The Oracle howled. So did Golden, but it could not be undone. He watched, powerless, as the Oracle threw her captive through the door. He saw her snatch the wings out of the air, and then the mercenary's body sailed straight into Golden's arms, knocking him off-balance and obscuring his vision. He heaved it off, and it fell face-down upon the stone, long hair pooling around the head like ink.
The door was shut.
Rage and frustration swelled in his throat. He threw his head back and screamed, waves of uncontrolled power bursting from him and crashing into the crowd. Their voices dropped out of the din, one by one, leaving him and his anger alone.
And then he, too, fell silent. After an eternity, he said only, "Come."
Minoa descended from the platform with haunted grace. She stood before him, her hands in fists at her sides. "It was as it had to be," she murmured. "Can you not see that?"
His sword grated as he drew it from its sheath.
Understanding flashed into Minoa's eyes. "No, I was trying to save … Nemain was already dead…" Her hands stretched out to him as she begged. Stony-faced, he lifted the sword, and the stream of her words bubbled forth with frantic desperation.
She screamed as he brought it down, the blade tracing two swift arcs around her. Blood sprayed from her back, coating the stone beneath her, and then Minoa's wings fell to the ground with the muffled thump of a skinned pelt.
He turned to Veles. "Put her wings on the pyre. If she was willing to sacrifice Nemain's, then she must be willing to sacrifice her own."
To Volos, he asked, "Is the mercenary still alive?" The angel bent over the body and put his hand on her neck. He nodded.
Golden smiled grimly. "Good. It will be much easier then. Carry her to the prison. We will soon find out what she knows about Laufeyson."
First Nemain, then Minoa. And the Pentarch must have five.
He sighed, his eyes closed. If only he had more time to choose, to plan before setting things in motion.
He turned towards the crowd to address them directly, pushing them with new energy as he did so. "I call Macha and Anann."
Macha was a veteran warrior, vicious in her loyalty to the Pentarch and the Consortium. Anann was an advisor, intelligent - perhaps dangerously so.
Can you trust her loyalty? The thought gave him pause, but in his mind swirled the vague conception of a plan. Instinctively, he knew that trustworthy or not, there were none better suited for what he had in mind.
They came from opposite sides - Macha with her great sword across her back, her sublimely beautiful face scarred with the wounds of battle, jostling through the crowd with a machine-like purpose. By contrast, Anann floated across the ground, her inner light inviting the crowd to part.
They ascended the platform at the same time. Macha kneeled at Golden's feet, her armor clanking as it fell into new positions. Anann bowed once, deeply, her golden light reflecting off of Macha's breastplate as she moved.
"Relight the pyre, and make it strong," he said to Anann. Minoa's sobs had faded, but after hearing his command, they swelled again with new grief.
Anann bowed once, bamboo bending in the wind. Then, she pursed her lips and blew out gently, as if spreading a dandelion's seeds. The pyre flared with flames ten times higher than before. The Pentarchians instinctively shrank back, watching as the conflagration consumed the rest of Nemain's body and Minoa's wings.
Silently, Golden locked eyes with Macha. He waited to see if she would know what was required of her. When she stood, as efficiently as an oiled machine, and walked to Minoa's sobbing figure, his heart rose up in triumph.
"Do you go honorably?" Her voice was the steel of her blade, flat and cold, hammered under pressure and fire.
Motionless, Minoa did not answer. Macha turned away, and then she heard the tinkle of metal and the gasp of the crowd. She twisted to look back, her armor clanking.
Minoa's chains were in her outstretched hands, an offering to Macha and her own death.
#
What could have possessed her to do something so rash?
Minoa's impulsive actions had not only undermined Golden's authority in full view of the Consortium, they had defiled Nemain's funeral.
With the stoicism that had carried her across countless battlefields, Macha fought to keep her face from betraying her. In Hell, there were many punishments worse than death, none more feared than the enchantment of Diaspar, reserved for murderers and traitors to the Consortium's cause. Even Macha could not suppress a shudder as she recalled the memory.
* * *
Capra was many things - a Consortium deserter, one of the chief agents of the Damned, and most presently, an amulet thief. He was an enigma, a demon cloaked by shadowy rumors and tall tales. Numerous witnesses had sworn to his unbelievable imperviousness on the battlefield, and many thought him invincible.
"I'll make no secret of it - I don't know what he stands to gain, and it makes me damned uncomfortable. I smell a trap."
Golden smiled then, his perfect eyes twinkling with a beauty that fairly stole her breath. "And so, you want me to send an army to recover the artifact."
"Yes."
She knew she was staring, but she couldn't control herself; damming up the flow of her questions took all of the willpower she could muster.
He laughed, the rich sound strangely out of place in the barren quarters his soldiers affectionately called the "war-room". "I had forgotten, dear Macha, this face of yours, although it is one of my favorites. Ask your question, before it kills you."
Flustered, she cleared her throat. "Why the Amulet? It is old, powerful, but useless to Capra and to his cause. Unless they know something we don’t?"
Seconds passed in silence. The animation that lit Golden's face faded, leaving behind a shell that was obviously weary. When he spoke again, she could hear an unfamiliar note, an emptiness and sorrow that chilled her. "No, I do not think it is as you fear. There is no special power to the Amulet - as an artifact, it is mostly symbolic."
"So why then, would he take it, and at such great risk?"
Golden's mouth withered into a tight line. "You won't need an army. Take Henai-"
"-the sorcerer?"
He continued as if she had not interrupted him, "-and a scout. Do you have one that you like? Perhaps the young Lipan?"
Questioning him further would only bring his wrath upon her, and yet, she could not stop herself. "A sorcerer? On the battlefield? What manner of-"
"Capra is no longer a warrior. He has chosen the coward's way out, and I doubt he presents a danger to you or any of us. This is a hunt, not a battle, and he will have no armor of protection to render the magic ineffective. Bring the sorcerer."
She would have asked how he knew, but his eyes were snapping fire. She backed out and shut the door.
* * *
For the last two days, the three of them had tracked Capra through the gnarled wood. Although slowed by undergrowth and uneven terrain, their pace was intense, as their target had run without pausing for food or rest.
Perhaps it is fear that sustains him, she thought. Or even the Amulet. Could it have such a power?
The moon was high overhead when they heard the howls of the Wulfkinder, packs of manlike creatures with fangs nearly a foot long. Given the beasts' predilection for angel flesh, the small party immediately drew swords and moved for cover - all except silent Henai, the sorcerer. He simply disappeared.
The howls grew fainter, until they faded away completely. Lipan was the quietest, and she sent him to investigate, confident in his ability to outthink and outrun any Wulfkinder he might come across.
When the lithe young angel returned, his face was pale. "I think our hunt has ended, Warrior."
"What?" Her eyes slowly drew into a squint.
"We are alone. There is a … body, of sorts."
"Impossible. You expect me to believe that the great Capra was taken down by a pack of Wulfkinder?"
He shifted from one foot to another, his eye
s darting to the sides. "Just … come see for yourself." He glided away, deer-like, Macha following close behind.
The trees abruptly fell away to reveal a clearing. The fair night and open space gave her an instant visual of the splattered remains.
She understood why Lipan had seemed uncomfortable with the word "body." The Wulfkinder had made excellent work of their target, tearing the flesh to ribbons, breaking the bones into fragments with their powerful jaws. Pieces were spread over an area as large as the platform in the Valley of Ascension, and the entire clearing was painted in blood.
"I suppose that is finished, then." After three days of pursuit, the anticlimactic end was both disappointing and a relief.
Henai materialized to their side. He stretched his wings and yawned. "Hardly."
Macha whirled to face him, an eyebrow already cocked. "And what, exactly, do you mean?"
"Watch." He pointed at a particularly large bone fragment, a rounded joint that was most likely the curved head of a femur.
Lipan gasped, his trained eyes picking out the movement before Macha's own.
"What?" Macha bit back her frustration. Lipan was a gentle soul, too easily crushed by her natural bellicosity. She had not yet figured out how to put her irritation in gentler words before the twitching caught her eye. "What is that?"
Henai smiled. "It's starting."
Before their eyes, bits of flesh and bone began to quiver, as if to herald an approaching herd of buffalo. They danced across the earth, jittering towards the femur-head, speeding up as they got closer. Before the trio's eyes, the pieces knit themselves together, bone binding and flesh gluing with sickening squishes and crunches, until finally, before them lay Capra's form.
His chest inflated as he took a wet, ragged breath. Macha gasped. Blinking his eyes, Capra shrieked, and she couldn't tell if it was terror, or pain, or both. He lurched to his knees and then staggered to his feet. Macha noted with a gasp that his figure was incomplete; part of his shin and one of his fingers were missing, the wounds open and red.
What happened next still haunted her dreams. Capra turned to the party, his eyes finding their exact spot. Before they could move, he winked at them once, and staggered off towards the other side of the clearing.
"Allow me," said Henai. The demon had almost reached the tree-line when there was a blast, like a thunderclap. Capra fell to his knees, his body a column of flame.
Lipan screamed and turned away, wrapping his wings around him, but Macha could not help but stare. The demon reached into his short robes, pulled out the Amulet, and tossed it into the air. It landed a man's length from his body, and he pitched forward upon the ground, a writhing mass of fire and flesh.
"Do not grieve for that abomination," said Henai. "No matter how many times it manages to reassemble, it died long ago. Diaspar brings nothing but endless suffering. Its death is a kindness."
When the final death-throes had ceased, Macha went to retrieve the Amulet. It glittered in her hand, a useless trinket. She slipped it into her robes and walked around to the front of the body, a suspicion tingling down her spine.
Through the curtain of flames, she could see the smile on Capra's face.
* * *
Macha's impassive visage and clear eyes artfully hid the lump that was forming in her throat. Minoa was still kneeling in front of her, a curtain of hair obscuring her face. In the corner of her mind, Macha could suddenly see Golden's form.
I kept the secret, Minoa. I never could refuse you anything.
How did he find out about our love?
Minoa shifted her face skyward, the hair parting and falling back like water from a prow. With aching clarity, Macha could taste the sweetness of the previous morning. The firm grip of her sword was a bleak contrast to the warm sand they had passed through linked fingers as they sat by the water.
"Forever," they had said. Each had meant it, truly. Who could have known they would find themselves here, in this moment?
Macha could see the plea in Minoa's stare. She could feel her lover begging, imploring her - but for what, she didn't know. To save her life? To save her honor? Either one seemed likely.
If only it were possible to do both.
At the same time, Minoa's wishes mattered not, for Macha had already made her choice. She could not condemn Minoa to the curse of Diaspar.
I give you your own death, so that you may never seek it with Capra's need.
She felt again the stares of the Consortium, yet they were upstaged by the piercing burn of Golden's eyes upon her as he waited to see her choice.
She took the chains from Minoa and encircled her own neck, trying not to think of the way Minoa's arms had traced the same path upon her skin.
Forgive me, she mouthed, raising her sword high. She smiled - whether to soothe herself, or her lover, she would never know. She brought the blade down.
She had not expected the crowd to cheer.
TWENTY-FOUR
Had I really doubted her fealty?
Golden had slain Nemain, a similar gesture, but one that only emphasized his true failure - Cleopia. He had sent her into the world as a demon. Even now, he did not know her fate; too much of a coward to involve himself, he had merely issued the proclamation and stepped away, letting the Executioner take care of the rest.
She could be out there somewhere right now. If only Laufeyson had not disappeared - then, then I might have answers!
But would you really have asked, knowing you had neither the strength of hand nor heart to free her from her shame?
She could be out there right now.
God, but in that light, the mercenary really had looked like her.
And then Macha and Anann stood, and the crowd interrupted his thoughts with their cheers. They were ready to be crowned the newest members of the Pentarch.
#
The dirt walls threatened to cave in on her, but the Mademoiselle pressed on. She was in no real peril - as long as she focused and kept her wits about her. This was her only avenue to find the mercenary, and she would take it.
For a moment, she paused in the tunnel, her sudden doubt causing its walls to flicker dangerously.
The tunnel was a visualization of her own design. She had used the device before to find difficult locations during astral travel, and so far, it had helped her follow the Eye's thread. Indeed, the walls had been growing stronger, more concrete - a hint, perhaps, that she was getting closer to the other Eye of Muninn. She had the sensation that she was climbing up, edging towards a dim pinpoint on the horizon. It grew brighter and larger as she got closer, until finally, she broke through the surface.
Blinded, she blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
A stone floor and walls, bars across the door - it was a prison cell.
Has Laufeyson been caught, then?
Instantly, the images began to swim around her, the world woven by the projection shaking and losing solidity. The scene distorted, curving as if she looked through a fish-eye lens. She could feel something ancient, powerful, pushing at her, cutting her away from her astral body and trying to force her out of the room. That same force was draining the energy out of her kevra at a horrific pace.
Is it the cell?
Already, there was no sound, no smell - nothing save the blurry parade of ghost images that danced in front of her. Given the speed at which it siphoned off her energy, it would not be long before she lost the scene completely.
Calm yourself, and find a point of reference. From within her trance, she breathed hard, and the images slowed.
She saw a door swing towards her, the great golden bars fairly exploding as they reached the center of her view. The Mademoiselle flinched instinctively at their trajectory, but they passed through her spirit form without resistance. She cast her vision about, looking for something to anchor herself to.
Then two angels stepped into view, and the distraction, as well as her sudden excitement, caused her vision to distort and blur further. She cou
ld feel her vampire more clearly now, and she was sure it was the cell itself.
She growled. Focus, damn you, focus!
She poured in a mammoth burst of energy, and her vision restabilized. The angels solidified into two males, obviously twins, their aspects somehow familiar. They were working together to drag a mass of shadows, one whose form evoked a body being pulled off the battlefield. And then, their burden bucked wildly, a churning seizure of clothes and flesh, and she realized it was a prisoner.
The captive thrashed harder, whipping back a waterfall of inky hair. The Mademoiselle's breath froze.
De la Roca.
She watched as they dragged the mercenary in, her struggles nearly tearing her out of their arms. Another angel followed, one whose beautiful visage left no doubt as to his identity.
Golden.
De la Roca! Shoot them!
She screamed, but in the vacuum of the cell, there was no sound. She felt the power of the stone take over, pushing through the vessel of her body with a wild surge that burned like fire.
Golden turned. His eyes were tight and his mouth grim, and even in the in the projection's shaky distortions, his sanguine cheeks twitched with the tension of his jaw.
He stared straight at her, his mouth flying open in a soundless yell. Startled, she retreated just far enough for the cell to overpower her and sever the link.
#
Sweat ran down the sides of her face and plastered her hair to her head. She pulled her arms into herself and shivered, her damp body not quite trusting in the safety her mind guaranteed. Minutes passed. Gradually, her breathing grew calmer.
He saw me. As impossible as the statement was, it would not be denied its claim to truth.
Laufeyson last held the other Eye of Muninn. There was no reason for her to think that he would allow it to change hands. If he was not already dead, then he was in a Consortium prison - the same prison that she just saw De la Roca thrown into. Whatever the Consortium was looking for, with the links that they shared - they had just made her situation that much more dangerous.
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