He made himself comfortable on a thick branch. He had never been like this, in the crown of the tree he loved so much. He enjoyed the new sensation, feeling this calm flowing under his skin. He folded his wings so that it looked as though he were carrying a sack on his back. Teitú fluttered around his master, like a tiny cupid.
Chapter IV – A Volatile Soul
The return of the God of Light to the Meridian caused a greater impact than the god himself imagined. He might have been torn between uncertainty, doubts, memories, and the cosmos, but sorcerers, the men of faith, and those other beings capable of detecting the presence of a god vibrated with a seismic magnitude.
In each of the Décamons of the Empire, in each town and village, there was a reaction. At the Décagon—the sanctuary with the ten stained glass windows of the religion—the stained glass representation and the statue of the God of Light, which had been blurred for over fifteen years, began to take on substance. In a single day, the transformation became visible.
***
In a distant part of Devnóngaron, another being felt the effects of the god’s presence. His name was Tzargorg, although later, through the vicissitudes of life, he had become Innominatus. In a village that was now devastated, he had met a rancher who had given him a chance and another name: Balthazar.
After many misadventures, he was now in Devnóngaron, making his peace with Mother. He would never be able to go back to the Wild Lands, but in exchange for his pardon, he had become a hostage, a messenger who would help restore order. What name would he be given? One of Mother’s first commands had been to convince Mérdmerén to set out on the dangerous journey of fighting for his passions. What would the second mission be? At the top of the Devil’s Mouth, the Wild Man wandered, admiring the world he loved so much. He recalled his childhood, his youth, his victory in the Sacred Battle, and his defeat years later. He remembered the moment he had betrayed himself. Of Manchego and Eromes, he would always keep the fondest memories. Manchego…
During the night, the fertile lands of Devnóngaron shone with iridescent green, as if life itself were radiating energy. The Lands of Malush, where the Great Mesh lay, was the perfect example of that life which pulses with energy. To find oneself in the Great Mesh was to feel life, was like being under Mother’s fountainhead.
Balthazar sat down and crossed his legs to meditate. He searched for messages hidden among the currents of air. He listened carefully, trying to discern the music of the universe. He became aware of an alteration in the wind, in the energy. What was happening? The name of Manchego came to his mind like a sharp dagger, and that memory set loose a sequence of others he had kept: Manchego running in the fields, Manchego at the observatory, Manchego playing with Rufus. His heart quivered. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and allowed the subtleties of the universe to penetrate his soul.
He felt himself to be a part of everything, of the one, of nothing. He swayed with the cosmos. He opened his eyes. He absorbed the beauty of the horizon, still dark under a sky that announced the arrival of the sun. In the distance, the darkness was turning purple, then dark blue. A gust of wind struck him full in the face and wrapped around his body and soul. He spread his arms, ready to gather Her messages and let them melt into his heart. He closed his eyes anew and felt himself in harmony with nature, with the mysteries of the universe. Mother filled him with her existential plenitude and communicated her message to him: a young man flying through the sky with his wings fully open, in serene and elegant flight. That smiling face was accompanied by a luminous being.
They looked like an archangel and a tiny star. The image dissolved, and there appeared red stripes, the color of blood. Hosts of soldiers were preparing to march on their objective. They were legions of men both dead and alive, human beings and others of strange nature. Some rode black wyverns, others conjured up the Dark Arts. A shiver ran down Balthazar’s spine. He knew Mother was suffering. He knew Mother had been invaded and would not be safe unless someone stopped it. The wind ceased to blow, and Mother vanished into nature. Balthazar was left alone, naked without the divine presence. A deep ache shook his heart at the realization of what he must do. With a leap, he plunged into the lushness of the forest.
***
In one of the dark chambers of the fortress of Árath in Némaldon, Elkam was studying the anatomical variant of a chimera he had been creating. He grabbed a bite off a kidney, savoring the taste of the flesh.
He had always been amazed by what could be done with loyal and obedient servants. The soldiers were following an iron order, the cauldrons of Árath were working at full power to forge as many swords and armor as possible, and the wyverns had been tamed and trained. Soon, they would march at the sound of war, three years after the Master had come back to life. They had been waiting for long centuries, but their waiting was now at an end. At last, they would march against their enemies. Rivers of blood would furrow the earth. Chaos would rule all. One drawback of resurrecting the Master was that he had had to step down from the throne of Árath. He had never imagined that he might have to step down and that becoming an obedient subordinate would make him feel vengeful.
The Grim Shepherd heard a roar from the depths of the underground castle, followed by a scream of pain and the sound of some viscous liquid falling on stone. Elkam ran to Legionaer’s quarters in the throne hall and found the Master with his face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. A sáffurtan lay on the floor with his head smashed and shapeless. The black toga of the evil sorcerer was splashed with blood.
“Milord,” Elkam said, his face paling at the sight of his troubled master.
“I could have sworn I’d finished him off. I used my claws to take the life of that wretched creature. I should have impaled him.”
“What are you talking about, milord?”
“The sáffurtan brought me grave news, Elkam. The God of Light is back. Those cursed beings of the Celestial Divinity have managed it again.”
Elkam lowered his gaze, feeling his legs and hands shaking and sweat running down his forehead. Could it be true?
“What are we going to do now? We can’t go on without—”
Legionaer split his cheek with a slap in the face. “Don’t be an imbecile. I warn you, I don’t care for the weak, Elkam. Get the army ready. We’ll march as soon as possible. I have spoken.”
“Yes, milord,” Elkam replied like a cowering servant and left to lose himself in the blackness.
Katha appeared among the shadows. She was invisible to the human eye but perceptible to the refined senses of a dethis. The Master could not hide his surprise at seeing her.
“You always knew he would return, brother,” she said in response to his amazement.
“But I never knew it would be so quick. You know what you have to do, Katha, so get to it and hurry.”
The Master was left alone in the throne hall, stained with blood, in front of the shapeless corpse of the sáffurtan. He was determined to proceed, whatever the price. His purpose was a lofty one. He would set out on the mission of reconquest, and this time, nothing and nobody would be able to stop him.
***
The Perfect Pontiff was saying the holy hour prayers within the silence of the Démanon. In the large Décagon of the Décamon Mayutorum, the echo repeated any sound, no matter how slight. Damasio had promised him that the special sacristan had already been sent to the village of the massacre, where he would end up being swallowed up by the strange forces which had besieged the place. The boy should never have been accepted into the ranks of religion, as had become evident during his time of training. He shut the Book of Life and stood up with difficulty.
He snapped his fingers, and immediately his guards emerged from the shadows, each with a shield in one hand and a spear in the other. The guards were called the Slegna Flamon but, in reality, were better-than-average soldiers trained to keep the religious site and its leader safe.
They escorted him to his rooms. At his age, the Perfect Pontiff ne
eded help to stand and walk. He had been the spiritual leader of the empire for decades, dictating the religious norms. He had spent decades shut inside, knowing nothing of the outside world. Now and then, he left the Décamon Mayutorum to celebrate some Holy Mass or to honor the king with his presence. Apart from that, he preferred to remain in his rooms of thick stone and silence.
He would soon turn ninety winters. A far greater age than most would ever attain in this empire. Wielding weak spells of magic made a man age correctly. Wielding too strong a spell would reduce his lifespan. Throughout his life, he had collected books, and now he had a library both notable and dangerous. Among those books were kept secrets about the origins of the Empire and the Slegna Flamon.
In his bedroom, the man of faith began to get ready for bed. Sleeping was not one of his pleasures. He liked the game of religion and politics. He liked playing a part in things, making and unmaking, and keeping order. From the pulpit, he controlled the masses and enjoyed it. He took a polished metal washbasin out of the cupboard, filled it with water from the sink, and washed his face. He saw his reflection in the water. That well-cut white hair, that sunken, wrinkled face. Despite his years, his eyes were still penetrating and lively. He was taking off his white cassock with its decoration of purple tulle when emotion overwhelmed him. He clutched at his chest, thinking his heart had reached its limit, but it was not that. It was something not unlike happiness, mixed with surprise. One word came to his mind: Light.
His hands shook. He opened his eyes to their full extent and leaned forward to look at the reflection in the washbasin. With a wave of his hand, he swept it to the floor, and there was a loud crash. The Perfect Pontiff was panting. He left the bedroom and hurried to the Décagon, followed by his escorts. There he fell to his knees, unable to believe his eyes: The stained glass window of the God of Light was acquiring a face, a presence. The same thing was happening with the statue of the divinity.
“The God of Light has returned,” he muttered.
***
King Aheron III was taking a stroll with six well-armed guards, designated by the Council of Kings to “protect” him. The truth was that the counselors preferred to defend their interests, particularly Cantus de Aligar. It had not gone unnoticed by the king that this nobleman was seeking to dethrone him. He sighed. Years ago, he had ceased ruling to become a mere puppet.
The day Mérdmerén had come to visit him, everything had gone awry. Cantus de Aligar had challenged him openly, and his world had come crashing down. He felt the pain in his heart for the first time. He realized too late that the Council of Kings had been playing with him, that they had neutralized him, and now they were the ones who ruled the empire. He shook his head and smoothed his beard as he looked around him at the beauty of the palace he had believed his own.
What would become of Mérdmerén? Cantus had locked him up securely in the dungeon, where even the king was forbidden to visit him. The council had declared that this man was a deserter who deserved death for his treason. Forbidden! The king had never dreamed that the day would come when a counselor would set such limits on him, and he realized that his power had diminished.
Diminished and forbidden. These two words summed up his royal existence.
He felt something pinch him in the ribs, but he was not in the least disturbed. The soldiers with him noticed the small disturbance. So as not to alarm them more than necessary, he sat down to reflect. And it came to him. It was a word, a thought, a notion: Light.
King Aheron III smiled faintly without even knowing why. It was noon, and the sun had reached its zenith. A messenger came into the palace in a hurry, running and panting, his tongue hanging out like that of a thirsty dog after covering several leagues. Eyes staring, he handed the king a rolled-up message tied in the middle with a red band. The seal indicated its origin: the Décamon Mayutorum, which meant that the letter had been signed by the Perfect Pontiff.
The king took it out of his hand. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the sheet of paper. Anxiously, his eyes ran over the words and lines. A shiver ran through him when he stood up. He felt that he was unable to restrain his emotions. He could not even guess the implications there might be in the Perfect Pontiff’s message. Had the old man gone crazy? No, because he had felt it himself. He went over to a window and looked out to the horizon, over the walls of the Imperial Palace and the vast city of Háztatlon, as far as he could reach. He had the feeling that he could touch the material of the universe, that he could understand the importance of the message which had been sent.
The God of Light had returned.
***
It was midnight when a dog might have been heard barking frantically. Nobody paid any attention or wondered about the reason for such jubilation. How could anyone have guessed that this animal was celebrating the fact that it had felt the presence of its master who had been missing?
“Easy, doggy,” Karolina said. The woman had noticed that the dog had gone to sit in front of the door as if it wanted to go out. It started to scratch at the door.
“Not now, doggy. You know there are beggars outside who’d cook you with pleasure. As soon as the sun comes up, I’ll open the door for you, all right?”
The dog moaned, but in the end, it resigned himself to waiting. It lay down in front of the door, alert to any changes in energy. Manchego’s face moved through its expectant mind. With its heart beating furiously, the dog waited for dawn.
***
In a remote region of the Empire of Mandrake, south of the Stratta Trigonosphere, isolated and forgotten, a village that in other times had been prosperous and promising lay dying. Now, it was kept going by a single thread of hope, so fragile that any calamity would put an end to its people forever. San San-Tera was its name.
In this village, inhabited by lost souls and the remains of corpses, shadowed by the rumor that it was under a demon’s curse, a priest of the regional Décamon was praying. It was the small hours of the night, and alongside the priest was his sacristan, newly arrived from Démanon: Argbralius. Both of them were reciting the holy words, preparing for the day. Savarb, a faithful collaborator, was in charge of the cleaning and other matters of less spiritual importance. The priest ceased praying; the sacristan stopped seconds later. Argbralius put a hand on his superior’s shoulder as if to wake him from a trance. The priest turned slowly, with a supernatural gesture.
“Father, what’s the matter? You look strange.”
“The God of Light has returned!” Father Crisondo cried excitedly.
Argbralius teetered unsteadily. When he had recovered from his surprise, he was aware of a current of hatred running through him, as if the God’s return were an insult to his soul. In fact, he loved all the Gods except that of Light, which was something he had never understood.
“The God of Light has returned!” the priest repeated more loudly. Such was his excitement that he did not realize that the neighbors of the village had heard him. Those words seemed to bring them to life because they began to stand up and whisper. They went to the Décamon with a mixture of different emotions as they noticed the transformation of the stained glass window and the statue.
“The God of Light has returned!” Crisondo shouted again, this time with tears in his eyes. The villagers burst into tears. They embraced one another and prayed. A torrent of emotions flowed throughout the Décamon and flooded the whole temple. At last, this long-yearned-for wish had become reality.
But Argbralius’ manner remained guarded.
“What’s the matter?” Crisondo asked in puzzlement. “Aren’t you happy? It’s a miracle! Not many people can say they’ve lived through such an extraordinary event. We must celebrate!”
Argbralius feigned a smile. “Of course I’m happy,” he said coolly. “It’s just that I’m overawed.”
***
The God of Light woke up around half-past five in the morning, just before the sun rose above the mountains. For his safety, and because of a touch of fear, he had used
his wings as protection against wind, cold, and predators. He had not slept well; the branches of the tree had not made a very comfortable bed, and he was also worried in case something bad might happen to Luchy. Teitú, as always, was floating around him in complete and utter peace, a sky-blue note of color. From the heights of the Great Pine, Manchego watched the patch of sky which showed him the horizon. He needed it. He yearned to drink from that spring.
The first rays of the sun were already spilling their pure brightness, spreading like fans over the earth. They might have been a crown. The God of Light felt intoxicated by an excess of euphoria. He nearly cried out in joy, but he held back, since doing so would wake Luchy. But this did not take away the pleasure of feeling ecstasy at being back at the observatory, at the Great Pine, with the sunrise before him, as in years before.
Luchy stirred as a finger of light touched her face. Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies shaking off a cold night and revealed those bright green eyes. Manchego was left breathless. Luchy…
The girl stretched her arms and yawned. Luckily, her eyes were closed, otherwise, she would have seen the angel admiring her from the branches. Manchego shivered and felt perspiration moistening his cheeks, his forehead, his nose.
The girl stretched her legs and brushed the pieces of bark out of her hair. Then she looked to the horizon, but in puzzlement, as if something were out of place. There was something that would not let her flow.
Archangel’s Ascension Page 4