His pinfeathers stood on end as the air around him charged with static electricity.
"These deaths are a gift to thee, Sword of the Gods," Ninsianna's eyes glowed more golden. "News shall filter through the other villages that Assur has come to Gasurian aid."
The internal glow faded to the gentle burnished gold that was Ninsianna's natural eye color. She swayed as the power left her body, relying upon him to catch her so she would not plop down into the river.
"Go!" she ordered. Her expression took on that same bossy tilt of chin he had fallen in love with when she had nursed him back from the dead. "This will give you an opportunity to show us what you speak of when you say your people have these treaties you call 'mutual aid.' It will purchase good will if the tide ever turns and it is we who are attacked."
"The goddess should accomplish such cooperation through means other than people's deaths," Mikhail said.
Ninsianna's eyes flashed with anger. She did not like it when he questioned the goddess. He spoke an appeasement to rectify his clumsy tongue.
"Shall I fly back to you tomorrow night, mo ghrá? I can navigate by the star which precedes the dawn."
"And leave my mother vulnerable?" Ninsianna scoffed. "I think not! Much as I shall miss thy presence, I will survive without your kisses to awaken me. It will take only one Halifian arrow to deprive me of my mother."
"As you wish," he gave her a tender kiss. "I shall be home in three days' time."
Abandoning her embrace only reluctantly, he leaped into the air, his wings slapping the water and showering his beloved with spray as he flapped to get himself airborne. With a shriek of laughter, Ninsianna bid him goodbye. The powerful air current which arose over any body of water caught his wings, whispering endearments to his sensitive feathers and seducing him to soar higher.
A sharp cry pierced the air, answered by its mate. He glanced over at the enormous mated pair of golden eagles which patrolled the skies, an omen that the goddess found favor with their village. Oh! How he wished he could spend each day soaring as they did, free from worry except thoughts of how he could make Ninsianna smile.
"You will keep watch over her in my absence?" he asked the birds. The Ubaid believed eagles were the goddess's eyes.
The smaller male emitted a throaty chirp, enthralled, perhaps, with the same urge to soar that he felt? The female, however, was much more focused. With a cry of admonishment, she dove into the river and came up with a fish. The male trailed behind her, obedient to his mate.
Mikhail smiled. If any creatures bore a resemblance to him and Ninsianna, it was the eagles. The female had reminded him to get to work. He left the wind to return to the village on a hill.
Needa waited for him in front of their house, impatient to be off. She looked nervous, but she would never admit to fear. Piled at her side were far more bundles than was sensible for him to carry, not even his great wings adequate to carry the weight.
"Do you think of me as a pack animal, Mama?" Mikhail asked.
"Pack animal, warrior, goat-herder and farmer," Needa snapped. "Now cease your complaining and bring me to my mother's people. The wounded cannot wait!" Her dark eyes carried that same bossy edge she had passed along to her daughter, the look of a woman used to being obeyed.
"Yes, Mama," Mikhail coaxed. "But do you think perhaps you might leave enough room so I can carry you? Gasur's healers may be dead, but the villagers will have raided bandages from her stores."
With a grunt indicating she found no fault with his logic, the closest his pragmatic mother-in-law would ever come to admitting he was right, Needa cast off seven or eight of the bundles. The remaining parcels now securely tied onto his person, she stepped back and stood stiffly as a soldier at attention.
"If you drop me, son," Needa gave him a stern glare, "I shall spend every moment of eternity teaching you the true meaning of getting along poorly with your mother-in-law."
"Yes, Mama," Mikhail gave her a contrite grin.
Before she could scold him further, he carried the screeching woman skyward towards the village of her birth.
Chapter 13
I will give him the morning star.
Revelation 2:28
Galactic Standard Date: 152,088.03
Haven-1
Young Lucifer – age 5
235 Years Ago…
Young Lucifer
"-Lucifer-…"
The scent of ozone filled the room, making my hair stand on end like it did whenever Mama rubbed a balloon against my hair. I lay under my covers, pretending I was still asleep as Father materialized into my room, pretending the swirl of energy did not wake me up even though a blind man would able to see Father's golden glow.
Father could wear any outfit he wanted. He -was- a god, after all. But this morning he chose to appear in a bathrobe and slippers, as if he, too, needed to sleep. It was part of our daily routine. Every morning and evening, no matter how busy he might be, Father checked up on me and Mama, making sure we had everything we needed. I looked forward to his visits, for who wouldn't love a visit from Father? I dove down deeper beneath my covers, scrunching shut my eyes and stilling my wings.
"Lucifer, wake up son. Do you remember what day it is today?"
I tried not to giggle. Father had a way of making me giddy, as though some part of -his- energy became -my- energy and then, together, we had three times as much as either of us alone. Father said I was like a mirror, he the sun and I the moon, and simply by being here I made his light shine all the brighter. Each morning the Haven sun shone brightly in my window as though it rose for me alone, and every night the moon reflected its light into the floor as though Father had plucked it from the sky and laid it at my feet.
"Lucifer, I know you're awake. If your eyes scrunch up any tighter, they will get stuck that way and I will need to engineer a -new- set of eyes, like I did for the bagwyn's on Avior-3."
"No!" As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized Father had tricked me. I pulled the covers closer to my ears, but there was no fooling Father. He knew everything.
"See! I knew you were awake!" Father clapped his hands. "Come, son. You wouldn't want to miss your own birthday, now. Would you?"
I threw back the covers and sat up, eager to begin the day.
"Shall we have birthday cake for breakfast, Father?"
"Whatever you wish," Father said. "And ice cream with syrup poured over the top."
"What about Mama?"
Father grew quiet as he glanced at the door that led to my mother's room. Although Mama was usually the one to wake me up for breakfast, for as long as I could remember, each year on my birthday Mama retreated into her room and locked the door. It made me sad whenever Mama was sad, as if -her- sadness was -my- sadness, but I could not understand why.
"Perhaps it is best if we leave your mother alone today, réalta maidin?"
"But you promised last year that -this- year she would join us on my birthday!" My white wings fluttered with frustration. "Tell me, Father. Why is mother always so sad?"
Father looked to the door once more, his expression a mixed-up salad of sadness, anger, and remorse.
"It is best to leave her alone."
"You promised me anything I wanted for my birthday." I jutted my chin into the air the way that Mama sometimes did when she was serious about something. "I want Mama to eat cake and be happy. Not cry."
Father sighed.
"I did promise you that last year, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did." I looked to her door. "Do you think maybe you can get her to come out?"
"I think that today I am the last person she wants to see," Father said. "Perhaps if -you- do it?"
"What shall I say?"
"Tell her what you just told -me,-" Father said. "Today is your birthday and it breaks your heart to spend it alone." His expression was wistful, as though -he- didn't like spending it alone, either.
I pulled on my slippers and went over to the door Mama sometimes hid behind for days o
n end, refusing to answer. Lately I had begun to have curious notions. Was Mama sad because of -me?- Was that why she could not bear to look at me whenever she got so sad?
"Mama!" I knocked on the door, timid because of the awful thought that had just taken root in my mind. "Mama! Please!"
There was no answer, of course. There never was when Mama took to her room.
"Use your gift, son," Father urged. He touched my shoulder, his touch always precious as Father did not like to touch or -be- touched. "Maybe if you use your gift? The way I have been teaching you?"
"Mama," I projected the image of the hug I wanted to give her into my words so she would know I did not want her to be sad. "Father promised me anything I wanted for my birthday. The only thing I want is for -you- to come out and have cake with us. You don't have to stay out long. Just one slice."
Still no answer.
"Mama ... please?"
"It was worth a try, son," Father turned and began walking for the outer door. "Maybe next year?"
I was not yet ready to give up, especially since the awful thought about -me- being the reason Mama was sad had grown larger within my mind, so big it felt scarier than Father's tales of Emperor Shay'tan. I knocked one last time.
"Please, Mama." My wings trembled as I projected the question into my voice that I feared to hear her answer. "Are you sad because of -me-?"
For a moment there was silence, then there was fumbling with the lock. The door opened, but the specter that stood before me looked nothing like my Mama. Mama was the most beautiful Angelic the Alliance had ever seen, dark hair, dark wings, and skin so white it appeared to be made of the same marble as the palace, but this sad creature looked nothing like her, messy hair, sunken eyes, and wings which drooped so low they trailed behind her on the floor instead of jutting proudly into the air the way Father had created us to be.
"Mama?"
Mama suppressed a sob and touched my face, her eyes bloodshot and cheeks still stained with tears.
"I will try," Mama said. "For you. For I love you more than anything in existence." She stood straight and gave Father an accusatory stare. "Even more than your father."
Father winced. He was a powerful old god, but at this moment I realized he feared my Mama was right.
"Just one piece of cake, Asherah," Father coaxed. "For your son. And then if you wish to resume your time alone, I shall see that he does not bother you again until you recover."
Mama shuffled out of the room. Usually she was impeccably dressed and made sure I was dressed as well, but whenever she had a sad spell, she appeared the way a song bird might who had flown into a window and crumpled, dead, upon the ground.
"You'll have fun, Mama." I slipped my hand into hers and tugged her away from her bedroom door before she changed her mind. "You'll see."
While I had been talking Mama into coming out of her room, Father had changed his appearance. Father liked to appear as a silly-looking man with wild white hair and eyebrows so bushy they looked like caterpillars for everyone else, but for Mama he always appeared younger, his thick black hair streaked with just enough grey to make him look distinguished and wise. One time I had asked why he liked to look younger for Mama and she had told me to shush my mouth. Polite boys, she said, did not ask such questions of their Emperor and god.
"I asked chef to make a chocolate cake," Father said more to mother than to me. "With a whipped cream frosting. And waffles and scones for breakfast. Just a little piece, but maybe it will brighten your mood."
Mama squeezed my hand as we walked towards the doorway Father said we must never pass beyond, where two Cherubim guards stood vigil to keep us safe. Father had never told me -what- I needed to be kept safe from. Even Mama refused to speak of it, as though merely mentioning it would draw the evil towards our home, but I thought I knew. Many evenings Father would come in cursing Shay'tan, the rival god he forever tried to outsmart. I might only be five years old today, but I am not stupid.
"Your Majesty," the two Cherubim guards bowed, resplendent in their armor. The elder of the two turned to me and bowed a second time. "And how is our young prince this morning?"
"I am fine today, Master Higahaki," I bowed back to both him and Master Guyjin, just to be polite. "It's my birthday today, you know?"
"So I have heard, young prince," Master Higahaki said.
I was not surprised he knew. Although Father spoke of having many billions of subjects, the only people I ever saw were Father, Mama, Dephar, the grouchy old dragon who never seemed happy no matter -how- hard I tried to learn my lessons, and the Cherubim guards. Master Higahaki glanced at Mama, his compound eyes missing no detail about her appearance. "I see your mother decided to join you this year?"
Mama gave a sniffle instead of words, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. Master Higahaki gave her a polite bow.
"Has the building been cleared?" Father asked.
"Full lockdown," Master Guyjin said. "Master Yoritomo himself has overseen the emptying of the palace."
"Good," Father nodded. "Come, Lucifer. Today you shall eat your birthday breakfast in the Great Hall of State."
Father always made us stay in our own wing of the palace, the perimeter surrounded by Cherubim guards, to keep us safe. There were dozens of rooms and four playrooms, complete with a swing set and a jungle gym, but lately I had longed to go outside. The prospect of eating my birthday cake in the Great Hall was almost as good a gift as Mama accompanying me there. My feet lifted off the floor as I fluttered my wings with happiness, eager to get to our destination.
I looked up at Mama's swollen eyes and squeezed her hand, hoping -she- would be excited, too. She gave a weak squeeze in return, trying to be brave. I tuned my gift to see what made her so sad, but on my birthday, she rarely, if ever, spoke. We reached the Great Hall of State, so long that Father's throne appeared to be little more than a spec at the far end. An elaborate feast had been laid out on a table, groaning under the weight of every dish a boy could want.
I was so excited that I clapped my hands together with joy. This was turning out to be the best birthday ever!
"Will you teach me to play galactic chess today, Father? Like you play against Emperor Shay’tan? You promised last year that you would teach me when I was old enough.”
“Not this year, son.” Father said. "You are young to become embroiled in the intrigues of emperors and gods."
With a wave of his hand, he made fat little sausages and an omelet with cheese appear upon my plate. Mama pushed her fork around the eggs, mashing them into oblivion. It did not matter that not once did she make eye contact. She was here, and that made me happy. As soon as I finished my last sausage, Father made my entire plate disappear.
"Is it time for cake?"
"It is," Father said with a smile. Whenever he tried to appear young, after a while he would slip back into his favorite persona, one tiny detail at a time. As he spoke, his eyebrows turned bushy white, like two great caterpillars crawling upon his brow. I stifled a giggle, wise enough not to tell Father I laughed at his silly vanities.
An enormous birthday cake appeared in the center of the table. Trumpets and other instruments without people to play them all blew a happy birthday song from mid-air. Father sang along with them, his voice rich and deep that no mortal voice could ever hope to match. Mama mouthed the words, but tears welled in her eyes and no sound came out of her throat. It was with a happy heart I made my wish and blew out the candles.
"What did you wish for, réalta maidin?" Father asked.
"I wished for you and Mama to get married! That would be the -best- birthday present, ever!"
Mama gave a strangled cry, tears welling into her eyes. I knew instantly I had said something wrong, but I did not understand what.
"But Father loves you," I said, trying to make things better. Mama began to weep. I looked to Father. "You do love Mama? Don't you Father?"
"You know I do," Father reached across the table to take Mama's hand. "Asherah?"
"Asherah!" Father shouted. "You must stop!"
It felt as though my heart were broken. A great aching void into which a song pleaded for an answer, and found none, swallowed me alive. I cried too, unable to do anything -but- cry in the face of such overwhelming grief.
"-You- did this to me!" Mama pointed at Father as though she were the goddess of justice who graced the door of the library, passing judgment down upon him and finding him guilty. "You and your games of chess! How dare you play games with me and my son?"
I gasped for breath as a new emotion, anger, flooded my veins, all mixed up with sadness and grief and a longing for something I could not name, something Mama missed that had nothing to do with Father, but was so powerful the emotion behind it was as palpable as a club. My wings flailed as I fell to the floor, clutching my chest at this terrible mixture of emotions.
“Asherah,” Father said more gently this time. “Look what you are doing to your son. You must restrain what you project. Your son is too young to feel such depth of emotion.”
With a cry of grief, Mama turned and flew towards the entrance from whence we had come, the two Cherubim guards stepping aside to let her pass without even glancing towards their Emperor to give his leave. Father kneeled at my side and murmured soothing words. Although I could still feel the sensation of something sitting on my chest, now that Mama had taken away the carrier wave that made my gift work, it had become bearable.
“I'm sorry, Father! I didn’t mean to make her cry!”
"It's not your fault," Father said. "Not really. Let’s leave your mother to attend to her own business."
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 14
