Sargatanas and his party had continued down the street and she hurried to catch up. Presently she found her surroundings shifting toward those of the docksides where great square buildings rose, their portals agape, awaiting off-loaded goods from Sargatanas' many wards. In the distant past, when the city was young, she knew these enormous warehouses had been filled to overflow and the streets around them had been virtually impassable. Now they stood, for the most part, disused and hollow, their bricks looking about sullenly.
The distant fires in the sky abruptly died away and Lilith saw the return of the river to its misty, luminous pallor. She welcomed the deepening gloom, as it made her clandestine trailing of the demons considerably easier.
Keeping to the shadows of the looming buildings, she edged closer to the demons ahead of her. They filed out of the foot of the Rule and marched toward a plain bone and iron gateway that protested loudly when it was unlocked and opened by Valefar. Lilith had never been this close to the embankment, and when Sargatanas, Valefar, and Eligor and their Guard passed through the gate and began to descend a flight of unseen stairs she had no idea what lay beyond. When the last of the Foot Guard had disappeared she cautiously made her way across a hundred yards to the gate. The sad Acheron was much louder here, she realized, its thick, opalescent waters swirling in slow eddies as it passed before her while a strong wind blew from across the river, tearing at her skins. Low, ululating wails broke the pervasive background sound of the river's sobbing, and she felt her limbs grow heavy with the burden of the tear-laden spray that touched her face. Nearly all of Hell, she knew, was built on a foundation of fury, but this river, as deceptively languid as it appeared, was every bit as powerful. It etched its meandering course through the landscape with those most bitter of waters—the waters of misery. Lilith closed her eyes tightly against the fine spray and felt her body shudder. After a few moments she forced herself to open her eyes and peer down to the river's edge, where she saw a short salt-encrusted jetty that ended somewhere beneath the opaque water.
Lined up along the near portion of the jetty were the Foot Guard, silent and motionless save for the muffled flapping of their cloaks. Farther out, flanked by Valefar and Eligor, who held his sword and robes, was Sargatanas, stripped and poised at the water's edge. His dark, powerful body, contrasting sharply against the pale waters, was more human, albeit much larger, than she would have expected, and it was quiescent—not undergoing any of the transformations of which she knew it was capable. For a full minute he stood immobile, like one of the innumerable statues that dotted the city above. The fire atop his head was growing and whipping about and he was slick from the spray, and she marveled at the control she knew he must be exercising. He was so still that she was distracted momentarily by a floating skeletal torso that bounced listlessly against the jetty and spun away. Her eyes focused back upon him as he stepped forward.
The moment Sargatanas was ankle deep in the Acheron he cried out, and the sound was like a hammer to Lilith's heart. Heard above the sounds of river and city alike, it was prolonged and raw and anguished, a disharmonic cry as from the torn throats of a lost multitude. Why was he doing this? What could this possibly answer for him?
She watched as he moved slowly, painfully, out into the water, which had begun to steam and bubble violently around him. From her distance she could just see that his body was changing, at first slowly and then with gathering rapidity. His wings grew broad and full, spreading into wide petal-shapes, finned membranes, or abstract forms held together with traceries of glyphs. His trunk and legs and arms grew luminous, expanding and contracting with an array of plates, fins, spines, and horns, some of which reached for yards around him. And all the while his head blazed like the brightest of torches, with only the shadowy suggestions visible of the changes that were taking place.
Lilith moved toward the gate. Part of her wanted to go to him, to drag him from the Acheron and its pain. She realized that this must be some ritual, some form of penance, perhaps; it was the only explanation. She placed her hand atop the unlatched, pitted gate, which whined noisily, immediately causing her to shrink down. Valefar had turned his head quickly, looking back and up toward the freely swinging gate. Did he sense her? She was hopeful that the sound's origin would seem obvious and sure that he had not seen her, but that did not keep her heart from fluttering.
She was, she knew, in serious jeopardy of being caught, and she had no idea what her punishment might be, if any, for witnessing this rite. Carefully, soundlessly, she backed away from the gate and the river's edge, reluctant to leave yet fearful to stay, and retreated into the fog and anonymity of the Rule.
Hours later, after the steady climb back up the central mount, she arrived, tired and unfulfilled, at the building that housed her chambers. What had she seen? She now had more questions than answers about Sargatanas. For the moment there was no one who could answer them. But she was confident that would change in time.
Pulling off her skins and letting them lie where they fell, Lilith climbed onto her pallet. The orange glow of sky-fire had re-ignited above central Adamantinarx, blossoming into a firestorm that pelted the window with tiny, tapping embers. Sweepers were already out in the courtyard below, their brooms whisking paths through the ash. The repetitive sounds lulled her tired mind, blurring the line between reality and dream. Had she really gone down to the river's edge or had she only been lying in bed? The last image that floated through her enervated mind was of Sargatanas, his glowing body changing, changing.
Chapter Eighteen
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Eligor watched the long, curving ramp from the main doorway of the palace. From this distance he could see that most of the traffic was heading toward him and the flow of demons continued unabated as it passed him and continued into the palace. The victory on the border was drawing the disaffected from the four corners of Hell, and they had been gathering for weeks. But it was still a small number considering the numbers of the Fallen. They are coming to him, now that he has returned from a great victory. But, for now, most remain guarded and are only sending their emissaries. It will take more than one success on the battlefield before they come themselves, Eligor thought. Will they leave just as eagerly if he suffers a defeat?
Palanquins and beasts, caparisoned in heavy, ornamented blankets and elaborate trappings, all stopped at the foot of the palace stairs, where each ambassador dismounted, each having finally received some form of invitation. Escorted by Zoray's handpicked guards and accompanied by flabella-bearers and stooped lower demons bearing gifts, they climbed the many stairs and entered the palace, where they were met by Sargatanas' trusted aides, his corps of junior ministers. Passing him with nods, Eligor noted that many were frequently seen faces and these were greeted with solemn familiarity while others, the newcomers, were met with all the official ceremony of court.
After a while, he grew restless and left his own Honor Guard at the door and headed in among the ambassadors. They were as dissimilar a collection of demons as he had ever seen. Most were Demons Minor with enough of the fallen angel about them as to be unremarkable. But others had adopted the conventions of their lands or their lords, bearing bizarre forms and countenances that he sometimes felt were borne solely for effect. Great coronets of horn or torso spines corkscrewed into baroque patterns, or eye-dotted flesh, trimmed and draped like layered scales, adorned them, as did prideful and intricate reticulations of embers that sizzled as he passed. He saw some from the Lowlands who, used to the colder temperatures, were wrapped in thick layers of soul-skins and others from the craggy Uplands who favored multiple winglets and featherlight membranes. Those demons whose wards incorporated the Wastes saw fit to integrate some of the fierce, visual decorations of the Salamandrine Men, combining spiky webs of incomprehensible, glowing marks with piercings of bones from Abyssals and sigils that hovered, slithering like worms, inches from their bodies. Eligor heard their many dialects and understood most; his talent for tongues was something for which Sargatanas valued him, he knew, but now it simply made his head hurt.