“Yes, go,” she answered. So the girl went and got the baby’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this baby and nurse him for me, and I will pay you.” So the woman took the baby and nursed him. When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, “I drew him out of the water.”
Exodus 2: 1-10
Chapter 18
The Hebrew Child
Dewei, Harouk, and Silas flew for two days and two nights without rest. The third morning, the sun rose over a shining city in the clouds. Tall towers of shimmering stone were connected to each other by a maze of glowing bridges. In the middle of the kingdom, on the highest cloud, was a castle of crystal and white marble.
Harouk drank in the sight with a mix of reverence and apprehension.
Silas noticed him. “Is this the first time you’ve come here?”
“I have no memory from before I was chained to the door,” he muttered. “But this place feels familiar.”
“Don’t dawdle,” called back Dewei.
Silas caught up to him. “Let me talk to the Archangels.”
They landed on the front steps of the castle. Two armored angels were guarding the door, their faces hidden by helmets.
“The Archangels have been warned of your approach,” said one of them. “They wish to speak with you.”
Silas and Dewei went first. Harouk followed, his frown deepening with each step they took in the corridor. Wide doors opened before them.
The room was a perfect circle of white marble, brightly lit by natural sunlight coming through a dome of crystal. The floor was carved with holy words, starting at the center and spiraling outwards. There were three high pillars, one in front of them and two on either side, each holding a throne where the Archangels sat.
Silas and Dewei bowed. Harouk hesitated the slightest moment and did the same.
He could recognize Michael, dressed in combat armor, his long hair, red like fire, falling on his shoulders. He had a silver shield at his feet and a sword on his lap.
Harouk caught Gabriel’s eye and was startled. He had never met her before, but the sadness in her face twisted him inside. She was wearing a plain white dress, her hair done in a simple braid. She held a carafe on her lap, olive skin contrasting with pale alabaster.
On the other side was the third Archangel, wearing the austere clothes of the erudites. His skin and eyes were dark, his head shaved and his expression neutral. He held a book.
He was the first one to speak. “Terathel should be with you. Where is she?”
“Her human life has ended, O Raphael,” said Silas. “The king of Egypt ordered her execution.”
“And what of the mission she was entrusted with?”
“Unsuccessful.”
Raphael exchanged a displeased look with Michael.
“Explain yourselves,” said Raphael. “In order, so we can better understand the events that led to this failure.”
“We came in contact with Terathel’s human incarnation twelve years after her birth,” started Silas. “She was covered in bruises inflicted by…”
Harouk stopped listening, for recalling these events filled him with a destructive rage. He looked down and saw the words at his feet, reading them in his head and then muttering them under his breath. He realized he knew what the next words would be and the next sentences, and somehow he could recall the entire text without having ever seen it. The feeling of familiarity was even stronger in this room.
He frowned. He could feel something existing, somewhere at the edge of his perception. He slightly turned his head but saw nothing.
“Dewei,” he whispered. “Something’s wrong. It’s—it’s the thrones. How many thrones can you see?”
Dewei was entirely focused on Raphael, his jaw and fists tightly clenched.
The Archangel was commenting on Silas’s tale. “If Terathel was not capable enough for the mission, you should have come back and reported it.”
“Naími was perfect!” burst out Dewei. “She was a diligent student and an outstanding fighter! She exceeded all your expectations despite the horrible childhood you forced her to live through!”
“It was essential to have her grow in that precise place,” answered Raphael. “It was a strategic and discreet village. Her mother, a Hebrew woman, was impregnated by an Egyptian man—”
“Her mother almost killed her!” he bellowed. “You have no idea what kind of abuse that child suffered every day. The other villagers kept silent, and no one helped—”
“Silence, Cassiel!” thundered Michael. “You overstep.”
Dewei was taken aback by the use of his angelic name. He lowered his head. “Yes, O Michael,” he said, through gritted teeth.
Raphael ordered Silas to get back to the tale. Harouk waited for everyone’s attention to focus on that and pulled on Dewei’s sleeve.
“Stop!” whispered Dewei, furious. “Can’t you see—”
“Dewei! How many thrones can you count?”
“Three, of course! Leave me!”
“I’m certain there’s four of them.”
Dewei threw him an incredulous glance, but Harouk was completely serious.
“I’m sure,” he insisted. “I know it like I know night follows the day.”
Silas had reached their arrival in the Egyptian capital. “Terathel accomplished great feats for the mission. She used the few powers she had in her human body to reach a high place near the royal family. Sadly, she developed great affection for the youngest princess, for whom she sacrificed her own life.”
“If her human body is dead, she must be in Limbo,” concluded Raphael. “We won’t be able to imprison her again, but I consider Limbo to be an acceptable punishment for her treason.”
That was enough to incense Dewei again. “She devoted her life to your mission!”
“We are at war, Cassiel. This is an act of desertion. By doing so, she condemned to death thousands of Hebrews.”
Dewei was about to answer back but was stopped by Harouk, who kept pulling on his sleeve.
“Dewei, look! The fourth throne!”
“Uriel, remain silent,” warned Raphael.
Dewei tried to go back to the Archangels, but Harouk turned him around forcefully.
“What—”
Dewei focused and had to take a step back. Over the entrance door was a fourth pillar, with an empty throne. The stone was cracked in the middle.
“Avert your eyes,” ordered Raphael. “Forget what you just saw.”
Dewei obeyed without thinking. As soon as the throne left his sight, he started forgetting its existence. Harouk was frozen in place, his expression going from surprise to fury. Michael stood and unsheathed his sword.
“That throne was mine…” whispered Harouk.
“Armies of the Lord, to me!” shouted Michael.
Trumpets sounded the alert throughout the entire kingdom. Harouk shook Dewei out of his trance and pulled him towards the exit. They ran through the corridor, reached the front steps, folded their wings close to their bodies, and jumped.
Harouk looked back. The sky quickly filled with angels at their pursuit. He recognized one at the forefront and swore. “Silas is with them!” he shouted through the howling wind.
They dove until they reached the thick cover of clouds. Once inside, they opened their wings to change directions. The clouds were thick and cold. Dewei flew close to Harouk, until he could see his upset expression through the fog.
“Get a grip on yourself,” snapped Dewei. “What you saw was probably meant to stay a secret!”
“Dewei, before I was chained to that door, I think I was—”
“You’ll be chained again if you don’t focus! We’ll have to hide in a human city. Let’s go back to Egypt, maybe—”
They left the cloud and were faced with an entire battalion. Hundreds of angels in pale armor were waiting for them, arms in hand.
“What do we do?” yelped Dewei,
slowing down.
“Follow me. I’m going in!” shouted Harouk.
A silver sword and shield appeared in his hands. There was the sound of a trumpet, and the angels stood in formation. He got ready to strike.
There was a scream behind him.
He turned around, and, for a moment, didn’t understand what had happened.
Silas was near Dewei. Both hovered in the same place, but only Silas’s wings were beating. He was close enough to whisper something in Dewei’s ear, holding him upright by the waist, almost with affection.
In his other hand, he held the sword that pierced Dewei, front to back.
There was silence.
Then, like the sun’s last rays die over the horizon, Dewei disappeared. There was only Silas left.
Harouk let out a scream of rage. The thunder echoed him.
The wind rose up in a terrible cyclone that pushed back the angelic armies. The surrounding clouds, dark and menacing, surrounded Harouk. He felt lightning in the air. He felt it inside of him. He could taste it on his tongue.
“Harouk!” shouted Silas. “Listen to me!”
Rain started falling in torrential sheets.
“Please, you need to calm down! I had to do it! He—”
A thunderbolt hit Harouk. Instead of being hurt by it, he now glowed with its energy. He was growing thirsty for revenge.
His sword crackled with lightning. He pointed it at Silas, howled, and released a bolt of destructive force.
Michael burst from a cloud and threw himself in front of Silas. The lightning hit his shield and exploded in every direction. The Archangel was pushed back and took a moment to regain his stance. He then grabbed Silas by the wing and threw him out of the cyclone.
“Uriel! Control yourself!”
“You lied to me!” yelled Harouk. “You chained me to that door! You said it was punishment for my crimes!”
“You chose these chains yourself! It was your sentence for provoking a cataclysm, like the one you’re creating right now!”
“You lie! You all lied to me!”
Harouk yelled, and the cyclone grew stronger.
“I will not let you provoke another great flood, Uriel,” said Michael, raising his sword.
A beam of pure fire burst from the sword, hitting Harouk square in the chest.
Harouk burned. His wings burned. He fell.
* * *
Life in Egypt went back to its sluggish routine. Damon and Soromeh had not been seen since the execution. The rumors said they had been locked up to avoid a coup, which was only half true. Only the vizier was imprisoned.
Soromeh, as the dishonored wife of a dignitary fallen in disgrace, was no longer under the royal guard’s surveillance. She cared little for her newfound freedom. The successive deaths of Onamu, Barak, and Naími added to her grief for Misha and robbed her of all her strength. At first, she had cried, but the tears soon dried up. Iram kept bringing her meals that she nibbled half-heartedly.
The days went by. Ten, twenty, forty of them were spent in silence. Soromeh grew worse.
Iram dealt with his own grief by doing the work left by an army of servants. When Soromeh had good days, he combed her hair and helped her get dressed, carried fresh water, fetched the meals, sat at her side, and held her hand. Sometimes, when he was able to, he spoke about Onamu, about Barak, about Lady Naími.
In the bad days, when Soromeh was a ball of misery, unable to leave her bed, Iram was busier. He cleaned the remaining furniture obsessively and gave back the shine to the few statues and vases still decorating the rooms. He watered the balcony trees and dusted the curtains, sheets and pillows.
Iram entered the servant’s bedroom only once. He touched Onamu’s bed with the tip of his fingers, then Misha’s. He went to Barak’s chest and found his servant bracelet thrown among his tunics. Iram took it and brushed the gold carved with Soromeh’s name, trying to understand, refusing to understand. He closed the chest and left with the bracelet. He locked the door behind him.
In the reception room, there was only the table remaining, where he had left a large canvas bag. He removed the objects methodically, aligned them, weighed them, deep in thought. He had assembled Soromeh’s street clothes and his own. Good pairs of sandals, a great amount of gold and jewels, dry food, water gourds. Weapons.
He sat down with the bracelet and carved Barak’s name in the leather, the Hebrew letters awkward. He had done the same with his own, wrote his name in the language of their people, inside, where no one else could see.
There were two other bracelets on the table. Lady Misha had done the same with hers, her letters sure and beautiful. Iram took Onamu’s and, not knowing how to write in Egyptian, carved the child’s name in Hebrew, too.
Soromeh would have welcomed Onamu into her family, with all the grandiosity of a new prince. Iram did it alone, silently, secretly. Too late.
He placed the bracelets next to each other and grabbed a sword. It was strong and light, the plainest he could find in Soromeh’s storage room. He stood on the terrace and observed the training soldiers, imitating their movements, again and again. When the days melted into the nights, when Soromeh slept too much or too little, Iram trained.
One morning, as he came back from the kitchen with a platter of fruits, he found her dressed. He let out a sound of surprise.
“I want to see Naími’s quarters,” she muttered, not meeting his eye. “Maybe there’s still something left.”
He went with her, glaring at anyone who stared at the dishonored princess.
Naími’s door had no guards or lock. They went in and heard a laugh coming from the main living area. Soromeh strode inside, ready to throw out the intruders, and stopped suddenly, a scream of indignation dying in her throat. Hermes and Aïden were sitting at the table in front of food and mountains of papyrus scrolls.
“Little princess!” said the Olympian. “It’s been an eternity since we’ve seen you last! Come, join us. Yes, Iram too. Come share this humble meal that we stole from your kitchens.”
Soromeh was frozen in place.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “These chambers are supposed to be empty.”
“The human was the one who let us stay here,” said Aïden, already defensive. “She died, but she never told me to leave.”
Hermes smiled awkwardly, scratched the back of his head. “I admit we stretched her invitation. We had no other place to go for now. But we never went into her bedroom. That I promise.”
Soromeh glanced at the closed door. She went to sit at the table instead.
Iram took place at her side, trying not to stare at Aïden. She was wearing a human form, very similar to her demonic one but with smaller nose and ears and clothed in a very simple tunic, perfectly normal for an Egyptian. What was surprising was the ferocity with which she was eating the meat, the blood of her recent kill dripping on her chin.
She chewed with her mouth open and glared at Hermes. “Human teeth are stupid. I want my fangs.”
“No, we have guests,” said Hermes. “Please, you two, don’t be shy. Dig in!”
Iram lifted a pile of documents and found a basket of bread underneath. Soromeh took one and ate the tiniest bite.
“Cicero,” she said, after a while, “can I still ask you questions?”
“Of course, little princess. You’ll always be my student.”
“Where do we go when we die?”
Hermes was taken aback. “That’s not something I should tell mortals. Is Iram even aware of our existence?”
“I am,” he lied.
Soromeh squeezed his hand under the table.
Hermes sighed. “Your highness, I specifically said not to tell anyone. Well, I always say curiosity is a good thing, and we should encourage it.”
He leaned forward, as he used to do during their lessons.
“It depends. You, the humans, and us, the Celestials, are different on that point. You have a soul, a ka, as you say in Egypt. When you die, yo
ur ka gets separated from your body, and that body decays. The soul goes on, depending on whichever Celestial clan governs over you. Here, your souls are weighed on golden scales. Where I’m from, they have to pay their passage to the afterlife. Some end up in Hell.”
“We torture them,” said Aïden.
“Only the damned ones!” blurted Hermes. “The ones who lived well are led to the doors of the afterlife, depending on your religion. Like you, little princess, will share the gods’ eternal feast, and you, Iram, since you are Hebrew, will have access to the angels’ paradise.”
The Celestial Conspiracies Page 27
