A sound from behind the thick door of Sargatanas’ shrine caught her attention and she nodded to Eligor, who, apparently, had not heard it; his eyesight, so keen when he was airborne, was far better than his average hearing. Lilith watched him step close to the door and press his ear to it. She smiled, for each tiny sound from within confirmed her certitude that he was within.
Eligor pulled away from the door and shrugged.
“My lady, I beg your forgiveness that I did not tell you immediately that he was here. You were wise to understand him so well.”
“He doubts himself, Eligor,” Lilith said. “And now he has lost his one true friend. This is where he would have to come.”
“Only a handful of us know of the Shrine. I should have—”
Lilith put a sharp-nailed finger to her lips.
“He is repeating the same phrases over and over,” she whispered. “He has been doing that since you left me here. I cannot make out what he is saying, but it is as if he were praying. In the old language, no less.”
“No, you must be mistaken. It is forbidden. Even he would not…”
“He, especially, would.”
Eligor smiled and then said, “We are, indeed, in a new world.”
A low keening moan could be heard, loud enough even for Eligor to discern. The pain, more like something that might spring from the throat of an animal, was unmistakable.
Lilith sucked in her breath.
And then the floor trembled.
Eligor and Lilith looked at the heavy stones beneath their feet and then at each other and the bewilderment was clearly written upon their faces, but be-fore they could speak they felt another, heavier tremor vibrate under their feet.
A sudden deafening blast like the crashing together of a thousand crystal cymbals accompanied a brilliant flash of purest white light that limned the door of the Shrine from within. Lilith fell to her knees and Eligor staggered, holding himself up with both hands upon the bench. Where the sound abated, the light persisted, and suddenly the broad door, once locked but now seemingly loosened by the tremors, parted slightly, shedding the moving light from within upon the two figures.
Lilith found herself trembling uncontrollably. Shakily she rose to her feet. Something was terribly wrong; a strange light still lingered in the glowing, living embers that danced upon the floor of the Shrine, even as the clangorous echoes of that fantastically powerful peal rang in her ears. Springing forward, concerned only for the well-being of his lord, Eligor pushed the door open and entered the Shrine. As they made their way hurriedly deeper into the chamber the only sound that met their ears was the now-diminishing sizzle of the embers. Both gasped as they came upon the inert form of Sargatanas lying beneath the frieze of the Throne, dotted in hundreds of dissolving specks of light.
Eligor and Lilith stood over him, dumbstruck, for he was entirely white, from spiked head to shod toe. Every detail of his demonic form, every spine, every armored scute, every fold of his flesh, and even his robes stood out in pale relief, all of him the white of bone, the white of fangs—the white of a seraph from Above. And when they called his name and he did not move they both knelt and turned him over and saw, each with a shiver, that his open and pleading eyes were no longer smoked silver from the Fall but had gained their former rich copper hue.
Sargatanas’ body jerked spasmodically. He blinked and then reached out slowly, clutching at Eligor’s robes.
With his eyes unfocused and his voice echoing of bells, he said, “They answered me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
As she walked its streets, Lilith sensed that the once-ordered streets of Adamantinarx were awash in a tide of rumor and unease. The slow-flowing Acheron seemed to mock the city with its steady, unchanging currents, sharp contrast to the endless hasty stream of newfound allies that now threatened to overwhelm the palace.
Algol had risen and set many times since Sargatanas’ change. In that time, Zoray and Eligor had had their hands full balancing the affairs of a growing court while dispelling the incredible rumors that began to circulate about Lord Sargatanas. As if the truth, with all of its implications, were not miraculous enough. Nonetheless, tales of apparitions, of giant flaming swords pointing toward Dis, of almost-seen hosts of Seraphim or Cherubim flying downward, of masses of Abyssals congregating in the Wastes, of souls becoming demons, even of Lucifer’s imminent return, floated through the streets on currents of excited gossip. All these rumors, she knew, were false, the product of times that were changing too rapidly.
A great caravan was arriving just as she ascended the palace steps, and she recognized the elegant, blue sigil as belonging to Put Satanachia, that most refined and charismatic of demons arrived from his cold, outer realm. With him were his three subordinates, the Demons Minor Aamon, Pruslas, and Barbatos, each as commanding a presence as many Demons Major. Lilith knew enough about Satanachia and his court to be amazed at his apparent new alliance with Sargatanas; there were few demon sovereigns more powerful in Hell, and in some ways he outranked the Lord of Adamantinarx. As Eligor had said, it was, indeed, a new world.
As she negotiated the corridors farther into the palace she wondered, for the thousandth time, about just what had happened to Sargatanas. It had taken them hours to get him back, weak as he was, to his chambers so far above the Shrine. They had wanted to get him there without being seen, but in a palace this active they realized soon enough that this would be an impossibility. Others, the curious and concerned, had gathered around and lent their support, and despite themselves, Eligor and she had been grateful for their help. Once inside Sargatanas’ darkened chambers, she had stayed with him for days, but they had not spoken except in the most cursory way. He was distant and seemed to be in enormous discomfort, and she knew better than to press him. Gradually, the apparent physical difficulties subsided and she had left him for longer and longer periods. However, even with his returning strength, he was no more forthcoming.
Today would be different. Enough time had passed that she felt reasonably confident that she could get him to tell her what had happened.
When she approached his chambers, Lilith saw the dozens of Foot Guard, arranged in a square formation that completely blocked the corridor and barred anyone, save herself, Eligor, and Zoray, from entering. Saluting, they opened the door, and she stepped into Sargatanas’ private world.
He had pulled up a heavy chair before his wide opened window and was seated, looking out over Adamantinarx, a pale shape against a dark background. His city was now a nexus for the disenfranchised of Hell, and even from this height he could not have failed to see the steady flow that entered it.
“There is little or no difference,” he said without turning, “between my rebellion and his.”
“My lord?”
“Lucifer. His rebellion. And mine. We are both responsible for what we started.”
“Yes. But surely you can see the differences.”
“What if they’re not so clear?” He took a deep breath. “What I can see is the destruction of those around me because of my own selfish goals.”
She looked at him and felt the radiance of sadness that seemed to emanate from him. “This isn’t a selfish cause. His was.”
Sargatanas remained still. An ash-laden wind was whipping up, and the banners below were beginning to flap.
Lilith stood next to him, watching the city as it grew less distinct for the encroaching ash.
“It’s Valefar. His loss is making you question all that you’re attempting: that much is clear. He wouldn’t want that.”
The demon pursed his lips, the agitation clearly written upon his face. She suddenly realized—amazed after all these weeks that she had not seen it—that he was no longer shifting his form. While he was still very much a demon, his whitened body was as stable as the chair he sat upon. How could I have missed something so obvious? What else has changed within him?
“What was it like?”
<
br /> “What?”
“In the Shrine.”
His mouth opened as if to speak and he hesitated. She saw him take his eyes away from the window and look down.
“I was… upon my knees praying.” He shook his head slowly. “Lilith, I prayed so hard, first for him… for Valefar… and then for me. And it was then that the floor shook. I thought it was a response to such selfishness.”
“Eligor and I felt that. I think the entire palace did as well,” she said, immediately sorry she had interrupted him.
“Then there was a brilliance, a living whiteness, that seemed to descend like the furious fall of a sword blade. It hit me so hard, Lilith. And when it did, I thought it the purest anger I’ve ever known. Directed solely at me. It only touched me for an instant, but even in that span I felt it change… to the purest imaginable balm. Suddenly my mind was flooded with the Above; I could smell it, see it, hear it… even taste it. It was like awakening after dreaming of blackness and decay and seeing… my home.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I can’t truly tell you.”
Lilith smiled. He was right; she could only imagine.
The ash cloud was rising, making its inevitable way up to the lofty heights of the palace towers, and Lilith moved to close the open windows. There were a dozen casements to latch, and as she began she heard Sargatanas rise from his seat and start to close them at the far end of the room.
She glanced at him surreptitiously and saw him pausing, holding his wounded side. Without thinking she went to him, and for a moment, a long, silent moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. She had never seen eyes like his, made angelic by the change; past the bony brows and white lids they were deep wells of liquid copper flecked with tiny specks of azure—quite beautiful, she thought. But, more than that, it was the sadness, the inward-reaching longing, she saw within them that she had never seen before. Even the eyes of Lucifer, which she had fallen into, had held more anger than anything else.
Impulsively, keeping her eyes on Sargatanas’, she reached out and touched him, running her pale fingers down his steaming forearm and feeling the heat of his flesh and bone. The touch burned but in a way that sent a thrill through her. She saw his eyes widen fractionally, but he did not pull away, and she put her other hand upon the hand that covered his wound and slowly, purposefully, pulled him to her. She heard a release of breath, deep and hollow, and suddenly, with a fervor that surprised her, he crushed her to him, closing his eye and wrapping his heavy arms around her.
They stood motionless, holding on to each other in Hell’s first embrace of love, for what Lilith deemed the most wonderful eternity she had spent. They were both unique yet alike, alone yet together. And Lilith knew that, for her, Hell was forever changed.
I am, indeed, in a new world.
* * * * *
They lingered upon Sargatanas’ disheveled pallet, in a room made hazy by the steam of their lovemaking. Lilith lay partially atop him like a dismounting rider, her nude body looking like highly polished ivory, slick with perspiration. He drowsed beneath her, his huge hand playing unconsciously with her sweat-tangled hair, his words few but endearing. The heat of him that was still spreading upward from between her legs suffused her entire body, warming her. Lilith had never felt more content. Her mind, enervated by the intensity of him, ranged back to those most ancient of memories, of the Man for whom she was created and of lost Lucifer, and she knew that neither could compare. Sargatanas’ yearning hunger had been obvious and his skill amazing; she had found him nothing less than sublime in his passion. She had exhilarated in his power.
It was odd, she thought distantly, how so much about her existence seemed to center upon sex. The intent of her very creation had been about it. Her own Fall had indirectly been because of it. Her millennia of imprisonment had been to exploit it. With Lucifer it had always been about Lucifer. But with Sargatanas it seemed different; there was an equality about it, a give-and-take, a sense that she was someone, in how attentive he had been. She ascribed this parity, in part, to her having reached out to him. And that, she thought smiling faintly, she would never regret.
She watched his scarred and broken chest rise and fall, saw the fire that lay within his torn breast—where his heart should have been—fade and glow, fanned with each breath. And she closed her eyes, thinking of the possibilities. She thought about what Hell would be like for her if he succeeded in his dream, with him absent forever. Or—and this was a pleasantly guilty thought—if he faded, what it might be like if he were not to leave.
DIS
A single week in a thousand-mouthed screaming-room at the mercy of a pack of Scourges had wrought changes upon Agares that would never be erased. When Adramalik saw him he straightened, tightening his jaw, for the former Prime Minister, once so proper and refined, could no longer stand as he once had. Nor would he breathe or speak as he once had. In fact, the Chancellor General was not sure, looking at him, whether on a cursory glance he could ready even be mistaken for a demon anymore. Which had been exactly what Adramalik had recommended his peer’s punishment be. Adramalik now thought his own punishment, as severe as it was, was nothing in comparison to Agares’ suffering. Of one thing he was certain: Agares would never be Prime Minister again.
Naked, he shuffled sometimes upright, sometimes on all fours, ahead of Adramalik, trailing a bloody train of flayed skin as he moved into Beelzebub’s Rotunda. Agares had difficulty traversing the floor; pattering through its ankle-deep pools of blood and chunks of half-consumed meat made him strain and contort his twisted body so much that he occasionally let out wincing shrieks of pain. Apart from the very apparent rearrangement of his joints, every internal organ, feathered in exposed capillaries, protruded through innumerable holes in his body in a way that Adramalik could only think of as decorative. The whips and tongs and hooks had been very creatively applied.
The Rotunda contained only a single demon in attendance to the Prince. Sitting cross-legged in the blood before the flesh-throne was Faraii, and as Adramalik approached him he could see that something was not quite right about the Baron. Motionless, still clad in the dark and tattered garments he had worn on the battlefield, he made no move to indicate that he was aware of the arrival of the Chancellor General and the ex-Prime Minister. Adramalik narrowed his eyes as he looked at the seemingly oblivious figure, as he began to more fully appreciate the extent of the Prince’s plans for Faraii. The fly that invaded him… it has hollowed him out. Now he is nothing more than a vessel. A fighting husk. Husk Faraii!
Adramalik stepped closer to the throne and knelt down on one knee while Agares squatted nearby in what had to be an uncomfortable position. The Battle of the Flaming Cut had changed things; a degree of subservience was now demanded of him that had never been necessary before. He was unsure whether this new requirement would remain in place even after his ongoing punishment subsided. As the thought crossed his mind a jolt of withering pain sliced through; they were fewer these days but no less intense. When it subsided he looked up and saw the headless body of Prince Beelzebub seated atop the rotting pile.
A muffled howl arose from deep beneath the bowels of the Keep. The Watcher had been unusually restless these past few weeks, Adramalik thought. Was it a portent, some sign of impending disaster? The dying sound reverberated through the Rotunda, creating myriad concentric ripples in the puddles. He looked back at Husk Faraii, who gave no evidence of having heard the sound; instead a familiar buzzing now seemed to be emanating from within him. Adramalik noticed a large pool of saliva gathering inside the gray-blue Husk’s slackly opened mouth. Due to a slight tilt in his gaunt head, the saliva began to drop in a slowly lengthening rivulet from his mouth until it touched his thigh.
As Adramalik watched, he saw a few flies appear inside Husk Faraii’s mouth. Emerging from within, they perched for a moment upon his lips and teeth and then took wing, rising higher and higher until they were directly over the shoulders of Beelzebub’s waiting form. An improbable number of them began to iss
ue forth, a steady stream adding layers of solidity to the featureless head that was forming and then, once the last of them was in place, refining itself into the Prince’s countenance.
Without preamble, as the last flies were settling themselves, the Prince asked, “What is noble here in Hell?”
“Nothing, my Prince,” Adramalik said. “Nothing can be noble in such a place. You have always said that nobility has the stink of the Above.”
“And yet… and yet somehow Sargatanas can create the illusion, through his actions and aspirations, of nobility?”
“No, my Prince.”
“How else can you explain, then, the sudden flocking of allies… important allies… to his side?”
Adramalik paused. Whatever he thought, he must tell Beelzebub what he needed to hear.
“They are weak and stupid,” Adramalik ventured. “They are cleaving to him because they think that aligning themselves with a new, defiant power in Hell will bring about a chance to topple your court. They do not care at all about his ‘cause.’”
“Well, Adramalik, there is a chance. This court now stands upon shaky feet. I, Beelzebub, the Prince Regent of Hell since its founding, must accept the fact that there is now a rising power that threatens my sovereignty. A demon has come to shake me from my throne!”
The words hung in the air. Adramalik looked over at Husk Faraii and saw that the saliva had pooled upon his thigh and was now slowly dribbling downward. Agares, too, was staring at him.
“Dis is now deprived of Moloch’s standing army; it is ash upon the winds as we speak. My Great Summoning Pits are, for the moment, impotent… my conjurors sit idle at their edges, waiting for them to bestir themselves. But I am sure the same can be said for him; it will take some time for his allies to gather their armies. It was nothing short of genius for him to use his souls.”
“It was disgusting, my Prince,” said Adramalik vehemently, forgetting himself. “An army of skin-sacks! It was an abomination worthy of no demon; imagine, demons… no, angels Fallen… destroyed by that filth!”
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