When they separated she looked into his eyes and for once knew without question what lay behind them: no matter where he was, his love for her would never cease.
"What will you do if—when you are back?"
Sargatanas looked away, almost as if the prospect of returning were now, somehow, something he could not talk about. After a moment he said, "I will bathe for a small eternity in the river called the Source to wash away this place. After that, I suppose, I will wait to be brought before the Throne. And you ... when this is over?"
"I don't know; wander, I'm guessing. But I won't be staying here."
He nodded, clearly understanding; staying in Adamantinarx would be a constant wounding reminder of their separation. The all-too-short time spent with this demon, in this city, was, she thought, so unlike her time in Dis, and yet both were proving to be sad beyond measure, for very different reasons.
Without a word, he turned and beckoned her to come inside with him. Lilith held back for just a moment, the bitter memories of her past colliding with her unachievable, fleeting dreams of the future. And from them came inspiration.
"Promise me one thing, Sargatanas," she said. "Promise me that you will not let the Black Dome stand when you are done with the Fly."
He looked into her eyes, again finding what he needed to know, and said, "I will. For you ... and Ardat."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DIS
"I summoned you because something appears to be happening across Adamantinarx," the newly appointed Prime Minister heard Agaliarept hiss. Pointing abruptly and in a revelatory manner with five of his arms, the Conjuror General continued, "Pockets of weakness are opening. ... Look at these configurations. Here and here and ... there! See how they fade?"
Adramalik had to admit that the map of Adamantinarx that floated before them was, indeed, changing significantly. The intricate multilayered latticework of glyphs that represented individual buildings and streets and tunnels, even certain personages, seemed to blister and pop like the bubbles upon the surface of a shifting flow of magma. Some of Agaliarept's many mouths made sucking noises of pleasure, sounds that seemed appropriate for the bursting of the glyphs, as the carefully constructed defenses mutated, affording him perceived opportunities that had not been there before.
"We should inform the Prince if the palace itself begins to degrade," said Adramalik. Most of the activity, for the moment, involved what appeared to be domiciles and storehouses. "I am now convinced she is somewhere within it and not being kept outside its walls as a foil. The Prince's Hand has searched the city ceaselessly and come away with nothing."
Agaliarept appeared not to be listening but, instead, to be in some kind of trance state, his finer manipulators dexterously separating and plucking away at the newly configured glyphs, his minds digging, prying, calculating. Adramalik stepped back as disinterested portions of the Conjuror began to peel away and fall off, chittering and fading away in the darkness of the chamber, setting about on other unknown tasks. Seeing them, he moved farther away and then left the Conjuring Chamber altogether, careful to observe whether the smaller parts of Agaliarept were on their own mission. He knew he must hurry.
A smirk twisted across his face; he would not wait to tell his Prince as he had advised Agaliarept. Beelzebub would be pleased with the news, and he very much wanted to be the bearer of it; he did not want to risk lessening his punishment by diluting the message. Sargatanas' strategy should have been predictable, he thought reproachfully, that in his hour of need he would tap the only resource he had left to him—the souls—and that this would benefit the Prince. And, more important, himself.
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
When Eligor finally brought Hannibal out of his darkened chamber the soul found himself squinting at a very different Adamantinarx, a heavy blanket of dust hanging over the city, evidence of the ongoing demolition that was reshaping it. Supported by the Guard Captain, Hannibal walked weakly at first, trying to regain a sense of balance and poise that was hampered by his lingering pain and the loss of his arm. Mago was not far behind, and when Hannibal seemed comfortable enough to stand on his own, Eligor let go of the general and allowed his brother to offer his help. Looking at the soul's uncomplicated sigil, Eligor admitted to himself that it would take some getting used to. He also had to acknowledge that Hannibal was more than deserving of the honor.
Like Sargatanas, Eligor had grown to admire the resourceful soul. Hannibal, Eligor had learned in speaking with Mago, was what souls regarded as a military man, born of what they thought of as nobility, and perhaps because of these factors he seemed unfazed by the company he now found himself in. Not the fact that he was among demons, not the reality that only a short time ago they had been his zealous wardens, not even the sheer comparative size of them—none of this seemed to impinge upon his ability to remain focused.
Eligor kept a concerned eye on Hannibal as the trio descended toward the waiting armies. The Soul-General had elected to wear a heavy cloak that mostly concealed his asymmetrical shoulders and would probably continue to do so until his new arm was fully regrown. Despite his recent trials, he seemed strong and only stumbled once. He was silent as they traversed the Rule, taking in the changes that had been wrought in his absence. Groans and cries carried from distant quarters as structures came down, the sounds of Sargatanas' city in agony.
Nearly at the river's edge, Eligor saw that in contrast to the city-center, here virtually no buildings were left standing; only those essential to the waging of war had withstood the tide of destruction. Adamantinarx's demolition had progressed efficiently and, Eligor thought, somewhat ruthlessly. Walking through the palace had reminded him of its construction rather than any imminent razing, whereas the city's aspect was one of pending morbidity. His dismay was profound. More than most, he understood Sargatanas' pressing need, but Eligor was saddened by the wanton destruction of what he knew would surely take centuries to rebuild. Where buildings had stood there remained little but geometric depressions upon the ground. Only the massive internal gate remained, a smaller cousin of the cyclopean checkpoint gates that still ringed the city, a stark sight still attached to the adjacent walls but standing free of its once-plentiful surrounding buildings.
The sound of trumpets and drums reached their ears as they crossed the Acheron's largest bridge, the Kufa-vors Eophan, and Eligor lengthened his stride. The encampments were far enough away from the river not to be influenced by its sorrowful effects, and once they arrived at the encampments' outskirts it took some time to negotiate the improvised streets that crisscrossed the military tent-city. The allied armies that had been promised by their lords and ambassadors had finally arrived, and the Guard Captain knew there was no reason to linger another day. The time for his or any other demons' doubts had vanished long ago, and now that the decision to attack Dis had been made by his lord, Eligor simply wanted to send his troops aloft.
A small army of demons numbering, Eligor guessed, in the few thousands knelt over their sheathed swords in close ranks before a newly erected rostrum. As he ascended the steps toward Sargatanas and his generals, Eligor saw that those waiting before the rostrum were an assembly of ad of the lesser-ranked field commanders—Demons Minor mostly—who would lead the immense host into battle. Each army in itself was so large that it required its own major general and his staff to coordinate movements.