The others had already assembled. Camael found Raziel waiting for him, impatient as always. His kinsman wore a frown. In the divine sanctum one could shape the energy however he wanted, and today Raz was tall and thin, the better to loom over one he perceived as derelict in duty.
Where have you been? he demanded. Seraphiel has been looking for you. We have a new assignment, given by the Most High.
But the moment Raziel’s thoughts touched his own, they stilled. Incredulity radiated between them. He did not even try to hide his actions. There was no point. The host kept no secrets between them.
Cam. . what have you done? You are—
Different, he supplied.
They will cast you out for this. It is not done. Not since Gabriel. All knew how that had ended. After the Morning Lord, Gabriel had been the first to fall in eons. He had done so, not out of hubris or ambition, but for a reason they found baser and more inexplicable — for love, for a human woman who would crumble to dust. So pointless, such a waste. Yet Gabriel’s half-breed children had risen up to challenge mankind. The nephilim wars had required the host itself to intervene; such a march had never been seen on earth.
In light of that history, it rendered Camael’s behaviour even more incomprehensible to his kinsman; this, he knew. He wished he could blame the woman — call her a sorceress — but what magic she owned came from her skin and her hair and her wiles, not some nebulous force. He understood now why Gabriel had given it all up. Here, one could shape the world to suit him. If he wished, he could recreate the river where he had lain with her, or he could stand in the hanging gardens of Babylon. Anything he could conceive, he could create. Despite that majesty, part of him — the half he’d left with Rei — still yearned towards Gabriel’s path, even knowing it heralded disaster.
Raziel paced. You cannot face Seraphiel like this. He will sense the stain on you immediately.
Nor can I conceal it.
His kinsman acknowledged the truth of his statement. That is why I am calling Nathaniel and Ezekiel.
The other two who comprised their host arrived almost immediately. One could always recognize Ezekiel because he always painted a black circlet about his arm, still mourning Gabriel’s loss. Everyone else preferred to forget, but Ezekiel had loved him. Once he had called Gabriel the best and brightest. Now Ezekiel refused to speak the Fallen’s name, but he eternally wore the black band, not as an accessory but as an integral part of him.
Nathaniel favoured red, and so his hair glowed like a sunset. Though they could resemble anything they wished here, most often they kept to recognizable forms. Not that such meetings were necessary, but Seraphiel preferred them as a means of guaranteeing he had his audience’s full attention.
As Raziel had done, the others saw the stain immediately. Nathaniel explored his memory, and Camael wished he had a way to prevent it. For the first time, he owned a thing he wanted to keep private. Then shame marked him at the impulse. They both drew back, shocked stillness in their thoughts.
And then from Ezekieclass="underline" So I am to lose another brother.
Not necessarily, Raziel countered. We must teach him to shield.
Nathaniel drew back, appalled. That is not permitted to our host. Only the Thrones may—
It is that, or lose him, Ezekiel interrupted.
Raziel faced their superior, as did Camael. As Ezekiel had the charge of them, it would be his choice, whether they attempted this forbidden thing. He would have faced his punishment alone, gladly, but joy suffused him that he did not have to. His host would not forsake him, no matter his transgression.
Can it be done so swiftly? Raziel asked.
By his expression, Nathaniel wondered the same thing. If Seraphiel grew impatient enough, he would touch their thoughts and summon them directly. Distance was nothing in a realm shaped by mind alone. The leader of the Seraphim, which took its name from him, could port them, should he so desire, and their wills would be unable to stand against him, for he was Seraphim, and they were mere foot soldiers.
Yes, their leader replied. I once had occasion to commune with one of the Thrones. Because they mediate between the Most High and the rest of us, they must know how to shield, so they do not yield more knowledge than we are permitted to possess. I took that knowledge when I broke the bond.
Why? Raziel asked.
Camael knew the answer even before Ezekiel gave it. To save Gabriel. But he would not even try. He was proud of his sin. He wished not to hide his love.
That boldness made Camael feel small. Was he so much less than Gabriel? Apparently he was, for he did not feel ready to confront Seraphiel and confess.
Let us have this thing done, Nathaniel said, some of his bright spark dimmed. We must needs all learn to shield, for we all share Camael’s secret now.
Perhaps Nathaniel wished that were not so. It was too late for regrets; his host had made their choice. He felt the warmth of their acceptance, though it came without understanding. None of them could fathom his choice. And yet he regretted nothing.
In the end, it was simple: a shift, a twist, and the mind divided in two. This, one showed the divine sanctum. That hidden thing remained crouched like a beast, behind the brighter part. The ease made Camael question what the Thrones might be hiding. What if the Most High were not made of perfect goodness and boundless justice? What awful darkness might his most trusted servants conceal from the rest? Once tasted, doubt burrowed into his spirit, leaving hollows.
Let us go to Seraphiel, Ezekiel said.
And, as they had always done, they followed him.
Time wore on.
Though Rei often went to the river alone, she did not see her golden god again. Her excuses about why she could not accept Kenzo and cement peace between the Tanaka and Nakamura wore thin. In her heart, she hoped their enemy’s son would lose interest, or find someone younger. These days, she could no longer be considered in the flush of youth. She no longer danced in the cherry blossoms with the young virgins. Instead she sat silently weaving with the old women.
At length, Isuke married his bride of choice. The girl had sixteen summers. . and she was silly. Hana did not know how to cook rice or clean a home, or how often the straw needed to be changed for use in bedding. She only knew how to smile prettily.
That would not be enough. If she did not give him a son, then she would go as Rei’s mother had done. In the dark of night, she sometimes wondered whether her father had asked his enemy to rid him of the wife who bred nothing but girls and dead babies. None of Rei’s sisters had survived to adulthood.
Still, it was too beautiful a day for such dark thoughts. Rei watched the dancers and listened to the trilling flutes. The smell of roast meat wafted on the summer wind, carrying the scent of hydrangeas. By this time, the azaleas were in bloom as well, like a stormy twilight. Rei strolled away from the festivities, avoiding the pantomime and the boy begging for sweets with tugs at his mother’s robe. It was good to see everyone in the village happy, even if such carefree days were coming to an end for her. With an inaudible sigh, she curled up beneath the purple fringe of the wisteria tree.
Kenzo found her, as he always did. There had been no attacks from Tanaka since he had been paying court — with her father’s approval. Now that Isuke had wed Hana, he would want her out of his house, and their old enemies would take it badly, should she give her favours elsewhere. No, there had long been an understanding. Rei only needed to make peace with her fate, and say farewell to what had been nothing more than a girl’s foolishness, lost in dreams by the river. Only in sleep could she have found such perfection.