“When you arrived, I feared I had already lost my chance, and I hid in the clouds overhead, watching and waiting. Finally, I saw my opening, and I took it.”
Camael’s voice was a horrified whisper as he went on.
“As the arrow left my bow, as it sped irrevocably out of my fingers and out of my control, the veil was lifted from my mind and I realized what I had done,” he said. “I curse the unfailing aim that carried my arrow to its target and made him fall. I saw the only possible outcome, and I knew I had betrayed God and Heaven as no other angel in the history of our kind ever has, and for this I knew I would be condemned and damned.
“I fled to this cave and have been waiting for you ever since. I knew it would be you and only you who would come for me. If there is to be divine judgment, I will face it willingly and pray only that my actions have not doomed us all.”
Uriel stared at Camael’s back. The Power hadn’t so much as twitched, and he still knelt with his head bowed as though in prayer.
Finally, Camael raised his head, but still he didn’t turn around.
“Have you come to kill me?”
For a long moment, Uriel considered the question. Different possibilities had warred inside his head since he first realized Camael’s betrayal, and still he had no answer for the angel who had once been his most trusted lieutenant. Uriel wrestled with his own conscience for a long moment before he spoke.
“No, Camael,” he said finally, “I will not kill you. I already have the death of one angel on my hands, sacrificed to the same madness that consumed you. I, too, have felt that moment of realization and horrified awakening.”
Camael continued to stare blankly at the curved, stone wall in front of him.
“God forgives, and even I forgive you, Camael, but what you have done can only be considered a sin, and sin…”
“Must be punished,” Camael finished for him. “I yield myself to your judgment, Uriel.”
“There is no way to fully expunge this sin,” Uriel said. “Even a traitor redeemed must always still be remembered a traitor.”
Camael shuddered then, and his wings rasped against the stone floor.
“I leave it to you to choose your own punishment, Camael,” Uriel told him in a voice leaden with grief-stricken determination.
“You may remain in Heaven, and the whole of the Host will remain ignorant of your sin, at least for a while. I will tell no one, and your guilt shall be dealt with solely between you and the Almighty. I owe you that much. But eventually others will discover the truth, and you will deal with them on your own conscience. They may not be as forgiving as I, nor as silent.
“You may go to the mortal world. Transubstantiate to a wholly mortal body, and I will lock your power away from you forever. You will effectively cease to be an immortal angel, but you will remember everything you have ever been and everything you have lost. When your frail mortal shell gives in to time, your āyus may yet find its way back to Heaven, but you will no longer be Camael. He will be dead, and you will be but a shadow of him, little different than the countless souls of the blessed dead who reside here now. You will live as mortals live, and die as they die.”
Uriel hesitated. Camael waited.
“Or,” he said after a moment, “you may choose oblivion. Destruction at your own hand. What a mortal would call suicide.”
The word lingered in the ether of Heaven like a miasmic taint, and Uriel found himself wishing for Camael to say something, if only to override the quivering sense of disease that permeated the small cave.
“Immortal guilt, mortal death, or eternal oblivion,” Camael said. Uriel’s tension eased with the sound of the Power’s voice.
“Which, do you suppose, is the most difficult road to take?” Camael asked rhetorically. “The first asks if I can abide in a state of secret shame for eternity. The second asks if I can live with myself. The third, if I should exist at all.
“If I choose to remain, I wallow in a lie and perpetuate a poison in the very home I thought I was defending. If I choose to become mortal, I give up everything and must face the prospect of my own death, something no immortal has ever seriously considered since we were first brought into being. How does one deal with mortality after eons of life?
“If I choose the third option and murder myself…” he trailed off slowly, a momentary tremor in his voice. “What happens in a world where an angel of God can knowingly and willingly commit a mortal sin? When an immortal, who has no immediate prospect of death or oblivion, chooses to voluntarily end his existence? It will not be just me who faces death. Until now, immortals have always been a species apart from the mortals in our care. Have we become so like unto each other that we must now face the same fears as they? Must we now look into the future and truly ask ourselves when – not if – we will cease to exist?”
Uriel felt the emotions in the other angel’s voice as he pondered the end of his existence. Of all the options given to Camael, Uriel feared most that his one-time lieutenant would choose the option of self-murder, and for the very reasons the Power had just quoted. Uriel did not think the “immortals” were at all prepared to consider if they, too, were truly mortal as well.
His own thinking on the matter had evolved considerably since his recent exposure to living mortals. Uriel was beginning to wonder what the difference was between the two now, especially since mortal and immortal could now be blended into half-breeds like Birch and his nephew. Did that not suggest a certain relationship, that they were, in a way, kin?
After another long moment of silence, Camael stood slowly and turned to face Uriel. His wings still drooped listlessly from his back and trailed on the ground, but after a moment he fanned his wings wide behind him until the pinions brushed opposite walls of the cave. Then his wings folded across his chest and settled like a mantle that robed his smoky body in blue, feathery light.
“I have decided,” Camael said. His eyes locked with Uriel’s, and the Seraph knew his decision.
“Promise me one thing, Uriel.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me Maya will pay for what she’s done,” Camael said without emotion. “Promise me she will face the divine justice.”
Uriel nodded.
“Maya will not be given a choice in her punishment, Camael,” he replied. “Her sentence has already been decided, and beside it yours will seem as mercy.”
“Then I am content.”
- 4 -
Uriel left the cave and, with a moment of effort, willed the entrance to seal over in smooth angelstone. The room would always exist. Until time and creation alike burned out and were swallowed by the maw of eternity, the room would be there waiting for him. He would return someday, he knew, to seek peace and atonement for his own misbegotten sin – when he, too, had followed the madness of Maya.
His sword hung at his side, but now Uriel carried a broad-bladed war spear in his left hand.
Camael would no longer need it.
Chapter 32
In war, lives are always taken. Some are given freely.
- Violet Paladin Gadjin Tealor,
“The Rising Star” (5 AM)
- 1 -
“Do you know why I like you so much, mortal?” the Voice asked.
“No friends of your own to speak with?” he answered with black humor. “Bad judge of character?”
The Voice’s laugh was a caress of velvet across his mind. He still was not convinced he hadn’t invented this companion, who came only when his eyes were blinded. Does a man know when he’s going insane?
“You’re not going insane, mortal,” the Voice told him. “If I wanted someone that fragile, there have been plenty over the centuries to choose from.”
His lips twisted at the implied compliment.
“I don’t like you for your strength – while it does make you ideal for my purposes, I’ve had plenty of strong-willed men before me. I don’t like you for your weaknesses either, of which you have accursedly few, thank Hell. N
o, mortal, there is one specific quality you possess that has singled you out above all others as most suitable.
“You have an open mind. You have faith and belief, yes, but you are not afraid to question your own beliefs, and that makes you rare. A man of faith believes in the truth he has discovered to the exclusion of all else and blinds himself to the possibility that he might be mistaken. He believes that if he were to question his so-called truth, it would indicate a lack of faith and shatter the very foundations of everything he holds dear.
“I have broken such men before. They are, I think, the easiest ones to break, because they work so hard to prevent a sinful thought or doubt from penetrating their armor, they close out the voice of truth and become easy prey for the demons of the mind. A man who says he has no doubts is a liar, and when confronted with the secret wonderings and fears of his heart, he will go mad trying to deny their existence.”
“They let their belief get in the way of their faith,” he murmured.
“Indeed. I find that a man who lives his faith is far more complete and pious than a man who holds his faith in his mind. When faith is just ideas, it’s easy to dispute and frustrate. But a faith that’s been lived in and experienced, proven firsthand? That is far more…worthy.
“I ask you this, mortal, what good is a mind free of doubt? It assumes that everything is known, and then what use is there for life? For the world? What happens when you encounter a truth contrary to what you already know? I have questioned you extensively in the past – oh, you won’t remember our little sessions, but they were most enlightening for me. I have questioned you, and what I found even more remarkable than your answers is your ability to say, ‘I don’t know.’
“When I posed questions that made you doubt your own ideas and unresolved beliefs, you answered me honestly and openly and did not rely on dogma to operate your mind for you. So rare to find a mortal who has such faith and believes so strongly that he knows true faith can only come from a reasoning, questioning mind. Blind, thoughtless faith means nothing. It is a sightless child who clings to a flower given to him by his mother and does not realize the flower died long ago.
“When I confronted you with questions of faith, questions I’ve used to crack and destroy men much stronger than you, rare was the question which you had not already asked yourself and struggled against. If you had reasoned an answer, you gave it. If not, you simply accepted that there were some things for which you had no answer and trusted that your faith, your beliefs, even your God would not lead you astray. Always, though, the willingness to admit your own failings of belief and limited perception of infinite truth – for true faith does not deny doubt, it accepts it. Faith was never your answer, it was part of your questioning and a path of understanding.
“As you said, you didn’t let your beliefs get in the way of your faith.
“Too many think that because they see some truth, they must see all of it, little knowing that the mortal mind is too limited by its nature to encompass infinity. They see a glimpse of light through a tiny window, and the vast brilliance of eternal Truth beyond frightens them. They stand in their narrow patch of light in a cold, dark room. An arm’s reach away, another man stands in his own square of light – the light of revealed truth – but they will not reach out to each other for comfort. The darkness that stands between them is too terrifying, too filled with unvoiced fear. To reach into the darkness is to admit that there exists a world beyond his tiny square of light, the one warmth and comfort in his existence. A man will disbelieve centuries of history, condemn billions to a heretical Hell, and convert or kill his neighbor rather than admit his tiny glimpse of truth does not encompass the whole of eternal Truth.
“For if it is not true for all men, it may not be true, and then what guiding light is he to follow? What truth does he see? What truth can he trust, if that truth be not universal?
“Blind adherence to doctrine is the breeding ground of intolerance, and is there any sin more seductive and camouflaging than the belief that you are right? Righteousness is not a sign of divine favor, it is a tool of Hell, and a powerful one at that.”
He laughed as the Voice fell silent.
“I find it odd to hear a denizen of Hell so admiring of virtue and condemning of sins.”
“You think the pits of Hell devoid of virtue, mortal? You are correct, of course. Demons, by their very nature, are incapable of true virtue, and what is more despised than something for which you yearn but will be denied for eternity? No demon would be aware of this yearning – if in truth it exists – and it is but one explanation for their hatred. Perhaps they hate the angels simply because they must. It is their purpose in the world.”
The Voice fell silent, leaving him to ponder his thoughts. After a timeless moment, the Voice went on, this time from a different angle.
“Have you never wondered why God wants the adoration and worship of mortals?”
“While assuredly deserving of it, I don’t believe God wants the adoration of anyone,” he replied. “A perfect being needs nothing, least of all worship, and the actual desire for such indicates pride, self-aggrandizement, and a host of other sins. That is not the God I know and love.”
The Voice laughed again.
“Oh, you are too rare, mortal, too perfect. You are the first to survive this long who has ever reached that conclusion. Sometime soon, we must discuss how this idea reflects on God’s opposite. For now, let me ask you then, holy warrior, what is it that separates a mortal from an immortal? What thing does he possess that is not a part of any demon or angel?”
“A soul,” he replied promptly. Some inner memory, perhaps sparked from a previous conversation with the Voice, told him immediately the answer that was sought. It also stirred his memories, and he began to suspect who the Voice might be – that perhaps he had known before but had forgotten.
“And do you know what a soul is?” the Voice asked.
He stayed silent, which was answer enough.
“It is the ultimate fulfillment of a single spark of life. A by-product of the separation of Good and Evil that embodies the heart of each. The potential for ultimate Good mingled with the capability for ultimate Evil; polar opposites living in harmony – of a sort – inside a living creature given the ability to choose between the two. What other piece of existence has that power?”
In that instant, he remembered the identity of the Voice, and rather than be afraid, he was oddly comforted. As though aware of his realization, the Voice dropped its ongoing pretense.
“Your God and I are bound by our natures to do only what we view as Good or Evil. Oh, I can perform a good act as you would see it. I can even reward a man for doing a good deed – it is a tool toward pride and a step on the path of indulgence and waste. Vanity was ever one of my favorite sins. But no matter what I do, always I will have a heart of Evil intent and a goal suiting my own purposes. Our angels and demons are bound by our will and the purpose of their creation. Even an angel could potentially do Evil if he truly believes the act to be Good.
“But a mortal? A free-willed, living, sentient being? That ability to choose is the greatest power a mortal or immortal creature can ever have. It gives you power over your self. It can give you power over others. That is the power I crave. That is the purpose of what you call life, the reason I allowed it to happen when God and I first realized the potential: to allow me to study the mortal soul and its inherent power in order to make that power my own.”
He was silent for a long moment as he absorbed the thought-wrenching monologue. One question above all others burned in his mind.
“You say, Satan,” he said, giving a name to the Voice, “that was your reason for allowing the creation of life. I wonder then, what was God’s reason?”
“For that, mortal, you must ask yourself this: why does a father have a son? I don’t mean ‘why does a male create an offspring’ – that is procreation and survival of the species, and my use of the male gender is entirely arbitrary. W
hen you can answer this, you’ll know the secret of life in your God’s eyes, and His reason for your existence.
“Why does a father have a son?”
- 2 -
Birch snapped awake as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on his face, and for a moment he lay gasping. His dreams had gone from benign to terrifying, as one moment he was remembering a conversation with the one he knew as the Voice, and the next he was reliving tortures at the hands of none other than Mephistopheles, the King of Hell himself. The demon king sliced away his eyelids then blindfolded him before burning and cutting Birch’s flesh with a surgeon’s – or a torturer’s – precision, and took great delight in describing exactly what he was doing to the sightless paladin.
That was what Birch had to look forward to unless they found a way out of their captivity: an eternity in the iron tower that haunted his dreams.
He looked around and saw Perklet sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his torn green cloak wrapped around him for comfort. The middle-aged paladin looked thoroughly miserable, but at least he’d healed the cuts and bruises that had covered his flesh the day before. Birch was covered in dried blood from numerous small injuries that neither he nor the Green paladin could heal. The demon in Birch had grown so strong that Birch’s healing no longer worked, and it seemed even Perklet’s abilities were no match for the demonic power inside the Gray paladin. Selti lay curled in a ball at Birch’s feet, still in a healing sleep from the previous day.
Siran and the fifty elves who remained were scattered about their small, fenced-in pen, and most of them were either sleeping or sitting perfectly still. Siran was pacing an oblong circle that took him from one corner of the pen to the other, as he’d been doing on and off for hours at a time since they’d first arrived. Several times Birch had been on the verge of asking the elf to settle, but he realized everyone dealt with captivity in their own way.
Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3) Page 46