Queen of Abaddon

by Heather Killough-Walden

  She went still, as did Loki. The gap between the doors widened to reveal a middle aged man with brown hair that was graying at the temples. He was dressed in simple garb, tunic and breeches, and there were smudges of what looked like ash or dust across one cheek and most of his clothing.

  He peered out at them from behind a pair of spectacles that gleamed with obvious care in the wake of the surrounding disaster. His hazel gaze narrowed. “More hunters. I’ve told your kind before, I haven’t –”

  His words cut off and he frowned, his gaze slipping from Raven to the snow mounting behind her. His frown became contemplative. He touched his chin and then considered them both again in silence.

  When his eyes fell on Loki’s medallion, which Loki had forgotten to tuck beneath his shirt, something passed before the man’s features. He stepped back and moved to one side, gesturing toward the room behind him. “Forgive me. Won’t you come in? It seems to have become unseasonably cold outside.”

  Raven glanced at Loki, and his concerned expression was exactly what she had expected to see. Rein it in! the look reminded her. She also noticed that he shivered, just a little, which reminded her that she did not shiver.

  Out of instinct to blend in and appear normal, Raven hugged herself as if she were cold. But she couldn’t stop the snow from falling, despite its draining effect on her. Her thoughts and feelings were in too much turmoil.

  “Thank you,” Loki said, turning away from her to address the man in the library. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

  Chapter Four

  It was warmer inside, and the air was thick with motes of dust and ash. Their boots made hollow sounds on the wooden planks of the library floor as they moved past the threshold and into the vast expanse beyond.

  The walls of the library’s main room were rounded, giving the space a circular feel, and were almost entirely composed of recessed shelves. Most of the shelves were stocked with books of all sizes, bound in any manner of material, from leather to silk to pressed leaves.

  Some books lay open upon one of the long tables of the room, and others were open upon pedestals here and there. At the other end of the room, a massive hearth crackled warmly with a well-tended fire.

  Raven could smell food, too. Bread, warm and fresh. It was a welcome change from the stenches outside.

  “Please, have a seat and make yourselves comfortable,” the man offered. He shut and re-latched the doors and moved past them toward an archway that led to what Raven assumed was a kitchen. It was where the smell of bread was wafting from.

  Raven moved to the closest table and felt the quiver of arrows move against her back. Out of curiosity, she pulled one of the arrows from the quiver and turned it over in her hands. She half expected it to vanish the moment it separated from her body, but it remained as solid as ever. The feathers on one end of the arrow were black – raven feathers. Fitting, she thought. The symbol carved into the side of the shaft was that of Magus.

  “Your god’s pride is going to get us killed,” she said softly to her brother, who was busy removing his sword and placing it at the other end of the same table.

  He looked up. “How do you mean?”

  “Look at the symbols on my arrows and on the hilt of your sword.”

  Loki did. Then he nodded. “No one else will be getting close enough to notice. And if they do, they’ll be noticing it as they die. Besides,” he added, giving her a side-long glance. “You’re the one with the ‘Property of the King of Hell’ tattoo.” He leaned in meaningfully and hissed, “Which you still haven’t covered up.”

  A noise behind them drew their conversation short, but Raven returned her arrow and went back to unwinding her braid. The librarian keeper was returning from the kitchen with a tray of bread, three metal cups, and a metal drink container. “There now,” he said amiably. “Have yourselves a seat and eat something. No doubt you’re hungry.”

  Raven’s brow furrowed as she released her now-free hair and finger-combed it to cover her neck. Why would he assume they were hungry?

  “I suspect there isn’t much bread to eat in the InBetween.”

  Raven froze. She felt her eyes go very wide, and in the periphery of her vision, she could see that her brother had ceased moving as well.

  The librarian set the tray down and took a seat across from them. He began placing cups in front of each of them as if he hadn’t said anything revelatory, and his guests weren’t sitting there with white faces.

  He went on to pour what looked like wine from the decanter. Then, finally, he looked up.

  When he saw the look on Raven’s face, he blushed a little. “Ah,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants nervously and shrugging. “Well, I saw the medallion your brother wears and recognized it for what it is. It is the Soul Stone of Magus.”

  He took the bread and broke a piece off before putting the rest of the loaf back on the tray. He took a bite and began chewing. Through the chewing, he said, “I knew you were disguised, and for you to be carrying such a valuable and unique stone, you would have to be someone important.” He shrugged and swallowed. “I put two and two together, and was able to see through the illusion.”

  He took a drink of his wine, and set back down his goblet. “You are Raven Grey,” he said, nodding at Raven. “And you are Loki Grey.” He waited a beat, then asked, “Would you care for butter with your bread?”

  Raven thought about the mage god’s last words to them before he’d disappeared into Loki’s pendant. He’d told them this library was as good a place as any to begin. He’d also warned them that anyone with real power would not be fooled by their disguises.

  “What level mage are you?” she asked the librarian.

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I stopped labeling myself at any kind of level long ago. But suffice it to say, I can tell Magus sent you to me with a purpose.” He smiled warmly, his hazel eyes glittering. “I’m honored. And I will aid you to the best of my ability.”

  “Yes, I’d like some butter,” said Loki, suddenly.

  Raven’s brow raised. She turned to him, and he gave her a helpless look. “What?” he asked. “He’s on our side. We can both tell. And I want some damn butter.”

  *****

  Raven waited for the librarian to finish placing the gravy on the table in front of them and sit back down before she reached for a roll. Loki did so at the same time, and the man smiled, following suit.

  They’d finished the bread a while back, followed it up with soup, and were now enjoying rolls and gravy as if they truly hadn’t eaten in years.

  “You know who we are,” Raven said in as friendly a tone as possible, “What is your name?”

  “I’m Sartorun. I was the chief librarian of this fine city before the war. And as you’ve guessed, I was also a vigilant study of the mage god.” He stood, left the table, and approached one of the shelves. “Seeing as how we may not have much time, it’s best I fill you in on as much as possible without further delay.”

  He pulled a book from the shelf, but then reached into the space it had left behind and extracted what appeared to be a weathered, rolled-up parchment. “This scroll shows the Legend of the Phylactery of Souls.” He set the parchment down on the table, and they held it down while he unrolled it.

  It stretched across the table, revealing scribblings in a multitude of colors, and a map with so many symbols, Raven felt bewildered.

  “Not to worry,” said Sartorun, smiling. “I’m reading it at the moment, and only one user can read it at a time, so it wouldn’t make any sense to you.”

  Raven stood from the bench and leaned over the map. “May I?”

  Sartorun nodded and moved back, allowing her to read it alone.

  It seemed to shift around before her eyes, coalescing and darkening until it had formed a recognizable image. On one side of the map, there was nothing but a field of green painted grass and a single cherry blossom tree, complete with pink and white blooms. A dotted line trailed from the tree across a wa
ll drawn into the map. On the other side of the wall, the dotted line moved through the city of Trimontium, straight to the door of its massive, run-down library.

  From the library door, the dotted line moved once more across a wall on the opposite end of the map, and into what appeared to be a group of utterly dilapidated structures. Ruins, really, and nothing more.

  Raven recognized the field of grass right away as being a representation of Immaloria. The fact that the “trail” moved on to Trimontium suggested that the map was following her and Loki’s movements.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a legend?” she asked.

  “Legend is another word for map,” said Sartorun. “And for what it’s worth, it is also known as the Hunter’s Map. But if it’s a story you want, you need but touch something upon the map. The explanatory instructions will appear to the reader but once, so pay attention.”

  “Raven, you can honestly make sense of this thing? It’s all jumbled up. I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Loki told her disbelievingly.

  “As I mentioned, only one individual at a time can read the legend,” said Sartorun. “Your sister is reading it at the moment, so it will appear nonsensical to you.”

  Loki’s brows raised. “That, it does. That bit next to your hand looks like a dancing chicken.”

  “Go on and touch anything upon the map and you’ll see what I mean,” Sartorun encouraged.

  Raven placed her finger to the library door on the map. The parchment seemed to move a little beneath her touch, waving as if it were hardened water. Then a bubble of text materialized over the library’s drawing, using its ink to spread and reform into several paragraphs of words.

  Raven read. As she did, an odd sensation of heat formed in her chest. There was no denying it now; the legend was, indeed, about Raven and her brother. Or, more specifically, it was about her alone.

  “Is this true? Is it real?” she asked, looking up.

  “It can be,” said Sartorun.

  “What can be?” asked Loki.

  Raven turned to her brother, who was still dutifully holding his end of the map down, but looked as confused as ever. “If what this legend says is true,” she told him, “we can change what has happened here. There is a way to make amends.” She looked at Sartorun now. “We can turn back time.”

  He nodded, but slowly. “Yes,” he agreed hesitantly. “But there will be sacrifices. You read that bit as well, I hope?”

  Raven didn’t respond. She’d read it. She knew of the possibilities, and of their consequences. But she didn’t care. “Sacrifices” could mean anything. “We need to find the Phylactery. Apparently….” Her voice trailed off as a wave of self-consciousness struck her. She straightened, however, and brushed it aside. This was no time for modesty, and certainly no time for timidness. “Apparently, only I can activate it. Or, rather, my soul can.”

  “You mean the ‘Chosen Soul’?” her brother asked.

  “Yes. That would explain why no one has gone after the Phylactery. If it has the power to undo all this damage, you’d think it would be the first thing they’d seek out. But the legend claims only I can use it, so it would be useless for them to try.”

  “I agree,” said Sartorun, but he wasn’t looking at her any longer. He’d stepped back from the map, leaving her and her brother to hold it down. His attention was now on the door to the library. “You must find the Phylactery. You have a link with the map now. What you need to find, the map will take you to. Don’t be surprised if you have many revelations in the days to come.”

  Brother and sister nodded.

  “Now I believe it would be best if you began your journey without further delay.”

  Raven followed Sartorun’s gaze to the door. Because they were both looking at it now, Loki looked as well. Beyond its double-reinforced wood and metal, new sounds were making their way across the snow scape. Sounds of horses’ hooves.

  “That will either be Lord Astriel’s Seekers or Tantibus and his Night Marchers,” said Sartorun.

  “Tantibus?” Loki asked, his voice reaching a high note of mounting fear. “Doesn’t that name mean something bad?”

  “Tantibus is Lord Tanith’s right-hand man and not a devil to be crossed under any circumstance. No doubt, whoever they are, they’ve noticed the snow, and these days, snow is always associated with the princess of Caina.”

  “Where do we go?” Raven asked right away. She didn’t want to make the same mistake she’d made with Magus, leaving before she had any answers at all.

  “The map will always show you where to go next. You need only hold on to the map and it will transport you. Make sure you are both touching it, or one of you will be left behind.”

  There was a hard knock on the door.

  “What about you?” Loki asked, his face pale. Raven knew her own pallor had been stricken just as white with renewed fear.

  “I will survive,” Sartorun told them quickly. “Now go!” he hissed.

  Something terrible slammed against the door, blowing it to bits that arced overhead just as Raven touched the map with one hand, and held Loki’s hand down onto it with the other.

  It wasn’t until the world was spinning around them, and the wind of a powerful portal was buffeting them both that Raven realized they’d left Loki’s weapon behind, which was the source of his disguise. They’d also left any food or drink they might have otherwise taken, along with the first friend they’d managed to find in this new, war-torn world.

  Chapter Five

  The funny thing about leadership is that it was often associated with “seats.” Sovereigns had “thrones.” Scholars had “chairs.”

  But when an honorable man became king, his days of sitting were over. This was something no one told princes or princesses. This was something learned the hard way. Like parenthood.

  Astriel took nothing sitting down any longer. He strode from point A to point B. He stood fast in his morals and commands. He leaned wearily against window panes and lost himself in strategy and remorse and the daydreams that come with exhaustion. But he did not sleep. He did not lay down.

  He almost never took a seat.

  The throne room of the elven palace was a study in resplendent emptiness. With the late king’s vacancy and the princess’s imprisonment came a lapse in parties or functions, and a general quiet that spread from the center of the palace outward, encompassing the whole of the elven nation.

  They were at war now, and that silence was deeper than ever.

  “Your majesty?”

  A soft voice interrupted Astriel’s thoughts, and he pushed away from the window he’d been resting against. He turned to find a young elven maid from the south wing waiting in the doorway, her hands clasped politely in front of her.

  “Yes, Amalthea?”

  “Lady Raven’s mother and father wish to speak with you again.”

  The south wing was where “guests” were kept. They were the men, women, and children that had been taken in by the elven nation during the war with Abaddon. In any other realm, under any other rule, such people would most likely have been met with disdain and neglect. But here, they were safe. In fact, many wished to stay.

  It was one of the many, many things Astriel had been brought to consider over the last year as the new Elven King.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Amalthea left, trailing long, iridescent skirts behind her. The maids in the palace draped themselves with layers of materials as soft and colorful as a butterfly’s wings. There was no reason not to. Housework in the palace never actually involved getting dirty. It only called for magic, and that was something of which the elves were never in short supply.

  Astriel took a deep breath and composed himself before striding out of the palace’s library and into one of its many long halls.

  The halls were bordered by crystal clear streams that ran over ravines of quartz and into waterfalls that led to the levels below. At the end of the hall, atop an island of green grass and wildflow
ers stood a great oak, its branches bedecked with transparent blue-white leaves that shimmered in the light of the massive overhead glass dome. Tiny winged creatures flitted about the tree, tending to it now as they had for millennia.

  From this center atrium, arched hallways shot off in as many different directions as there were branches on the tree. Astriel took a series of stairs down to the main level of the atrium, and then turned down one of these many halls. As he moved, he was met by members of his court and guards, all of whom bowed low as he passed.

  Mr. and Mrs. Grey currently occupied a very special section of the south wing, separate from the others. They were the parents of a woman who was very important to Astriel.

  It wasn’t that her absence had forced his heart to grow fonder. It was that her absence had allowed him to see things clearly for the first time in his existence. As if she’d been standing directly in his line of view, as if her face had from the very beginning blocked his vision of the truth, her departure had cleared the way, pulled the wool from his eyes, and exposed him to the reality that was.

  He owed her for that. He owed her mother and father.

  When Astriel had first received word that Raven and her brother were back in the terran realm, he’d had mixed emotions. A year ago, he’d have raced to find her location, only to claim her as his queen, his conquest, his bride, and to “win” her hand before anyone else could. He’d have done so because she was beautiful and powerful and unique. Because she was a prize.

  But that was the problem.

  A year ago, that was all Astriel had been capable of seeing, so up-close, so blinded… so young. It was amazing how little a man could grow in a millennium. And how much he could grow in a year.

  His mind was different. It was changed.

  As he’d learned of her return, he’d wondered, first and foremost, what it could mean. What portent was this? How and why had she suddenly reappeared? War had torn the world apart and flipped it upside down. Thousands were dead. So… why now?