Angel Mage

Prologue

THERE ARE ONLY ELEVEN OF US LEFT, EMINENCE, SAID the young guard. She was obviously very weary, leaning on her sword, which was smeared from hilt to tip in caked gray ash. I don’t think we can hold even this tower for much longer.

Eleven? asked old Cardinal Alsysheron, who looked far more ancient than her seventy years. She sat on the ledge of the great arched south window, because there was nowhere else to sit in the belfry atop the tower, most of the space being taken up by the great bell of Saint Desiderus. A massive bronze presence, it was silent now. There was no point ringing out any alarms, and, besides, the bell ringers were dead.

Alsysheron had folded up the long tail of her scarlet robe to make something of a cushion against the cold stone. She wore only one slipper, and her close-shaven head was bare, lacking cap or miter for the first time in many years, the faint white fuzz stark against her deep black skin. The Cardinal had fled very hurriedly from her makeshift bed in the great hall when the creatures had unexpectedly managed to find a way in via the cellars and crypt.

I did not hear another assault. . . .

The Ash Blood took Omarten, answered the guard, giving the plague its newfound name. She wasn’t even one of the Cardinal’s household. Up until two days before, she had been a very new recruit in the Royal Guard. But when the palace fell to the monsters, she had gone with the survivors along the river, to the cathedral, which had once been a fortress and seemed to offer some slim hope of survival. We put his body out.

That was unnecessary, said the Cardinal. As we have seen, the transformation does not take place after death.

We didn’t want to take a chance, whispered the guard. She leaned forward, deep brown eyes suddenly wide-open, more intense, the weariness banished. She looked very young to the Cardinal, too young to be caparisoned in steel morion and cuirass, with pistols through her once-blue sash, now stained gray with the ash blood of the creatures. Eminence . . . is it not time?

Time for what, my child?

To call upon Palleniel!

Her voice was urgent; she no longer leaned upon her sword but lifted it high. Surely he can put everything to rights!

The Cardinal slowly shook her head and looked out over the city of Cadenz, or what she could see of it under the massive, lowering cloud of thick black smoke. There were many fires burning now, kindled when bakers and cooks died from the Ash Blood and no longer banked their fires, fires soon out of control with no one living to fight them. The monsters certainly didn’t try. Indeed, at least one of the biggest fires had been started by someone—probably a desperate officer of the City Watch—hoping to keep the monsters on the northern bank of the river, unaware the creatures were not invaders but transformed people—and were thus springing up everywhere.

Magister Thorran made a report before she died, said the Cardinal. It is angelic magic that makes the victims become monsters while they still live. Too many mages and priests called upon their angels for healing when the plague first started, or in attempts to defend themselves—I saw it happen myself, as I am sure you did too . . . I am sorry, but I have forgotten your name.

"Ilgran, Eminence. But surely, where the lesser angels fail, Palleniel—"

The Archbishop shook her head more stridently.

I have been slow to penetrate the nature of this, Ilgran, she said. Perhaps you will be swifter than I when you hear these three things.

She held up her hand, counting on her thin, ancient fingers. Each digit bore a heavy weight of icon rings, some fingers two or three, each icon representing an angel the Cardinal could call upon, though none of these were as powerful as the one depicted on the heavy, gold-chased icon that hung around her neck on a collar of silver-gilt esses.

First, Esperaviel has flown at my behest to Barrona and Tarille and to the beginning of the land bridge: she confirms the Ash Blood plague does not extend beyond the borders of Ystara, not one yard beyond. Furthermore she could not pass the borders herself—

I am not much of a mage, Eminence, said Ilgran, with a faint blush. She had gained her place in the Royal Guard by virtue of her aunt’s being a lieutenant, not by the brilliance of her swordplay or expertise with magic. I do not know Esperaviel. Of what order—

A Principality, under Palleniel, her scope the sky of Ystara, continued the Cardinal. She told me the borders were blocked by the neighboring Archangels, by the power of Ashalael of Sarance in the north and Turikishan of Menorco in the south.

Gathered to attack us? But why, it doesn’t—

No, it is not an attack, not from without. They have simply closed the borders to all heavenly beings. All our borders. Listen! The second matter is that Esperaviel reported seeing the Maid of Ellanda, with many followers, crossing the border into Sarance, and third . . .

The old cleric paused and sighed heavily. She let her hand fall to her lap and then raised it again, reaching to take Ilgran’s left hand in her bony grasp, levering herself up to stand somewhat shakily.

"And third, I called upon Palleniel on the first day, when the King began to bleed ash. Palleniel answered but would not do my bidding. Another commanded him now, he said."

What! But . . . that is . . . how? You are the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ystara! You hold the icon!

"And Palleniel is the Archangel of Ystara. But my icon—the ancient icon of Saint Desiderus—is dull and lifeless now. Did you not notice it? The icon of Xerreniel you bear upon your helmet would jangle and tremble were mine still puissant, to stand so close. I felt its virtue fade as Palleniel retreated. It was then I asked myself, What power could inflict this Ash Blood plague upon our poor people? What power could cause all lesser angels’ interventions to go astray, to create monsters rather than the healing or defenses that were sought? Who could do this in Ystara?"

The other Archangels—

No, said the Cardinal. "Here in Ystara, Palleniel is paramount. I think the neighboring Archangels have acted to limit the Ash Blood and the creatures it brings, as best they can, in the earthly realms they protect. I sense they are trying to do more, that there is further struggle in the heavens, directed against Palleniel. Because this plague, the monsters . . . it must be Palleniel’s work. But as always, no angel may come to our world, or act, save at mortal call and direction. And so the pieces come together, for who has the art and power to have made a new icon to summon Palleniel himself? And having made it, who would have the arrogance and strength to summon him and set him to such work?"

Ilgran shook her head and frowned, and her mouth quirked in disbelief.

I suppose it can only be the Maid of Ellanda . . . but why would she want . . . this? It is the death of the kingdom! The death of us all!

I do not think she did want this, said the Cardinal. But as always with angels, one must be very careful. The greater the power, the greater the possibility of unintended harm. We should have seen the logical consequence of her talent to make icons and summon angels. Do I say talent? I mean genius, of course. But she was . . . she is too young. Nineteen is far too young to be made a magister, or bishop, to be given the teaching and allowed the greater orders. Though clearly she has needed neither teaching nor permission. . . .

I saw her once. From afar. She had a light in her eyes, a madness, said Ilgran slowly. She was not looking at the Cardinal but out across the burning city. When she came with her followers to see the King, wanting a charter for her temple. For Palleniel Exalted, whatever that means. . . .

Ilgran spoke absently, her mind elsewhere, digesting what the Cardinal had just told her. It meant there would be no rescue; she would likely not live to see past another dawn, perhaps not even that long. There were many monsters below, and the cathedral had not been a fortress for a century, at the least. The bell tower had no water, no stored food, and, besides, the gate below was weak. Even without a ram, the bigger monsters would smash it down when they made a determined effort to do so.

Perhaps we should have allowed her that charter, mused the Cardinal. But I do not think she is mad. Ferociously single-minded, I grant you. I pity her.

"You pity Liliath, Eminence? If it is as you suspect, she has somehow corrupted Palleniel, she is responsible . . . she has brought the Ash Blood plague upon us; she has slain my parents and turned my brother and sister into monsters. If she were here I would kill her and be glad, if sword or pistol would do what is needed against whatever she has become!"

Oh, I think cold steel or a bullet would finish her, albeit with difficulty, just as with the monsters, said the Cardinal. "Though you might not get the chance to use sword or pistol, if she does indeed hold Palleniel in her service. She must command other angels, too, more than we ever suspected. But I do pity her, for as I said, this cannot be what she intended. So young, so impossibly gifted, and yet so unwise, all bound up together. I wonder what she actually did intend, perhaps—"

Whatever she was about to say was lost, as the first of the monsters who had climbed the ancient, cracked, and open-veined stones of the bell tower launched itself over the battlements and onto her back, cutting the old prelate’s throat with its talons as it bore her to the ground.

Ilgran killed one with a sword thrust that left the weapon embedded in the creature’s mouth, before she fell. Literally, for as she ducked under the rim of the great bell to throw herself down the open shaft, one of the creatures closed upon her, jaws ravening and horrible, hooked fingers reaching. A pistol remained unused in Ilgran’s belt, not fired at the last because the monster looked at her with Janeth’s eyes. Her little sister’s lively green eyes.

The guard jumped, making no attempt to grab the bell rope. Falling to her death, Ilgran focused every part of her mind on the slightest of hopes those eyes had raised.

There had to be some chance that a monster could become human again.

Part I

Liliath

One

THE YOUNG WOMAN WOKE IN TOTAL DARKNESS WITH COLD stone under her, and her questing hands felt stone above and to the sides. But the moment of panic that came with this realization ebbed as she remembered why this was so and disappeared completely when she heard the voice.

The voice of power and strength that made her feel complete, made her feel alive. With it came a sudden, intense sensation of being enfolded, held close and safe. Not by mere human arms, but within great wings of light and power.

As you commanded long ago, that which you waited for has occurred, and so I awake you.

How . . . ?

Her voice croaked and failed. She swallowed, saliva moving in her mouth and throat for the first time in . . . who knew how long.

She had been stopped for a long time just short of being dead, she knew. She would have seemed dead if anyone could have looked inside the tomb, though the remarkable preservation of her flesh would have given pause to any observers. But the chance of any onlookers had been greatly reduced by her choice of resting place. The great stone coffin, topped with a massive slab of marble, all sealed with lead.

It would have been natural for her to ask how long she had been in the coffin. But that was not her first question. She thought only of what was needful, for her all-consuming plan.

How many suitable candidates are ready?

There was a long silence. Long enough for her to think the presence gone. But then the voice came again.

Four.

"Four! But there should be hundreds—"

Four, repeated the voice.

For a moment, fury coursed through her, extreme anger that her plans—her destiny—should once again go awry. But she fought the anger down. Though she had hoped for many more possible candidates, to allow for error or mischance, four should be enough. Even one might suffice. . . .

Where are they?

In four places in Sarance, but they will come together. Soon.

And the Order? It continues? You have shown them the signs of my awakening?

"I have shown the signs. I know not if any survive to see them, or if they have been acted upon. As you know, I am not entire, and mightily resisted . . . only your will anchors me to your world. Almost I wish to fully disassociate—"

You will do as I commanded!

She spoke urgently, her voice imbued with all her natural power and intense, concentrated will.

I obey. I am yours entire. I can speak no longer, my—

The voice stopped. This time the silence was complete. She knew there would be no further speech, no warmth, no sensation of utter security and love. Not now. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, but she fiercely blinked them away. She had no time for tears. Ever.

I love you, whispered the young woman. She felt better saying the words, coming back to herself, to what she had been. Her voice grew stronger, echoing inside the stone coffin. "I will always love you. We will be together. We will be together!"

She felt her hands. Her skin still had the soft, velvet smoothness of youth. More important, the rings were all there. She touched them, one by one, letting the power within begin to rise, just a little, before she settled on the least of the nine. The ring on her left thumb. Made from ancient electrum, the band held an oval of ivory, carved to show fine, feathery wings almost obscuring a human face, painted or perhaps enameled, the eyes tiny rubies. The halo above the almost hidden face was a line of gold no wider than a hair.

Mazrathiel, whispered the woman in the coffin. Mazrathiel, Mazrathiel, come to my need.

Light shone from the ring, cold like moonlight, though brighter. She shut her eyes against the sudden illumination and felt the lesser presence appear. It came with a sensation of warmth, but this was no more than the welcome heat of a kitchen fire on a cold day, nothing so remarkable as the feeling that had encompassed her whole being before, when she had spoken to him. Similarly, she felt the rush of air as if from the folding of wings, and the faint, clear tone of a single harp string, plucked far away.

Mazrathiel is here, said a faint whisper only she could hear. What is your will? If it lies within my scope, it shall be done.

The woman whispered, and Mazrathiel did her bidding.

Brother Delfon had always liked the cool quiet of the Saint’s Tomb in the lowest crypt beneath the temple. It was very cold in winter, but he had not been sent to a vigil here in winter, not since his sixtieth year. That was more than a decade behind him now, and like all practitioners of angelic magic, he was older than his years. The more fragile followers of Saint Marguerite only stood vigil in high summer, and in truth Delfon would have been spared the task, save that he insisted. He did acquiesce with the suggestion of his superiors that he bring a cushion and a blanket, and sit upon the wooden bench in the corner that served to rest weary pilgrims on the high holy days when they were allowed to visit.

He slumped now, no more than half awake. So it took him some several seconds to notice that he was no longer alone. A sister stood above him, looking at him with a quizzical expression as if uncertain what to make of the elderly monk.

A young sister. She wore a similar habit to his own, the black and white of the followers of the Archangel Ashalael, but there were variations in the width of the white cuffs at the sleeves and in the hem of the robe, and even the blackness of the cloth looked a little different in the light of Delfon’s lantern. Slowly he realized it was perhaps a very dark blue, not black at all, and the badge on the breast, picked out in gold, showed a pair of seven-pinioned wings, Archangel’s wings. But Ashalael’s wings were always shown in silver, and besides, these were surmounted by a strange, nine-tined crown with a halo above, not by the miter of the Cardinal. . . .

But then his eyes weren’t what they once were, nor his ears. The same applied to his memory, so he did not long puzzle himself over the badge, or why he didn’t recognize this tall, patrician-looking sister. She was curiously young, perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen, surely a novice. But against that, she carried herself like a visiting bishop, or an abbot, and he glanced at her nut-brown hands, nodding as he saw she wore many rings on her fingers, rings set with rectangular or oval pieces of painted and gilded ivory, or intricately engraved gilded bronze. Icons of angelic magic, though he could not immediately see which angels they represented, what powers they could summon.

I didn’t notice you come in, your grace, he said. Her face was a little familiar. Young and beautiful, dark-eyed and almond-skinned, her hair black as a rare slice of jade he had once engraved to make an icon of Karazakiel. Her expression was severe—Delfon could not recall who she was, though she did remind him of someone. . . .

No, I did not wish you to, said the strange young sister. She held out her right hand, and Brother Delfon took it and brushed his lips in the air several inches above her fingers, his old eyes trying to focus on the face of the angel so beautifully painted on the ivory plaque held in the prongs of the most distinctive and extraordinarily powerful ring. He recognized neither face nor the style of the painter, which was exceedingly odd, for Brother Delfon was a prominent icon-maker himself. He had studied icons all his life, and painted thousands of angels, and in his heyday had been able to channel the power of no fewer than nine very useful, if relatively low-ranking angels into his work.

He could not deal with so many now, but there were still three lesser angels who would answer to him and would lend their power to inhabit the icons he made, which he finished with his own blood.

I do not . . . I do not recognize your badge, your order, muttered Delfon, releasing the Bishop’s hand to shakily point at her habit.

You do not? asked the young woman. She laughed, and her eyes sparkled with something of equal parts exuberance and mischief. It is the blazon of Palleniel Exalted, of course.

Delfon drew back. Surely he had misheard . . .

Palleniel Exalted, repeated the woman, louder. She seemed to enjoy saying a name that was no longer spoken. Or perhaps even remembered, save by those like Delfon whose lives were bound up in catalogs and listings of angelic beings. Besides, his childhood had been spent near the border of Ystara, the lost country whose Archangel had been Palleniel.

Palleniel? But he is no more, gone from this world, banished by the other Archangels!

But here is his Archbishop, and you have looked upon her. Not all that you have been told is true.

Delfon frowned and started to speak, but at that moment he finally noticed something behind her, which he should have seen immediately. Words dried up in his mouth as he saw that the Saint’s Tomb, the great stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of this circular, vaulted chamber, was no longer as it had been.

The lead-sealed marble lid of the vast coffin had been slid aside. It weighed several tons, and had surely been put there originally only with the greatest effort of engineers, sheerlegs, and rope. Or with the aid of a most powerful angel . . .

The woman saw the direction of his stricken gaze.

You seem perturbed, brother. But I assure you Saint Marguerite did not object to my sharing her crypt. Indeed, when I crept in I found nothing there, suggesting the predecessors in your order were not entirely truthful about the founding of this place.

But, but . . . what—

Liliath sat down on the bench next to the old man and put her arm around his shoulders. He tensed and tried to draw back, but she easily held him close. She was disturbingly strong, and he quickly decided to remain still, though he turned his face away.

"Now, now. Have no fear. I would like to know something of considerable import. To me, at the least, for I suppose it has been a long time."

W-w-what?

A long time I have been gone, said Liliath. I knew it would be, but not in any exact measure. How many years is it since the Doom of Ystara?

One hundred and . . . , whispered Delfon. One hundred and thirty-six— No, one hundred and thirty-seven years ago.

It seemed but a night’s good rest, said Liliath, almost to herself. A long time . . .

She was silent for a while, slim fingers resting on one of the icon rings. Delfon sat next to her, shivering, suddenly as cold as he ever had been in the tomb in winter, in bygone days. He thought he heard the soft flutter of angel’s wings, some other summoning, but he couldn’t be sure. His head hurt, and his ears felt thick and closed.

So you are Delfon, said Liliath, pinching his chin and turning his head toward her. He shivered more violently, for he had not told her his name.

She looked even younger close up, and Delfon suddenly remembered where he’d seen her face before, or something like it. There was a handwritten annotation at the end of one of his books about the icon-makers of the ages, with an accompanying sketch. This young woman was the person in that sketch: Liliath, the Maid of Ellanda. The woman who had led the only organized band of refugees to escape from doomed Ystara, dying in mysterious circumstances soon after crossing the border into Sarance.

According to the dozen or so lines added to the end of the book, Liliath had been an incredible young woman, astonishing the world with her ability to make icons and channel angels from childhood, hence her early naming as the Maid of Ellanda. A name possibly rendered ironic later, as rumor had it she was the lover of the King of Ystara, and others, though this was never to anyone’s definite knowledge.

The notes also questioned a rumor that Liliath was uniquely able to avoid the cost of calling upon angelic powers. To summon angels took something from a mage, some of their living essence. Mages and priests aged swiftly, the more they used their powers, and the greater the angels they summoned.

The great Handuran had quantified this loss in The Price of Virtue. A few hours from a span of life to summon a Seraphim was of course of no account, but to call upon a Principality would age the summoner by a year, and an Archangel, several years. One famous example was the Cardinal Saint Erharn the Blessed, who had gone from a vital woman of forty to an ancient, wizened crone and then death in the span of only a day and a night, wielding the powers of the Archangel Ashalael to hold back the sea in the Great Flood of 1309. . . .

Delfon realized his mind had wandered. The young woman was asking him something again. But she could not be the Maid of Ellanda. No, surely not—

Tell me, you are an icon-maker?

Yes, muttered Delfon. He clasped his hands together, as if he might even now hide the stains of paint on his fingers, the dried patches of egg white and raw pigment, bright on his leathery dark brown skin. The pattern of small scars in crosshatched ridges of even darker flesh across the backs of his hands, where his blood had been drawn.

You still summon as well as paint?

Yes. Not often . . .

Which angels speak to you? Is Foraziel one?

Yes! exclaimed Delfon, very much surprised. Though he was obviously an icon-maker, he wore no icons on the rope belt of his habit, had no rings, nothing at his neck or wrist to give her a clue as to the particular angels who were his allies in the craft. Given there were ten thousand angels in the host of Ashalael alone, the chance of her knowing which angels he knew was—

I thought as much, said Liliath, interrupting Delfon’s panicked thoughts. "He put you here for my awakening."

He? asked Delfon, puzzlement mixing with the panic. Though angels did not strictly have a gender, there was a tradition of depicting most of them as either male or female, and traditionally, Foraziel was female.

Liliath ignored his question.

I need an icon of Foraziel, she said. I need her power to find what I seek, and I do not want to waste time making an icon of my own.

Delfon nodded dumbly. Foraziel’s scope was for finding things and people lost or forgotten. But he could not help gazing at this young woman’s strange rings. She had major angelic powers there. One of the lesser ones—and he shivered to think it lesser only because of those neighboring icons—did not show the typical face and halo of an angel but a wheel within a wheel, both rimmed with tiny eyes of diamond. A Throne, one of the strange angels, highest of the First Sphere. Higher than any angels Delfon ever channeled, a being of far greater puissance than little Foraziel. But the other rings held icons that suggested greater angels still. . . .

Liliath flexed her fingers, lantern light making tiny ruby and diamond eyes and gilded halos flash and glitter.

Sometimes it is a small, specific power that is needed, she said, correctly gauging the tenor of Delfon’s thoughts. Not the awful majesty of Principalities or Archangels.

Delfon bowed his head, his body shaking as if he had suddenly caught the ague. This was all too much for him, this strange sister . . . bishop . . . saint . . . whatever she was, and the power that went with her. The painted icons on her rings were not simply representations of angels, they were direct conduits to great and terrible beings. And she might even have somewhere hidden an icon of the greatest, if she spoke true about being some high priest of Palleniel, who was an equal to the Archangels who guarded the greatest countries of the world.

Though Palleniel had not guarded his country but destroyed its people with the Ash Blood plague, and so now—if mentioned at all—he was called the Fallen Angel, his name used as a curse. . . .

Is there an icon of Foraziel in this temple? asked Liliath.

Delfon hesitated, but only for a moment. Whoever this woman really was—presumably some enemy from Alba or the Eighty-Six Kingdoms—she had power far beyond his own, or for that matter far beyond anyone else in the temple, including the abbot. Though how she could be so young, not aged by the powers she called upon . . . it was beyond him, and he knew he had no choice but to honestly answer and obey.

Yes, he said. In the workshop. I finished it only a few days past.

Good, said Liliath. You can show me the way. I didn’t have time to look around on my . . . ah . . . way in here.

Yes, mumbled Delfon as he slowly got to his feet.

Good, said the woman again. She held up her hand and touched one of the rings, muttering a name under her breath. Delfon raised one arm to shield his old eyes from the light that came then, but he peeked a little. Whichever angel this woman had summoned, it made quick work of putting the coffin lid back, the strips of broken lead rising to move into place like snakes being charmed to their rest. Within a few minutes, the tomb appeared exactly as it had been when Delfon had begun his vigil at sunset.

The old monk leaned on the wall and looked at the woman, shutting one eye so his best, the right, could better focus. A lock of her hair had turned white, but even as he watched, black flowed back through it, like wine mixing with water. She had not paid the price of using whichever angel had closed the tomb. Or had done so only temporarily.

You will kill me, I think, when you have the icon? he said slowly. So no word can spread of . . . you.

Yes, agreed Liliath. "I expect that is why he called you here, you who are soon to die in any case. Better than any of the younger ones. Palleniel is more compassionate than I."

Ah, replied Delfon. He did not feel frightened now, which he thought strange. Just curious, and very tired. There had been too much excitement in the past few minutes. And the angel’s residual light had frosted the corners of his eyes, making it more difficult for him to see than ever. Palleniel. Plague bringer. The antagonist.

Palleniel, yes. Those other names are the invention of others. I did say not all you have been told is true.

But how can he have called me to be the one here tonight? asked Delfon, genuinely curious, even faced with the prospect of death. Once an angelic mage, always so, even in great age and final hours. In this place of Ashalael, in Sarance? Palleniel holds no sway here. And angels do not act of their own volition.

The orthodox hold it so, said Liliath. She smiled with the satisfaction of secret knowledge. "But in truth, the scope of angels’ actions upon this world are not rigid boundaries of their making but are defined by long use and custom of people, and they can be bent. Or if geographic, pierced in small locales. And some can be given instructions to act upon in time to come. Given sufficient will and power."

Delfon shook his head.

I cannot believe what you say is so, said Delfon. "Or I would not, save that if you are indeed Liliath . . . I read of you in Decarandal’s Lives of the Magi. Though it was not Decarandal who scribbled in the final pages . . . whoever that was said Liliath could make icons swiftly, at need, and summon angels previously unknown to any temple. . . ."

Go on, said Liliath. I am curious. What else was written?

Her skill in icon-making was unparalleled. And the rumors, the talk that she did not physically pay the toll of summoning . . . but then she died young, only nineteen, in years at least, and so it seemed she had aged after all, if not outwardly. Some thought it a tragedy, a bright promise lost to the world.

Yet as you see, I did not die, said Liliath. And I will fulfill my promises. All of them, but one most of all.

Delfon peered at her, not understanding, but recognizing the strength of her feeling. He had seen that intensity in others before, in pilgrims, or those undertaking great tasks, driven by internal forces they often barely recognized themselves. But in this woman it was magnified a thousandfold.

Come, we must go, ordered Liliath.

You won’t hurt me? asked Delfon tentatively. Before, I mean . . .

No, agreed Liliath matter-of-factly. Your heart will simply cease its movement. I think you are already weary, are you not?

Yes, yes, I am, muttered Delfon. The angel light around his eyes was spreading, and with it, a welcome warmth. He had not felt so relaxed inside himself, not for many years, his pulse very slow and steady. It made him feel very much as if an extraordinarily comfortable bed lay in his close future, a much more comfortable bed than his own in the cell above them in the temple.

Not yet, Mazrathiel, whispered the woman. Mazrathiel was a Dominion, of broad scope, encompassing movement of any kind. Including the beating of a heart, though only the most powerful—and selfish—of mages could force an angel to perform a direct act to take a life. Not until I have the icon, and he is sitting down.

What’s that? asked Delfon, coming back to himself a little.

You serve a true and noble cause, one it is a great honor to die for, said Liliath. Her eyes seemed to shine with an inner light as she spoke, and her mouth trembled in a smile. Delfon shivered again, seeing it, feeling so much power and belief in this young woman. Just a girl, really, at least to look at—but one with such strength of will and purpose, so many angels at her beck and call . . .

Liliath took his arm and led him to the door, which was already uncharacteristically ajar. Which way?

Left, said Delfon. And up the winding stair.

He hobbled out, Liliath at his side.

Tell me, she said. What has been going on in the world? Who rules Sarance?

Behind them, the door slowly creaked shut, accompanied by the faint sound of a distant, heavenly choir ending all together on a single, discordant note.

Two

LILIATH ARRANGED BROTHER DELFON’S BODY ON THE floor by the worktable and closed his eyes with a no-nonsense gentleness. Mazrathiel retreated, eager to be gone after being brought unwillingly to end a life, and he would no doubt be more resistant to further summoning. Not that this concerned Liliath. If she needed Mazrathiel, he would serve, as did all angels whose icons she had made or used. She would brook no disobedience.

The icon of Foraziel the old man had made lay in pride of place on his table. It was good work, more than merely competent. She could feel the potential presence of the angel in the image, which was the most common depiction of Foraziel: an unprepossessing woman of middle age startled by the discovery of some good thing; only the thin halo indicated she was an angel.

I must know who and where they are, whispered the young woman. Only four . . .

But there was no time to call upon Foraziel. Dawn was close now, and Liliath had to leave the temple before discovery. Taking up the new icon, she put it to join a number of others in the secret pockets inside her habit. Decarandal’s book on icon-makers with the sketch of her that she had seen in Delfon’s mind, via the power of Pereastor, took her a few more minutes to find. She tore out the relevant pages and put them in her pocket too, then left the room, quietly closing the huge oak door behind her.

Despite the passage of time, the temple had changed little from when she had sneaked in to hide herself within the Saint’s Tomb, one hundred thirty-seven years earlier. Opening another door, she slipped out into the east cloister. There she paused, gazing out over the large paved courtyard, ill lit by the stars above. There were shapes upon the ground, and snores, indicating the presence of a group of travelers, people of insufficient status to be admitted to guest rooms or dormers, barely respectable enough to be given admittance to the temple and allowed to rest here. Curiously, they were all clad in some light color, hard to discern in the moonlight. Perhaps a greenish blue, or some shade of gray. Like a uniform, though a ragged one, and they did not seem to be soldiers.

Liliath hesitated. There were a dozen or more of these people, and the gatehouse lay beyond the courtyard. Likely some would wake as she passed and complicate matters. One way or another.

In that moment of hesitation, she heard the soft whisk of bare feet on the stone, someone creeping up behind her. Turning, she saw a hooded, gray-clad man, his dagger raised. He struck at her, but she was swifter, moving aside in a flowing, seamless motion that should have given him pause. But it did not.

I won’t kill you, he whispered, telling Liliath that the sleepers in the courtyard were not necessarily his allies, or perhaps he feared the temple guards in the gatehouse would hear and intervene. Many of his teeth were broken, and his left arm hung at his side, withered and useless. But his right arm was very strong, the one that held the knife. "Just slip off those rings like a good lass. And don’t think you can call on an angel; I’ll gut you in an instant. Wouldn’t do you no good anyway, I am a Refuser."

Who do you think I am? asked Liliath conversationally, neither whispering nor raising her voice. She took note of the word Refuser and the tiny spark of Palleniel she could feel coursing through the blood of this would-be thief. Clearly there were many things she should have asked Brother Delfon about and now would have to find out more directly.

Dunno, said the man, watching her carefully, his dagger ready to strike again. Old Brill reckoned the stars say to come here, for our great fortune. For once she was right. Get them rings off!

You say you’re a ‘Refuser,’ said Liliath. She could not tell his origin from his skin or facial features. The man’s skin was the shade of an ash tree and his eyes green, but no one could discern anything from that. Many ancestral tribes had settled in Ystara and Sarance thousands of years ago, their blood mingling, their descendants coming in all shades from deepest black to the palest of the pale. But that mote of Palleniel inside him could mean only one thing. So you are a descendant of Ystarans?

’Course, muttered the man. He stabbed again, but Liliath leaned back impossibly far, as if she were hinged at the waist. The stroke brushed short of its intended target, her throat. Before he could recover, she flicked back and her hand snapped out and closed on his wrist, twisting his arm so he turned with it and fell on his knees.

She was impossibly strong for so slight and so young a woman. The thief made a gobbling sound in his throat, and his eyes showed white as he looked up at her, unable to comprehend what was happening.

And being of Ystara means angelic magic does not work upon you? asked Liliath. Chances are you would become some fell creature?

Yes, yes, said the man. "Don’t