Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (5 page)

“Give me moonlight, silver ones, and I shall reward you with cinnamon.”

They seemed to have no problem with the offer and scampered up the walls onto the ceiling directly above. There they coiled tightly until they became an image of the moon. Their slivery skins then began to shimmer and soon the chamber was bathed in what seemed perfect moonlight. With a wave of her hand Hyacinth dimmed the braziers and torches.

Darke watched as her fingers worked locks now visible in a faint blue, much like soft flame.

She laid the book open. The pages were of gold, thin as foil. They looked fragile, yet were unblemished. The moonlight cast of the salamanders left letterings of soft flame on the smooth pages. Darke could not make out any of it.

“Do not bother trying,” Hyacinth said, guessing his attempt. “The words were inscribed using the pure light of the mothering star—undecipherable without the stones.”

“What stones?”

“I will show you.” She turned to the back plate, where she slid open a panel. In a thin hollow lined with velvet rested two stones, one a dark-set ruby, the other a lighter shade of blue sapphire.

“Seer stones,” she said.

“How do you work them?”

“They are worn.”

She lifted them carefully. They had holders on the sides that unfolded, and she was able to slip them over her temples and curl the pliable metal about her ears. There was a crossbar that balanced on her nose. She looked up to Darke, her big brown eyes now magnified in ruby and blue. He had to smile. She smiled back, then turned to the book. She expertly leafed through several of the golden foil pages.

“Only the stones make the letters plain. Each page holds three layers: the first deals with things of ordinary speaking—the Assiahian World; the second deals with principals and powers of the Earth—the Atziluthic World; and the last lies beneath and can be discerned only by seers and prophets. It is called the Braiatic World. I will read for you from the first layer, which contains the histories. When I am finished perhaps you will understand why you have been such an idiot to have sealed a deadly covenant with this fallen angel and why you should never,
ever
leave me behind again.” She paused at a certain page, running a painted nail over the lettering. “I already know you have no faith in these words, Captain, so I challenge you simply to open your mind. The words of heaven, when spoken correctly, leave a tingle that runs down the back, a testament of their truth. These are the words of a seer, a man once lifted up to heaven, a man who has spoken with Elyon—the Light of Severity—He who cannot be named.”

“Then why is He named? You called Him Elyon.”

“Elyon is not a name; it simply means God.”

“Then why not simply say God?”

“Simple people, the unlearned, do.” She took a breath and began to read. “'These are the words of Enoch the son of Yered, the seventh of the first; named of the angels the Scribe; whose words will stand as testament of Aeon's End before the coming of the age of men.'”

She turned through more pages, gently but deftly. She had probably studied every letter and word of this book many times over. “I will read only what is useful, but some names must be spoken in their proper order or the words will be offended.”

“A word can be offended?”

“They will fade until I will no longer be able to decipher them.” She paused. “I will start here, at the point where the first angel stepped from heaven: ‘And in the days of Yered there fell a single star from the sky and all the hosts of heaven wept.'”

Her finger paused on the word, and she stared at it, affected. “They called him the Beautiful One,” she said, her voice a bit saddened. “He shined so brightly that he was known as the Light Bearer. He was one of the firstborn sons of Elyon, and he was the beloved of all. That he stepped from heaven to save Earth was the most noble of acts, a sacrifice. He risked everything for the sake of his father's children, that none would be lost, that not a single soul would fail to return to their father. His fall left a brilliant, fiery streak across the sky so magnificent that many called him the Son of the Morning. Some say that he rules still, there in Etlantis, the city he created, but that he dwells now in secret places. Many believe he is a savior—our savior. What do you think, Captain? Does it spark belief in you?”

“It seems to me a savior would be out hunting raiders instead of hiding among the Etlantians.”

She turned more pages, her fingers skillfully skimming the words. “Here it speaks of the others who stepped from heaven to join the Light Bearer: ‘Three was the number of their lords, and seven were their prefects, and two hundred was the number of the Watchers of heaven who joined them, and they were the Auphanim, the wheels, for they held the spheres of the firmament of the fixed stars.'”

She paused to use both hands to steady the stones from where they had begun to slip off her nose. “You cannot do it, Captain,” she said, taking him off guard.

“Do what?”

“That which you are thinking.” “And what am I thinking?”

“That you can trick him—find a way to kill the angel Satariel.”

“Why should I want to kill him? He has yet to cross me.”

“It is useless to attempt to fool me, Captain. I know what you are planning. Just understand something: they cannot be killed. He would destroy you with but a word uttered. He is a living creature of the Elohim. As clever as you are, as quick as you are, he will slay you without a second's thought.”

“Is he mentioned in there?”

“Yes, but I must speak the names of others before his.”

“Hyacinth, I have been at sea for nearly half a year; I have no time to read through all the damned divine orders of whirling creatures.”

“Patience, Captain. I will be brief.” She took a breath and read on. “'This is the name of the second to step from the sky, the first to follow the Light Bearer: Azazel, the lord of the holy choir of the Auphanim. Once upon the Earth, Azazel looked about and saw the Earth was covered with humans. It was overrun with them, for in those days humans did not die. Thus, by his word, he named the years of men one hundred and twenty, after which they would become dust of the Earth from whence they came. Because of this, men would thenceforth live on only through women and the bearing of children. Therefore, men named him Ahriman, the Angel of Death.

“'He then taught men the making of swords and shields and all manner of weapons. He taught the crafting of tombs, crypts, and sepulchers, as well as the embalming of flesh, the draining of blood.'”

“So he named death, then provided the tools for tidying up.”

“You jest, Captain. Have I not asked for reverence?”

“Sorry—just slipped out.”

“It is good it is not Azazel you intend to challenge. He is the cruelest of all angels. No aging would you have found in him, no weakness, and neither would he have summoned a simple mortal to do his bidding.”

“So in a way you are admitting Satariel—who summoned a
simple
mortal, me, to do his bidding—does have a weakness.”

“You cannot kill him, Captain. He may be aged, he may be cursed of Enoch, but make no mistake: he is powerful beyond your dreams.”

“Keep reading, Little Flower.”

“'The third and final high lord to follow was named Arakiel, Earth of God. It was he who taught women the painting of their faces and the fashioning of bracelets and rings and all manner of adornment.'”

She paused, glancing at him with her own painted eyes, touching a finger to her cheek, bracelets rattling.

“You may continue, Hyacinth.”

She sighed and turned back to the book. “'Because of the teaching of Arakiel, fornication multiplied in the land'—though Ophur, apparently, was spared of all fornication and even of kisses or any manner of affection.” “Hyacinth, I have a wife.”

“I know, and she is tall and starkly beautiful and will always own your heart.”

“Taran begs for your favor, Hyacinth. He adores you more than the sun.”

“And I adore him, but my heart is already given.”

He suspected her meaning, but said nothing that might encourage her.

She turned back to the pages. “'And those are the three who made covenant upon the mountain—the Light Bearer, their king; Azazel, their prince; and Arakiel, the singer. Thereafter, they called that mountain Ammon, which means “Oath of Binding."'”

“Ammon, the mountain of Etlantis?”

“The same.”

“Why should these three need a covenant?” “To hide themselves.” “From what?”

“Elyon. They were pure, spiritually pure. They were members of the choirs of the Seraphim; they sang in the great Trisagion—the Word that brought the world into being. More than this, they did not need women, for they were ever immortal. It was only from lust that they sealed the pact upon Mount Ammon, a pact to cohabitate with the daughters of men. Though they were angels of the Most High, they fell due to lust for trinkets and painted eyes.”

“So, as with everything else, it all comes down to women.”

“But think, Captain, is it not, in a certain sense, romantic? The angels looked upon the daughters of men and found them so beautiful that they laid down all they were, their honor, their glory, even their light, for that single taste.”

“Romantic? Try idiotic. All they possessed—the power to create worlds—and they risked it all just to take a woman.”

“Exactly as it reads: ‘Thus the angels looked down upon the daughters of men and said to each other, “Let us choose, each to our own,” and they lay with them. They then brought forth the firstborn, those born of Lillith and Astarte and Libet and many other daughters of men who then became Star Walker Queens, terrible to behold, for not only did they bear in their wombs the seed of angels, but also they were taught the secrets of creation—that their words, once uttered, were sealed in heaven; that their breath made real things spoken.

“'But their offspring, even many of their firstborn, were called Nephilim, for they were born giants, and Elyon caused this that they would never be mistaken for the children of men. In those days, many of the Nephilim were filled with the light of their fathers and ruled as men of renown.

“'But their seed was cursed and each generation became more corrupt than the last. Thus, the firstborn—the Nephilim—gave birth to the Emmin, the terrors, for they were cruel and had no compassion in their souls. With each generation the light of the angels continually dimmed until it was lost utterly.'” She lifted the seeing stones to rub her temples.

“Are they heavy?” asked Darke.

“Yes. We now live among the seventh generation of the angels. Those who believed Enoch, the Followers, claim the Emmin will be the last because they cannot reproduce. They are known as the Failures, for some are born without heads, some without arms, some without legs, some with but a single eye, some with too many eyes, like spiders, but all bearing the mark of shame, all grotesque.”

She paused, remembering. “I saw one once—a Failure. It was no more than a face that crawled over the ground like a huge crab using its loose skin to pull itself along, groping with its mouth for food, its eyes wide and searching. The sorcerers of my village tried to kill it, but seeing them it swiftly moved into the trees, and for nights and nights we heard screams of animals being eaten.”

She set the stones back in place and turned through several more pages. “The names of the lords I have now spoken. The rest I need not name, but the next who fell were those called prefects. Their number was seven. They were lesser beings, but nonetheless they were filled with the holy light of heaven and the knowledge of stars. We need reference only the one that interests you: ‘Here names the seventh of the prefects, Satariel, he who bore the bull's head before Elyon, a high lord and singer of the choir of Melachim. He taught mankind the giving of signs and secret combinations, becoming the father of all sorcerers and fire speakers.'” She paused, looking up. “I remember something … from my early teachings.”

“Which is?”

“He was known by the sorcerers of our village; some even admired him. As well, Satariel often traded slaves with the Pelegasians, who at times came to our village. We did not desire slaves, but their ships were often the only way to obtain supplies. The Pelegasians had a special name for this angel, as did our sorcerers: they called him Balberith.”

Suddenly, she shivered as if a wind had struck. He saw her skin pale, saw her touch a hand to her chest and gasp.

“Hyacinth?”

“He heard me, Captain. He just heard me speak that name.”

“How?”

“From wherever he is, he somehow pierced my heart to remind me, to let me know he is no fool.” She looked up to Darke, her eyes clearly frightened. “Could you … could you hold me?”

He did, kneeling beside her, pulling her close, feeling helpless at her sudden fear.

“Is he listening still?” Darke asked.

“No, he cares little of us; he just wanted to put fear into me, and he did. Oh, Captain, you cannot go against him. He mocks us; he toys with us.”

“Let him. I have not lived to be the last king of the Tarshians without reason. He may be an angel, but he knows little of my ways, and by threatening you, it is clear he knows me even less.”

She rested her head against his shoulder a moment. “The fear he pierced through me was a promise, Captain, the whispered promise of an angel.”

“And what did it say?”

“He is going to kill me. He just showed me my own death.”

Darke sharply took her at arms' length. “Listen to me: I will not let that happen. I do not care his lineage or his list of names and titles, whether he is a lord or a prefect. Everything dies, even an angel, and we will find the way. The key must be this Daath he spoke of. Satariel wants him badly. Would any clue to why be hidden in this book?”