Authors: Maria Violante
And then, he vanished.
De la Roca screamed, but her paralysis afforded her no more than a garbled moan.
I have been betrayed.
Anger bubbled within her, white-hot rage that had her hands trembling, her throat pounding, and her vision swimming with blood and tears.
No wonder he has been so strange - he was plotting my sacrifice.
The Oracle paused, her forehead creased by a single, faint line.
"I knew the dagger gave one speed.
I didn't know, though, that it worked so
well
.
Maybe I shouldn't have given it up."
She turned to the mercenary and shot her a quick smile, her hair springing into place.
"Then again, I couldn't have used it.
That magic is keyed to him, somehow.
Even if I hadn't been warned that you were coming, even if I hadn't been able to see it, I would have known.
It sang of
his
arrival long before you set foot on my mountain.
It
felt
him
.
"And now, mercenary, I give you your end of the bargain.
After all, I do so like mine."
The Oracle stroked De la Roca's gun and threw it lightly into the air.
It sailed gracefully to a spot low on the throne and stuck, as if magnetized.
With a series of popping groans, the gold that covered the rest of the Oracle's prizes began to bubble.
Small, shiny tendrils stretched across
Bluot
's surface
,
imprisoning the revolver like the bars of a cage. Within seconds, the gold had engulfed the gun completely, until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the cavern's prizes.
"There is only one door in my lair.
So few have seen it; so few know where it goes.
But you, my friend, you are about to find out."
TWENTY-TWO
Y
ou have what you came for,
he thought.
Alsvior twirled the knife once in his hands, letting it play over his fingers.
It had been so long, long enough to make De la Roca's time on earth look short, and yet, he had remembered its heft and weight perfectly.
Your weakness almost ended you.
How could he have known, though, that standing in front of the Oracle, his heart would betray him, that he would know of his error too late?
The pain that had ripped through him as he saw De la Roca's face - as he finally realized both of their sacrifices.
Why didn't you learn the first time?
Why wasn't Cleopia enough?
Guilty or not, he didn't stay.
Before either of them could see him, he had harnessed the power of the knife and was through the door.
He wanted to pause on the other side and get his bearings, but he could feel a warm mass of bodies around him.
If he stopped, they would be able to see him, and that was a risk he couldn't take.
So instead, he continued on, moving so quickly that the air around him hummed.
He knew what he was looking for, at least for the moment - somewhere deserted, with good visibility.
That was why he had chosen the turret.
Although fortress was in the middle of the Valley of the Winged, it went largely unguarded and unused - save for Golden, his advisors, and their prisoners.
Even those that visited at Golden's command took care to stay only as long as was necessary.
Save for the forest of Diaspar - which was a place that death itself could not make Alsvior enter - there was no place safer, or where he was less likely to run into an errant angel.
No place, at least, that offered any kind of access to Golden.
He raced through the halls, his spicy scent lingering behind him.
He knew from experience that very few angels would notice it, and the ones that did would most likely think nothing of it.
And if they did?
That was fine - it would fade before they could track him.
It was but the work of a moment to ascend the stairs.
From his position in the turret, he could see the entire north side of the Valley of the Winged.
Surprisingly, it was deserted.
He felt his stomach sink as he looked over the empty valley - if the angels had all congregated somewhere, then something was happening - something important.
He ran to the west turret, and then the east - and each time, he was met by nothing.
Then he ran to the south turret, which overlooked, not only the south side of the Valley of the Winged, but part of the much smaller Valley of Ascension, including the platform from which he had entered.
There, at least, he had felt warmth, the presence of the spark of life within bodies.
Yet what he saw astounded him.
The angels were amassed there, so many that he could not count them, yet he knew somehow that it was the entire Consortium.
It was a sea of bodies so large, it overflowed the boundaries of the Valley of Ascension.
You'll never get her back.
The truth in that statement pierced his heart like an arrow.
#
Golden had just finished giving his speech to the crowd below the pyre.
In each member's face, he could see the stamp of their energy circle, the sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks of an angel whose lifeblood had been pumped through his
kevra
and returned changed.
Their collective
need
to please him, to obey, buoyed him up and away from the scene with startling power.
The entire crowd was intent on only one purpose,
his
purpose, to find the mercenary and the traitor, and punish them both.
I am the brain, and I am the heart.
And then, it was as if the atoms in the atmosphere around him had decided to alter their path and bounce in different directions.
He could almost taste a manic excitation, the strange crackle of a new energy.
The Oracle
, he thought, and before he could warn his followers, she appeared.
The chanting crowd gasped and fell into silence.
Golden would have liked more time to plot his next steps; the creature was crafty, powerful.
Worse, he could sense the crowd watching him, hanging on to his every word.
As their brains were shoved away from the decision-making process, those affected by his
kevra
often became more excitable - possibly even violent.
He would need to act quickly if he wanted to control the situation.
"To what," he sneered, "do we owe the
pleasure
of a visit from the Oracle?
Especially at such an auspicious moment?"
"I have something that you want," said the Oracle.
He could feel the pull of her dulcet tones, sweeter than the drops of nectar in a honeysuckle vine.
He knew that the crowd would react in the same way, lulled by the magic in the melodic voice.
He steeled himself and pumped out an extra burst of power to safeguard them.
"Well, come here then," he said, his finger waggling back and forth in a flippant gesture.
He knew what would follow, and his skin prickled.
Was it wise to push her too far?
He growled inwardly.
You are in control here.
Be careful, but remember, she is powerless to leave her cave, and while she must always tell the truth, truth can be a twisted thing indeed.
An errant thought sprang up, unbidden.
What being was powerful enough to bind the Oracle to her lair, and where had the creature gone? For what archaic purpose was this door, a floating invisibility that led straight onto the platform in the Valley of Ascension?
He took a deep breath.
These were questions that did not concern him now, and he pulled his focus back to where it needed to be.
The Oracle's beautiful face contorted as indignant anger and disbelief vied for the right of occupation.
Then she snarled, her canines glinting in the firelight.
Her spell momentarily broken, the crowd rocked back on its heels.
"For that, I should rend the flesh from your back, you spineless
fool!
"
Her anger spurred the transformation.
The golden locks fell out in clumps and shriveled into piles of dust.
Her robes followed suit, blessing the Consortium with one moment of her perfect nakedness, and then her bones began to twist.
Her spine bent like the arc of a bow, and her knees inverted themselves with violent popping noises, until her stance was that of an animal on its hind legs.
At the same time, her skin darkened to ash, and an odd mixture of boils and sores opened up across its surface.
"Gaze upon the true face of the Oracle!" she screamed.
She threw her head back and howled at the sky.
The firelight glinted off of her bald head and danced in her savage eyes.
Her tongue lolled so far out of her mouth that it rested on her chest.
It was a fearsome display, but Golden had been expecting it.
He yawned, as if tired.
"Well, what is it?
What do you have for us?"
She lunged.
The crowd reeled backwards, but of course, her attack never came.
Instead, at the last moment, she slid sideways, and her body suddenly disappeared from view.
A muffled scraping echoed onto the platform.
It died abruptly, and then a black-clad form, head-lolling sideways at an alarming angle, appeared on the other side of the door.
Recognition froze Golden's blood and forced a gasp into his lungs.
Cleopia?
"Gaze upon your mercenary," intoned the Oracle, and she dropped De la Roca facedown.
When Volos leapt forward, a battle cry in his throat, Golden barely noticed.
His body, like his mind, was rooted to the spot by the split second-image of Cleopia's face.
Instead, it was Veles, twin of Volos, that caught up to his identical brother, steps before they reached the doorframe.
Tackled, his face pressed into the ground, Volos did not see the Oracle reappear, jumping on the mercenary's back.
He didn't see the clawed arm whip through the doorway and slash his twin across the face.
Instead, he heard his brother howl as the wound blazed with sudden, fiery pain.
Within seconds, Veles had rolled over, away from the doorway, desperately clawing at the slash.
His anguished screams finally kicked Golden out of stasis.
He ran forward, grabbed Veles by the arms, and hauled him back to his original position.
He left Volos on the ground as he inspected the injury, uncaring as to whether or not the Oracle would choose to strike twice.
That wound will never heal,
thought Golden.
One brother's folly scars the other, forever.
No, it was your own folly that did this.
You should have been ready for the Oracle's trickery, and instead, in your weakness, you saw something impossible, something you wanted to see.
Cleopia is most likely dead by now.
If he could have, he would have howled like Veles.
Did he not have his own wound, one that festered forever?
But the eyes of the Consortium were upon him, eyes that
needed
him, even as they waited for him to make a mistake.
And what of
this
mistake?
Was it not enough?
You need to fix this, and that starts with the mercenary.
His anger sat heavy in his mouth, but when he spoke, the crowd heard only ice and steel.
"We see your prize, Oracle, and perhaps we wish to make a trade.
But what would be your end of the bargain?"
The creature cackled.
"The wings," she laughed.
Golden felt his stomach sink towards the ground.
The wings.
She means Nemain's wings.
What made you think you could bargain with this creature?
"Too late!"
His voice was a desperate half-laugh, the pitch slightly higher than before.
"They are already on the pyre!"
Yet even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew that it was a child's ploy, and one the Oracle would see through instantly.