Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series

by Carney, Michael

  # # #

  If the legion commanders were surprised by the sudden summoning of Machkiel, they would have been horrified by the advisor’s behavior in front of the emperor. Thankfully, neither soldiers nor slaves were close at hand to witness his arrival—Diocletian had sent them all away from the imperial tent and chose to wait alone for Machkiel.

  Machkiel breezed into the emperor’s tent—no bowing, no prostrating—walked directly to a bench at the side of the tent and calmly helped himself to the emperor’s finest wine. “Hail Caesar and all that.” He sniffed at the wine. “Not a bad drop. Should I pour one for you, too, sire?” he asked the somewhat scandalized Diocletian.

  After a moment, the emperor rallied and nodded, accepting a goblet of his own wine. He needed it to cope with Machkiel’s next move. The impertinent advisor strode over to the emperor’s own couch and plonked himself down on the imperial purple.

  Diocletian’s eyes blazed. He gulped down a mouthful of wine and prepared to mete out imperial justice for this brazen impertinence. But Machkiel smiled up at him.

  “Relax, mighty emperor, don’t expect me to play by your rules. I’m afraid mere emperors don’t rate in comparison to The Ruler I’ve served. Now come and sit down beside me and tell me exactly what troubles you so much that you finally chose to summon me.”

  Diocletian finally unbent. “Your leader Jesse warned me that this day would come if I agreed to take over the empire. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him.”

  “Yes,” said Machkiel, making room on the couch for the emperor. “Jesse’s prophecies are often neither welcome nor believed. Nevertheless, they have a distressing tendency to come true—which is, of course, why you called for me.”

  Diocletian spent a few minutes explaining the events that his military commanders had witnessed. Machkiel thought aloud as he stood up, returned to the bench and helped himself to another wine. “Disappeared, you say. And almost instantly reappeared somewhere else. That doesn’t sound like invisibility—plenty of them can do that, of course. I wonder—”

  Diocletian looked up expectantly, but Machkiel stopped speaking and slowly paced around the tent as he pondered the implications. The emperor sat back and observed Machkiel. Tall, slight yet powerfully muscled, from what Diocletian could see of his physique. Short black hair. Still wearing the same grey robe that he had worn when advisor and emperor had first met. And yet, around his middle, where most would wear a sturdy belt and carry a sword, Machkiel affected a few strands of rope.

  Machkiel finally stopped pacing and turned to face the emperor.

  “What you are facing here is a Darke Warrior, one of Lucifer’s inner circle of demons. They don’t usually interfere directly with human affairs, preferring instead to work through their local minions such as the Brotherhood of Judas or New Phoenicia. Why this demon would personally attack your men, I don’t yet know. But he must be stopped—and you will definitely need my help to do that.”

  Diocletian’s heart skipped a beat. Did that mean—? He had to ask.

  “And you can help because—?”

  “Didn’t Jesse tell you? Because I am an angel—an Outcast Angel, yes, but still I possess my angelic powers.”

  Concentrating, Machkiel summoned his wings. They shimmered into existence on his back as if they had always been there, glorious white richly-feathered wings, perhaps twenty feet across when fully extended. Machkiel shrugged his shoulders and flapped those magnificent wings, almost tentatively at first, then so vigorously that he rose and hovered in the air, nearly touching the roof of the tent. He landed lightly and then dismissed the ectoplasmic wings with a thought. They faded into the oblivion from whence they came.

  Diocletian, who had been brought up to believe in or, rather, pay lip service to the traditional Roman collection of gods, was shocked by this casual demonstration of supernatural powers.

  Machkiel retrieved his wine and sipped thoughtfully, then spoke to the emperor—not with the fawning respect that Diocletian usually received, but rather with purpose and determination. “Okay, let’s start making some plans. That demon is certain to return tonight. Here’s what I need your soldiers to do—”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Morning, Wednesday April 7 1610

  Adric and Chrymos dashed into the classroom together, panting and nearly out of breath, mere moments before their class was due to begin. It had been a narrow escape—Luca had finally left the priesthole a few minutes before, appearing surprised at what he had heard—but for Adric and Chrymos the whole misadventure had been a complete waste. They had learned nothing about Della Porta’s mystery visitor nor his message—the desk behind which they were crouched was simply too far away from the peephole.

  The pair’s nearly-late arrival for their lessons earned them a severe frown from their class tutor, Dominican priest Thomas Carracci. Because of their tardiness, the two friends were obliged to sit apart—the only empty places were single seats on opposite sides of the room.

  Chrymos went to sit near the two students that she always thought of as the class’s “poor little rich kids”, Bartholomeo and Salvator. They saw her coming, however, and moved their chairs together so that there was no room for her. Are they really still jealous because I’m in the same class as them after three months’ study while they’ve had to complete three years, she wondered. Do they dislike me because I’m poor? Or is it because I’m a woman in this Academy that’s supposed to be exclusively male? She shook her head in amused disbelief.

  Instead, Chrymos found a seat near the only other real friend she had in the class, Ruben. She still didn’t know very much about him, except that—even though, judging by his extensive wardrobe, he clearly came from a wealthy family—he treated her like a friend and showed no interest in mingling with either Bartholomeo or Salvator.

  As Chrymos sat down, Ruben nodded his welcome, adding, “Carracci’s on the warpath today. Better not say anything—” He struggled for the right words.

  “—like I usually do?” prompted Chrymos, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ve already had my fill of trouble today, I’m not planning to create any more just to maintain my reputation.”

  “That’s not like you, Chrymos. Are you not feeling well?” Ruben put just the right amount of caring concern into his voice, but Chrymos knew he was only joking. Before she could respond in kind, Father Carracci called the class to order.

  “Quiet, all of you. Now, you’re all well aware of what’s happening this afternoon,” Father Carracci began. “I do hope that you will still be able to concentrate on your lessons this morning, because today we’re going to be continuing with our study on the History of Warfare.”

  A nearly-audible groan ran through the room.

  Carracci managed one of his more unpleasant smiles. “I’m so glad you’re looking forward to it. But you might want to pay special attention today, because you’re going to be learning about our most dangerous adversaries.”

  That sparked everyone’s attention. Carracci continued: “As ever, before we begin, bow your heads in tribute to our Lord Almighty, Jesus Christ. We ask His blessings on us today, and on His servant on Earth, our king, His Majesty, Philip III. Long may King Philip reign over the Kingdom of Naples and the many other territories of the great and powerful Spanish Empire in the name of the Lord.”

  Carracci moved on to the topic of the day. “This morning, we will be talking about those who dare to call themselves the Outcast Angels.”

  Chrymos was suddenly thankful that she wasn’t in fact sitting beside Adric for this lesson. Adric could be an unfortunate companion—because he often “interpreted” the lessons for the benefit of those around him. Chrymos had successfully endured many of Doctor Odaldi’s alchemy classes only because Adric had made them almost interesting, despite the boring monotone that Odaldi inflicted on his students.

  Father Carracci was different—usually more stimulating, but also much more alert to any mischief, and his pun
ishments could be draconian. Chrymos still remembered the minor prank, writing a bawdy verse on the class hornbook, which had resulted in Father Carracci demanding—and securing—Mauricio’s expulsion from the Academy two months earlier.

  Carracci started his lecture—and, as Chrymos watched out of the corner of one eye, she saw that Adric was shaking his head, wishing he had Chrymos as an audience for his own version of the day’s teachings. He settled for making faces at her from across the room when Carracci wasn’t looking.

  “Previously we’ve talked about Lucifer and his demons, particularly the ones that call themselves Darke Warriors,” Carracci began. “The Outcast Angels also rebelled against mighty God, but—they claim—chose not to go along with Lucifer. Instead they serve a different master, the former archangel Eyphah, a creature as monstrous as Lucifer but even more evil because he hides behind the appearance of innocence.”

  Carracci looked suitably solemn, which made it all the more difficult for Chrymos to keep a straight face with Adric making facial contortions. She tried to focus her attention on the tutor rather than Adric.

  “Most of these Outcast Angels have divine powers that were bestowed by God,” said Carracci, “and yet those powers were not stripped from them when they were banished, despite their crimes. A small number of Outcast Angels do not appear to have any powers—we believe it is because they are offspring of the Outcasts, carogna begotten in the millennia since the angels were banished. Still, the distinction between powered and unpowered does not matter—all of these ‘Outcasts’ are abominations in the sight of the Church and of God.”

  Carracci was in full swing now. At times like this, thought Chrymos, I can easily see why Father Carracci went into the priesthood. He truly believes in what he’s saying.

  “The reason that the Academy exists,” thundered the priest, “and why we practice alchemy here even though the Church officially forbids it, is simple: we may be the Church’s sole protection against these Outcast Angels, who have on many occasions shown themselves willing to use their powers directly against us.”

  # # #

  The remainder of the lesson consisted of an extended retelling of the grim misadventures of the Spanish Armada in 1588, with Father Carracci blaming many of the Armada’s failures on Outcast Angel interference. Even Niccolo, usually the most gullible student in the class, struggled to believe that argument. Across the room, Adric was almost sniggering—silently, of course.

  Finally, Carracci summed up. “Now you know what you’re going to be facing. It’s a sobering revelation. That’s why you need to be ready. These creatures have rejected their God-given heritage and are misusing their powers for evil beyond belief. That is why, after extensive training, we will give you powers through alchemy, powers which you will use to carry the battle to these Outcast Angels during the forthcoming Lost War—once you have proven yourself worthy.

  “This afternoon, of course, we will be celebrating the graduation of your predecessors. As you know, three weeks ago last year’s graduates were given potions designed to release their unique powers. In doing so, they became members of the elite group we call the Alchemae. Since then, they’ve been cloistered, learning about their powers and refining their abilities.

  “This afternoon, we will see those powers in action for the first time. We cannot predict in advance what those powers will be, because each person is different, each manifestation of power is different. Although we give all graduates the same Exousía potion, each responds differently. From what we understand of the process, the potion simply releases the supernatural capabilities that dwell uniquely within the individual.”

  Carracci paused, staring around the room to ensure that every eye was turned towards him.

  “So my final question to you all, as we wait for this afternoon’s unveiling, is simply this: how will you cope when you receive your powers, capabilities that may be beyond your wildest imaginings? How can you best devote those powers to the service of the Academy, the Kingdom of Naples, the Spanish Empire, the Catholic Church and for Almighty God?

  “Class dismissed.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Afternoon, Wednesday April 7 1610

  That afternoon, Chrymos waited alongside the other students in the grand ballroom of the Academy of Secrets for the graduation ceremony to begin. She looked around, as usual mentally condemning the wastefulness of her surroundings. The ballroom was the most richly-decorated of all, in a mansion dripping with conspicuous wealth. The room itself was easily two hundred feet long, the walls stretching thirty feet high to rendezvous with lavishly-illustrated ceiling panels, each a masterpiece of the painter’s art, capturing scenes of past glories of the legendary Roman Empire. The walls themselves, though plainer than their elevated ceiling companions, were a mix of elegant marble facings enclosed by embedded gold leaf, which captured and reflected light.

  And the light? The ballroom was simply ablaze with candlelight, much of it pouring from the three dozen candles carried by each of the twelve priceless crystal chandeliers that dominated the room. The chandeliers, treasures in their own right, were a gift from the Tsardom of Muscovy with grateful thanks for the Academy’s assistance during the recent Time of Troubles.

  Chrymos, in her poor and (in her eyes) pitiful blue tunic dress, felt woefully out of place amidst the finery of this glamorous environment—although, in truth, all of her classmates were similarly under-prepared for the splendor of the ballroom within which they now waited. Only the Contessa Stefani was garbed appropriately for the surroundings. The mistress of the Academy wore a richly-embroidered, huge-skirted costume of magnificent black satin, trimmed with the finest lace and carelessly adorned with precious gems. So that’s the royal wedding outfit, thought Chrymos, I must admit, it looks spectacular. The Contessa had, according to kitchen gossip, last worn that particular dress in 1600, to the wedding of King Henri IV of France and Marie de’ Medici of Florence. The new queen had, so wagging tongues had reported, personally congratulated the Contessa on her stunning appearance.

  The Contessa’s white blonde hair was uncovered but carefully curled to her crown and held in place by unseen fastenings. She had opted for a high-backed collar which freed her neck to display a stunning large white diamond affixed to a black silk ribbon. The effect is outstanding, thought Chrymos, impressed despite herself, although imagine what the Contessa might achieve if she could actually bring herself to smile.

  Chrymos turned to watch as each of the five freshly-graduated members of the Alchemae filed in and prepared to demonstrate their newly-acquired powers in front of the students, staff and other graduates of the Academy. Uncharacteristically, the Master of the Academy, Giambattista Della Porta, was not present. The Contessa stood on the podium in his place, her icy expression dampening any expectations that this would be an occasion for celebration.

  At a nod from the Contessa, the alchemy tutor Doctor Odaldi opened proceedings, his usually dull monotone showing a hint of life.

  “Contessa, honored staff, graduates, students, it is my pleasure to introduce to you the newest members of the Alchemae, five students who have worked diligently these past weeks to achieve mastery over their powers. Gentlemen, please step forward and bow when your names are called out.”

  Each of the graduates did precisely that. “Luca, Flaminio, Pascol, Simon, Bitino.” There was polite applause—the graduates were yet to display any powers.

  Odaldi continued. “Now, let us see what our newest Alchemae can do. Luca?”

  Luca, the humorless student who had worked so hard to make Chrymos’ life in the Academy unpleasant, was more than happy to go first. He was of average height, with blond hair and blue eyes, but a distinctive curved scar, stretching from just below his right ear down to his chin, marred his otherwise handsome face. Jealous lover or bitter rival, Chrymos often wondered, but if anyone in the Academy knew how Luca had come by the scar, no-one was talking.

  He reached
out, plucked a purple-tinged orchid from a nearby vase and, with little more than a thought, transmuted the fragile flower into delicate but solid gold. His next move was to present the golden orchid to Contessa Stefani, bowing low as he did so.

  “Oh yeah, that’s so Luca”, whispered Adric to Chrymos. “Never misses a chance to suck up.”

  Chrymos smiled briefly, then returned her attention to the ceremony. The icy Contessa was commenting. “A fine talent, Master Luca. Not, perhaps, suited for the front line, but surely it will help to fund our forthcoming endeavors.”

  Front line? Chrymos was so busy trying to decipher the meaning of the Contessa’s comment that she almost missed the start of the next demonstration, as Odaldi spoke again. “Flaminio, if you please—but remember, proceed more cautiously today.”

  That last comment piqued everyone’s interest. Flaminio, a short but powerfully built student from the island of Sicily, strode forward onto the podium, and then turned to face the audience. He braced himself as if for combat, clasped his large hands together, one clinging to the top of the other, and stood motionless.

  Chrymos looked up at his face. Flaminio, never an intellectual, was frowning, brow deeply furrowed, eyes closed, as he concentrated intently.

  There was a gasp from one of Chrymos’ classmates, Niccolo. Chrymos looked over, saw him point at Flaminio’s hands. She turned back to Flaminio, saw that even though his hands were tightly clenched together, something was struggling to push those hands apart.

  As Chrymos watched, indeed as the whole auditorium watched, Flaminio’s hands were being pushed further and further apart with each passing second.

  Odaldi spoke up. “That’s large enough, Flaminio. Now toss it to your left.”