The Etlantian raiders hunted all humans, but more than any others, they searched out the covens of spell binders, especially the covens of Ishtar, the enchantresses.
Hyacinth had witnessed the death of all she had known and loved, and she had learned something that day. She had learned that there was no bottom to the depth of sadness Elyon granted His children; such sadness was as endless as the stars.
By the time Darke’s blackship had found them, the village was only ash, embers, and death. It had been a fierce battle; many Etlantians had fallen, but of the magick casters, Darke found only one left alive, a small, dark-haired enchantress buried beneath cindered beams.
So it was that a child of Ishtar’s horned moon came to dwell in Ophur, the last hidden outpost of the Tarshians.
When sailing with Darke, she was most alive, but those few times she was left behind were unbearable and she hated nothing more. Mysteriously, on this last voyage, Darke had not even consulted her. He had left in the night, under cover of darkness. As his absence stretched over five counts of the moon, her despair had become nearly intolerable. And worse, there was an unexplained dread that had taken hold of her. It was a fear she could not name, and it whispered an unspoken promise. Something was hunting them, Darke and the Tarshians. She felt it crawl over the winds and sky, but she could do nothing. It was deceptive, cunning, and more deadly than anything they had faced before. Why he had left her behind she could not fathom. If ever he had needed her, he needed her now.
Finally, she decided to take her fears—the dread of the hunter and the overpowering fear for her captain—and deceive them with a child’s game. It may have seemed simple, but it would at least keep her from going mad.
So she turned to simple magick—children’s magick. When she was a small girl, little Hyacinth had always had trouble sleeping indoors, especially in the stocky wooden huts of the magi who, despite their talents in spell binding, built plain and sometimes ominous huts of unfinished wood and great, ugly halls that looked like shadow castles. So, to help her, Hyacinth’s mentor had taught her to capture the stars, how to bring them into her sleeping chambers. To Hyacinth, there was no greater comfort than the glittering wonder of the mothering sky.
They first melted sugar into thick, liquid goo, then, using tiny glass blowers, they formed hollow sugar globes, crystals so delicate they would often shatter at the slightest jar. What was amazing about the trick, something little Hyacinth could only watch before years of practice, was the way her mentor skillfully used a silver stylus to etch the single word of binding on the surface of each globe that would then become the crystal’s incantation. Once finished, the orbs could be left in an open field overnight, and each time they would capture the sky and all its wonders whenever the Pleiades reached zenith.
Inside the crude hut where she slept at night, Hyacinth would break open a globe. The ceiling and walls would melt away, and a comforting blanket of stars would fold over them. She would study the sky until sleep overtook her. She learned all the named stars, all the patterns and formed creatures that danced across the night. Adding to the enchantment, like a voyager, she could sail among them, witnessing sights few even knew existed: spectacular variable stars laced with lightning that flashed a blinding blue-white; great, swollen red giants like rubies glittered; spinning stars left streamers of all colors as they swirled, even the darker ones, the stars that hid.
After Darke had been gone four counts of the moon, Hyacinth began to craft sugar globe after sugar globe. Each had to be flawless; each took hours to perfect, but time did not matter, time was on her side, as was patience. She was older now, and though forming sugar globes required little skill, the inscribing of the binding word that would transform the sugar crystal from candy to magick took deft and proficient concentration. Hyacinth was now able to work the stylus quickly, never once shattering the delicate crystal.
She worked deep in a mountain chamber carved long ago into the black rock of Ophur’s dead volcano. She had no idea who had carved it, but it had become her hidden place, where no one would find her or interrupt her. Here she had collected all her treasures: manuscripts of rolled parchment, books with ancient bindings, jars and boxes of herbs, powders, and poisons. Also kept here were the many gifts Taran, Darke’s younger brother, brought her from the sea. He knew she craved artifacts and pieces of delicate art, and he also knew that most of all she craved the books and scrolls of the ancient temples. She had so many now that she imagined her library might be unmatched, even among the temples of the followers of Enoch.
Once she had crafted the twelve orbs, she took them, one at a time, each dusk to the edge of the southern cliff that overlooked the deep blue of the Western Sea. Here, there was clear, uninterrupted sky. Eventually, each orb had captured a separate flawless image of the night sky.
In her cave, Hyacinth gathered the crystal globes with their captured skies, and whenever her angst became too much for her, she would star voyage. She would set a globe before her and break it open. The ceiling and walls, even the floor, spilled over, turning to a clear, unblemished sky of brilliant stars. Except for the silence, the lack of any animal sounds or sea or wind, she might have been sitting on that ridge, though her books, jars, and potions surrounded her, a few of them hovering midair beyond the cliff’s edge.
And then she traveled. She would move through wondrous clouds that held endless color and sometimes travel vast expanses of darkness looking for anything at all that might be hidden there. It surprised her how much of the sky was empty when from Earth it seemed swarming with stars. She also found dark clouds of matter that seemed to have no purpose. They simply swirled, slowly, alive yet seemingly dead for they had no light. Hours Hyacinth would spend voyaging, her mind lost in the wonders she beheld and the misery of the long count of moons since she had seen the blackship of Darke, at least for a time, forgotten.
Chapter Three
The Book of Angels
Where are your walls?” a voice said, suddenly interrupting Hyacinth’s concentration. She turned, excited, for it was not just any voice; it was Darke. He alone knew the path to her cave. He glanced down, calmly noticing that only stars and sky were bearing him up.
Hyacinth leapt to her feet and bounded into his arms, wrapping her legs about his waist.
Darke held her tightly. He wanted to kiss her, to squeeze her, but for all the years she had been with him, he had kept his feelings for her hidden.
“Captain,” she whispered in his ear, “oh, Captain, how I have missed you!” “As well, Little Flower.”
He finally set her down, then searched the strange room hovering amid the stars. “What is all this?”
“You have been gone so long. I get lonely. The stars give me comfort.”
Hyacinth knelt to crush her last orb. They were left in the pitch-dark of the cavern a moment, but with a wave of her hand the braziers and torches came alive. She lifted a shard from one of the broken orbs; it looked like tinted glass.
“Candy,” she said, taking a bite. “Quite good. Like some?”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“I will bag these, and you can pass them out to the children, but make no mention they are from the witch.”
“That is not how they think of you, Hyacinth.”
She didn’t respond. She simply gathered the candy shards into a thin leather bag, stood, and tossed it, roughly, at the captain’s face. He barely caught it and stared back, surprised.
Hyacinth’s eyes flashed, suddenly angry. “What?” he asked.
“Why did you leave me here without even telling me?” she shouted. “Why?” “I could not have taken you, Hyacinth. There was no certainty I would return myself.”
“So you believe I am better off left on this godless island with mourning widow women forever pacing their tower walkways? What kind of fate is that?” “It was simply too dangerous, Hyacinth.”
“I care of danger? You think I care? If ever you should die, Captain, it is my choice to
die at your side! Do you understand?” She stepped closer, her brows narrowed fiercely. “Do you?” When he failed to respond, she roughly shoved him back with both palms. “What was there to be gained leaving me on this godless, stinking sulfur island?”
“Sometimes you have to trust me, Hyacinth.”
“You ever do that to me again, and I swear … I will cause you true pain.” “I believe that.”
“So why have you come to me? You left me behind for five counts of the moon; you could not care for me.” She paced, waiting for a response her heart could accept, avoiding the captain’s eyes. “I thought you did not like my cave.”
He reached into his leather tunic and withdrew a folded parchment, its edges stained red. Hyacinth could tell that the blood was not merely for effect; the stain was a signet, and she could smell the blood—unordinary blood. Her heart leapt.
“This is an angel’s epistle! You have made contact with one of the old ones!” “Old is a good word for him.” “May I open it?”
“It is why I hiked up here to give it to you.”
She quickly unfolded the parchment. “Human skin,” she commented. “He seems to have a penchant for that.”
She studied it, fascinated. “A map. I sense a name. It is not printed, but it floats above the etchings like a scent. This is the blood of the angel Satariel.” Her big, brown eyes suddenly flicked up. “And you have seen him—face to face!”
“You are quick, Little Flower.”
She studied it further. “He has etched this in his own blood, which means he somehow took yours in exchange when he gave it to you. Am I mistaken?”
Darke displayed the punctures left by the angel’s daggered nails.
“Captain! This is more than a map; it is a covenant sealed in blood! Not only that, but you are mortal. What could he possibly want so badly that he would enter into a blood covenant with a human?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that.”
“Captain, do you even realize what you have done? He has bound you. A creature like Satariel does not make deals with mortals. He is malevolent; he has no good purpose in his heart, and his soul is hollow. When he is finished with you, he will destroy you, pure and simple. How many times must I tell you to take me with you?”
“Hyacinth, I know little of these so-called fallen angels, but I do know they despise the disciples of Ishtar, especially enchanters. If he had sensed a child of the horned moon among my crew, he might well have decided there should be one less spell binder in this world, regardless of the consequence.”
“I could have hidden from him, veiled myself.”
“I was not willing to take that chance. Now, will you calm down enough to answer a few questions?”
“What do you want to know? How he is going to boil you, or how he will slowly peel away your skin? How he is going to sever each limb before he lets you die a miserable death?”
“I had other questions in mind, actually. What do you know of a people called the Daath?”
“Why mention them?”
“Because he did.”
“I know of them, but they are not people.” “What do you mean?”
“According to the Followers, the seers of Enoch who keep the scriptures of lineages, the Daath are not the blood of men. They are descended of an archangel, Uriel, and a goddess—the mirrored image of the mothering star of Dannu. She is one star, a single being, but as with all of us, she bears a shadow, like the face from a mirror. The shadow of Dannu is called the Daath. She is cruel. She would birth slayers.”
“All this according to the teaching of the Followers of Enoch?”
“This according to scripture and the Followers of Enoch are the only ones left who keep any scriptures alive. But I suspect the angels know all legends, all scripture. The angel Satariel would know their linage as clearly as any priest. Some call them star voyagers because it is believed they voyaged from the seventh star to Earth in the days of Yered. Others call them killer angels, because they are so deadly. Simply put, they are slayers. It is said they strike from nowhere without sound or warning. What does this angel want of them?”
“He did not say.”
She glanced up, studying Darke slyly. “Tell me what this angel looked like. They are said to be ever young, ever beautiful. Did he shine with the light of stars? Was he perfect?” She did not wait for an answer. “No, he was hideous, was he not? This one has begun to age, and if my guess is true, his body was no more than a corpse, the only light left him the rings about the edges of his eyes.”
“How could you guess that?”
“Because he has summoned a mortal to do his bidding. He is afraid, and the reason he is afraid is that he has begun to turn. He has lost the light; he has become one of the fallen.”
“I do not understand.”
“We need the book; it will clarify these things.” “What book?”
“The Book of the Seer. I will read from it. It speaks of the turning.”
She walked to a far corner of her cave where she worked a spellbound lock, then slid back a panel. Inside was a small chamber lined in wolf fur, and resting on it, holding a faint reddish glow from its oraculum binding, was a book Darke recognized well. Two years ago he had sailed near an island whose inhabitants had recently been slaughtered by Etlantian raiders. It contained a temple, and the spires left intact marked it as a temple of the Followers of Enoch. This had been an island of priests, and the Etlantians hunted the priests of Enoch with a vengeance equal to that which they held for enchantresses of Ishtar. Darke and his crew went ashore to search for survivors—there were none. But Taran spotted the temple, and he knew what it might contain in its lower chambers—treasures Hyacinth would cherish. He always brought her gifts, gold, ancient artifacts, emeralds, diamonds, but nothing pleased her more than scrolls and books of knowledge. Before Darke could restrain him, Taran plunged into the still smoldering embers of the temple.
Danwyar had stepped to Darke’s side, curious. “Why does he risk a burning temple? It could be a death trap down there.”
“It is for Hyacinth. He is hoping for scrolls—the writings of Enoch. I think he believes one day he will discover a gift so enticing it will turn her heart.”
“Perhaps you should explain to your young brother that the priestess has no heart to be turned.”
“Oh, she has a heart; she just keeps it to herself.”
They had waited anxiously and finally Taran emerged, singed in places, smoke still streaming from his hair and tunic, but tucked against his chest was what would become Hyacinth’s greatest treasure. It was said there were only four in the entire world. Covered in Etlantian oraculum, sealed on all sides with spellbound locks, it was nothing less than the Book of Angels, often called the Book of Enoch, for it was written by the fabled seer’s own hand.
When they had returned to Ophur, instead of kisses and attention, Hyacinth had hugged Taran, showered him with brief words of affection, and then disappeared for weeks into her hidden lair. Taran’s heart was once again broken, but Darke knew it would heal by the time he spotted another treasure on another voyage. His devotion to her was hopeless.
Darke watched Hyacinth retrieve the sacred book from its enclave and sit down beside him. She carefully laid the tome on her lap. “Kneel beside me, Captain. Your answers are here—in the words of Enoch.”
He did so. The book’s outer covering was an unblemished sheath of the purest oraculum. Even more mystifying, there appeared no way to open it—no latches, no locks, no panels. It was perfectly smooth on all sides.
“Could you hand me that orange bottle over your shoulder,” asked Hyacinth, “the one with the sparkling crystals?”
Darke searched and gave it to her.
“The Book of Angels can only be opened and read under the pure light of the full moon. Of course, we lack a moon, but we can summon what is just as effective—salamanders.”
She poured the powder into her palm, then blew it outward and spoke words of bi
nding in her sacred language. Though Darke never understood her incantations, he liked hearing them. She always spoke them as a kind of song or poem. The orange dust swirled to coalesce into three salamanders, floating midair. Their skin was wet, a silvery sheen. The salamanders’ eyes were riveted on Hyacinth, waiting for her command.
“Give me moonlight, silver ones, and I shall reward you with cinnamon.”
They seemed to have no problem with the offer and scampered up the walls onto the ceiling directly above. There they coiled tightly until they became an image of the moon. Their slivery skins then began to shimmer and soon the chamber was bathed in what seemed perfect moonlight. With a wave of her hand Hyacinth dimmed the braziers and torches.
Darke watched as her fingers worked locks now visible in a faint blue, much like soft flame.
She laid the book open. The pages were of gold, thin as foil. They looked fragile, yet were unblemished. The moonlight cast of the salamanders left letterings of soft flame on the smooth pages. Darke could not make out any of it.
“Do not bother trying,” Hyacinth said, guessing his attempt. “The words were inscribed using the pure light of the mothering star—undecipherable without the stones.”
“What stones?”
“I will show you.” She turned to the back plate, where she slid open a panel. In a thin hollow lined with velvet rested two stones, one a dark-set ruby, the other a lighter shade of blue sapphire.
“Seer stones,” she said.
“How do you work them?”
“They are worn.”
She lifted them carefully. They had holders on the sides that unfolded, and she was able to slip them over her temples and curl the pliable metal about her ears. There was a crossbar that balanced on her nose. She looked up to Darke, her big brown eyes now magnified in ruby and blue. He had to smile. She smiled back, then turned to the book. She expertly leafed through several of the golden foil pages.
Angelslayer: The Winnowing War Page 3
