note Azrael’s nod of confirmation. “The poor, deluded fool took up with Lilith.”
“And if anyone has any further answers to give you regarding Belisatra,” the angel said, “it would be the Mother of Demons herself. I fear very much, my friends, that if you’re to continue on this little endeavor of yours, you’ve little choice but to go to Hell.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MOUNTS AND RIDERS EMERGED FROM THE NEUTRAL emptiness of the barren paths between the worlds, and into a furnace.
One might have thought, at first glance, that it was similar to the realm of the Charred Council. The earth was a cracked and blasted badland, lit only by the glow of distant columns of flame, and the air was choked with soot.
Yet the differences, though perhaps more subtle than the similarities, were simultaneously more dramatic to those who knew what they were seeing. The sky, though veiled and clouded, was indeed open, lacking the hanging stalactites or the impression of a lowering ceiling. No lava flowed from the fissures in the broken earth; they seemed dried, empty, as though the world itself had somehow mummified in its desiccation. The miasma here was harsher, redolent of brimstone and roasting flesh rather than the cleaner aroma of purer smoke. The pillars of fire were more distant, yet far larger, than those in the Council’s realm. Faint shapes of towers and ramparts, barely visible as silhouettes of deeper darkness, rose from the horizon, suggesting a large and varied population in this world that was utterly lacking in the other realm.
None of these, however, held a candle to the most predominant distinction, utterly immeasurable by physical senses but nearly overwhelming on a spiritual level. The heat here, though no more severe than that of the Council’s domain, was unhealthy. It was thick, somehow oily. It left a sticky sheen on the skin that was most assuredly not sweat, and a memory of discomfort in the deepest recesses of the mind. It was the heat of dream-fire. Soul-fire.
Hellfire.
War shifted in Ruin’s saddle, glowering around him, apparently trying to keep watch in every direction at once. “This is a vile place.”
“This is the least of what Hell offers,” Death told him. “This is nothing. That is a vile place.” He held Harvester bef
ore him, pointing, and even War could scarcely repress a shudder at what he saw.
He’d taken it, initially, to be nothing but a hill in the landscape, an uneven but otherwise mundane fold in the contours of this hellish plain.
No. A moment’s scrutiny revealed that to be an illusion, created by the layers of soot and dust that had, for centuries, coated that bulge.
It was, in fact, a mound of flesh, protruding obscenely from the fractured rock. Had it been more uniform, more—squishy—it might have seemed almost a blister against the skin of Hell. As it was, the irregular shape, to say nothing of the folds and creases of skin that marred its surface, contradicted that particular impression.
Even as War stared, the entire mound quivered, as though growing excited. Almost aroused.
“That’s … repulsive,” War said finally.
“No less so on the inside, I’d imagine,” Death answered.
“No guards?”
“I rather doubt Lilith feels the need. Probably a few within, hidden away or even a part of the architecture, but nothing more.”
War turned, briefly, back toward the horizon. “Seems a foolish oversight for one who lives in Hell. Even this far from the cities proper.”
“Lilith’s always been confident. Shall we?”
Together the two brothers dismounted and strode toward the bulbous hillock. Dust fluttered from Despair’s saddle to his accustomed spot atop Harvester’s outer curve.
“Ruin and Despair?” the younger asked.
Death shook his head. “They’d be too constrained to be any use, I expect. And I imagine they’d both be more comfortable out here.”
“I imagine we would, too.”
“Yes.” Death shrugged. “But it seems they’re smarter than we are.”
As War felt there was little he could say in response to that, he strode forward and, with only a faint scowl of repulsion, pushed aside the folds of flesh so that he and his brother might enter.
TOGETHER THEY WALKED those cramped and twisted corridors of fevered skin, their feet sliding in slick secretions, occasionally tilted one way or the other by the faint pulsating of the flesh. They passed through the pools of sickly light, and alongside the towering candles—and their prisoners—from which that grotesque illumination shone. They saw, throughout, no sign of inhabitants, let alone guards, yet they both knew full well that they were watched at every step.