The Antithesis- The Complete Pentalogy

by Terra Whiteman

  “The good news is that the statue has been destroyed, for real this time. One threat averted, hooray.”

  I said nothing, lost in thought.

  For a while we played wordlessly, and soon half of our pieces were absent from the board.

  After my queen murdered his knight, I said, “Out with it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re not telling me something. I know that face anywhere.”

  Yahweh stared at the chessboard, deciding his next move, stalling for time. “Leid was having an affair with Samael.”

  My jaw practically hit the table. “How do you know?”

  “She told me. His attack in Najudis was driven by heartache. He thought she’d betrayed him.”

  “This is becoming a circus.”

  “True enough. But I’m left without options. Samnaea knows, and if word gets out, we’ll have to stage a punishment—”

  “Word won’t get out.”

  Yahweh lifted a brow. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Because if she hadn’t told me, then she wouldn’t tell anyone. Yet now I knew of all the things she’d left out of her confession last night, and found myself wishing back that ignorance.

  Yahweh looked at me, awaiting his turn. The scar across his eye never got easier to take in, and always made me reminisce about the day that he’d received it— the day he’d lost half his sight, and his innocence. The day I’d fallen.

  My queen slid across the board, taking his bishop. He took my rook. A gallant play.

  “You don’t seem as upset as I thought you’d be,” he murmured, wiping hair from his eyes. “I was really dreading this talk.”

  “Hard to surprise me these days.”

  “Mm.”

  More game, less chatter. The board was practically barren, and I was impressed. Yahweh had never survived a match this long, and the odds were even.

  The next move took a while to figure out, the tick tick tick of the timer like a tiny drum inflecting my thoughts. Yahweh had been tactful in the placement of his final pieces, to the point where almost any move I made was suicide. I looked at him with silent admiration, and he caught my drift, grinning.

  “You’ve been practicing alone?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re suddenly giving me a run for my money.”

  “Perhaps I was always this good.”

  “You? Deceptive?” I raised my brows. “Please.”

  Although Yahweh had been joking, I hoped that he wasn’t.

  He leaned into his hand, sighing. “The timer’s almost up. Stop dancing around the bush and kill me already.”

  Kill me already.

  Kill me.

  That sentence looped around my mind, and I stared at him, conflicted. My search for sympathy only turned up memories of the dead child in Avernai. I saw her in the reflection of Yahweh’s eyes—even the cloudy, useless one. He and his people spent their days in sunlight, without fear of famine or cold. As empathetic as he was, there was no way that he could understand our plight. Not the way that he needed to.

  And part of that was my fault. I’d made our bed half a millennium ago, unable to foresee how short that straw really was. Back then I was protecting him. But clearly he didn’t need my protection anymore.

  I lowered my gaze, sliding a piece across the board.

  “Check mate,” Yahweh said, near whisper. He looked confused by it—brows furrowed in question of whether or not I’d let him win. But I hadn’t.

  He was finally ready.

  “The Contest is over,” I stated, and his confusion intensified. “I’m declaring war on Heaven. The official declaration will be broadcasted tonight, but I wanted to give you a heads up.”

  I couldn’t meet Yahweh’s gaze, casting my attention to the board. He didn’t speak for a long time.

  The timer sounded off, and I silenced it with a slap.

  “W-Why…?” he asked, stammering.

  “That question tells me of your naivety. The Contest won’t hold, Yahweh. Our resources are drying up. Demons are dying, and my own Court is attempting to usurp me because I haven’t—can’t—do anything about it. We’ve already tried the diplomatic route, but your Court won’t go forward with allowing us more territory. They want us dead, gone, so that they can finally live without any mementos of their failings.”

  He had flinched several times during my explanation. “I… I don’t feel that way.”

  “I know you don’t,” I said, guilt creeping through the cracks of my stoic façade. This was harder than I thought it’d be. “And you’ve done everything you can, but it’s not enough. The only way your angels will ever agree to forfeit their paradise is through war.”

  The sadness and confusion on Yahweh’s face began to wane, anger filling up the empty space. “War is not the answer. You’re trying to solve your problem of death by more death? Resolve famine by creating nuclear wastelands? Have you gone completely insane?”

  Yahweh’s inability to see reason left me cold. Ignoring his slander, I left the table. “In a month’s time we will be marching on Heaven. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take the necessary precautions to defend your land accordingly.”

  He shot up as well, smacking the board off the table. Pieces scattered across the plateau, and I watched them roll away, not bothering to fetch any—;

  Because I knew that this had been our last match. Now we would play for real.

  “No!” he shouted. “I won’t let you do this! You can’t do this! We made a promise that war would never happen again! Stop walking away! Stop walking away and face me!”

  My wings unfolded and spread. I paid him a single glance over my shoulder. “War is coming, whether you want it or not. Good luck with whatever you decide, Yahweh Telei.”

  I lifted off, ignoring his shouts at my back. But as frigid as I’d been, there was an aching deep inside, perpetuated by guilt. My poor son; he couldn’t see the hurt in my eyes as I flew away. Visions of everlasting peace had deluded him, yet the inevitability of this moment was a century-coming.

  I was not his father anymore, but his adversary.

  And hopefully he would come to terms with that soon enough.

  IV

  EMBERS

  Belial Vakkar—;

  THE STAGE LIGHTS WERE PERFECT, AS WERE the prop designs and costumes. Aesthetically this production couldn’t have been better, but any talented playwright knew a theatrical presentation couldn’t coast on visuals alone.

  And that was exactly the case here. My actors couldn’t hold a line to save their lives, their movements clumsy and overcompensating. I wasn’t even watching anymore; instead I stared at a close-up view of my palm as it covered my face.

  “Oh my god, cut,” I sighed.

  No one heard me.

  The Maiden stuttered her next line, and the Bear tripped over his own feet. The costume had been designed for someone bigger, but my first choice was in critical care after having his skull fractured by a flying punchbowl during that brawl at my masquerade. I had a half a mind to sue the Jury for the revenue I was certainly going to lose, and I’d have sued Samael Soran too, but he was dead.

  “Cut!” I shouted, and this time everyone heard me. They froze; the music stopped. “What the bloody hell was that? Am I directing an elementary school performance?”

  “I can’t keep my lines straight if Dreisel won’t keep his!” Alina the Maiden exclaimed. The Bear, played by my servant and usually-talented actor Dreisel, ripped off the head of his costume, tossing it on the floor. His face was drenched with sweat.

  “Master Belial, I’m suffocating in that thing! Can’t we use make up, or even glue some ears to my head?”

  “Just take five,” I hissed, unable to deal with them any longer. As Alina and Dreisel continued to have at it, I retreated backstage, debating whether to call the whole thing off. But I’d poured so much money into it already—even if the production sucked, at least I could gain a lit
tle money back. The only dilemma here was the idea of staining my reputation for revenue.

  Well, not like that hasn’t happened before, but still.

  I found solace in the rehearsal room, sinking into a swivel-chair. Staring at my reflection, I pulled a malay cigarette from the pack in my breast pocket. My reflection showed a tired man, in desperate need of rest. Archdemon of Tehlor by day, playwright and director by night. Sleep was for the dead.

  I closed my eyes and fantasized about my bed—the way the sheets felt across my skin, the softness of the pillow. My Aeon vibrated in my jacket, jolting me awake. I had to get out of this bloody chair before I fell asleep.

  I held the cigarette in my mouth, squinting against the smoke while pulling the Aeon up to my face. A frequency flashed across the screen. It was Persephone.

  I glanced at the clock over the door. It was an hour and a half past the time I’d promised to be home. This production wasn’t boding well for anyone.

  I left the rehearsal room and headed for the alley-side exit, hoping some cold air would wake me up. The entire trip I debated answering Persephone’s call. If I did, I’d hear an earful. If I didn’t, I’d hear an earful when I got home. Better now than later.

  Hello, my dear.

  Don’t you ‘my dear’ me. Where are you?

  Still at Garivel. So sorry.

  No you’re not. It’s almost midnight and I haven’t seen you for three days!

  The night sky was blanketed by clouds; a shower was imminent, and it was already starting to sprinkle. Demons on the street hurried by, their heads covered by fans or top hats. Women kept the ends of their dresses raised so as not to drag them over puddles. A zeppelin soared overhead, blinking an advertisement for a clothing line and warning of severe weather. There was a homeless man huddled by a dumpster, covered by a tattered petticoat. I hailed a guard by the door, signaling for him to remove the unpleasant scenery. Lochai’s poverty was bleeding into my layer. More and more people crossed the borders by illegal transit, and I feared that soon Tehlor would look like Avernai.

  But that was a problem for another day. First, Persephone.

  I’ll be home soon, I promise. Our production is proving more challenging than I thought.

  That bad?

  Think of a nightmare within a nightmare. A layer of nightmares.

  I’ll wait two more hours, then I’m going to bed.

  That’s a bet. See you soon.

  I watched the guard drag the crying homeless man out into the rain. I didn’t like doing that, but a bleeding heart would only give me crowds of homeless camping under Garivel Theater by next week. I couldn’t take care of every dredge down on his luck, not if they were coming in from other places. That was Lucifer’s bit, and he was doing a piss-poor job of it.

  I threw the cigarette down, mashing it with my boot. The door opened and my stagehand poked his head outside.

  “Sir, are you ready? It’s getting late and I only have one more go in me.”

  “Yeah, be there in a second.”

  He nodded and closed the door, and I gazed at the sky again. Multicolored lights from taprooms along the main street decorated the horizon with pale oranges, reds and greens, like the faintest rainbow on a stormy day. Laughter was carried with the wind, while music blared from audio posts and would continue to do so until early morning. Tehlor’s nightlife was something to talk about. After all, I had a title to keep.

  But I didn’t feel as merry as I should, and there was something ominous in the air. I couldn’t place my finger on it, as the feeling came and went far too quickly to catch. I leaned against my cane, reaching for the door. Throwing it open, I gave a slow exhale, ready to endure one more hour of pain.

  ***

  In the early morning, Persephone lay in bed beside me, her naked, sleeping body wrapped in sheets. She always slept on her stomach with a leg curled beneath her. It looked horribly uncomfortable.

  Her long, ruby-red hair was splayed in every direction, reaching across the bed to tickle my arm. I idly swept it away, my attention remaining on the cluster of sheets in my hand.

  Persephone had come to Durn Manor ten years ago, applying for a maid position. She was the daughter of a poor watchmaker from Avernai, who turned her out the moment she was old enough to work. Her talents were limited, her ability to clean virtually non-existent, but I had hired her anyway. Eventually the only service she provided was to me, personally, in our bedroom.

  Somewhere down the road, lust turned to love. I don’t know when it happened, but having a partner wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. When Persephone wasn’t nagging me to come home, she was spontaneous and intelligent, and sometimes we talked all night about little things that no one else would ever care about.

  I read over the Maiden and the Bear script for the umpteenth time, ignoring the weight of my eyelids. I should have been in bed hours ago, but desperation led to deprivation, and I was determined to save this production yet.

  A knock at the door startled me awake. Exhaustion had won and I’d fallen asleep with the script in my hand. I grimaced, trying to determine whether the knock had been a dream. But then it happened again.

  Three raps, in quick succession.

  “Sir,” said a whisper. It was Dreisel. “Sir, are you awake?”

  “One second,” I grumbled, throwing off the sheets and trudging to the door. Persephone stirred, but didn’t wake.

  I cracked open the door. Dreisel stood on the other side of it, his look relaying urgency. He, too, had been asleep, as his clothes were wrinkled and thrown on quickly. His hair was disheveled and his face was plagued with fatigue lines.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he whispered, casting an easy glance at Persephone, as surely there’d be hell to pay if she was woken up. “But Samnaea Soran is in your foyer.”

  “… Samnaea Soran? Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but she has guards. Obsidian Court guards.”

  That took a moment to process, and then I nodded. “Thank you, Dreisel. Keep them company until I get down there, yeah?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  I shut the door and smoothed my air, making my way to the closet. Samnaea’s visit should have come as a surprise, but it didn’t. As crazy as that cow was, she wasn’t stupid. Given enough time to stew, she’d put all the puzzle pieces together. Thankfully it was her word against mine, and the Jury would never let me hang.

  I emerged from the hall and descended the stairs in a top hat and cream suit, cane at the ready. Samnaea waited at the bottom, a row of guards behind her, watching my entrance with a raised brow. A malay cigarette smoked from a thin silver holder between the fingers of her left hand, her ice blond hair shining unnaturally in the chandelier light. She wore a scarlet coat that reached her boots, a tulan-fur hood hugging her neck-line.

  “Put that out,” I said, frowning at the cigarette. “There’s no smoking in here.”

  Samnaea dropped the cigarette on my floor, stamping it out with her foot. I glared at her. “Belial Vakkar, you are under arrest for high treason against the Court. I’ve afforded your arrest some privacy—given the hour—and you’d do well to come quietly so your subjects never discover what a disgusting snake you really are.”

  I laughed, leaning on the rail. “Oh, am I? And since when can one Archdemon arrest another? Why don’t you come back with a general, and then we’ll talk.”

  Samnaea reached into her pocket and lifted a tiny leather case. It flipped open, revealing the Obsidian crest. One glance, and all amusement drained from me like water through a sieve.

  “… You’re shitting me.”

  “Afraid not,” she said, smiling. “Will you come quietly?”

  I sneered, holding up my hands as a guard approached with cuffs. “Quietly, no. Care to explain what high treason entails?”

  “Your crimes will be read aloud in Akkaroz. You can debate them there.”

  Dreisel watched my arrest, crestfallen.

  “Belial?”
came a voice from the top of the stairs. Persephone looked down at us, huddling into her violet sleep-robe. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, my dear,” I muttered as the guards led me to the door. “Go back to bed; this will all be cleared up by morning.”

  “Wait!” Persephone cried, ignoring my advice. She hurried down the steps, but another group of guards stopped her approach, holding her at the bottom. “Why are you being arrested?” She looked up at a guard, frantic. “What has he done?”

  “I’ve done nothing,” I said, staring knives at General Soran. “I’m being framed for the stupidity of her brother is all.”

  Samnaea’s smile turned frigid.

  Without warning, Persephone’s head exploded.

  Startled, the guards dropped her body, trying to wipe away the gore on their armor. All they did was smear it around even more.

  I stared down at Persephone’s headless corpse, stung. The hollow feeling filled with shards of glass as despair and fury coalesced.

  The guards holding me looked at each other, their expressions showing unease for what they’d witnessed. Lucifer had made a grave mistake by choosing her, but his biggest mistake lay in crossing me.

  I broke the cuffs with just a tug, and the guards stepped back, alarmed. As they reached for their weapons I turned on them, snapping one of their necks, disarming the other, knocking him out with the handle of his own gun. I spun, sniping the remaining guards between the eyes. All of this had happened in a fraction of a minute.

  Samnaea squinted, and I felt a tug on the back of my mind. But she wouldn’t explode my head. She couldn’t. And once she figured that out, her anger turned to fear and she backed for the door.

  “What are you?” she snarled, but that demand was stunted by the quaver in her voice.

  “Like you,” I said, grinning. “Better than you, my dear. Stronger than you, smarter than you.” Unlike the other select few, I hadn’t gone public with my psionicity. A good thing, too, or else I might have been in some real trouble here. “But the act is just beginning, love. Let me show you what happens to cheeky cunts who barge in uninvited and destroy my property.”