White Heart of Justice (26 page)

Choosing incorrectly would only cost me my life.

I hated to think these scales had anything to do with proving real guilt or innocence. To me, they were as trustworthy as any other trial by ordeal or trial by combat. I was generally and specifically against all forms of
Judicium Divinum
. But there had to be something that triggered the punishment if the “wrong” feather was picked. Maybe it was a matter of matching the blood in the bowl to the feather. I was an Onyx and a waning magic user, so maybe I should pick the black feather.

But if the choice was that easy, the trick to beating the Sanguine Scales would have been figured out long before now. So it had to be something more complicated. Or more subtle.

Or maybe something as simple as what I'd read in Bialas' journal—that the scales judged what was in one's heart. That is, how they felt about themselves. Hawk or dove? Sinner or saint? It was a better theory than any other I had and time was running out. I plucked the white feather out of its well.

I'd always wanted to be a dove, right?

I placed the feather in the bowl.

It was a mistake.

Chapter 24

A
s the Sanguine Scales at Corterra had, these scales started morphing before my eyes. The copper weights, drops of blood, knife, and the white feather began to merge, grow, and shape themselves into something else—a demon berserker wearing ensorcelled armor and carrying the
mortem animae
curse.

It was Orcus,
I thought breathlessly,
brought back to “life” like some horrid genie from the Sanguine Scales.

Bialas' third letter and postscript now became all too clear. He'd said that Metatron had created a special set of Sanguine Scales just for Orcus. “What demon would refuse a personalized set of sacrificial scales if it meant he could become
Album Cor Iustitiae
's eternal keeper?” he'd said. When I'd first read the letter I'd thought “eternal” was just Bialas' nod to the fact that, as a demon, Orcus would have lived for centuries after Bialas' death. And in his postscript, when Bialas had said, “Let no one disturb that final resting place,” I'd thought he'd meant the final resting place for the White Heart. He'd also meant the final resting place for
Orcus
.

The personalized set of sacrificial scales that Metatron made for Orcus had cursed him and then tied him to the instrument of that curse, trapping him forever in his own strong room. It was elegantly efficient. In one fell swoop, Metatron had created an eternal, invincible guardian for the White Heart
and
took revenge on Orcus for his cruel treatment of the victims of the
mortem animae
curse—victims that Metatron had spent the latter half of his life trying to help.

But piecing together that ancient bit of mystery wasn't going to help me survive a fight with Orcus.

He was one of the largest, most fearsome demons I had ever seen. His build was as big as a barghest's, although he stood on two feet. He towered over me, his head nearly scraping the arched ceiling of the strong room. His face looked like a snake's, but he had a flatter nose and more prominent fangs, and he carried a scimitar that looked like a bigger version of the sacrificial knife I'd just used.

I stepped back in horror, only too aware that there was no quick exit from this room. My back hit the wall behind me and I glanced helplessly down at the slip passage I'd just squeezed through. Orcus advanced on me, not roaring as the
monstrum metallum
had, but instead croaking and clicking like a giant beetle. His gaze never left mine and I saw far more intelligence and cunning in his eyes than I'd ever seen in either the
monstrum metallum
or the
mortem animae
. He grinned evilly and I knew he wouldn't kill me quickly or touch me right away.

I shaped a matching scimitar and considered my options. Unlike the
mortem animae
at Septembhel, Orcus wouldn't be tempted to accept a lump of iron—if I had any—in return for leaving me alone. And even if he would, he wouldn't allow me to take the White Heart with me when I left.

Orcus came closer, emitting gentle croaks and clicks. The sounds gave me goose bumps. Slowly, I started stepping sideways, keeping the wall at my back and Orcus in front of me. But the distance between us lessened. I clamped down on my signature, not wanting to give Orcus any reason to change his behavior from the soft clicking to active attacking. I couldn't control my heartbeat though and it started to race. I swallowed and Orcus tipped his head back, snapped his jaws, and made a wet, snuffling sound. His waning magic rushed over me, which made me suddenly feel as if I'd been doused with boiling water and then shut in an iron maiden. I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't cry out but a moment later Orcus skewered my upper left arm with his scimitar, pinning me to the wall.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. I knew instinctively that hearing me cry was exactly what he wanted. But there was no stopping my shriek as the fiery tip of his blade split my skin, sliced through bicep, brachialis, and bone, and then bore straight into the stone wall in back of me.

Why had I come in here? Was winning the Laurel Crown worth all this?

Probably not, but I couldn't turn back now. Luckily, my time in the Gridiron had prepared me for an automatic response. And, unlike the Gridiron, where I abstained from deadly force, I wasn't about to make that mistake here. I turned my shriek into a shout of rage as I swung my scimitar right at Orcus' neck. The anger and pain that I put into the blow was so great, I nearly chopped his head off. Almost a complete beheading on the first try. Not bad for someone who went out of her way not to step on ants.

But Orcus just righted his head on his neck and two seconds later it was as if the damage had never happened.

A spot of fear formed in my belly. It was small at first. After all, I wasn't completely inexperienced anymore. I'd gone up against all kinds of demons. And defeated them. I'd killed my fair share by now. I'd never lost a rank match in the Gridiron. And I was still my class's
Primoris
. My magic was strong and I had a will to live like no other.

But none of that mattered here. And so the spot of fear grew bigger and Orcus' grin grew wider. I fired up another scimitar and, even though the pain and loss of blood were causing me to feel faint, I tried to wrench my arm free of Orcus' fiery hold. I only succeeded in losing more blood.

Orcus fired up another sword. We parried a few times, but my injury and vulnerable position made me weak and slow. I was all too easily disarmed and I watched in dismay as my weapon clattered to the floor, hissing and spitting like an angry firecracker before finally burning out.

I stared at Orcus in the semi-darkness. The only light now came from his swords—the one in my left arm and the other one that was slowly moving toward my right arm. Was his plan to pin me against the wall and use me for target practice? I hardly thought this ruthless monster needed any more practice in being vile and evil. The only thing that saved me from going completely insane was that he couldn't touch me without passing the
mortem animae
curse to me, which would then prevent me from dying.

But then, of course, I realized the error of my thinking. Because victims of the
mortem animae
curse could still feel. They just couldn't die.

Orcus pointed the tip of his sword toward my right arm.

I started yelling then. As much from anger as pain. I was well and truly pissed now. I didn't want to die—and I certainly didn't want to be tortured. I'd been overly confident and way too blasé about the risks in coming here. I'd known about the dangers, but only in an academic, theoretical, and intellectual way. I'd
studied
about what it would be like to attempt a trip to Hell and back, but I'd had no idea. No one did. You had to
experience
it. And who in their right mind would willingly experience Hell? Even if they thought they could escape? It had been lunacy, mania, complete and utter delirium to think I could do this.

But then I thought of the
mortem animae
up above me who were still suffering in the bailey and I thought of Rafe waiting up there for me, facing Luck knew what other threats, and I knew I couldn't just give up. I needed to think of a way to defeat Orcus no matter how impossible it seemed.

I narrowed my eyes at his copper helm, thinking how ironic dove feathers looked on such a predatory, lethal being. And that's when I remembered how we beat the
monstrum metallum
. I'd incinerated the second feather and it had neutralized its magic.

Would the same thing work again? Had it only worked before because the Corterra
monstrum metallum
had been birthed from a magical accident—the destruction of the Sanguine Scales when I'd kicked them off the table and they'd smashed to the floor? Or would it only work with the ashes from a dove's feather? Maybe I didn't want to see what this thing would be like if I added the ashes from a hawk's feather to it.

But it was the only plan I had. I gathered my feelings of revulsion and horror over this place, what had been done here, and what was still being done here. I gathered my feelings of pain and helplessness over my current situation, my feelings of worry and concern over Rafe, and my longing for us to be free of this damned place. And I harvested the hatred I had for Orcus and what he stood for. I laced my waning magic with all of those emotions and then shaped it into a big, angry storm of fiery ice basilisks.

It was a personal record. The waning magic war birds at Corterra had been impressive, and Nova even more so, but I outdid myself with my small army of winged demons. If I wasn't aware of how much they would cost me magically, I would have thought after that I was invincible.

But I knew it was my last-ditch effort to save myself. It was do, die, or become eternally cursed at this point.

My flaming basilisk swarm flew right into Orcus' face. It stunned him and gave me just enough time to wrench the scimitar out of my arm. My right hand burned as if I'd just squeezed a hot coal in my fist. Orcus' scimitar had been made with his waning magic not mine, so it burned me the same as it would anyone else.

I ducked underneath his flailing arms, careful not to touch him, and ran to the chest. I plucked the black feather out of the well of the still intact Sanguine Scales and incinerated it, blowing the ashes straight toward Orcus.

Nothing happened.

Nothing.

I wasn't sure how many more defeats I could take without giving up. As before on other assignments, I started to question whether Luck wanted me to die. But I'd resolved that question already (or so I thought). And the answer was a resounding “no.” If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. It was that simple.

So again I searched for a way out. Something I'd missed. And saw it in the most obvious place of all. Carved beneath the words
Album Cor Iustitiae
on the chest were the words:

“Tempus edax rerum.”

Etiam eorum qui vivificarentur per magicas perennis.

I certainly wasn't as good at interpreting ancient languages as an Angel would have been but I was able to translate it quickly enough.

“Time devours all things.”

Even those kept alive through perennial magic.

I had a feeling the first part wasn't just a truism.

It was a perennial magic spell. It was Orcus' “off switch.” The only question was whether I'd be able to cast it. But there was no time to waste on worrying. In my loudest, most commanding voice, I shouted,
“Tempus edax rerum!”

It worked. My relief was so palpable I sank to my knees as Orcus vanished into the ether. After that, everything happened pretty quickly. As Orcus' sword's light died with him, I found myself plunged into a blackness more intense than any I'd experienced before. It wasn't like closing my eyes. It was as if I were truly blind. There was simply no light down here except for what we brought.
Lucem in tenebras ferimus. Into the darkness we bring light, right?

But had I just spent all my fire on that ice basilisk swarm? How long would I have to wait here for my magic to return?

I held my hand out, palm up and willed a fireball to form there. It should have been the most rudimentary, automatic act by now, something akin to covering my mouth when I yawned, and yet, it was as difficult as it had been for me when I'd first enrolled at St. Luck's. Finally, a fireball took shape. Frankly, part of me was surprised I was able to light anything so soon after shaping the ice basilisk swarm. But either I was getting better at shaping animate beasts out of waning magic or the swarm simply hadn't “lived” long enough to truly tax me. I relaxed and let my fireball enlarge and hover near my shoulder. As quickly as I could, I wrapped one of my leather belts around my arm to staunch the bleeding. It felt as if a barghest had chewed my arm off, but at least I was now only minutes away from one of Rafe's soothing healing spells. I flipped open the lid of the chest.

Inside was an exquisitely beautiful millennium-old gold scabbard, hand carved with hundreds of whorls, scrolls, and spirals and set with no less than a half dozen precious stones.

And the sword.

Album Cor Iustitiae
lay in the chest beside its scabbard. It looked stunning and felt electrifying. Metatron
had
carved it out of an opal, I marveled, wondering where he'd managed to find a gemstone large enough. Clearly, however, after this experience, I would no longer question Metatron's ability to create awesome and terrifying magical objects.

I admit, even after defeating Orcus, which should have boosted my confidence enough for me to think I could single-handedly take on an entire
rogare
army, I was still afraid to touch it. But I didn't have the luxury of waiting for courage. With a trembling hand, I reached inside the chest and withdrew the sword.

Touching it was less electrifying than I'd feared, but still a shock. A zap of perennial magic lashed at my fingertips upon contact, raced up my arm, and popped in the air above my shoulder. I jumped but kept hold of the sword. I raised the White Heart up, tip to ceiling, twisting the blade so that I could see its glinting edges—one side razor sharp and the other dull as a butter knife—in the light of my flickering fireball. Gazing upon it was intoxicating, but a moment later I averted my eyes, grabbed the scabbard, sheathed the sword, and headed back to the grim task of scooting back under the slip passage.