by Archer, Jill
The room was a circle and if one imagined a cake with the center cut out and the outer edges divided into four equal parts, that’s how the floor was divided. Two halves of the circle were for visitors or, in Angel parlance, the audience. One quarter of the outer circle was raised and a high ornate bench rested against the curved wall in back of it. The judges and emcees would sit there and, in front of them, the accused and witnesses would give testimony on small stands.
The final outer area of the room was the jury “box,” where all the Angels were gathered. Because of the curved walls, it wasn’t exactly a box, but it was encased with a decorative railing. Most of the Angels were standing around, talking amongst themselves. One, however, had already taken his seat. He sat in the front row, off to the side, with his long legs stretched out, feet resting comfortably on the rail. All he needed was a straw hat and a piece of grass between his teeth to complete the picture of idyllic unconcern.
Jutting out from the walls around the perimeter were theater boxes reserved for various greater demons. Designing these boxes (which were probably all for show and had never been used) was the closest the Angels would ever get to actually adoring a demon. Still, gazing into some of the darkened boxes—not really knowing if a demon was lurking inside—was unsettling. The nameplates on the boxes flickered in the candlelight, but were legible enough: Alibi, Disobedience, Tyranny . . . Evil’s box just looked like a big black hole. I turned away abruptly, my gaze coming to rest on the object that occupied the room’s center position.
It was Metatron’s statue of Justica, the Patron Demon of Judgment, Mercy, and Punishment.
Legend says Metatron, a first-century Angel scribe, fell fiercely in love with Justica. He revered her impartiality and dispassion, claiming her to be a paragon of law and order, so unlike the other slavering, bloodthirsty deity demons. He commissioned this statue and had it placed in a sturdy oxcart—the first “House of Metatron.” He traveled the whole of Halja with it rattling around behind him. He died without ever finding her. Hyrke romantics are very taken with the story, but I always wondered how much money Metatron made. How much had he charged folks for a chance to see Justica’s “real” likeness? How much had he charged to bring news from one outpost to another? How much had he charged to unofficially mediate the small disputes he likely encountered along the way? Hyrkes wouldn’t fall for a traveling road show or circuit court like Metatron’s these days, but back then, well . . . Metatron, like most Angels, had probably been quite the entrepreneurial herald.
From her central position in this modern-day House of Metatron, Justica’s stone face appeared to glare down at us with pursed, disapproving lips. Her gray hair was loosely bound in a bun at the back of her head and a formless shift draped her more than ample bosom and hips. Timeless and venerable were probably what Metatron had been going for when he’d commissioned this, but I couldn’t help thinking of the words old and tired when I looked at her. Justica carried the traditional sword and scales that marked her trade, although her sword tip rested on the ground, almost as if it were too heavy for her to lift. And, of course, she was blindfolded. Metatron, like modern historians, had likely told supplicants that the blindfold represented her objectivity. That Justica, unlike Fortuna, couldn’t pick favorites. But, considering the bloody tip of Justica’s sword, I rather thought I knew what the blindfold was for, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.
Ari came in looking rather sinister in this light. He always did in low lighting. That was part of his appeal. He wore a long-sleeved, iron gray tunic with a black leather vest. The amber-colored highlights his hair sometimes had in the sun were nonexistent in here. His signature, and those of the rest of the Maegesters-in-Training, were banked and, if not at ease, then at least subdued and in check.
Ari gave my elbow a slight squeeze and stood next to me. An Angel with sharp features, light eyes, and ice blond hair stepped onto one of the stands. His voice rang out in the chamber, startling everyone into silence.
“All rise! Voir Dire for the eight hundred and forty-sixth academic year is now in session. The Honorables Quintus Rochester and Friedrich Vanderlin presiding.”
Most of us were already standing, but Mercator, Sasha, the Angel with the flyaway hair, and Fara all leapt to their feet. Rafe pulled his feet off the rail, stood up, and thrust his hands in his pockets. Rochester and Vanderlin found their place at the bench and we all sat down. Friedrich spoke first.
“Today is the first day of the august and admirable three-day tradition of Voir Dire, whereby second-semester Maegesters-in-Training from St. Lucifer’s examine the eligible candidates from the Joshua School in order to determine who might be a good fit for them as Guardian. As all of you know, the Guardian/Ward relationship has been practiced since the early post-Apocalyptic days. This time-honored tradition and repeated bonding between our two sides has restored Halja to a harmonious state, a place where Angels, demons, and their Maegesters can coexist.”
Friedrich had each of us, Maegesters-in-Training and Angel candidates alike, stand up and introduce ourselves. Many of us already knew one another, but I did find out that the two Angels who had stood in front of me in line (the man with the pale oval face and the woman with the flyaway hair) were Lambert Jeffries and Melyn Danika, respectively. The Angel with the ice blond hair and chilling looks who had introduced Rochester and Vanderlin was the “hottie” Holden Pierce. Rochester took over speaking.
“Each MIT has been given a field assignment designed to test both your academic skills and your magical might. Going into the field is never easy. Halja’s outer territories are full of rogare demons and other dangers. The Angel you select today could very well save your life, many times over. Student rankings for the Maegesters-in-Training determine the order of questions and selection. Ms. Onyx, you may proceed.”
Suddenly, my mouth was dry. Ivy, Fitz, and I hadn’t prepared any questions. I’d barely reviewed all the CVs in my packet. I stood up almost involuntarily and glanced down at Ari. He gave me an impatient look. I don’t think he realized how ill prepared I was. I cleared my throat and looked over at the Angels. The longer my brain stayed blank, the harder my heart beat, until I finally blurted out, “Who’s been to the Shallows?”
Every single Angel stared back at me blankly. Pierce looked like his preference would be to take an oath to kill me, not protect me. Danika scowled and one of the Maegesters-in-Training in back of me snickered.
No one raised their hand so I sat down. After an uncomfortable moment, Ari stood up. He was Secundus so I guessed it was his turn to ask a question.
“Ms. Onyx and I have been asked to investigate an allegation of demon wrongdoing set forth in a demon complaint that was recently filed with the Council. The accused is an outpost lord and the complainant is one of his followers. Have any of you ever been involved with a demon investigation before?”
No one had, although Lambert Jeffries had spent considerable time studying Halja’s Wergild Index, so he was intimately familiar with the numerous, assorted, and quite imaginative forms of blood payment that we could demand if we found the accused guilty. Melyn Danika knew a few useful investigative spells and Holden Pierce told us that, although he hadn’t yet worked on a prosecution case, he welcomed a chance to do so. He emphasized his declaration by smashing his right fist into his left palm. I was tempted to ask him if, in addition to Painfall and Hemorrhage, he also knew the spell Melodramatic Gestures, but it wasn’t my turn.
And so the questions went. On and on. It was endless and not a little boring. The gavel came down for the first time on Thursday, our second day.
I’d started to zero in on Lambert Jeffries as a possible partner. He wasn’t perfect (he always seemed grumpy when he answered my questions, which would make for a long sail to the Shallows) but of the possible candidates, he seemed the least bad of the proffered “goods.” I mean, consider my choices! Holden Pierce (maniacal, bloodthirsty sadist); Fara Vanderlin (screechy, pulpit-pounding fraud); Raphael “Rafe
” Sinclair (irritating slacker who asked more questions than he answered); and et al (“and others” seemed to sum up the rest admirably; there was nothing remarkable about any of them).
Late in the day, questioning worked its way back around to me again.
“If each of you could bring only one thing into the field with you, what would it be?” I asked.
Everyone’s answers were predictable. Holden said he’d bring a crossbow loaded with diamond-tipped platinum shafts, Melyn said she’d bring her spellbook, Fara said she’d bring Virtus (or courage), and Rafe just shrugged. But then he said:
“It depends on where I’m going. But if I were going to the Shallows, I’d bring food.”
The room got quiet. Not for any good reason either. It wasn’t as if my question was particularly controversial, nor was Rafe’s answer particularly surprising. Everyone knew the outpost settlers were usually starving. But, for once, Rafe seemed serious. His eyes reflected the glow of the candlelit chandeliers as he stared pointedly back at me. Was he lecturing me? After spending nearly two whole days slouching in his chair pretending to ignore the proceedings, I was surprised Rafe knew where any of us were going. But his answer would have been my answer.
Maybe Mr. TBD deserved a closer look.
“Okay, what else? What spells do you know that might be useful in an investigation, prosecution, or a trip to the Shallows?”
“What if I told you I knew the spell Clean Conscience?”
I tensed and so did Ari beside me. Fara Vanderlin sat up straighter and glared at Rafe. He ignored her and continued to stare at me. Suddenly, the rest of the courtroom vibrated with alertness.
“Do you?”
“Do you think it would help you?”
BANG!
Friedrich pounded the bench with his gavel. “Mr. Sinclair, answer the question.”
Rafe paused for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
Oddly, I was relieved. As if I were ever going to actually work with him and be tempted to let him cast it over me. But with Friedrich and his gavel backing me up, I couldn’t resist one final question, just out of curiosity.
“What spells do you know, then?”
“Um. Hmm . . . Let’s see . . . I think I still remember Bootstrap . . . Pat on the Back . . . Cup O’ Cocoa—”
BANG! BANG!
“Mr. Sinclair,” Friedrich’s voice boomed, “you have taken an oath of honesty.”
Rafe blinked innocently. “I know. Oh, I almost forgot. I also know Ladies Man, Lucky Charms, and”—Rafe winked at me—“Wet ’n Wild.” I thought Ari was going to go ballistic right then and there, but Friedrich and his gavel beat him to it.
* * *
After a five-minute recess we returned to the courtroom. The day dragged on and I became increasingly irritated. In addition to a smashing headache brought on by Friedrich’s pounding gavel, my toes pinched beneath my sandal ribbons and my tailored tunic now felt two sizes too tight. I longed for soft baggy pants, bare feet, and a large cotton pullover. I wished we could make our choices and go home. I already knew who I was going to pick: Lambert Jeffries.
Ari leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “Don’t go for Jeffries.”
Instantly, I could feel my signature swell. I hated it when Ari did that. It wasn’t that he could read my mind . . . exactly. It was that he seemed to always know what I was thinking. And sometimes, I didn’t want him to know my thoughts. Or tell me what to do. I ignored him and, instead, asked Jeffries another question. This was the tenth question I’d asked him today so everyone probably knew he was my top pick. I asked him what spell he would use to subdue a hellcnight if we encountered them on the trip. As Rafe had earlier, he answered my question with a question. But this time, there was no gavel pounding. At least, not at first.
“You know what my specialty is, right?” Jeffries said to me.
“Yes. Lex talionis.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“It’s adjudication by the Golden Rule. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do onto you.’”
“No. You’ve got it backward. It’s ‘Do unto others as they’ve done onto you.’”
What did this have to do with hellcnights?
“There are a lot of people in Halja, Jeffries. That’s a lot of behavior to keep track of. Wouldn’t it be easier to just worry about one person—ourselves?”
“There are a lot of demons in Halja too. Are you saying keeping track of their behavior is too much for you?”
I suppose he was only exercising the Golden Rule—verbally pinning me against the ropes as I had him many times already today—but I didn’t like it. Especially since he turned what I’d said around to imply that I couldn’t do my job properly. Where was Friedrich’s gavel when I needed it? But Jeffries wasn’t finished. And when he continued, what he was saying just got worse.
“I don’t understand why you’d want to partner with me. We’re nothing alike. Voir Dire means ‘speak the truth.’ Well, the truth is I don’t want to be your Guardian. An eye for an eye is not just some charming colloquialism for me. I truly believe that if someone rips your eye out, you should get to rip theirs out too. Why did you run into Corpus Justica on Monday? Don’t you know that Jezebeth deserved—”
“Deserved to die?” I hissed. Finding out that Jeffries really was a poor choice for me, combined with the fact that Ari had tried to warn me about him earlier, made me exponentially angrier than I might have been otherwise. “I should know he deserved to die, right? I’ve only been told that a half dozen times or so by now. But you know what? I don’t go around chopping people’s heads off just because I’ve got a sword in my hand and someone spins me around and points me in the ‘right’ direction.”
“Onyx, you’re selfish and irresponsible. You don’t deserve the power you have. You should have taken the chance that Peter offered you last semester and pursued the Mederi path. In case it didn’t occur to you, there is no peacenik specialty here at the Joshua School. Holding hands and making nice is for the women down south.”
Until that moment, Ari had thankfully stayed out of it. But at this latest insult, Ari’s signature bloomed like blood in water.
BANG!
Ari and Friedrich both stood up, but before either of them could stop me, I shouted:
“Since we’re speaking the truth, the truth is I don’t want a Guardian. I don’t want to work with an Angel. The only Angel I’ve ever worked with, Peter Aster, betrayed my trust and stabbed me in the back. Literally? No, but he might as well have. He let two people nearly die so he could pursue his ambitions. And instead of kicking him out, the Joshua School made him Scholar Excellentia and sent him to finish his studies in the Archives at Satyr Hill. If that’s the Angel version of Retaliatory Justice, I want no part of it.”
BANG! BANG!
Instantly, the anger that I’d felt toward Peter last semester became white-hot, as if he were sitting in front of me instead of a box full of other Angels who clearly didn’t want to work with me any more than Jeffries did. Last semester, after Peter betrayed me, I’d burned off some of my anger by irreversibly destroying an inanimate object. But by repressing my anger, and my magic, in the time since, it had obviously grown. Retaliatory Justice? Ha! I was way beyond that. I wanted to punish Jeffries for all the unpunished pain Peter had caused me. I wanted to hurt Jeffries for all of the horrid things he’d just said to me. Suddenly, I wanted to brand lex talionis on Lambert Jeffries’ ass.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
My unshed magic was a palpable thing in the room. All of the waning magic users could feel it, and even though the Angels couldn’t, they’d worked with our side long enough to know what was going down.
Oh, Luck. Suddenly, I remembered my melted alarm clock. T minus 4 . . .
Jeffries looked shocked and the tiniest bit scared. “You’re unstable, Onyx,” he cried, leaping out of his chair.
3 . . .
“And irrational. You’re
not suitable Maegester material and everyone knows it.”
2 . . .
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
“With your permission . . . ?” Rafe Sinclair’s clear, calm voice cut across the chaos. “Now might be the time to let you know I do know Flame Resistant Blanket. Would you like for me to—”
“Cast a spell on me,” I threatened, “and you’ll be the first to go up in flames.”
1 . . .
As I’d done in the past, I tried to retract my intractable magic. But waning magic is slipperier than a silver coil coated with grease. I pulled back with all my might, but my efforts became more friction for the fire and my frustration became the spark that set the whole thing alight. For one horrifying second my magic became too hot for even me to hold. I let go and the tail end of its whip-like force lashed me across the cheek. Instinctively, I threw up a shield. It acted like a giant cast-iron pot lid, sealing off and smothering the source, but it did nothing to douse the flames that were already out. Dozens of fireballs swirled around the House of Metatron in ever tighter, increasingly faster, circles. Then, like a mighty cyclone collapsing in on itself, my magic converged in the center of the room and exploded. Metatron’s statue of Justica disintegrated in a shower of smoke, stone, and disbelief.
There was no more gavel pounding. Friedrich looked as transfixed by the scene as everyone else. The only person who didn’t seem completely blown away was Rafe Sinclair, who nimbly hopped the bar of the jury box where the Angels had been sitting and walked over to the pile of dust and sand that had once been Justica.