by Trisha Telep
In the divine sanctum, they shared thoughts as a matter of course. There were no secrets. But now, of course, he had one. And that troubled him. Not enough to make him step away, however. Not enough to send him fleeing through the Veil and to find his archangel and beg for forgiveness. He was only a foot soldier, he reasoned, one who followed orders. Nobody would notice this breach. Nobody would care.
The woman pulled her long hair forward, so it cloaked her breasts. He wished he were those tresses, teasing her nipples with each breath she took. The force of the longing astonished him; this must be the reason they proscribed wearing flesh. With it came such shocking need. This was the first time he had broken the taboo, and he reeled with inundation from all his senses.
Warmth blew across his skin. With some shock, he realized he’d not clothed his form, perhaps because she wore nothing. In the realm from whence he came, such things were not needed. Everything was light and shadow and complete intimacy with every other scion. And somehow that still felt impersonal compared to the heat of the sun overhead, the chirp and buzz of insects and the soft whistle of wind in the reeds.
It was too much, and he stumbled, dropping to his knees. Beauty stepped towards him, concern overcoming her amused caution. “Are you ill?”
“Merely . . . overwhelmed.”
“You truly do not spring from our world. Are you a god?” She seemed untroubled by that possibility.
Perhaps in her mythology, the gods regularly walked among humankind. Camael knew people entertained myriad theories about what beings populated the spirit world and the afterlife. None of them was correct, but it did not stop them from building complex theologies and rituals. Such practices offered comfort.
“No.”
“A messenger, then, for one of them.”
Near enough. Explanations would require more concentration than he could muster at the moment. He nodded.
“Is that why you’ve watched me? Need you to deliver me a message?”
“That I did for pleasure alone.”
“You would have me believe I own a beauty so great it distracted you from divine endeavours?”
“Yes.” And it was true.
Even now he longed to touch her, with a need so great it burned like an endless fire in his veins. His fingers curled. He had no experience with self-denial. In the sanctum there were no such desires. In comparison, sanctum existence was pure and sterile, all ideas with no passion to fuel them. He had never noticed the lack before.
He must pass the Veil again before he changed irrevocably. It would be uncivil to vanish without a word, but better than the alternative. Better than—
Oh.
Rei touched him. Her soft hand on his bare shoulder drove all thoughts from his mind. Longing surged through him in a maelstrom of bewildering heat. He had never been touched before. It did not matter that his physical body was only energy held together by his will. He still felt it, and that caress altered him forever.
“If that is so,” she murmured, “then surely I must reward you.”
His head spun, and all thought of escape fled his mind. “How?”
She pushed him back gently; it did not occur to him to resist. The bank beside the river cushioned him with soft grasses and moss. The tall reeds hid them from sight. Overhead, the sun shone gold, sweet and hot on his skin, and the sky blazed with a blue so fierce it filled him with wonder. He had watched her in innocent fascination, and she had caught him, against all expectation.
She gazed down at him, eyes dark and hooded. “You are quite pleasing too.”
Her hands travelled his body, stroking him with sweet surety. He gasped in shocked pleasure as she bent her head and set her lips on his skin. Camael had no words for how it made him feel. A soft sound escaped him, part arousal, part encouragement. He wanted – he did not know what he wanted.
But she did. She eased on top of him, slim and graceful in the sunlight. “You are passive for a godling. By rights you might have taken me as soon as I caught your fancy. Why do you hold back?”
Whatever he might have said, it was lost as her mouth claimed his. She was the goddess in this encounter, so sure of herself, so expert as her lips toyed with his. He did not even know how to respond, but she taught him with inexorable, rising excitement. When they broke away, she was breathless, her face flushed.
“I know,” she whispered. “Now I know. I am your first.”
“Yes.”
“Give me a son. With your blood in his veins, he will conquer all he surveys.”
Camael meant to tell her that was not possible, but she curled her hand around his shaft. The throb of pleasure nearly undid him. And this was only a close facsimile; how much more intense might he feel if he were, in truth, flesh and blood? He lifted up, pushing into her fingers.
She raised her hips and then sank down, claiming him with her fierce heat. The world broke apart and then reshaped itself. Like a force of nature, she rose and fell on him, head thrown back. He gazed up into her face, memorizing her features. Surely no creature had ever been so lovely.
“Rei,” he gasped.
“Touch me too.” She raised his hands and showed him how.
It was like being given a key to a secret kingdom. He belonged to her now as surely as if she had created him. She took him to a place where only her touch had any meaning, and by the time they both stilled, he knew he would never be the same.
She lay down on him, trembling, and he wrapped his arms around her back. Her hair felt cool in contrast to her heated skin. He closed his eyes and drank in her clean river scent and her womanly musk. He would remember this moment as only one of the host could – forever indelible.
“I must go,” he whispered. “They will be looking for me.”
“Camael. Come to me again.” It was a plea, but it settled into his spirit as a command.
“Yes. As soon as I may.”
Leaving her felt as though he had ripped himself in twain and left the other part, perhaps even the greater part, in her keeping. Yet he rose because he must – and duty drew him back to the divine sanctum. For the first time in Camael’s memory, he did not wish to return. It was no homecoming; it was a burden.
Two
“You are late,” Kenzo said.
Rei had never liked him, though he professed to want peace. His sire had killed her mother in the last raid, not that her father seemed to mind. Isuke was already looking at village girls for a replacement, some younger than Rei herself. It was disgusting, but it was also the way of the world. He needed to sire a son instead of a worthless daughter. Now Kenzo was here on diplomatic terms, talking to her father, who was village chief, about a permanent solution.
She had only been a widow for four months. It was too soon to turn herself over to another man’s keeping, but she lowered her head as he fell into step with her, knowing she had little say in the matter. Rei led the way toward the wooden huts, the largest of which she shared with her father.
“Answer when I speak to you,” he persisted.
“I lost track of time at the river.”
“Have you taken a lover, Reika?”
How she hated for him to call her that. It was an endearment, and yet he dirtied it. Rei meant lovely and ka meant flower, but he meant it as a possessive, not a compliment to beauty. Her left hand curled into a fist and her nails bit into her palm.
“Would you not smell another man on me?” she asked in mock-humble tones. “Are you not the greatest warrior the Tanaka village has to offer? Surely your senses are superior to those of other men.”
“You would do well to remember it. One day, you will belong to me, Reika. Your father will not listen to your sighs and your tears forever.”
She smiled. “But today is not that day.”
It angered him when she gave him her slim back and went into the house, where her father waited for his dinner. Courtesy dictated that she should have invited him in, but he was not her guest. Isuke could fetch him, if he wanted Kenzo’s company.
“Have you given the marriage any thought?” her father asked, later. “Kenzo will rule Tanaka someday, and it would be good for our village, too. No more raids. No more death.”
“Perhaps not from Tanaka,” she said, stirring the pot. “But there is always death.”
Three
The others had already assembled. Camael found Raziel waiting for him, impatient as always. His kinsman wore a frown. In the divine sanctum one could shape the energy however he wanted, and today Raz was tall and thin, the better to loom over one he perceived as derelict in duty.
Where have you been? he demanded. Seraphiel has been looking for you. We have a new assignment, given by the Most High.
But the moment Raziel’s thoughts touched his own, they stilled. Incredulity radiated between them. He did not even try to hide his actions. There was no point. The host kept no secrets between them.
Cam . . . what have you done? You are—
Different, he supplied.
They will cast you out for this. It is not done. Not since Gabriel. All knew how that had ended. After the Morning Lord, Gabriel had been the first to fall in eons. He had done so, not out of hubris or ambition, but for a reason they found baser and more inexplicable – for love, for a human woman who would crumble to dust. So pointless, such a waste. Yet Gabriel’s half-breed children had risen up to challenge mankind. The nephilim wars had required the host itself to intervene; such a march had never been seen on earth.
In light of that history, it rendered Camael’s behaviour even more incomprehensible to his kinsman; this, he knew. He wished he could blame the woman – call her a sorceress – but what magic she owned came from her skin and her hair and her wiles, not some nebulous force. He understood now why Gabriel had given it all up. Here, one could shape the world to suit him. If he wished, he could recreate the river where he had lain with her, or he could stand in the hanging gardens of Babylon. Anything he could conceive, he could create. Despite that majesty, part of him – the half he’d left with Rei – still yearned towards Gabriel’s path, even knowing it heralded disaster.
Raziel paced. You cannot face Seraphiel like this. He will sense the stain on you immediately.
Nor can I conceal it.
His kinsman acknowledged the truth of his statement. That is why I am calling Nathaniel and Ezekiel.
The other two who comprised their host arrived almost immediately. One could always recognize Ezekiel because he always painted a black circlet about his arm, still mourning Gabriel’s loss. Everyone else preferred to forget, but Ezekiel had loved him. Once he had called Gabriel the best and brightest. Now Ezekiel refused to speak the Fallen’s name, but he eternally wore the black band, not as an accessory but as an integral part of him.
Nathaniel favoured red, and so his hair glowed like a sunset. Though they could resemble anything they wished here, most often they kept to recognizable forms. Not that such meetings were necessary, but Seraphiel preferred them as a means of guaranteeing he had his audience’s full attention.
As Raziel had done, the others saw the stain immediately. Nathaniel explored his memory, and Camael wished he had a way to prevent it. For the first time, he owned a thing he wanted to keep private. Then shame marked him at the impulse. They both drew back, shocked stillness in their thoughts.
And then from Ezekiel: So I am to lose another brother.
Not necessarily, Raziel countered. We must teach him to shield.
Nathaniel drew back, appalled. That is not permitted to our host. Only the Thrones may—
It is that, or lose him, Ezekiel interrupted.
Raziel faced their superior, as did Camael. As Ezekiel had the charge of them, it would be his choice, whether they attempted this forbidden thing. He would have faced his punishment alone, gladly, but joy suffused him that he did not have to. His host would not forsake him, no matter his transgression.
Can it be done so swiftly? Raziel asked.
By his expression, Nathaniel wondered the same thing. If Seraphiel grew impatient enough, he would touch their thoughts and summon them directly. Distance was nothing in a realm shaped by mind alone. The leader of the Seraphim, which took its name from him, could port them, should he so desire, and their wills would be unable to stand against him, for he was Seraphim, and they were mere foot soldiers.
Yes, their leader replied. I once had occasion to commune with one of the Thrones. Because they mediate between the Most High and the rest of us, they must know how to shield, so they do not yield more knowledge than we are permitted to possess. I took that knowledge when I broke the bond.
Why? Raziel asked.
Camael knew the answer even before Ezekiel gave it. To save Gabriel. But he would not even try. He was proud of his sin. He wished not to hide his love.
That boldness made Camael feel small. Was he so much less than Gabriel? Apparently he was, for he did not feel ready to confront Seraphiel and confess.
Let us have this thing done, Nathaniel said, some of his bright spark dimmed. We must needs all learn to shield, for we all share Camael’s secret now.
Perhaps Nathaniel wished that were not so. It was too late for regrets; his host had made their choice. He felt the warmth of their acceptance, though it came without understanding. None of them could fathom his choice. And yet he regretted nothing.
In the end, it was simple: a shift, a twist, and the mind divided in two. This, one showed the divine sanctum. That hidden thing remained crouched like a beast, behind the brighter part. The ease made Camael question what the Thrones might be hiding. What if the Most High were not made of perfect goodness and boundless justice? What awful darkness might his most trusted servants conceal from the rest? Once tasted, doubt burrowed into his spirit, leaving hollows.
Let us go to Seraphiel, Ezekiel said.
And, as they had always done, they followed him.
Four
Time wore on.
Though Rei often went to the river alone, she did not see her golden god again. Her excuses about why she could not accept Kenzo and cement peace between the Tanaka and Nakamura wore thin. In her heart, she hoped their enemy’s son would lose interest, or find someone younger. These days, she could no longer be considered in the flush of youth. She no longer danced in the cherry blossoms with the young virgins. Instead she sat silently weaving with the old women.
At length, Isuke married his bride of choice. The girl had sixteen summers . . . and she was silly. Hana did not know how to cook rice or clean a home, or how often the straw needed to be changed for use in bedding. She only knew how to smile prettily.
That would not be enough. If she did not give him a son, then she would go as Rei’s mother had done. In the dark of night, she sometimes wondered whether her father had asked his enemy to rid him of the wife who bred nothing but girls and dead babies. None of Rei’s sisters had survived to adulthood.
Still, it was too beautiful a day for such dark thoughts. Rei watched the dancers and listened to the trilling flutes. The smell of roast meat wafted on the summer wind, carrying the scent of hydrangeas. By this time, the azaleas were in bloom as well, like a stormy twilight. Rei strolled away from the festivities, avoiding the pantomime and the boy begging for sweets with tugs at his mother’s robe. It was good to see everyone in the village happy, even if such carefree days were coming to an end for her. With an inaudible sigh, she curled up beneath the purple fringe of the wisteria tree.
Kenzo found her, as he always did. There had been no attacks from Tanaka since he had been paying court – with her father’s approval. Now that Isuke had wed Hana, he would want her out of his house, and their old enemies would take it badly, should she give her favours elsewhere. No, there had long been an understanding. Rei only needed to make peace with her fate, and say farewell to what had been nothing more than a girl’s foolishness, lost in dreams by the river. Only in sleep could she have found such perfection.
The real world offered pots to scour and fields to tend and oxen to track down
when they went astray. And Kenzo. The world offered her Kenzo as a husband. In truth, there were no other suitors. Too long had passed.
He sat down beside her, darkly pleased with himself, and set his hand on her arm. His touch filled her with revulsion, but soon he would have the right to do with her as he chose – beat or kill her – at his pleasure. Rei had no doubt he would brook no repudiation of his will. Kenzo would offer no choices. Most likely, he would also make her suffer for keeping him waiting so long. As the Tanaka’s firstborn son, he loathed being denied what he believed to be his due.
“When?” he asked softly.
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “It will be an autumn wedding, when all the leaves turn red.”
Kenzo offered a sharp look, for red was a dual color. But he did not demur. “So it shall be, Reika.”
Five
To convey his displeasure, Seraphiel greeted them in a huge cavern with a ceiling so high it appeared to be made of darkness. Jagged streaks of lightning crashed overhead, highlighting the stark rock. Other times, this place might appear to be all white, formed of nothing but marble pillars. The leader of the Seraphim was not to be crossed lightly.
First he kept them waiting, and then he manifested in a font of golden light. When I call, I expect obedience.
Apologies, Ezekiel offered.
It took considerably longer to appease Seraphiel, and for every moment, Camael expected him to know, but the shields held. And Ezekiel intended for them to maintain this deception for eternity? Impossible. He already felt sick and shaken, not by his actions, but the subsequent efforts to conceal them. No matter the regulations, touching Rei did not feel like sin.
At length, they took their orders and went from the divine sanctum. They shook the mountains and painted the sky red, as instructed. It seemed like a great deal of effort in order to change one man’s mind, but they did not question instructions handed down through the hierarchy. Even Seraphiel did not know the reasons behind the commands he gave.
Afterwards, he followed the rest of the host. Once – not long ago – privacy mattered not at all. Now it was crucial. As he watched, Ezekiel shaped the wards that would keep others away. Let them think they discussed some secret orders given by Seraphiel, handed down by the Thrones.
