by Faith Hunter
“They don’t hear Godless, heathen whores!” someone else called.
“The Most High don’t see no mages,” another said. “That’s why they’re in prisons!”
Watching Tobitt, I whispered, “Neomage children, the teenage children of humans, called on the High Host of the Seraphim, and upon the Most High. ‘Mage in battle, mage in dire, seraphs, come with holy fire.’ It was a child’s nursery rhyme, chanted by innocents filled with fear. And the seraphs came.” I raised my voice. “A dozen of the Holy Ones appeared in the air above the battlefield. One reached out his wings and caught the bomb as it plummeted. Another took the bomb and departed with it. It did not detonate. But the neomages had built up power while defending themselves. Much power. My ancestors were foolish, afraid and untaught, facing an army of well-armed, angry, frightened humans. They didn’t know what to do with so much gathered might, or how to control it.
“In their inexperience, they released the power. And the human army fell. Thousands died. By accident, not by intent. And the children of man screamed and mourned even as they tried to draw back the might that escaped from them. But there was no tool on earth or with the seraphim, to pull back so much power once released. And the energies rained down on the human army, on their own fathers and mothers.” I shared a small, sad smile. “A great anguish went up to the Most High with the souls of the human dead.”
The mage account listed all the names of loved ones they had killed that day. I mentioned only the best-known one. “General Bascomb, the human who ordered the nuclear bomb dropped, was the biological father of one of the mages he battled. Bascomb died that day. His son was orphaned. His son grieved.”
The church full of people had fallen silent again. Tobitt’s gun wavered from me, dropping to dangle, pointing at the floor. Truth, the sigil had suggested. Well, here it was. Truth that the human and neomage communities had never shared.
“In punishment, the seraphs gathered the mages they had saved, forcing them into the first Enclave, the shielded haven now universally called the New Orleans Enclave. All around the globe, seraphs collected embattled neomages and established Enclaves, where the few still alive could work and study their gifts in safety. Where they were imprisoned. Nearly one hundred years have passed, and still we are captives. We may not depart without seraphic approval, visas, and scrutiny by the Administration of the ArchSeraph.”
I looked around the hall. There was a lot I hadn’t said. I hadn’t mentioned that proximity to each other set neomages and seraphs into heat. Only recently had the Most High and the High Council of the Seraphim produced the sigils that controlled mage-heat for a few hours at a time. All that I kept to myself. “Even today, we mourn those we killed. Even now, we do penance for the death of humans, the death of our parents, in the Mage War.” This was truth untaught in human schools. Truth that might disarm the angry and contain the vitriol.
“To atone, we help where we can, where asked. We accept payment, yes, as each of you accept payment for services and goods. Yes, we have power, but it’s sealed inside the Enclaves with us, so it won’t harm humans by intent or accident ever again.”
I looked at Tobitt. Orthodox, weaned on mage hate, taught by elders focused on cementing their own political power. “You’re right. We have no souls. When our spark of life is extinguished, we die forever. There’s no afterlife for us. Don’t fear us; pity us. We’re empty vessels. We are the unforeseen.”
“So how did the seraphs hear the mages?” Tobitt asked, curious at last.
I shrugged. Bells rang softly, a funeral cadence. “We think it was innocence that called to them. Since that time, seraphs always hear the call of mages in dire. It’s their pact with us, though to call the capricious and volatile seraphs is always a danger to nearby humans.”
Audric touched my shoulder and gestured to the chair set aside for the accused. I walked back across the small stage, my boots and bells loud in the quiet church. When I was seated, my champard asked, “Are there more accusations?”
Derek Culpepper raced up the stairs to the dais and shouted to the crowd. I had forgotten him and was almost surprised when he spoke, his face filled with rage, a finger pointed accusingly at me. “Don’t listen to her wiles. Can’t you see she’s trying to seduce you with words? She’s spelling you all right now!” When no one agreed, he said, “They take our money and make us dependent on their trinkets. We’re humans, the highest creation of the Most High, beneath the seraphs. We don’t need mages or their conjures or amulets. They’re immoral and depraved.”
“Is there no good to be had from mages?” Audric asked. “No good at all from the conjures and amulets that humans buy and use?”
“No!” Derek shouted.
“Then the accused requests that you empty your pockets,” Audric said.
Derek paled and clenched his hands. Shocked, he looked to his father, and I followed the glance. The elder raised his eyebrows. Derek turned to me, taking in my small smile. I didn’t know what kind of amulet he habitually carried, but I’d seen him worrying it during a previous town meeting, his fingers caressing it like a lifeline. He opened his mouth and snapped it shut, a crafty glint in his eyes.
“She spelled me with it,” he said.
I didn’t know exactly what kind of amulet he carried, but to my mage-sight it glowed a yellow-green of earth-magery, the gift of life and all things growing. It had been quite powerful the first time I noted it on him. I breathed deeply and caught the scent of the conjure. It smelled warm and verdant, like sunlight on spring leaves.
“Show us,” Audric commanded.
Derek’s triumph grew. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the amulet. He held it between thumb and forefinger so the crowd could see. The audience sucked in a collective breath, swept back from the truth of the Mage War story into habitual, ingrained fear. Ignoring them, I studied the amulet from my seat, smelling oak and age and the working of a powerful mage. The amulet was made from the root of a live oak, a thin disc about two and a half inches around and a quarter inch thick, like a large coin, carved through with symbols. To my mage-sight, its energies weren’t beautiful, but it was powerful. The fact that it glowed with power was significant. It had been recently charged.
“What say you?” Shamus asked me.
“I can’t use that amulet,” I said.
“Say what?” Shamus asked, surprised.
“There are different kinds of mages and energies. I’m a stone mage. That’s an earth mage amulet. I can see the working of the conjure but I can’t use it, make it, or alter it.” I lifted a carved quartz rose on the necklace I wore. “This is an amulet for peaceful thoughts. This I can use because it’s made of stone and mineral, but not that. The amulet carried by Derek Culpepper is a kamea, an oak-carved, Oriental-style amulet, likely inscribed with the name of the seraph Garshanal. It brings success in financial negotiations to the one who carries it. He bought it from a licensed mage and had it recharged on a recent trip. Didn’t you?” I asked.
Before Derek could answer, Shamus said, “You’re still under oath, Derek. We’ve had one witness lie on the stand today. I ain’t gonna abide a second one. If you lie and survive it, and if I can find the mage you purchased that thing from, I’ll have you tarred and feathered. And you know I mean it.”
Derek looked at me, loathing leaking like sweat from his pores. He ground out, “I bought it. From a licensed witchy-woman. A mage whore in Atlanta.”
In the silence that followed, Shamus Waldroup bent to the men at the judgment table, murmuring. My hearing is good, but I caught only a word or two before the chairman banged his gavel twice.
“By a majority of judges and elders, Elder Culpepper abstaining, we find that Thorn St. Croix is a legally licensed mage, and all accusations made today are proved false. Unless someone has specific charges against her, charges with hard evidence to back ’em up, I intend to declare this case closed.” When no one offered damning evidence, Shamus banged the gavel once and said, “The
accused is found not guilty. In fact, the accused is not and never was the accused. You’re free to go, Thorn, and this bench offers its heartfelt apologies for this fiasco. Prejudice is something we ain’t usually got to contend with in this town. I’m ashamed of my fellow citizens and of my fellow judges.” He banged the gavel again and stood as he spoke. “Recess. I need to get the taste of lies and collusion outta my mouth.”
Intense relief hit me and I shuddered, cold rippling across my skin with a soft jingle of bells. I would have slumped back in the chair, but my shirt’s steel supports held me upright. Audric leaned down and gathered the collar of my cloak, securing it. “Damp your neomage attributes,” he murmured. My hand stole to the amulets, first releasing the shield I had ready, then damping the glow of skin and scars. My flesh dimmed to human, untouched by magery.
“Need I carry you, little mage?” he asked.
I clamped my lips on a witless titter. “No. I’m fine. I think.”
He grinned at me, sculpted, full lips parting, eyes sparkling in his dark-skinned face. “You were magnificent. But if you fall on your ass crossing the stage, you’ll spoil the effect.”
I laughed, a breathy sound. “And the sight of you carrying me off won’t ruin it?” I stood, knees wobbly, drained and invigorated, all at once. Along with all the other mage children, I had studied the art of storytelling, but had never practiced, not before an audience.
“She’s got a touch of the ham in her, doesn’t she?” Rupert said, tucking my right hand into the crook of his left arm.
“She’s been around you too long,” Audric said. “It’s rubbed off.”
“Just remember, dearie. There’s room for only one queen in Thorn’s Gems, and I am she. What’s this?” he asked, lifting an amulet hanging on my necklace.
I looked down. In work-hardened fingers, he held a poor-quality sapphire, crudely carved into a fat owl, an amulet I had purchased at a swap meet without knowing what it did. It came from the time of the wild-mages, from before the Mage War. And it was glowing. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”
He could hear the soft pad of human-style boots on the stone of the passageway. They were early. His wings weren’t healed over. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Despair swamped him. How long? How long would penance last?
He pictured Daria in his mind: her dark hair and fine brown skin, long lean legs wrapped around him, her amulets flashing with wild-magic. Her flashing eyes so full of mischief. He could almost feel her fingertips as they caressed his face. However long it lasted, she would have been worth it. How does one ask forgiveness for a sin one doesn’t regret?
The cell door opened and a voice said, “Barak. Rise and shine. We got a randy one for you. She can smell you already.” They laughed. There were only three of them this time. And it hadn’t been long enough. Something was different. Something had changed. Shackles clinked. He kept his head buried in the crook of his arm, breathing deeply.
“Yeah. It’s your lucky day. And ours, if you continue being stupid about ’em.”
“A bonus, you wingless wonder.” A boot landed in the small of his back. A hand clicked a thick cuff around one wrist, while another captor wrenched back his other arm. “We made Forcas happy and so we get the next one, and only three of us to share. And when she—”
Barak, the fallen seraph once called Baraqyal, lashed out with both legs and the partially healed stub of a wing. All three tormentors crashed to the floor.
Chapter 8
I had thought my troubles were over when the gavel banged down the last time. I was wrong. When my two champards and I stepped through the oversized front doors onto the covered porch of the old church, the steps and the walk leading to Upper Street were lined with black-clad humans. Rupert and Audric tossed back their cloaks and drew weapons. The sound of steel on leather echoed down the silent street.
In two rows, facing one another, the town orthodox had re-created the gauntlet, a silent condemning jury, hating me, letting me know that though a judge had set me free, they had judged me guilty. Several elders and the most zealous of their followers, perhaps three hundred, lined my passageway. I counted three brown robes before I looked away.
“Theatrics would come in handy now,” Rupert said with tense humor. “We could cancan down the street.”
I grinned at that, and my rising fear dissipated. “Thanks,” I said, catching his eye.
“If you can walk on your own, a little extra weaponry and some hocus-pocus might be useful too,” Audric said.
“I’m not attacking humans,” I said softly. “Where’s a TV camera when you need one to hide behind?”
“No one has a gun out,” Rupert said. “No blades, no dynamite. Let’s brazen our way through it. Show ’em your clothes again, Thorn. Make eye contact. Let them know you know who they are.”
I looked at the first dozen people. I didn’t know a single one. Somehow, that lightened my heart. I folded my cloak back, exposing my neomage finery and freeing my arms but keeping my head covered. Like a queen walking to her beheading, I started down the steps, Rupert and Audric following. We reached the street before I recognized anyone, and it was the owner of the laundry I used. Arms crossed over her chest, she held my gaze, glaring. I’d be looking for a new place to wash my clothes. Sleet started again, a thin rain of ice that bounced off my cloak.
Behind me I heard the scrape of boot on stone. Faster than humans can see, I whirled and drew my sword. It was Elder Jasper and his wife, Polly. And their new child, who hadn’t been with them earlier. Polly sucked in a breath to scream. I lowered my sword.
His voice ringing into the street, the elder said, “Polly and I wondered if you had a healing amulet. She cut her finger opening a can last night. It’s paining her mightily.”
I looked back and forth between them, sword poised. A long moment passed. Polly, trembling, handed her baby to the elder and walked down the stairs. She held out her hand to me. A makeshift bandage was taped to her thumb. I stared at her extended hand; her human aura was blazing with fear and determination, a bright golden glow. She stared at my skin, and I realized I had released my attributes as my defenses went up. Slowly, so I wouldn’t startle her again, I sheathed my blade and took the bandaged hand in mine. To her credit, she didn’t flinch, though her trembling worsened. Her blue eyes fastened on me.
“I have a curative amulet at the shop,” I said. “It’ll speed healing and lessen the pain.”
“That would be a blessing,” Polly said. She gripped my hand, a simple human gesture that meant more to me than anything else she could do. I turned with her toward Thorn’s Gems. Together, hands clasped, we passed my champards and took the lead down to the ice-covered road.
“Are you scared?” she asked, voice pitched low.
“Out of my mind,” I said, seeing hate in the eyes of the farrier who shod my horse.
“Me too. But God the Victorious will protect us.”
Having never learned what reply was appropriate when confronted with a faith I was genetically unable to share, I remained silent as we moved through the throng of black-clad, self-appointed judges and left them behind. At the end of the line stood Jacey and her brood, Eli and his mother, and a dozen or so others, including Ken Schmidt. They fell into the void behind us, a human shield. I wondered if they thought of themselves in that way. When we reached the curve in Upper Street and left the old church behind, I leaned to Polly. “Is your thumb really cut?”
“I will confess the sin of lying at kirk this evening,” she said serenely.
“Thank you, Polly.” I didn’t know why she had helped me. We weren’t friends in any sense of the word, barely nodding acquaintances, but I wasn’t questioning her help.
Once at the shop, we entered while Rupert and Audric stood outside beneath lowering clouds, guarding for possible attack. I gave her a charm, one that might calm a restive baby. For her help, I’d have given her a charm for wealth and long life if there were such a thing. Waving away
my thanks, she kissed my cheek, took her baby from the elder, and moved outside, down the street, leaving me alone.
From the back of the shop, a man emerged. I appraised him in the instant I pulled my sword and plucked a throwing blade. Hands up, palms out in the universal gesture of peace, he hesitated. Both cheeks wore brands, the left cross old and pale, the right still healing, perhaps only a few weeks old. He was dressed for the cold in layered, shabby coats and mismatched boots. Alone in the shop, I drew back the throwing blade.
“I’m unarmed,” he said quickly.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you for breaking and entering.”
“I’m with the EIH,” he said. “And we want you to join with us against the seraphs.”
I had no idea at all what to say to that one, but I didn’t release the throwing blade, flipping and tucking it away instead. Silent, my sword in a low defensive position, I studied him, watching his hands. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty, his face weathered brown, creased deeply at the eyes and around his mouth. His Cherokee heritage showed plainly in the beak of his nose and black eyes, even without the braids lying on either shoulder, framing his long face. “You have one minute,” I said.
“Do you want to know the real reason why seraphs put your people in Enclaves? It wasn’t that silly fairy tale you recounted back there.” That ticked me off, but I raised my brows in a parody of polite manners. He lowered his palms a fraction and said, “It was because neomages can’t breed fertile offspring on humans, but you can with seraphs.”
“Forty seconds.” Everyone knew that human and seraph offspring, the second-unforeseen—half-breeds, mules—were indeed sterile, often with incompletely developed genitals, while the offspring of mages and seraphs, the kylen, were capable of reproduction, able to breed with humans or mages equally. He was saying nothing new.
His eyes shifted to the door as it opened, letting in a gust of air. Speaking fast, he said, “It’s because you’re genetically closer to seraphs than to humans.”
