Authors: Maria Violante
"Angel," she growled.
"
You
are the Angel."
His face paled, a wordless affirmation.
There never was an Angel, just a charlatan
.
You knew it already
,
whispered a voice that wasn't hers.
Laufeyson stared at his fingers.
His jaw went slack, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, prayer-like.
It was not the explanation she expected.
"Our daughter was beautiful, you know.
She had your lips and eyes."
De la Roca resisted touching a finger to her mouth, the hand stopping in midair.
"No,
your
lips.
The ones you had before you took Cleopia's form."
His words hung in the air like a fog, blurring her senses and eating away at her anger.
"She had perfect hands … clever hands."
He looked up at her, and his eyes pierced her exotic heart.
"I … I can't remember."
Her throat squeezed off the flow of her words.
What life is this, a life without a past or memories?
"You loved her, whether you remember her or not."
His eyes dropped down again before continuing.
"The night they took her … you were an animal.
You told them you'd kill yourself and every single one of them if they harmed her."
"And?"
She knew what would come next, but she wanted to hear it.
He swallowed and stared at the wall behind her head.
"Golden snapped her neck in front of your eyes."
Her mind reeled.
He dropped to his knees.
"I couldn't do anything.
His
kevra
was at work and I was frozen there, watching.
He … he let you go."
"What?"
"From his
kevra.
He had the entire crowd in his control, but he released you."
Like a spider spinning a net, she was weaving together the threads of the conversation, yet there were gaping holes she couldn't fill.
"Just me?"
Laufeyson closed his eyes and swallowed.
"I could hear you, keening like an animal.
You were …
magnificent.
Golden was rambling, about honor and loyalty and obedience, and then you tore the wings off of your back and threw them at him from the dais."
He grunted.
"You said-"
"There is no honor in Hell."
The words had broken free of their own volition, and their sudden arrival from the void in her mind surprised her.
Laufeyson glanced up, startled.
"Yes - but how did you"-
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
"Can you-"
"No.
That's all there is."
She felt the stone pulse in her stomach, and then the wave of emotion subsided, as if the
kevra
stone was somehow eating her pain.
"I shouldn't even be listening to you.
It's your fault, all of it."
"Yes."
His admission gagged her momentarily, and she changed the subject.
"We know who I am.
But who are you?"
He shrugged.
"I have already told you this.
I was an angel - and not only that, next-in-line for the Pentarch."
"An angel?"
She almost laughed.
"Where are your wings?"
His lips pressed into a firm line.
"I had just awakened you, after Muninn put you into Cleopia's body.
You opened your eyes and looked at me, and I realized that you had no idea who I was.
There was no way to verify if it was even you.
Had I really known what it meant, for you to forget me - I wonder if I would have done it again.
I murdered two women that day."
His eyes came up again to meet hers, and she was startled by the changes in his face.
Black circles blossomed under his eyes, giving them a sunken look.
A sprawling map of lines had appeared on his forehead, at the corners of his eyes - even trailing down his cheeks - channels for the rivulets of tears that dripped onto his shoulders.
"And then I beheaded
her
, and it was like I was beheading you.
I watched her shining hair fall to the ground, sticky and wet with her blood…your blood…I don't even know-" His voice had increased in volume, until it was a roar.
"They put me in a cell.
This
cell!
Of
course
it was this cell!
"They didn't know what to do with me, I just kept howling.
And when my cries had finally ceased, they came back to check on me, and my wings were lying by my feet.
"Of course, I was ruled unfit to serve.
You were gone, almost untraceable, and I was a joke, soon forgotten.
Eventually, they let me out.
"De la Roca, I have spent these centuries either looking for you, or thinking of ways to bring the Pentarch down."
"Well, you found me," she said, but there was no pleasure in her words.
#
You will die a coward.
Alsvior's head drooped to his chest as he fingered his knife.
He could write off trading De la Roca to the Oracle as a necessary evil in his revenge against Golden, but not what happened later.
He had seen her come through the door, a limp body that fell at Golden's feet.
He could have been brave, then, taken the opportunity to save her, possibly without alerting Golden of his presence.
Possibly.
But possibly had been too thin a chance, and in the end, he had watched from behind the platform, hidden in the shadows as the angels took her away.
The knife was flickering between his fingers, spinning with the sort of manipulation one might use to impress a child.
Lost in his guilt, he almost didn't hear the howl.
Garmyr!
Precious seconds passed as he debated running or hiding.
Then he heard a laugh - Golden's laugh - and he knew that even if it cost him his life, he had to see.
Quickly, he ran to the nearest hiding place - a great tree with drooping branches.
He climbed up until the boughs started to thin and covered himself with his jacket, trying to obscure his shape.
He watched as Golden sent the jackal away, unable to believe his luck.
You could do it now,
he thought, as he fingered the tiny blade.
Slit his throat now, while he is alone, and none shall know.
And then his body was filled with a wave that clouded his will.
He fought it frantically, but it grew stronger, and before long, he could hear the tramping of footsteps.
The angels were returning.
He watched from his perch as they crested over the rim of the valley, their crowd a thousand strong.
They moved in perfect lockstep, and Alsvior knew that they were also under the influence of Golden's
kevra.
He had missed his chance.
He wanted to scream, but then Golden waved, and a door appeared on the platform.
It was the Oracle's door.
Golden ascended the platform and stood, his arms crossed in front of him.
To Alsvior, it seemed like he waited an eternity, until finally, all of his angels were standing before him.
They stopped.
Golden smiled and opened the door.
The Oracle appeared in the doorway in her most attractive of forms.
They conversed, and her sour expression changed to one of sweetness and light.
Then Golden waved once, airily, and three angels walked to the door.
And then, in a gruesome sight he would never forget, they drew their swords and cut off their own wings.
The crowd had been so silent that, although he could not hear the conversation between Golden and the Oracle, he could hear the screams of the angels as they mutilated themselves.
Then, with a nod from Golden, the three gave the Oracle their wings.
With a wide smile, the Oracle opened her door wide, and the entire group trudged, single file, through the Oracle's door.
When the last angel entered, the Oracle reappeared.
She leaned out the door slightly and looked directly at Alsvior, her eyes burning with hate.
She winked once, a wink that oozed sex and promise, before closing the door.
THIRTY
T
he Mademoiselle balanced on one foot, the toes of the other pointed towards the earth.
Her breath held and her body caught in the same rakish lean as the neighboring trees, she waited for the sound to repeat itself.
Minutes passed without any sign of company in the woods.
Was she finally losing her mind?
A shiver passed up her spine, oblivious to the warmth of the night air.
Calm yourself.
You prepared for this.
And to an extent, that was true.
She had passed through this forest many years ago, and she knew it could have changed.
Before she opened the waypoint, she had walked this part of her journey in her astral form, absorbing as much as she could of the surroundings and trying to warn herself of possible dangers.
She had wanted to visit the Archives, but the risk of being caught, even as a projection, was too great.
It's a suicide mission,
something whispered.
She breathed deeply, shook her head once, and continued on, but the voice persisted in snaking around the back of her mind.
They know you are here.
Impossible.
I cloaked the waypoint.
There are other ways.
Like what?
If I told you … that would be no fun.
A shape lurched to her left, the shadows of a thousand leaves breaking and flowing together over its form.
The Mademoiselle fell into a crouch, alert and ready to open another waypoint out.
Adrenaline rushed through her, alleviating the tiredness she had felt only seconds before.
Please, be anything, anything but -
A soldier of Diaspar?
The voice chuckled, its laugh burbling over like a foul river of pollution.
She felt herself flinch and hated herself for it.
The rider in her mind knew everything - even her worst fears.
Worst of all, she was beginning to get the feeling that something had already gone terribly wrong.
She had dropped herself several miles north of her destination.
The forest was the only place close enough that would most likely not be guarded; angels and demons alike avoided it with a remarkable vehemence.
Once one was known to carry the curse of Diaspar, he or she was exiled to the forest to wait …
for what? …
As a whole, it was a ghoulish place.
While fresh reanimates appeared normal, over the years, they became victims of imperfect re-assemblies, until they resembled a rat's meal - missing pieces, seams that didn't line up.
Some were even missing entire limbs, eyes, their flesh torn off and run away with by various entities.
Occasionally, those with
kevras
and
akras
of magic came through and hunted, using the opportunity to gauge the efficacy of their powers, but they were rare exceptions.
As a whole, it was largely avoided.
And if you manage to get through the grove, what next?
She took a few deep breaths.
She had been away from the Valley of the Winged for so long that she wasn't quite sure what to expect, and that made it impossible to plan her next moves.
The first step was to see how close she could reasonably get to the Fortress without being discovered, and figure out how heavily guarded it was.