Faunus raised his hand and wiped both of his eyes; he was embarrassed by his tears. “My Prince.”
“I loved your father, too.” It was the only thing that Iladrul could think to say. “I grieve for your loss.”
“Thank you.” This was a whisper, cracked with boyish tears.
“May I help you wrap him?”
Faunus turned his haunted brown eyes to Iladrul and let out a grateful sob. “You would do so?”
“I would consider your allowance of me to do so an honor.” Iladrul nodded as he forced another smile. “I must find the doxies, first, however. They must help Osete grieve their own father.”
“Of course.” The relief in Faunus’ expression was painful to bear witness to. “I’ll procure a basin of water so that we might wash him.”
Iladrul reached for him and clapped him lightly on the back. After doing so, he rose to his feet and made his way toward his tent. He knew that the other three boys were there, with Sezja, comforting her.
As he slipped in, the air of sorrow surrounded him, very nearly suffocating him. He, once again, forced a smile as he stepped toward Sezja. He took his beloved in his arms and kissed her forehead. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept. As she did so, he raised his gaze to meet Macentyx’.
“Osete needs the four of you to help him.” He tried to sound calm and kind. “And I must assist Faunus with General Balean.”
Sezja let out another hitching sob. He found his hand raising upward so that he could cup the back of her head in his palm and tangle her hair in his fingers.
“Will he be alright?” Haidar asked, shifting uncomfortably at Macentyx’s side. “Faunus, I should mean.”
Iladrul gave him a perfunctory nod. “Once his father is washed, clothed and set to a proper pyre.”
“Did you see Faunus during battle?” Macentyx asked. “He cowered like a mewling puppy. And he’s meant to lead your army? It seems he begs the vampires to win.”
“Now is not the time.” Iladrul flared at his doxy.
Yes. He had seen Faunus duck behind the trees when the battle had begun. And, yes, he had seen Gregor rise up and lead Balean’s men. The only reason more of them hadn’t been slaughtered had been by the good grace of Emissary Lord Darklief’s assistance and by Gregor’s wit and bravery.
The conversation would be required. He understood that.
But not today.
Not while Balean lay cold and dead and covered in his own blood. Not before the fallen were put to pyre.
“Come.” He finally said, kissing Sezja on the forehead once more. “There are men who must be honored. Our own tears—and scheming—must wait.”
Part Three:
Words Misspoken
-1-
When Loki demanded that Ishitar visit Lucias so that he might meet our half-brother, Ishitar, though pleased that Loki was beginning to show his fire, was less than anxious to go. He was still angry with Lucias for having denied being his mother.
He made his excuses and the visit was delayed.
Loki, at first, seemed not to care. His mind was buried in the tome that he so desperately wanted to translate and his own anger toward Lucias for having promised little Gorgon’s services to Noliminan in exchange for Michael’s.
As for the obsession over the book, this was something that Zadkiel, who had become impatient over missed Seventh Day dinners and so now made them at Loki’s, was greatly amused by.
Loki had fallen asleep at his desk, slumped over his notes. Zadkiel, who couldn’t read the damn book any more than Loki could, stole some of his papers. He then copied the majority of it onto another page, changing Loki’s interpretation of them just enough to lead him astray, yet not enough that Loki would notice.
It was nothing overt and I could tell that Ishitar found great amusement with our brother’s childish prank as he watched Zadkiel slip the copies onto Loki’s desk in the exact position from which he had stolen the original prints. He then gave Loki a good firm shake to wake him up before using his magic to return to the chair at Ishitar’s side.
Loki flew upward at his desk, his eyes darting around the room as he searched for whomever it was that had shaken him. Ishitar made it a point to keep his attention diverted to his own weighty tome, though he was watching Loki very intently from the periphery of his vision and biting his cheek to keep himself from smiling.
“Did either of you say something?” Loki asked them, his brow furrowed and his dark purple eyes still darting around the room as he sought out the person who had awoken him.
Ishitar turned a bored gaze toward Loki, swallowing back the laugh that rose in his chest as he watched Zadkiel begin to toy with the hem of his skirt. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked if one or the other of you said anything.” Loki replied.
“No.” Ishitar muttered before biting his cheek again.
Loki sighed, pushed his chair back and stood. “I guess I’m done in.” Ishitar, still biting his cheek, could only nod at him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night.”
Loki walked toward the door, stopping when he reached it. He turned, almost hesitantly, in Ishitar’s direction. “I know that you’re still angry with your mother, but—”
“I am in no mood for a lecture, Loki.” Ishitar groused, his good humor suddenly drained away.
“I don’t mean to give you a lecture, Ishitar.” Loki yawned around his words. “But you have to go and see the babe tomorrow. Lucias has promised your father to have Countenance see to his aging. She’s waiting for you to take a peek before she allows this and Noliminan is losing patience with her.”
“And by the next time I see Lucias she’ll be surrounded by sons and daughters.” Ishitar snapped at him. “I don’t care, Loki. Tell her to go ahead and—”
“No.” Loki’s tone had a hard bite to it. “Whatever animosities you have toward your mother are your own and I won’t try to sway you against them.”
Ishitar, seemingly surprised by Loki’s irritated regard, raised his gaze to meet Loki’s. After the fifth pie, which had been eaten earlier that day, Loki, it would seem, had finally found his fire.
“But none of that is little Gorgon’s fault. Nor mine. It isn’t fair that you let your hurt feelings get in the way of what’s right where we are concerned. I must make my demands upon you that you go.”
Ishitar sighed at that. Though Loki would never be able to demand anything of him—he wasn’t about to give the God that many pies—Loki was behaving exactly how Ishitar needed him to behave to play out what ever game he was playing.
As for the baby, he was right. Gorgon was Ishitar’s half-brother. No matter that he was jealous of the boy for his ability to be raised by their mother, he owed it to the child to at least try and love him.
Zadkiel, reached for Ishitar’s hand and squeezed it. “He’s right, Ishitar.”
“I know.” He replied to both of them. “Very well, Loki. First thing in the morning.”
Loki gave him a doubtful nod and took his leave.
-2-
Gregor sat in the corner of the tent and watched as Iladrul began pacing back and forth in front of Faunus, who sat with his head lowered into his cupped hands. Prince Trevor watched the younger Prince, his dark eyes marking each step that Iladrul took. Prince Pialoron sat on Prince Trevor’s left and Prince Xylon on his right.
It was Prince Pialoron who broke the silence. “My father will block their path to Port Town at the Sea of Vladtomy.”
Iladrul stopped pacing and turned to give him a weary smile. As he did so, Xylon said, “And my father set fire to their fleet. They have no choice but to go inland.”
“Handy having a God on your side.” Iladrul muttered as he threw himself into the remaining empty chair. As he said this, Prince Pialoron gave him a strange, guarded frown. “We could use more of them.”
Xylon shook his head. “He isn’t allowed to utilize his immortal powers in a mortal war.”
“Conv
enient.” Prince Pialoron snorted. Gregor found himself turning his gaze in the fairy’s direction. “Where would they go?”
“To their castle.” Every pair of eyes turned toward Gregor but those belonging to Faunus. He shrugged under the scrutiny of their gazes. “It’s what I would do.”
“It is certainly fortified.” Prince Trevor muttered his agreement. “They walled the windows so that sun cannot get through. There are virtually no openings aside the front and back entry.”
“What are the chances we can impregnate it?” Prince Pialoron asked.
“Slim.” Prince Xylon sighed.
“They’ll try to get to their ships first.” Gregor stood and walked toward the tactical map. “They don’t know they’ve been destroyed yet.” Looking down at the map, he pointed his finger to the village that Prince Pialoron’s people came from. “Your father’s men will stop them here.”
“Yes.” Prince Pialoron agreed, turning toward the map and cocking his head slightly so that he could get a better view of it. “That’s right.”
“If they happen to skirt around your village,” he trailed his finger along the tract of land that led in the direction of Port Town, which was the harbor from which any fleet wishing to cross the Northern Sea must depart. He pounded his finger on the map again, then trailed it southward, to the edge of the forest. “Our best bet is to cut through these woods and wait for them here.”
“Cut through . . .” Prince Trevor’s brow furrowed as he leaned toward the map. “The Forest of Spirits?”
“Yes.”
“We can’t . . .” Faunus’ voice trembled. “It’s haunted.”
Gregor flashed him an irritated scowl. “What of it?”
“It’s rumored that no one who goes in ever comes out.” Prince Xylon muttered.
“Maybe. But it is the last place they’d ever suspect we would go.” Prince Pialoron offered as he leaned in closer. “Though it’s a long march.”
“No matter which way we go,” Iladrul sighed, “it’s a long march.” He raised his hand and set it on Gregor’s shoulder. “And we elves are running low on supplies. At least, in the forest, there will be food on the hoof. Enough to feed my men and women.”
“It’s risky.” Prince Xylon sat back and met Gregor’s gaze. “But you’re right. It’s our best course.”
“Are you certain about this?” Iladrul asked Gregor.
“I’ve always wanted to see a ghost.” Gregor shrugged.
This earned him a small smile. Iladrul nodded at him as he turned to the others in the group. It was Faunus who he addressed. “And you?”
Faunus looked at each face in turn, swallowed and then gave a curt nod. Gregor was pleased that he seemed to have the better sense to realize that he was out numbered. That his vote, in the end, would come to nothing.
“So be it.” Iladrul, looking somewhat relieved, raised his hand and clapped Gregor on the back. “Let’s go and find ourselves some ghosts.”
-3-
Returned to his cottage, Zadkiel pulled the sheet of paper that Loki had translated from the pocket of his robes. He had feigned ignorance when Ishitar had asked him if he understood any of Loki’s ramblings. He didn’t believe that he had lied, exactly. The symbols that Loki had copied were as foreign to him as they were, apparently, to Loki.
All of them, that was, except one.
King Noliminan’s symbol. The symbol that he pressed into hot wax when he wanted to seal his letters.
And right after that symbol was one that Loki had—Zadkiel knew this in his soul, though how he wasn’t sure—rightly translated.
The symbol meant father.
Noliminan’s father . . . ?
Zadkiel pondered this for long and long after he lowered himself awkwardly into one of the chairs at his table.
“Noliminan’s father.” Zadkiel said the words aloud and shivered.
Perhaps it’s a riddle. Perhaps it means nothing more than the void from which he was created.
That seemed logical.
It was common knowledge that before Noliminan there was nothing at all. He was the first. The father.
Perhaps the riddle is Noliminan fathered. Or, sired. Or, for that matter, created.
“That must be it. It’s a verb in this context. Not a noun.” He muttered to himself as he pulled on his bottom lip. “Noliminan fathered Lucias.”
He knew within his heart that if he were to look at the order of things in the book that Loki always carried around that he would see the three symbols in succession. Noliminan’s, then the one that stands for father, and then Lucias’.
Relieved that he had solved that puzzle, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled on his crippled leg toward his bed.
-4-
Paul followed Iykva down the rows of tents, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. It took every ounce of strength in him not to lunge forward and strangle the demon. Knowing that dispatching Iykva would do little to resolve his problem, however, he forced himself to stay his hand.
“It makes no earthly sense!” Iykva growled as he leaned forward and pulled open the flap of one of the tents. As with every other tent, the occupants, sitting on opposite sides, merely looked back at them with wide, haunted eyes. “What is wrong with you?”
“Perhaps they’re frightened.” Paul suggested, glaring at Iykva. “Or perhaps they’re still too young.”
Iykva threw the flap of the tent closed and spun on Paul. “If we don’t get fresh crops, then this has all been for naught. We can’t keep feeding from them at the rate that we are and expect them to be able to continue to replenish themselves.”
“No.” Paul agreed. “We can’t.”
Iykva glared at him for a long moment. Finally, he spun away. “Bring me Thamores.”
“To what purpose?”
“Until I see the swell of a belly,” Iykva growled as he began storming away, “not one more neck is to be bent. Not by me, not by you, not by anyone!”
Watching Iykva’s back as he stormed away, Paul felt his lips curl into a satisfied smile. Whether the demon recognized it to be true or not, Iykva had just granted Paul and Jamiason the precious gift of time.
-5-
Raphael watched the King of Lords as he leaned over his Crect’antee, which is a large bowl with a golden liquid that brews within it. Noliminan uses it to watch a particular mortal when he hasn’t a desire to send Metatron to pay visitation upon them. To Raphael, he had, lately, seemed to be more and more interested in the first born elf. Raphael wondered why this should be so, but he had learned long ago not to question the King of Lords when he took a peculiar interest in one mortal over all of the others.
What troubled Raphael about this particular interest was that King Noliminan’s general obsessions were over those mortals of the female persuasion. He thought nothing at all of pretending to be a member of their race and either seducing or raping them. It was something that Raphael had long found distasteful, but about which he always held his tongue.
“He is a pretty thing.” King Noliminan muttered.
“Yes.” Raphael agreed that he was. As he would be a very handsome man, once he grew out of his boyishness. “He is, your Grace.”
“The politics that his forefathers have insisted upon puzzle me to no end.”
They puzzled Raphael as well. The angels had revolted against the Heavens because they had felt as if they were oppressed as slaves. Yet, the moment that they had the opportunity to set up a social system where equality reigned for all, they instead mimicked the class racing of the Sixty Realms.
“Yes, your Grace.”
“These doxies.” He chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “I should want to own one of mine own.”
Raphael chose not to respond. The King of Lords owned not only one doxy, but twelve. Baser raced angels the Quorum may not be, but they were—as Haniel’s friend Raystlyn had once so adequately pointed out—little more than higher priced slaves.
Pondering this, Raphael h
ad been ill prepared for the knock on the door. He jumped slightly and then let out an embarrassed giggle as King Noliminan looked at him with an expression that was a mixture of both annoyance and amusement.
“It’s just Raziel, Raph.” He said as his gaze returned to the Crect’antee. “She has an appointment, if you’ll recall.”
Raphael, who didn’t recall that, gave him a flustered smile. He knew every minute of King Noliminan’s schedule better than the King of Lords, himself, did. As such, he was certain that this visit was either impromptu or illicit.
“Yes, your Grace.” Is what he said as he found his feet and made his way out of the library to the front door. When he saw the Lady Regent standing on the other side he understood that he had the right of things. “Good evening, Raziel.”
“Raph.” Raziel stepped in, leaned forward and kissed Raphael’s forehead. Raphael bore this with guarded patience. Raziel was, after all, his mother. “Is he about?”
“In the library.” Raphael nodded as he stepped away. “Shall I serve you drinks?”
“Not tonight.” Raziel stepped past him. “In fact, why don’t you make yourself scarce?”
Raphael, unsurprised by this request, rolled his eyes. He had wanted nothing more than to just turn in. But he gave Raziel an assenting nod. “Of course.”
“He isn’t entertaining another woman, is he?” Raziel asked with flat tones and her nose curled.
Would you have been invited to his bed if he were?
“No.” He muttered. “He’s merely watching the elf.”
Her smile was sly and catlike. Raphael shivered under the coldness of it. “He does lately seem obsessed by that foul creature.”
“Yes, my Lady.” Raphael replied, trying not to glower at her. “If his Grace needs me, please have him ring my bell.”
“I shall, Raphael.” Raziel replied, turning away and dismissing Raphael entirely.
Without even realizing that he was doing so, Raphael stared at Raziel’s back and shook his head in dismay.
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