The Perfect Sun

by Brendan Carroll

‘John’ heaved a great sigh and took the bottle from her. He took another of the glasses from a nearby table and filled it half full before handing the bottle to Luke Matthew. The Knight drank directly from the bottle, and then handed it to Mark who took it back to the table without indulging.

  “Hmmm. Scotch. Very dangerous,” ‘John’ downed the rest of the glass. “Now as my better half seems to recall… by the by… I am only half responsible for this….”

  “Yes, yes, we know.” Merry waved one hand in dismissal. “I rather liked the King myself.”

  “And ye’ll not be remoinding me,” Luke Matthew sat down next to her. “I’d rather furget thot meself.”

  “It’s not like that, Sweetheart.” Merry smiled at him and tweaked his nose. “He just had a better personality than… than…” she looked up at ‘John’ who was looking at her expectantly.

  “Enough!” Mark Andrew went to the front door and opened it wide. Outside the sun was shining through a low bank of clouds. Birds were singing and in the distance could be heard sounds of the barnyard.

  “All right then,” John leaned against the stairs. “I had to give Galdur something to complete the bargain. He wanted the baby. I was confused to say the least and I had no idea what baby he was talking about. Furthermore, I was growing very weak by the time I discovered what was happening. I agreed to give up the child in return for his assistance. Plain and simple. I had no intention then or now of honoring the agreement. I am not in the habit of sacrificing children to the gods.”

  “Great Scot,” Luke muttered and reached for the bottle again.

  “Why didn’t you give him the sword?” Mark asked him.

  “I missed that little exchange,” John explained. “By the time I came to my senses, the sword was out of the question.”

  Mark Andrew shook his head and resumed his position, looking out the door.

  “You know who the child is?” Luke Matthew asked him after a moment.

  “I do,” the muffled answer indicated that Mark Andrew was having a hard time not crying.

  “Who?” Merry squeezed Luke’s arm. “What is so very special about this child? Isn’t it just like the rest of this misbegotten clan, pardon the pun? Is it immortal?”

  “It is not immortal,” ‘John’ answered. “It is only one quarter mystical. Sophia is human, and Mark is half-human.”

  “Then the baby is like Simon’s sons?” Merry raised both eyebrows.

  “Yes, they live long, but they are not completely immortal. They will die… eventually,” ‘John’ shrugged. “How long, I don’t know.”

  “So this Galdur… he belongs to Marduk? Why is Marduk afraid of him?”

  “Galdur doesn’t exactly belong to Marduk, he is or was under Marduk’s control. When he was called by Mark here, he came under Mark’s control for as long as he could hold him. If Marduk had summoned him, it would have been different, but Galdur is free of Marduk’s control now.”

  “Why?” Merry asked. “Why can’t Marduk simply put him back wherever he came from?”

  “Because Marduk didn’t ‘simply’ put him there to start with. Galdur was a gift to Marduk as were all the powers Marduk commanded or still commands.”

  “A gift?” Luke Matthew frowned. “From whom?”

  “You tell him, Mark.” ‘John’ jerked his head at Mark’s back. “Tell him who gave Marduk his powers.”

  “God,” came the simple answer.

  “What? What did you say?” Merry stood up slowly.

  “I said…” Mark turned slowly and stared intensely at her. “God. God gave him the powers he needed to beat back Tiamat and make the world a habitable place for men.”

  “Not the God,” she shook her head slowly.

  “Not the Creator, if that’s what you mean,” Mark looked disgusted. “Marduk’s powers came from Yaldabaoth. Sabaoth’s father. The creator of this system. Of the seven and the twelve.”

  “Who is Yaldabaoth?” Merry looked back at her husband.

  “I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” he told her and stood as well.

  “Where is Marduk? Where did he take the baby?” Merry turned on ‘John’. “Don’t you even wonder what happened to Lily? She is your wife, you know.”

  “What?” Mark Andrew frowned at them. “Did you say ‘wife’?”

  “Now look here, son.” ‘John’ held up both hands. “I know I promised you, but your mother has a very persuasive personality.”

  “She does, does she?” Mark Andrew advanced on his father. “And you kept me out of the picture long enough to have your way with my mother?”

  “Listen to what you’re saying, lad,” John backed away from him. “You’re overreacting. I promise! Nothing happened. We didn’t have time. There was always some distraction.”

  “But you tried!” Mark Andrew went for his sword, and Luke stopped him. Merry watched this second outburst with renewed consternation. They would kill each other for sure, the first time they were alone together.

  “For pity’s sake!” Luke inserted himself between them. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. The woman is your mother, and she is right and proper wed to your father, Mark,” he spoke first to one and then to the other “and you should be respecting the sanctity of your son’s body!”

  “Oh, well, listen to you,” ‘John’ shook his head. “Ye’re makin’ nae mair sense than ’im!”

  “Hellooo… big guys…” Merry squeezed herself between Luke and John. “I think we’d better be going. Now!”

  She pointed one finger upward.

  They looked up and then shouted in unison and then ran, just as another of the great globs of plasma dropped from somewhere in the upper reaches of the house. The stuff hit the floor in the foyer and splattered in all directions, but the foursome who had been its target, were already out the door and running through the candy-striped halls of the Seventh Gate.

  Chapter Fourteen of Sixteen

  and here shall thy proud waves be stayed?

  “I want to know where the king is!” Polly stamped one small foot on the bottom step as if she could shake the foundations of the hulking old keep. “He has been gone too long!”

  “Now, Polly,” Armand said soothingly, took her hand and pulled her from the stairs. “Come along and listen to what they have to say. It is possible they may have some clue as to his whereabouts.”

  “I don’t think so,” the dark-haired beauty eyed Christopher and his companions doubtfully. An Elven troop stood near the open front doors of the castle and he cast an accusing pouting glance at them and then allowed Armand to escort her to the head of the table where she sat down on his right.

  “We have not seen the king,” Christopher told her without further ado. “We were trapped in an underground chamber of some sort. All of us.” He turned his eyes on Armand. “And then we split up and went in search of a way out. That is when everyone disappeared.”

  “How did you get out?” Armand asked. The golden-haired Knight-turned-elf picked up his tankard and took a small sip of the ale. He seemed relaxed, but he kept his eyes on the General. He obviously did not like the looks of this and, though he and Christopher were old friends, he could barely believe his eyes. Lucifer! In his home?! What next?

  “You will have to ask Lucifer about that, Brother,” Christopher said irritably. Armand’s attitude was almost intolerable. He seemed almost unconcerned. The Knight turned up his own tankard and looked at the angel, who was sitting at the far end of the table, attended by a number of bean tighes, brownies, clurichauns and other creatures that the Knight of the Holy City could not recognize. They were plying him with honey and locusts, thick fresh buttermilk and wine while he spoke to them in a variety of languages, again, some of which Christopher had never heard before.

  “He is a Lord among these good people,” Armand told him and then smiled with no small amount of disdain in his voice. “I had always thought he was something a bit more frightening.”

  “We have come a long way
, Brother,” Christopher had to agree. “He is nothing more or less than Gabriel, I suppose.”

  “For pity’s sake, Christapoo,” Armand uttered a small nervous giggle, taking Christopher back a hundred or more years to their academy days together. “Don’t mention Gabriel. We might hear his trumpet and then what?”

  “Well,” Christopher mused and relaxed a bit. Maybe he was just too upset to judge Armand’s character at the moment. He leaned back on the bench and stretched his arms over his head lazily. “Mussyoor Blue Cheese, if you have a spare bed, I could use a few hours… alone.”

  “I don’t know what you mean to infer by that request, my friend.” Armand narrowed his eyes at his old friend. “I assure you there are none here who would be interested in your company.”

  “That is so typical of you, my sweet cheeks,” Christopher poked a little fun at his friend, smiled and stood up. “Just keep an eye on Schweikert for me. That’s what I meant. I’ve been sleeping with one eye open too long.”

  “A pleasure. No problem at all, douche bag asshole,” Armand returned the mutter and took the opportunity to cuss just a little. He had never let Schweikert out of his sight, nor had he ever lost his love for cussing.

  The general stood near the great hearth where Sgt. Runnels sat wrapped in a wool blanket, drinking warm wine. The Sergeant was a wreck and rightly so. Armand planned to suggest that Runnels be left in his care if they continued on in search of the others. The poor man might never recover. Armand was eternally grateful, for a change, that he had not been with his former companions when they had plunged into the Abyss, horses and all. He would have surely died of fright himself. He hated heights and he hated the thought of falling, even out of bed. He had sent word to Adalune of their arrival and asked the Djinni come along and bring Omar. Perhaps the sight of Ernst Schweikert would unleash some vestige of sanity in the Prophet. How long could they go on playing host to a mad god? Omar’s ups and downs were already becoming legendary among the elves, and there would certainly be a time when they demand that he go from them, and Armand would have to agree. Adalune would not be happy and even harder to cope with.

  Armand signaled one of his attendants and had Christopher shown upstairs to his own room for a hot bath and a few hours sleep. He offered the same services to the Fox sergeant and the general, but they both refused, preferring to remain in the main hall. It was quite obvious that they were very afraid to part company, and they had no intention of being drawn into the upper reaches of the old keep with anyone. Lucifer had become their protector and benefactor simply by association and they would not stray far from him.

  The former Knight squeezed in between two clurichauns near the foot of the table, and then began to send the faeries off on various bogus missions and errands until he was alone with the angel. The clurichauns had come to report several of their clan missing, including Paddy Puffingtowne and his cousin, Seamus Stagmaster. Strange things were afoot in the underworld and Armand was not ready to give up the life he had built here.

  “So you are traveling as a… royal herald?” Armand picked up a crockery jug and poured himself a cup of ale.

  “Messenger of Light,” Lucifer corrected him and held out his own tankard for a refill. “You serve a fine cup, sir, but I prefer mead. Honey is the food of the gods.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Armand obliged him and then leaned both elbows on the table. “You are one of the gods then?”

  “I am no god, sir,” Lucifer shook his head adamantly. “I am a servant of God. A servant I remain though my services may be modified from time to time. I rather prefer this messenger role as opposed to warrior. Blood spilling becomes tiresome after a time. Glad tidings of great joy… now there is something that few can proclaim with complete confidence. I am honored to fulfill the Will of God. God is Great and Powerful. I sing His praises night and day. They are always on my lips or in my heart.” The angel held up his cup toward the ancient stairs and placed his other hand over his heart. “And the road to redemption is long and wrought with peril. God is Merciful and Forgiving. We are bound by our very existence to serve Him. Nothing will escape Him. Nothing is too great for Him.”

  “You are no god, but yet you have power. I saw your storm, sir. Quite impressive. And this child you herald, you say we should bring gifts to him and worship and adore him, correct?” Armand twirled a sprig of mint that had fallen from one of the faery’s hair as if he was merely curious, nothing more.

  “He should be honored and adored, yes.” Lucifer seemed pleased the former Knight was interested in his message. “Gifts of kingly estate should be showered upon Him.”

  “Do you see anything of value here that might be worthy of Him?” Armand waved one hand about the great room of the keep. It was full to bursting with Armand’s works of art, wrought in precious metals, encrusted with gems, precious and semi-precious. The keep was beyond even the imagination of the greediest pirates who ever filled their holds with swag on the high seas. Surely no hoarding dragon had ever amassed a greater treasure trove than that found in the unassuming fellow’s residence. Armand had indulged his creative fancy in every area of the jeweler’s art.

  Lucifer set his mug down and seemed to notice the wondrous fortune for the first time. The angel got up and began to inspect some of the nearer objects with great interest. He passed over the candelabra, statuary, vessels for wine, bowls, lamp stands and such, focusing his attention on the smaller works of art. Boxes of exquisite workmanship. Trinket chests. Jewelry cases. Lucifer picked up a small gold and silver box from the hearth and brought it to Armand.

  “This would be appropriate, I think,” he said and laid the box in front of the former Knight. “It is small and yet, beautifully executed. I rather like the enameled leaves. Green is one of my favorite colors.”

  “Oh? I thought you preferred scarlet,” Armand frowned.

  “I like scarlet as well and blue and brown and yellow. Strag, pulis and crenel, not quite so much.” Lucifer nodded thoughtfully, and then his face took on a sad expression. He still displayed a number of healing injuries on his face. His travels through the physical realm were taking a terrible toll on his skin. His beauty was not diminished, but he sported a fading black eye, a dark scrape over his left eyebrow and a greenish bruise under his right jaw. All of them sustained injuries in the terrible fall into the Abyss. His fingernails were dirty and broken. “In fact, all colors in this dimension are my favorite for they are far removed from each other. In the higher realms the darker shades are missing. Adversely, in the lower regions, a little light would be grand. That is why I had my warriors dress in the colors of the rainbow. I could not make up my mind which I like better.”

  “I see,” de Bleu lied. He did not see. Armand had never seen Lucifer’s colorful band of warriors.

  “But this box has most of the colors. Only orange is missing,” he touched the delicate lotus blossom on the lid. The petals were thin, translucent sheets of rose quartz. “If you were to fill this vessel with myrrh resin or frankincense. Or you might place a cap knit of unblemished lamb’s wool inside for the child’s head. It would be most appropriate. Fit for any crown prince.”

  “I am not sure about the myrrh or frankincense, but we have some very good aromatics here and our sheep are the picture of perfection.” Armand flipped open the box, and then dumped the gold beads within on the table. “My wife can find something, I’m sure, but that leaves us with one small problem.”

  “Oh? What is that?” Lucifer raised both eyebrows.

  “I don’t know where to find the babe.” Armand shrugged. “You say He is born. Where is He?”

  “In the Fifth Gate,” Lucifer told him simply.

  “The Fifth Gate? Ereshkigal’s realm?” Armand was truly surprised.

  “I believe the Fifth Gate is actually Nergal’s realm.”

  “Of course, but why would the babe be in the Abyss? I thought He is to be a sign and a covenant to us… to men and elves?”

  “And so He is.”
Lucifer smiled. “Just because He is a bit hard to find, does not diminish His importance or His role. It was not easy for the magi of old to find the child in Bethlehem, but I never heard them complaining.”

  “You knew the three wise men?” Armand’s eyes widened.

  “Really, Armand,” Lucifer seemed to blush. “You make one feel old. Of course. Everyone turned out for that one.”

  “But I thought you were… weren’t you banished before then?”

  “Banished? From where? Ohhhh, I see. You are enmeshed in the lies of Abaddon, the Destroyer.”

  “Abaddon?” Armand’s eyes strayed to the General.

  Lucifer followed his gaze and then lowered his head and his voice conspiratorially. “That is not Abaddon. Believe me, I would know.”

  “Do you know Sir Ramsay’s son, King Il Dolce Mio of these parts?” Armand asked, changing the subject.

  “I have fought with him against the evil of Huber. A good King. An able warrior. Brave-hearted. Uriel must be proud of him.”

  “Have you seen him… lately? Do you know where I might find him? I need to tell him about the child. He has been waiting for your message, I believe.”

  “Oh? No, I haven’t seen him since the plains of Babylon.”

  “Do you know the way to the Seventh Gate?”

  “The Seventh? I thought you wished to visit the child.”

  “I do. I simply thought perhaps the King might be in the Seventh Gate with his father.”

  “He very well could be,” Lucifer furrowed his battered brow, and then his face lit up. “Uriel is in the Seventh Gate?”

  “He passed through and left his ship and his friends. He went looking for his… son,” Armand explained as best he could. “I would not want to visit the child without the elf king. He would never forgive me, and I am one of his loyal subjects.”

  “You are his alchemist.” Lucifer stated as he toyed with the box and wrinkled his nose. “I smell your lab. Honest work, but smelly. I had not been bothered with these things before my transformation. Who would have imagined the effect of aroma on one’s moods? I believe it might be possible to commit murder with nothing more than a stench.”