“For now,” Ishitar, who was playing a game of his own, agreed.
-11-
Zadkiel recognized me at once, even though I didn’t wear my true face. It was the horror he saw in my eyes, the insanity that had been brewing within me as Lord Countenance’s shadow waxed and waned, which identified me for who I was. Never mind the gentle manner in which I led him from Metatron’s arms to the kitchen so that I could apply the salves that I had at the ready.
“Oh Zad.” Zamyael began to weep when she saw him. “Oh, my love.”
“I held his secret.” Zadkiel gave her an impatient scowl. He wasn’t her love and he knew it. No matter that he had grown to care for her as he would were she his wife. He had come to terms with the fact that she would never be his long ago. “I didn’t tell him where our boy is living.”
“I know.” She reached for his face—the only part of him that hadn’t been whipped—and ran her fingers over his cheek. “Azrael told me.”
“You must not use my name.” I shook my head and signed. “Or I’ll be forced to find another face.”
“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I’m just . . . Oh, Zadkiel!”
“It’s alright.” Zadkiel placated her, flinching as I reached for his shirt to pull it off of his back.
Some of the blood was starting to clot and the cloth had stuck to it. As a result, I had to rip it, and his skirt, off of him until he stood before us both in nothing more than his small clothes. Which were, Zadkiel realized as he looked down to his thighs and genitals, equally as bloody.
Good thing I have no need to ever sire any children.
He was so disjointed from himself that he actually laughed at the thought.
“I’m glad that you find this funny.” Zamyael snapped.
I raised my hand and shook my head. I meant to calm her, not to belittle Zadkiel.
It quieted her. She looked swiftly away, her black eyes blazing with anger and her clear hatred toward Noliminan, after having seen Zadkiel in this state.
“I’m sorry.” I signed. “The removing of your small clothes will hurt worse than the rest. But I must apply the salve to all of your wounds lest they fester.”
Zadkiel flicked his eyes to Zamyael. No woman had seen him undressed in the full of his life.
“Zam?” He muttered, clearly embarrassed. “Do you mind giving me some privacy?”
“Of course.” She blushed. “I’ll be . . . I’ll see to my needlework.”
“Thanks.” He forced himself to smile at her.
When I pulled the cloth that had sealed itself to the skin of his manhood he was, this time, unable to bite back his screaming cries.
-12-
Jeanir slid into the chair at the table opposite from Iladrul. As he did so, his daughter stepped forward and handed him a plate of food. He smiled distractedly at her and focused his full attention on the young Prince.
“We’re keeping a good pace.” Jeanir advised the youngling.
“Not a good enough pace.” Iladrul replied, spinning away from the table and finding his feet. He paced across the tent to the tactical map. “We need to send a scout ahead. We need to see if we can’t mark the vampires’ travels.”
“They can’t be moving as fast as we are.” Jeanir sighed as he took his first bite of food in days. “Their movement is limited to the night and they are herding a vast hoard of children.”
“And doing Azrael only knows what to them.” The girl stepped past the boy as he said this. Jeanir marked, with guarded interest, that Iladrul’s eyes landed on her, even hovering for a long moment on her rump before returning to the map. “How much further to Devonshire?”
“A day.” Jeanir shrugged. “Less if a small deploy rides ahead.”
“Then we ride ahead.” Iladrul turned to face him. “But just you and I.” He flicked his gaze to Sezja and then back to Jeanir. “And your children.”
Jeanir nodded his agreement to that sentiment. He didn’t know what allies the demons and vampires had employed, so he would feel better having reinforcements. “We’ll leave at first light.”
“Best get some sleep then.” Iladrul muttered, flicking his eyes to Sezja and then back to Jeanir. Jeanir gave him a tight smile as he stood. “Good night.”
“Good night, my Prince.” He walked toward his daughter, pulled her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “Sezja.”
“Goodnight, Pipa.” She replied looking up at him, wearing a tight smile. She had never known how to behave around him. Nor he her. It was easier for him, somehow, with sons rather than daughters. “I’ll have him up and dressed by the time you’re ready to leave.”
Now his smile was easy. She was nothing if not obedient.
He gave her a nod and took his leave, granting Prince Iladrul a final smile before exiting the tent.
His daughter could do worse, he thought, than having the young Prince as her master.
-13-
Two days after being forced to whip Zadkiel on Noliminan’s order, Metatron found himself glaring at the plate before him long after the three Gods who had been sitting at the table next to him had taken their leave.
He wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but these Gods had been boasting so loudly about their request to Raziel to raise a vote to return the ability of the Gods to turn their servants to the sex they preferred at a whim that his attempts to ignore them proved to be utterly in vain.
Listening to them, the anger in his soul began to brew.
He had asked Lucias to grant him succor and she had ordered him to bide. Which he had, against his better sense, done.
But this?
It was too much to bear.
Swallowing his anger, Metatron stood.
He’d lost all appetite for lunch.
He decided, as he began storming through the Courtyard, that what he really needed to quell his anger was to speak with Lucias. To ask her if she would, please, after what he had been forced to do to Zadkiel, grant him succor.
Though he knew that Lucias was not currently at home, he did know what she was up to. It was commonly known that “Lord” Lucias still held meetings with the Gods, angels and demons that served Noliminan in order to gain a broader scope of support. The meetings were always held on the afternoon three days prior to the silver moon rising fat and full on the world known as Anticata. Today’s meeting would be in full swing by now, which would afford Metatron the opportunity to slip in without being noticed.
He stopped at his small cottage and donned a cloak that would cover him from head to toe; being made of flames, he was difficult to overlook when not hidden beneath his cowl. Then he made his way to the large structure where, rumor held, these meetings took place.
As he slipped within, Metatron was relieved to find the place both crowded and dark. The angels and demons here were those that were either in service to the Gods or those that worked the kitchens, wash rooms and brothels. As for the Gods, though there were less of them, they ranged in all functions from critical members of the Council to secondary replacements, apprentices and, in some cases, Gods who were too young to have yet been given their assignment.
The overwhelming smell of their anger was palpable. It gave rise to a stink that Metatron immediately associated with the sweat of a hard battle. These desperate, angry people were on the verge of a new revolution.
As Metatron looked around the room, he realized that not a one of them were sitting in their seats. In fact, Metatron marked, many were so caught up in Lucias’ rally that they were actually standing on their chairs.
As for Lucias, Metatron couldn’t even hear her—or, he supposed given she spelled herself to appear male for these meetings, his—voice over the roar of the crowd.
Curious as to what Lucias was saying that would evoke such angry passion, Metatron fought his way through the crowd in the shadows at the side of the hall until he was close to the makeshift stage.
And then he heard her words . . .
They were eloquent and to the point, sweeping Met
atron into even greater anger until, half way through her pretty speech, he realized that he, too, was screaming her name.
“Now is the time to denounce the atrocities that the Council would thrust upon you!” She cried, “Will you let a small handful of Gods decry the sacrifices that we all have made? Would you let them betray those children brave enough to join us in our cause, those too loyal to you to put you at risk or those too frightened to find their own voices?”
“No!” The crowd raged backed at her before their voice became a jumbled mass of words that were indistinct from one another.
“My sons!” She cried, “My daughters!” Here she pounded upon her chest. “Two members of the very Quorum who serve and protect you in all things that they do! Are we now to have no say over the fate of them?” She shook her head as if offended by the mere thought of it. “Noliminan would take away their femininity for the simple joy of putting me in my place. I will not sit idly by and let them be, once again, forced into their male forms!”
The crowd began screaming at her, each of them calling out Uriel and Mihr’s names. Metatron, standing amongst them, was stunned to find himself publically crying out on behalf of his sisters.
And for Michael who was—for all intents and purposes—exiled from the Quorum to see to the dragon men that Emissary Lord Darklief’s mischief had wrought.
Simply because he had been the only one in all of the worlds to have actually been unfortunate enough to have loved Noliminan’s ill-fated wife.
“All twelve of the Quorum have always supported us!” Lucias enflamed the crowd. “They have always sacrificed their own happiness for us! Now it is our turn! We must support them!”
The audience, Metatron included, howled its agreement.
“They will never join us.” Her tone softened to a note that verged on sadness. “They will not thank us for fighting for their rights or in their names.” She seemed to be meeting each pair of eyes that made up her audience in turn. “Some of them may even be forced to see to our punishments.”
Metatron listened to the crowd screaming his and Michael’s names at that particular truism.
“That does not make them love us any less.” Lucias assured them. “It makes them love us more! Because they know that what we do we do for them this time! For them,” she screamed, “and for their hundreds upon hundreds of brothers and sisters, be their wings white or black!”
The roar of response was deafening. Metatron’s voice, loudest amongst them, was failing him. Yet he was helpless but to cheer her on to the bitterest of ends.
When the meeting was over, he pressed himself into the shadows and watched the crowd disburse. Lucias remained, talking to each and every one of the members of the audience who dared to approach her. Metatron listened to her issue her gratitude time and again that they supported her cause until the only three left in the auditorium were himself, Lucias and Sappharon.
When they three were alone, Lucias turned her eyes in Metatron’s direction and smiled.
“What are you doing here, boy?” She asked as she waved her hand and found her true face. He was glad. He had come to prefer seeing her as a woman now that he knew this to be her true nature. “I told you before—”
“I cannot bide it anymore.” He seethed through his teeth, looking around before lowering the hood of his cowl. “Has anyone told you what I was forced to do to Zadkiel? As Zad refused to share with your husband where your son lately lives?”
“No . . .” Lucias stammered, clearly surprised. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “What has happened to Zadkiel?”
“I was forced to whip him back and front.” Metatron admitted, biting his cheek with his distaste over the memory. “And I was forced to—” He shook his head and looked away. He couldn’t look at her when he said this. “If Prince Ishitar hadn’t interrupted I would have been forced to do much worse.”
“Dear Gods.” She whispered. “Metatron! You didn’t!”
“What choice?” He growled. “At your order that I serve him whilst you play your games?”
“Yes, but—”
“Will you grant me your Gods be damned succor now?” Metatron snapped his gaze back to her. “Is this, finally, enough for you to no longer force me to bide?”
“Metatron—”
“It isn’t.” He growled. “Is it?”
“You must understand that—”
“That you love your mortal born angels and demons more than you love your true sons and daughters.” He growled, pointing to the coliseum where the rally had taken place. “That you will protect them? But not me? Not Zad? And not Az? Or Michael, who has been all but exiled, for that matter?”
“I have a plan to—”
“You always have a Gods be damned plan, Father.” He seethed and forced his cowl back over his head. “Let us hope that, one day, you love the twelve of us enough to actually put your ill wrought actions into play. Lest he destroys us one and all!” Though he loathed disobedience, he was unable to stop himself today. He flicked his eyes to Lucias’ swelling belly and sneered. “Especially given you mean to force more of us to live in this wretched and unforgiving world.”
Unable to look upon her another moment, Metatron turned away and stormed out of the hall to, reluctantly, return to his duties.
And the Gods damn her, at this point, for whatever Noliminan forces me to do.
-14-
Iladrul’s eyes grew wide as he looked around the throne room of the castle belonging to the human tribe who called themselves the Devonshires. It was barren and cold. There were no tapestries or paintings, as graced his own halls. Rather, these people seemed to live a cold existence geared toward survival alone.
“These people are to be our allies?”
“They already are your allies, my Prince.” Jeanir reminded him. “You only need convince them to stand beside you in this particular war.”
“Why would they?” He shivered and turned his gaze to meet Jeanir’s. “When they clearly have no means by which to protect their own walls?”
“We stood with them when their people were under attack.” Jeanir reminded the boy. “On several occasions. It is their turn to stand with us.”
Iladrul reluctantly nodded his agreement. What choice did he have but to do so? He had no other allies that he was aware of and he couldn’t win this war with broken angels and elves of ages that were far too young.
He took a step to the side, putting himself closer to Sezja, who, he was grateful to find, did not step away. He didn’t reach for her hand or show her any kind of affection because he wasn’t certain how he felt about her yet. Let alone how she felt about him. Still, he was comforted by her soft, windswept scent and the warmth that radiated from her small frame.
It was several long minutes before the door opened and an entourage of human men streamed into the throne room. At the center, looking as if he were no more than one of the many knights that surrounded him, stood their King.
Iladrul had only seen King Jon Devonshire once before. That had been many years ago, when the King was in the prime of his youth. Now, twenty years later, his thick black hair was graying at the temples and his brilliant blue eyes were deeper set, yet somehow wiser.
“Jon.” Balean stood forward with his hand extended, “It has been too many years, my old friend.”
“Aye.” The human’s serious expression broke. His thick lips split into a welcoming grin. “And your face has not changed a bit.”
“Yours has become wizened.” Jeanir’s tone was low and respectful.
The human King turned toward Jeanir upon hearing these words. As he did so, his eyes landed upon Iladrul. “Dear Gods. Is this that mewling child who hid behind his mother’s skirts?”
“The same.” Balean chuckled. “Near to grown now, and here for your counsel.”
“What counsel I have to give is surly yours.” King Jon swept his hand toward the thrones. “Shall we sit? And hold palaver?”
Iladrul bowed his head
respectfully and followed the human and his many knights to the head of the room. When the King and a man, young but clearly bearing King Jon’s face, found their comfort, the knights that had escorted them found seats in the audience as well. Iladrul and his men remained standing.
He was here to beg arms. As such, he owed the human King the respect that such a request warranted.
“How may I help you, Prince Iladrul?” He asked, his bright eyes drinking in the lines of Iladrul’s face.
“My people have long stood beside yours.” Iladrul swallowed and swept his hand toward Balean. “When an enemy has breached your gates, my forefathers have come quickly to call.”
“And we are grateful for your aide.” His eyes narrowed. Iladrul understood at once that the King of Devonshire knew why he was there.
“We, now,” Iladrul swept his hand toward Balean again, “find ourselves in need of the favor returned.”
King Jon let out a long, low sigh. He turned his attention away from Iladrul’s party and toward his son. They conferred in low whispers for a moment before he returned his attention to Iladrul.
“What army I have to offer you is small.” He was clearly regretful. “Our own walls are breached violently and often.” Iladrul opened his mouth to protest, but the human raised his hand to silence him. “My son will lead what men we can spare. I only mean to warn you that our troop will be small.”
“As, you can see,” Iladrul licked his top lip, “is ours.”
“My sister and her husband may have more men to spare.” The young Prince at King Jon’s side suggested. “Rumor has it that we will be passing through her lands in pursuit of the vampires and demons.”
“You know, then, that Lord Scrountentine and his people head for the Sea?” Balean asked.
“We do.” King Jon nodded. As he did so, he stood. “As we know you must make haste.” His smile was thin. “Trevor and his men will be ready to join your party by sunrise.” His eyes flicked to Iladrul. “Will it suit?”
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