Seraphs

by Faith Hunter

  I slowed, watching the effect of the elder’s greetings. Louis looked away. Louis drank a bit. More likely he was hung over rather than sick. Richard ran an ongoing card game. Gambling kept him too busy to attend many services, and he stepped away, into the crowd, as his absence at religious events was commented upon. Gambling was punishable by branding.

  Rumor had it that Joseph owned a still in the hills nearby, a still that made him rich and a lot of town men too drunk to worship or work. He too melted into the dissipating groups of troublemakers. Florence was a firm orthodox. A kirk elder placing her name in context with rabble-rousers made her flush.

  “Mrs. Abernathy, no need to worry about Hannah Zelmack. That was all rumor. She isn’t pregnant at all, let alone by a married man.”

  Mrs. Abernathy blanched. “I never said—”

  “Of course you did. To all sorts of people. Let’s get inside and seated, why don’t we?” Elder Jasper said, shooing cowed people up the steps with his hands. “Otherwise this crowd’ll disrupt the meeting. Thorn, Rupert, after you.” He gestured us past the dispersing group and inside. Most of the crowd filed in behind us, boots scuffing, pews groaning as they sat. At the door, Jasper said, “I believe there’s a special place for Thorn with the elders up on the—”

  “Thorn will be sitting with us,” Audric said. His tone brooked no disagreement, and Jasper smiled and took his wife’s arm.

  “Of course. This way, Polly, dear.”

  Audric maneuvered us to a pew midway down on the left and paused. The location was an odd choice until I saw the fire door set into the wall, a quick way out if needed. He leveled a gaze on the pew’s occupants. I don’t know what they saw in his expression, but all six people scrambled out the other side and into pews many rows back. The row behind took the hint and vacated as well.

  Satisfied but dour, Audric held my arm when I would have gone in first, letting Rupert lead the way, trailed by Miz Essie and Eli, Jacey, Big Zed, and their brood. When they were all in place, he released my arm and shoved me down in the pew ahead, seating me in the aisle seat as if I were a mannequin he was positioning for display. Audric slid into the pew behind me and sat. No one sat beside me. It was the only empty seating in the full church.

  A sour miasma rose, the collected odors of humans, damp mold, and old building. The Central Baptist Church had survived a battle on the Trine, the towering, three-peaked rock face that had risen two thousand feet during an underground war fought by seraphs and humans against minions of Darkness. Constructed of stone, the building’s foundations rested on a single rock, making the church a place of power to me. Unknown to the elders, it was a conduit to the power of the deeps. I was lucky to have been brought here and not to the kirk. That building was set above a streambed, not stone.

  A gavel banged, bringing a deeper quiet to the silent crowd. The town fathers were seated at a long table to the right of the stage, the table set at an angle to the audience so they could see and be seen, yet leave a wide space for proceedings. One of which would be me, I reminded myself. Sweet seraph.

  Across the aisle to my right, Lucas slipped into a seat, Ciana beside him. My ex-husband inclined his head, his lips turning up. As always, my heart somersaulted. Lucas Stanhope was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, even when wasted from weeks of captivity. His cheeks were sharply defined, brow wide, nose a perfect line, blue eyes making every girl in town sigh. Too bad he was a lying, woman-chasing cheat.

  His eight-year-old daughter from his first marriage, the child of my heart if not my body, waved, a bright smile on her face. Dismayed, I waggled my fingertips at her. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see a town meeting. She should be safe, in school, where illusions about her world and the people in it wouldn’t be shattered. Yet, even knowing that she should be carried away and protected, I was glad to see her, her bright eyes alight with hope and trust. Ciana’s presence brought a measure of peace to me that I badly needed.

  The girl was small for her age. She crawled into her father’s lap, her back to his chest. Her legs were encased in thick leggings and kicked on either side of his, her arms twined with his around her waist over her padded coat. The seraph pin she always wore peeked out. The old church had no heat and her breath puffed, tiny clouds joining the breath of the throng. Lucas leaned over and whispered, “She wouldn’t go to school. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said she had to be here.” He kissed Ciana’s head with a worried frown and sat back.

  The gavel banged again. The chairman of the town fathers was Elder Shamus Waldroup, a baker and also the senior judge over all civil and criminal disputes brought before the district court. Shamus called out, speaking with the thick mountain brogue of his generation. “The meetin’ of the town fathers of Mineral City will come to order. I see we have quite a crowd for today’s proceedings, and a long docket. Let’s get on with it. Court’s in session.”

  The old man’s dark-skinned balding head caught the light as he peered from the dais into the seats of the condemned. “First item of business is the judgment on two caught cursing. Their iniquitous words were heard by an elder. Upon questioning at the last town meeting, they confessed, sentences were pronounced, and will be carried out posthaste.”

  The smell of smoke blew through the old sanctuary on a gust of cold air as a brazier was carried into the room from one of the doors at the front. Once upon a time, a choir would have proceeded through, robed and singing praises. Now it was five burly, brown-robed elders, all armed, acting as bailffs. Two carried long poles with a portable brazier suspended between, the iron brazier glowing red-hot. The others held Bibles and branding irons, all in the sign of the cross.

  Oh, saints’ balls, they were going to do it right now. I looked at Lucas in alarm but he was already turning Ciana into the crook of his shoulder. “No. I wanna see,” she said, resisting, her shrill voice rising. Lucas quieted her with a murmured word, and though she stopped fighting, she hissed, stubbornly, “It’s not fair.”

  The brazier was set on the stage and the five elders, all young postulants, went to the pew set aside for the condemned. The clink of chains echoed in the still air. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. I stared at the cloak over my knees, the leather burned and scorched. I’d suffered a lot for this town, yet many wanted to see me brought forward in chains, a cross brand set aside for me.

  Scuffling and cursing came from the dais, the words quickly muffled. Shamus said, “Now Mack, watch your mouth. You don’t want to be punished twice in one day. Mack here is charged and found guilty for cursing, lewd speech, and propagandizing in front of a schoolyard and the kirk. Because this is a first offense, you have the right to address the assembled. If we take off the gag, you can even repent, which might cause this court to go easy on you, but if you cuss again, I’ll have you duct-taped for the rest of the proceedings.”

  Mack started speaking as soon as the gag was removed. “I’m not being punished by the kirk because I cursed. I’m being punished to suppress the EIH.” More scuffling ensued while Mack shouted, “You know it’s true. The Most High isn’t real. The seraphs came from another planet and took our world. It’s a plot, a ruse to claim the Earth, to enslave us. We have to fight them—”

  “That’s enough of the conspiracy claims,” Shamus interrupted, sounding tired.

  The rest of Mack’s words were muffled into grunts, unintelligible noises, and sounds of struggle. Vibrations thudded through the wood floor. “May you find absolution and forgiveness in the countenance of the Most High,” Shamus said.

  We were sitting close enough to hear his skin sizzle. I stared hard at my knees and managed not to quiver when Mack’s half-stifled scream echoed dully off the church walls. The reek of burned human flesh combined with the sour stink of the room. My stomach rebelled. I pressed a fist hard into my midsection.

  Two of the brown-robed elders dragged Mack by his shoulders off the platform and out, this time taking the aisle through the church, within inches of me. I couldn’t hel
p myself. I looked up. Mack was sagging between them and one of the men held him by the hair so the crowd could see his face. A two-inch cross had been burned into his left cheek, the top bar near the outer corner of his eye. The brand had pressed deep enough to sear bone, and the cross was blackened, flesh puckered and blistered.

  Tears of Taharial. My fingers started tingling, my breath too fast. Unable to act, not permitted to fight, panic mode wrestled through my muscles. I closed my eyes.

  Up front, another prisoner was brought forward, also a member of the EIH, a repeat offender. This wouldn’t be his first punishment; his original brand had been poorly done, the flesh on the left side of his face drawing up, pulling his mouth into a leering half grin and permanently exposing his molars. Such men were outcasts, wearing rags, persecuted for speaking out against the High Host of the Seraphim, the ruling council of seraphs.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him struggle, cursing the elders, fighting. When the brand was applied, he whipped his body hard. The hot iron dug into his flesh as he wrenched away, tearing the cheek in a gush of blood. I wanted to gag.

  I looked at Ciana. She had stopped struggling, her head buried in Lucas’ shoulder. Thank God. She shouldn’t see this—no one should—though the townsfolk were enjoying the show. I smelled moonshine, candy, and popcorn. My stomach rolled over again.

  A woman’s voice carried from the back of the room as the man was carted past, the words rapid-fire, without a space between for an answer. “Do you repent of the blasphemy? Do you have anything to say to our viewers? What does your family think about you joining the Earth Invasion Heretics?”

  As one, the entire crowd craned around. Romona Benson, the television reporter, held a microphone to the injured man. Like he could talk with his face ripped half away. Behind her, a cameraman walked backward, getting video of the prisoner and the TV journalist. I guess brandings might qualify as news, but I doubted the Federal Satellite Broadcast Administration would allow the footage to air. Blood seldom got airtime.

  And then it hit me. A licensed witchy-woman brought before the town fathers for an infraction would be news. I would be something they could air, something sensational and scandalous. My trial would be breaking news, interrupting every soap, cartoon, commercial, movie, or weather update. Seraph stones. I was going to be on TV. And so were the orthodox town citizens who wanted all mages dead. If I had to fight my way out of here, the entire world would know that a neomage had spilled human blood. Those who hated and feared mages would rise up.

  My trial had been orchestrated, placing me in position to polarize the human world against mages. It was a masterful move.

  I groaned under my breath and dropped my head. Audric, leaning in from the pew behind, caught my shoulder in his fist, keeping me upright as if he thought I would bury my face in my lap. “You will not hide, Thorn,” he said, for my ears only. “You will not.”

  I didn’t need the threat. I knew now what I was up against. I sat straight, pushing away the sick feeling, and concentrated on the men sitting at the judgment bench. Once, there had been a pulpit, choir seats, a baptismal pool. Now, serving as the judges’ bench, there was a long table with seats for seven town fathers behind it. To one side was a chair used as a witness stand, two rows of seats for the accused and witnesses, and places for the younger elders who acted as bailiffs and guards. All could be seen from any part of the old sanctuary, and were fully visible to the camera in the back.

  The town fathers—kirk elders and elected officials—sat in the judgment seat. I knew only a few of them by name, and of them one was a friend of sorts, and one was an enemy. I bought my bread from Shamus Waldroup. Elder Culpepper, sitting beside him on the dais, was newly elected to the judgment seat. His eyes were on me, glowing with malice and satisfaction. It was a pretty good bet he had assisted with planning today’s events. It was no secret that the elder and his son Derek hated all mages and were powerful men in Mineral City. The elder was orthodox; his son was reformed. Neither man liked me. I had spoiled a lucrative business deal when I melted the Trine’s ice cap and made it needless for the town to move. Most people hadn’t known I was responsible for that. Somehow, they had found out.

  I should have worn the dobok, I thought irrelevantly. My hands were sweating and my breath came too fast. I steadied myself with deep breaths, listening as business matters came before the court—property disputes that dated back to the Last War, disagreements over who actually owned land that had changed hands during the times of disruption after the three plagues. A delinquent payment on a loan was presented. All were tabled for further fact-gathering, the gavel strident. Behind me, the TV camera whirred. Why hadn’t I just run?

  “Thorn St. Croix Stanhope, take the stand,” the chairman called out.

  Panic detonated through me, stealing my breath and leaving my heart thumping like a drum in the hands of a maniac. I couldn’t do this. Not on national TV. The Enclave priestess would never forgive me once she heard. I’d be ruined. After this, I could never go home to Enclave.

  The thought was a shock. Until now, I hadn’t known I wanted to go to Enclave. I hadn’t known some tiny part of me still thought Enclave was home. I shivered. What else didn’t I know about myself?

  Audric stood. From the far side of the aisle, Rupert stood. Both waited a beat until Audric moved up beside me and bent far down, placing his mouth at my ear, easing a hand beneath my arm, his lips by my face. “Showtime, little mage. Wimp out on me now and I’ll beat you into a soft lump of modeling clay at our next practice.”

  A frenzied giggle burst from me and Audric clamped down on my arm so hard the giggle wheezed into silence. Pain helped clear my head. Slowly I stood, catching sight of Ciana’s terrified face. My heart faltered, slammed a fierce beat into my chest and up my neck, settling into a fast, steady rhythm. Okay. For Ciana. I managed a smile. I glanced up at Audric and gestured forward. Showtime, the man said. Fine. What choice did I have now?

  I threw back my head, took my walking stick in hand, and stepped into the passageway toward the dais. The three remaining brown-clad bailiffs were in a line against the wall to my left. Two wore guns at their hips; the other had a truncheon and Taser. All three held their hands at the ready, cupping the butt of guns or billy clubs. All three looked eager, a little too eager, to take on a mage before a national audience.

  The last of my panic fled and battle tactics began to build in my mind. I had studied the strategy and tactics of war, training at Enclave until I was fourteen and had to flee or die. Lately, my training had begun again, every morning at Audric’s hands. I looked around the room as I walked, studying it fully, as I should have when I first entered. I dismissed the guards. Rupert could handle the hill-billies with guns, even with the unfamiliar sword. The one with a Taser and stick I could stop with the throwing knives at my wrists. My breathing steadied as I analyzed. They might make two steps before their hearts stopped, say three seconds from throw till they hit the floor, but I doubted it.

  Of course, if I killed them, I had better be ready to fight the entire town. And if they got my amulets away before I could mount a defense strong enough to save myself and my friends, I’d be toast. Worse than toast. Stripped, raped, flayed, beaten, butchered, and left to rot in the snow. Most humans didn’t care much for mages. I smiled as I took the steps to the dais. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a sweet smile.

  Reason mulled over battle plans as I looked at the side door. A second alternative presented itself. I didn’t like it, but it would be smarter. I could let Rupert and Audric take care of the bailiffs and hold off the crowd, and I could run. Yeah. Cowardice might save my friends, and me too. And there was a third way. I scanned the town fathers who would act as my judges, wondering which of the unknown ones were for me and which were against. I had risked my life to save this town, even if they hadn’t been there to see it. I had lived in Mineral City for a decade and had hurt no one. Not once. Yet someone had decided I should face trial and die for an accident
of birth that made me a neomage.

  Holding my cloak closed over my mage-attire, moving slowly so my skirt bells didn’t jingle, I took the seventh step, reaching the stage that used to be a holy place, mage-boots silent on the scarred wood, walking stick clacking softly. Flanking me, so much taller than I, Rupert and Audric climbed. I must have disappeared behind them, vanishing from the crowd. I felt my body drawing on the amulets as we came to a stop in front of the judges’ desk.

  “What’s this?” Waldroup asked. Without looking, I felt the bailiffs step forward. Violence shimmered in the air. “This won’t do. We called a mage to speak, not you two.”

  As if they had rehearsed it, Rupert and Audric stepped to either side, revealing my small frame to the audience behind us, and emerging in my peripheral vision. It was a clever move with a two-pronged outcome: A triangle made a good defensive fighting position if we had to draw blades, and it made me look quite defenseless and helpless before the judges. Mages are small, and behind the bulk of my friends I probably looked like a young kid standing before the principal’s desk.

  “We are her champards,” Audric announced into the silence, one eye on the slow-moving guards. At a gesture from the bench, the bailiffs stopped, but I noted a slight twitch beneath Audric’s cloak. He had drawn weapons.

  “What’s a champard?” Waldroup asked the man on his left, voices lowered as they conferred. Elder Culpepper darted a glance at me, furious, hate-filled, and bobbed his head down, realizing I had seen his reaction. He had plainly hoped I’d be alone and unprotected. When no one at the judgment bench seemed to know what a champard was, Waldroup addressed me. “Well?” I stood silent, letting Audric handle my response. A champard’s responsibilities included acting as a legal consultant, hauling firewood, acting as a human shield, fighting to the death, and keeping his charge warm at night, among other things that had been known to include being sex slaves. If I survived this, I would have ammunition to tease Audric unmercifully.