Four Dominions

by Eric Van Lustbader

  The bronze rood spilled out of his pocket. He reached for it reflexively, but the leader ground the heel of his boot into it, then jerked Bravo up by his hair.

  “You want this weapon so badly? Well, here.” He smashed the butt of the insurgent’s AK-47 into the side of Bravo’s head. He let go Bravo’s hair, and Bravo crashed to the slippery deck of the speedboat. Dimly, he glimpsed the leader deliver a punishing blow to the insurgent who had lost his weapon. A line of blood opened up on the insurgent’s face, a deep gash that would not heal well, an eternal reminder.

  Someone roughly pulled Bravo’s arms behind his back, tied his wrists so tightly that the bonds bit into his flesh, bringing blood.

  “Now.” The leader squatted down beside Bravo. “My name is Ismail. Give me yours.”

  “Braverman Shaw.”

  “Means nothing to me.”

  “Why should it?”

  Ismail hit Bravo on the back of the head. His Arabic sounded odd to Bravo’s ears, slurred, as if he were drunk, which was impossible. Perhaps it only sounded that way because Bravo, swaddled like a helpless baby in pain, was half-concussed.

  “Unless you’re related to Dexter Shaw.”

  “My father.”

  “Huh. A tomb raider, so I’ve heard over and over again. A stealer of souls.”

  “Interesting argument coming from someone who takes pleasure in destroying his country’s past. My father’s mission was to preserve the past, to learn its secrets.”

  “So, here we have our history in a nutshell. The infidel telling the guardian of the Qur’an what is wicked. Pathetic.” Ismail licked his thick lips. “I imagine you’re a plunderer, too.”

  When Bravo made no comment, Ismail said, “You consider me a destroyer.”

  “You are a destroyer.”

  The flat of Ismail’s hand pressed down on Bravo’s head. “Here is the way the world really is. With each death, each bomb detonation, I keep the world from falling asleep. Because, Braverman, when the world falls asleep infidels like you infiltrate our world, take what is sacred to us, everything Allah has promised us if we live life according to the laws of the Qur’an. You take these precious things without regard and in return you deliver us into a land of Coca-Cola and Star Wars, the filth and blasphemy of the rich and famous. All Americans lust for this life, so you assume the entire world feels the same. It doesn’t. It recoils from the corruption of morals. Braverman, the damage you do—you have no idea.”

  He put his full weight behind the hand pressing down on Bravo’s head. “Your father was an honorable man, in his own peculiar way. But he was an infidel nonetheless.”

  Ismail bent lower. “What are you?”

  Another blow fell onto the back of Bravo’s head, so hard his cheek bounced against the deck, almost cracking his neck. Bravo was obliged to turn his head to rid himself of the majority of the pain. And that’s when he saw it.

  The bronze rood had been damaged by Ismail’s boot heel. Bravo blinked, could not believe his eyes. A small fraction of the bronze had been sheared off, revealing a glint underneath.

  The crucifix wasn’t made of bronze; it had been coated with bronze to protect the rood’s original material.

  The rood was made of gold.

  Part 3

  The Four Thrones

  32

  Eight Miles High, En Route to Paris: Present Day

  A CURIOUS SILENCE ENGULFED THEM AS IT HAD ON THE bridge in Istanbul.

  “What is going on?” Beleth ventured. Neither of the women answered. “Ah,” it said. “A human thing. Between the two of you.”

  They sat side by side on the right side of the commercial jet. Feeding time, such as it was. Salads were served, wilted leaves with a sealed plastic container of dressing. Tiny paper packets of salt and pepper. A precise square of brown-gray pâté. Lilith cut off a triangle of pâté with her fork. Beleth’s essence reasserted itself; in the realm of humans its patience was limited. Eyes black as moonless night, it took up Emma’s knife, turned it over and over in her hand, as if preparing to use it in a way the flight attendant would surely not approve of.

  Lilith stared into those fathomless eyes, glimmering like stones underwater. Holding the knife in her peripheral vision, she said, “Who d’you propose to kill with that?”

  “This Obarton. That is what you both desire.”

  ‘With that butter knife?”

  “This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?” Beleth growled under its breath.

  “I only wish it was.”

  “You have an odd way about you.”

  “That’s because you lack a sense of humor. Poor thing.”

  “There you go again.”

  “You know your problem, Beleth?”

  “As if I have just one.”

  “Are they all like you?”

  “Who?”

  “The Fallen. The Legion who are coming for us.”

  The Power watched her warily. “It is your friend who has been captured, not mine.”

  “You have no friends,” Lilith said dismissively. She waited in vain for him to reply. “You’re like a child, Beleth.” She twirled some greens on the tines of her fork, then set it down. She had no appetite; the pâté was sitting in her stomach like a fistful of lead shot. “You have no experience in the real world.”

  “Who decides what is real and what is not?” Beleth said somberly. “You?”

  “Why not me?”

  “Because,” it said, “what you know I can fit inside a thimble.”

  “Okay. Enlighten me then.”

  Beleth sighed. “You speak about the Fallen. You speak about the Legion. But you do not know the one from the other.”

  “The Legion is the advance guard,” Lilith said. “Right?”

  “As far as it goes, yes.”

  “And I know you’re terrified of Leviathan.”

  “As far as it goes, yes.”

  “Then tell me what I’m missing.”

  “Everything. You’re missing everything.” Emma leaned forward, the thunder-rumble of Beleth’s voice subsiding, as if it was worried about who—or what?—might be listening. “Leviathan has found a way into the world of humans—your world.”

  “Hey, buster, you’re in our world.”

  Beleth looked at her with its implacable stare. “I do not understand you making light of the situation.”

  Lilith shook her head, ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s how I deal.”

  “Deal?”

  “With being scared out of my wits.”

  “Ah.” Beleth’s expression changed from readable to unreadable. “Well, then.”

  For a moment, it seemed at a loss for words, or maybe it was simply lost in thought. The flight attendant came, possibly to collect their plates, but Lilith waved her off.

  Beleth said now, “I can only appear in a human host, not my true form. For Leviathan, though, it is different.”

  “I’ve seen him. The stuff nightmares are made of. But how is he able to—?”

  “That’s just it; I do not know,” Beleth said morosely. “But one thing is certain: there has been a major alteration in our worlds. In the beginning, after the Fall, God dictated two discreet places. Stories were told that the Phoenician sorcerers under the direction of Rehoboam, King Solomon’s son, summoned Lucifer. But no. Even they lacked the power to break God’s chains. Instead, they used their incantations to bring the Guardian into the red tent of shadows and, with his reluctant help, conjured the gold Rehoboam required to prop up his father’s failing empire. But there was a side effect, as there always is in sulphurous bargains. Perhaps it was unintentional, perhaps not. With the Phoenicians you never knew; they were wild and unpredictable and, if you crossed them, utterly vindictive. It’s in their blood and their bones.

  “The point being, the conjuring, drawing energy from our dark world, brought the worlds into contact with one another. That contact weakened the membrane. It was further weakened some years ago in Tannourine, Lebano
n, when a human named Dilara Tusik brought her daughter Ayla to the red tent of shadows. This Ayla, still a child, confronted the Guardian. But now comes a third intervention, the one that has allowed Leviathan to part the veils.”

  “Who is the Guardian?” Lilith asked.

  “He is Regent, the demon of fate. He answers to no one, lives in neither world. He is the Lord of Limbo. He is the saddest of demons, and the most bloody-minded.”

  “And Ayla?” Lilith asked.

  Emma’s expression turned crafty. “Emma knows,” Beleth said. “Don’t you, darling.”

  The eyes lightened for a moment, a lone ray of sunshine piercing the storm clouds. “Ayla is a relative of mine, and, of course, of my brother’s.”

  Then the spot of brightness was gone, devoured by the darkness inside her. “Ayla is a Shaw, long hidden from us,” Beleth said. “She was protected from us when she was vulnerable. Ever since she confronted Regent her power has blossomed. And when she defeated Malus, the child the Guardian conjured into your world, her potential to become a full-blown sorceress was released. Unfortunately, her mother was killed before she could be trained.”

  “Then she could help us,” Lilith said.

  “I doubt it,” Beleth rumbled. “She has no idea of the powers locked inside her.”

  “Then we’ll tell her.”

  “It won’t make any difference. She has no idea how to use her powers. Sorcery is not something you can learn on the fly; it takes years of training with an adept.”

  “That won’t stop me from informing her of what she can be.”

  “If you get the chance.”

  Lilith’s body tensed. “What d’you mean?”

  “Just this: the fact of Leviathan being able to exist here means that the Four Thrones cannot be far behind. It is they, riding Orus, their war mounts, who will lead the Legion into your world.” Emma shook her head. “This is the very worst news for you humans.”

  “For you, too, Beleth, lest you forget.”

  The Power glared at her. “I am incapable of forgetting anything, which, frankly, is part of my problem. If I could forget the sins we have committed—the sins I have committed—I would be far better off. Now I am committed—consigned to fighting my very nature. You have no idea what an impossibly difficult task this is.”

  “And yet you’re doing it,” Lilith said. “You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Pride!” Beleth all but cried. “One of our worst character flaws!” Emma put her head in her hands. “I sometimes have this insane notion that God created us this way, that he knew we would rebel, that he had planned our retribution from the first.”

  “I believe that’s how some humans think.” Lilith placed her hand halfway across the table, palm up, and said nothing more until Emma—but this wasn’t Emma, she had to remind herself, but the Fallen Angel Beleth—covered her hand with her own. It did not go unnoticed that this was the first time Beleth had allowed itself to be comforted by her. She was moved beyond her own understanding. “I told you,” she said softly, “Emma and I will take care of you.”

  The black eyes seemed to enlarge, the Nihil, the sigil of the Unholy Trinity, fading like the moon at the rising of the sun. “And I,” Beleth said, “will protect you with my life.”

  “Good. Then our first order of business is to find Hugh and free him.”

  “Then can I kill Obarton?”

  Lilith laughed deep down in her throat.

  33

  Hollow Lands / Lalibela, Ethiopia: 1919

  THE NEW YEAR HAD ARRIVED WITHOUT CEREMONY OR EVEN being marked by Conrad, Diantha, or Yeats. All were too busy fighting for their lives to be bothered with the man-made concept of time. Besides, in the Hollow Lands beneath the crust of the Earth time did not exist, or if it did, it was as a wholly different creature than it was among the civilizations of human beings.

  As the last grains of sand drained out of 1918, Diantha lay in her son’s arms, insensate.

  “How is she?” Yeats asked, squatting beside them.

  “I believe she is hovering between life and death.”

  Conrad’s eyes were magnified by trembling tears, and his friend gripped his shoulder.

  “Now when we are at our lowest ebb is the time to be strongest,” the great poet said gently. “I only spent a short time with her. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that she is stronger than both of us combined. If anyone can rally back to the land of the living it is she.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Conrad was staring down into Diantha’s regal face, pale now in the shadow of Death. He could hear Death’s bones rattling, a dry and inimical laughter that made him nauseated. “And thank you for saving our lives.”

  “I merely followed instinct.”

  “Instinct always surprises us doesn’t it?” He shifted to take pressure off one leg, which was filling with pins and needles.

  The abrupt movement caused Diantha to regain consciousness.

  “Conrad,” she said.

  “I’m here, Mother, and so is the great poet. The Throne is gone, catapulted back into its hellish prison.”

  “And your father?”

  “Gideon is dead. I made sure of that.”

  “Oh, God.” Diantha’s eyes closed. Nevertheless, hot tears squeezed out beneath the lids. “The prophecy has come true.”

  “Calm yourself, Mother,” Conrad said. “You’re safe with us now.”

  “Safe?” Diantha’s eyes flew open. “No one is safe. Not now. Not ever.”

  Yeats, down on one knee beside her, said, “Madam, will you tell us the nature of the prophecy?”

  “It foretells the Second Coming.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “The Second Coming of Christ.”

  “No, you fool!” she cried, so agitated she spit blood as she writhed in her son’s grip. “The Second Coming of Lucifer.”

  “God in Heaven!” Yeats rocked back on his heels, almost toppling over as he was gripped by an existential fear such as he had never before known. He thought about the poem he had been writing in the Sphinx’s presence. Even though it was not yet complete he had already titled it “The Second Coming.” Coincidence or, as Conrad would surely believe, a product of his Farsight. This, he realized, was not for him to say. Though he had a small role in this play, he recognized it was an important one. He felt terror and exhilaration swirling through him in equal measure.

  By this time, Diantha had lapsed back into stillness. “I am sorry, Mr. Yeats. My tone was unacceptably rude.”

  “No need, no need, madam.” Yeats took her hand in his, was dismayed to find it as cold as ice. “Exigent circumstances, I warrant.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  Her voice was thin, almost ghostly. Yeats looked up into his friend’s stricken face. “We must do something, Conrad. She is so cold. I fear that she is slipping away from us.”

  Conrad gestured with his free hand. “Let me have the artifact.”

  Yeats handed over the combined apple and crucifix, except now the rood was in the shape of a triangle. He scarcely noticed this, so intent was he on his mother’s mortal condition. With the touch of the artifact he felt a surge, as of an electric current that almost lifted him off the ground. Blue fire enveloped him, but for some reason he could not fathom it would not transfer to her. Some instinct buried deep inside him told him the blue fire would heal her.

  “It’s not working,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Yeats. “What am I to do?”

  “Use the golden apple,” Yeats said. “Place it somewhere on her—her stomach, perhaps.”

  With no other options open to him, Conrad lowered the artifact onto his mother’s stomach. It was at that moment that he noticed the artifact’s altered shape. Had it happened when the apple fused with the rood, or after the explosion that cast Verrine back into Hell? Impossible to tell.

  A terrible shudder passed through Diantha’s body, as of a drowning swimmer ridding herself of swallowed water. Her eyes opened.

/>   “Mother!” He turned to Yeats. “It’s working!”

  “What is... ?” Diantha glanced down at the artifact. “No! What have you done!”

  “I don’t—”

  “Get that thing off me!”

  “But it brought you back to life.”

  “Do what I say. Oh, please, please, please, I beg you! Do it now!”

  Conrad snatched the artifact off her, but his heart sank when he saw the wound on her stomach, like the bite of a viper. Around the wound was a black tar-like substance. His mind raced back to what Phenex, the Scryer Throne had tried to tell him: Disaster... catastrophe... there are no other words!...

  Diantha twitched once, twice, three times. Then she began to writhe like a serpent.

  “Mother!”

  “Ah, it’s happening. So soon, so soon.”

  “Mother, what is happening?”

  Then Diantha screamed, an unearthly, bone-chilling cry of pain and abject terror.

  Disaster... catastrophe... there are no other words!...

  Writhing. Foam began to collect at the corners of her mouth. As quickly as she spit it out, it collected again. She coughed heavily, as if her lungs, having rid themselves of water were now filling up with something heavier, darker. Sinister.

  “Get me to...” She gasped, gasped, gasped. “Only hope now.” Tried to swallow, gagged, and vomited up a substance the color and viscosity of tar. It stank of brimstone and sulphur.

  “Oh no.” Conrad rocked her wracked body. “No, no, no.”

  “What is happening to her?” Yeats asked.

  “I fear it has already happened,” Conrad replied, then turned his attention back to Diantha. “Mother, listen to me. What is our only hope? Tell me what I must do and it will be done.”

  Diantha stared up at him, her huge, magnificent eyes red rimmed. He bent closer. Were the irises changing color? Was the emerald color darkening? Was her inner sun setting?

  “Mother?” At his wit’s end, he shook her shoulders. “Mother! I’m right here. I have you. How can I save you? God in Heaven, please tell me.”

  Diantha tried to form the word, had to start over. Speaking seemed to take all her effort. “Typhos,” she said, at last, the word wrung out of her like a drop of blood. “Bring me to Typhos.”