by Jane Kindred
Anazakia gripped his hand tightly as they neared the newly constructed Winter Palace. It was much like the one that had stood on the spot when they’d last been here—the one in which Anazakia had spent her childhood—only grander in scale and embellishments. She paused for a moment and looked up at the gilded gates spanned by two golden, four-winged Cherubim. In front of them, some black-robed, bearded fool was ranting and waving his hands. A lone protestor, Vasily supposed, although he resembled in habit and manner a monk from the world of Man. Perhaps he was a Dominion, one of the angels who dedicated themselves to art and philosophy, though a protesting Dominion seemed unlikely.
A small crowd had gathered to gawk at the man, and at its perimeter, Vasily realized with a start, stood Belphagor, alongside Dmitri and Lev dressed in celestial garb. Behind them, with her hand around one of Vashti’s bound arms, was the redheaded demoness who’d visited the apothecary this morning.
Anazakia saw them as well. She started toward them, and Vasily followed, raising a hand when Belphagor looked up. The warmth of his recognition tugged at Vasily’s heart.
“Where are you going?” Lively called out. “That’s not the way.”
“Some friends,” said Vasily over his shoulder. “We’ve been looking for them.”
Anazakia pulled ahead through the crowd, but Vasily stopped in alarm. A horse-mounted company of the Queen’s Army was clattering onto the square from the direction in which they’d come. The gathered crowd parted as they approached, isolating Dmitri’s expedition and the bearded man beside the gate.
Flanked by four Ophanim on foot, the field marshal of the Armies of Heaven rode at the head of the company on a magnificent bone-colored stallion. The whiteness of the Ophanim’s luminescence and their traditional dress was a stunning contrast to the severe black of the field marshal’s uniform and his high, polished boots. A heavy cape of grey wool draped the back of his mount, and on his face he wore a strange mask that covered more than half of it, including his left eye, while what remained uncovered appeared badly disfigured. He signaled to the captain of the company, who approached the raving man.
The captain struck the man across the shoulders with his crop. “For what cause do you disturb the peace?”
“D’yavol!” the man cried.
“Just whom are you calling devil, Raqia dog?” The captain raised his crop in outrage, poised to strike again.
The strange man whirled and pointed at Vashti. “There is devil!” he shouted in stilted angelic. This was no Dominion or Raqia demon.
Vashti took a limping step back.
“And there!” The man pointed into the crowd. “And there!” He seemed to be targeting everyone around him. The more Vasily observed him, the more certain he became that this was indeed a monk from the world of Man. What he was doing in the middle of Elysium’s Palace Square, Vasily couldn’t imagine.
“Enough!” The captain turned his horse toward two of the Ophanim. “Arrest this fool.”
As the Ophanim came forward and took the fellow by the arms, the monk howled in fear, jerking under their grip. Vasily couldn’t blame him. He’d done battle himself with a pair of Ophanim during the assault on the palace. Their touch had sent a current of unpleasant sensation crawling along his skin, as if he’d stuck a fork in an earthly electrical socket.
“Devils steal the angel child!” the monk cried out in Russian, twisting in their grasp. He pulled one arm free to clutch at the golden Cherubim that graced the gate. “Devils of the fourfold wings!”
Vasily pushed through the crowd and caught Anazakia’s sleeve.
Wide-eyed, she turned to him, mouthing, “Ola?”
Belphagor must have had the same thought. He stepped toward the monk, unwisely coming between him and an Ophan. The Ophan grabbed Belphagor around the neck. Like Vashti’s, Belphagor’s arms were bound behind his back, and he jolted, unable to pull away.
The added commotion caught the single, watery eye of the dark-clad field marshal. He leaned down and spoke to the captain, who turned toward Belphagor, still arching against the Ophan’s grasp.
“You! Demon!” The captain gestured with his crop to the Ophan to bring him closer. “Your papers. Identify yourself before the field marshal of Her Supernal Majesty’s Army.”
Belphagor spat at the ground and the captain raised his crop to strike him, but Dmitri stepped forward to hand up an identification card. Vasily was close enough to hear his calm announcement in the deeper intonation the Powers possessed within celestial air.
“This man is the demon Belphagor who escaped from Her Supernal Majesty’s House of Correction. My friends and I are bringing him in for the reward, along with this Nephil who participated in the escape of the grand duchess. We caught them sneaking into Raqia from the world of Man.” Beside him, Lev also handed up his papers.
As the captain examined their identification, the earthly monk lunged forward against the grip of his captors with a look of madness.
“The grand duchess!”
Anazakia froze beside Vasily, but the monk wasn’t looking in her direction. He focused on Vashti, whom the red-haired woman had brought forward at Dmitri’s words.
“You lie to me!” he shouted in angelic. “You tell me you protect, but you are demon! You lie and send to nechiste angely! You give to unholy devils!”
The field marshal looked at Vashti shrewdly and beckoned the captain closer with two gloved fingers to murmur something else to him.
The captain tucked the identification papers into his coat. “Place them all under arrest.” He addressed the prisoners as the Ophanim surrounded them. “You are hereby charged with conspiring against the throne of Heaven.”
…
It seemed their plan to get inside the Relocation Camp had worked a bit too well. Belphagor didn’t dare look back at Vasily as the mounted company turned at the field marshal’s orders and moved out toward the wide Celestial Boulevard bordering the embankment.
There’d been no sign of Anazakia in the crowd. Belphagor had no idea whether they’d been separated or if she was just well hidden, but he was relieved that the two of them had defied Dmitri and gone ahead to Raqia. It would have been a hopeless disaster if all of them had been caught up together. He only hoped Nebo had seen Vasily.
They’d decided before venturing into the capital that with Vashti as a prisoner, her twin would be too conspicuous traveling with them. Nebo had donned a hooded cloak to hide his striking ebony skin and followed at a distance, with the intent of meeting up with the others once Belphagor and Vashti were inside the camp.
Beside him, the monk suddenly broke free of the Ophanim and ran toward the field marshal at the head of the company.
“Are you angel or are you devil?” he entreated as the Ophanim caught him beside the field marshal’s horse.
The field marshal stopped and regarded him. “Angel,” he said gruffly.
“You will rescue child from four-winged devils?”
“What child is that?” The field marshal’s voice had a peculiar roughness to it. Like Vasily’s, it gave the impression of one who smoked excessively, though it had less strength to it than Vasily’s did, as if the field marshal had a bad case of laryngitis.
The monk’s eyes were wild. “Grand duchess!” he exclaimed in a voice of vexation. “The child, Ola!”
Belphagor cast a glance behind him at Vashti, who was making a great effort not to meet his eyes. She knew who this man was and she’d kept it from them.
The field marshal stared down at the monk. “You’ve seen Her Supernal Highness?”
“Nogi yee niskhodyat k smerti, i yee shagi idut nastol’ko, naskol’ko ad!” He recited the words as if from some earthly scripture.
“ ’Her feet go down into death,’ ” Margarita translated. “ ’And her steps go in as far as hell.’ ”
The field marshal gave the Nephil a dismissive look and started forward again.
The monk was persistent. “Devils called Cherubim. They take child to G
ehenna.”
The field marshal fixed his single eye on the monk. “Gehenna? The child is in the Empyrean? She’s here in the Heavens?”
The monk began to rave once more in the language of Men. “The Son of man shall send forth his angels and shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth!”
The field marshal growled at the captain next to him. “Shut him up.”
The captain dismounted and struck the monk, and when the poor fool continued to rail, he stuffed a handkerchief into the monk’s mouth and tied it in place with a leather strap from his horse’s pack.
The field marshal brought his ivory champagne mount around to face the company. “Turn about!” he ordered in his strained voice. “We’re bound for the Empyrean.”
…
It was Lively who determined their next step. As Vasily stared after the mounted soldiers, she grasped Anazakia’s hand beside him and implored her earnestly. “Are you the daughter of Sefira?”
Anazakia’s face, in Lively’s image, went pale.
“I’ve been asked to bring you to Aravoth,” said the girl.
“Asked by whom?” Vasily demanded, keeping his voice low. “Your Master Apothecary?”
“By the Elohim.”
It didn’t seem prudent to continue this conversation in the square. He jerked his head toward Palace Avenue. “I saw a café a block from here. Not another word until we’re off the street.”
As they made their way across the square, Vasily noticed a hooded figure following them at a distance. He continued calmly toward Palace Avenue, then ducked into an alley between the rows of businesses that lined the block beyond the square. With a warning sign to keep quiet, he pushed Anazakia and Lively behind him against the wall.
When their pursuer entered the secluded alley, Vasily leapt on him, concentrating the heat of his element into his hands as he grasped the figure by the throat. As they struggled, the hood fell back, and Vasily saw it was the Nephil’s twin.
“Sukin syn!” Vasily exclaimed as he let go. “Sonofabitch, Nebo. I thought you were a fucking Seraph!”
Nebo pressed his fingers to the red welts on his throat. “You were going to attack a Seraph with your bare hands?”
“I didn’t have anything else,” Vasily grumbled. “Why are you skulking behind us? Where were you when the others were being arrested?”
“Dmitri thought I’d give them away. He wanted me to lie low until they’d gotten Vashti and Belphagor into the camp. Don’t think this was exactly the plan, though.” He lowered his hand and examined it as if expecting to see blood. “Who are the twins?”
“It’s me,” said Anazakia. “I’ve taken a potion. And this is Lively. She’s…”
“She’s going to explain after we’re off the street,” said Vasily.
They found a quiet booth in the café, and after the waitress left them with coffee and pastries, Vasily turned to Lively. “So. Explain.”
Lively warmed her hands on her coffee and looked at Anazakia. “The Elohim wish to speak with Your Supernal Highness. They’ll give you asylum if you satisfy them that you aren’t mad.” She lifted her coffee mug to her lips. “You don’t seem mad to me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vasily, “but who exactly are the Elohim?”
Anazakia answered. “They’re an elite sect of the Order of Virtues. Aeval pretends to be one, in fact, but she isn’t.”
“That’s why they joined the Party,” said Lively.
Anazakia looked at her blankly. “The Party?”
“The Social Liberation Party,” said Nebo. “The group Vashti joined.”
“Khristos.” Vasily scowled. Now the revolutionary fools were overrunning the world of Man.
Lively nodded at Nebo. “But the Elohim—and many of us—don’t agree with the Party on the aims of the revolution. They’ve split off into the Party of the Socialist Host.”
Vasily clenched his hands into fists. “You belong to the group of revolutionaries who stole my daughter. Before the queen stole her from you.”
“Not anymore. That’s why the Socialist Host was formed. We found such actions unacceptable.” She looked away as he continued to stare at her with his eyes burning. “But the queen didn’t take her. We don’t think the queen even knows she’s here.”
“What do you mean? Her Cherubim burst into our home!”
Lively nodded. “Yes, and the Cherubim are working with the Social Liberationists.”
Vasily leaned back on the bench, shaking his head in disbelief. There had been talk of revolution as long as he could remember. He’d even been fool enough to get caught up in it for a while after he’d left Belphagor. There were always small groups of angels, generally students, who joined in the militant calls for reform, but he’d never heard of higher-order Host such as the Virtues backing such radical ideas, let alone pure elementals like the Cherubim.
“Then you know where she is.” Anazakia grasped Lively’s hand. “Tell me where she is!” Lively tried to pull away, but Anazakia yanked her forward by the wrist and spoke in a deadly whisper. “Have they put her in that awful place or not?”
Lively seemed to be reconsidering her assessment of Anazakia’s sanity. “If you mean the camp—” She winced against the pressure on her wrist. “No, she isn’t there. I don’t know where she is. But the Elohim know.” She gave a startled gasp as Anazakia released her abruptly.
Anazakia drew herself up as she regarded Lively, and she seemed a different person for a moment, more than just in physicality. It was as if the Anazakia who’d been raised to be a queen had emerged from inside her and usurped the gentle, uncertain woman who contained her. As at Arkhangel’sk, when she’d unexpectedly and coolly attacked the Nephil nearly twice her size, Vasily was at once aroused and alarmed by it.
“Then you will take us to the Elohim,” said Anazakia. “Immediately.”
Trinadtsatoe: The Virtuous Court
from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk
Traveling to Aravoth this time of year, even if I were not Heaven’s most wanted fugitive, was a risky prospect. Not only were the northern winds through the mountain pass treacherous and the ridges over which we would have to cross to reach the isolated mountain city covered with ice and snow, but we would have to pass the Summer Palace where, Lively informed us, the queen was still in residence.
The road between Elysium and the Mountains of Aravoth was well maintained and relatively flat until we reached the foothills, but it was also crawling with the Queen’s Army. Every inn-and-tavern town along the way seemed to house a garrison of soldiers. Like the company that had swept through Palace Square and apprehended Belphagor and the others, each comprised conscripted Fallen, enlisted Host of the Fourth Choir, commissioned officers of the Order of Powers, and a small number of foot soldiers from the Ophanim Guard.
“There were not so many when my father was in power,” I murmured over my hot cider to no one in particular, watching the soldiers carousing at a nearby table in one of the taverns where we’d stopped for the night.
“They keep the people in mind of the queen’s rule,” said Lively, cautious around me since the café on Palace Square. “Ever since she issued the decree that she was sovereign to all princedoms.”
“But the principality of the Firmament has always been sovereign—Principality of All the Heavens.”
“In name, yes. But the other princedoms were never challenged in their authority before. The Firmament has had little to do with the governing of Aravoth or Zevul. Ma’on and Vilon have always given tribute but were left to their own rule. And the Empyrean…” She shrugged. “Well, no one even really knows what goes on there.”
“Let’s not forget Raqia.” Vasily spoke with a touch of vitriol.
“Raqia?” I paused over my cider, baffled. “It’s just a district. It’s always been subject to the Firmament.”
Vasily observed me over the tankard of his harder drin
k. He, too, seemed cautious of me. I could see he was holding something back, as if I’d irritated him with my lack of political acumen, but he was afraid to say it.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen this expression on his face. When it came to questions of angelic rule and the oppression of the Fallen, I had to concede I was exceedingly ignorant. Until a chambermaid told me during my imprisonment under Aeval, I hadn’t even known the Fallen were largely the property of the Host who employed them. My surprise at Lively calling the apothecary her master wasn’t because I remained unaware of the practice, but because I hadn’t known a demon could enslave another demon. It was a strange and unsavory world that lurked beneath the gilded surface of the Heaven in which I had been raised to believe.
Vasily threw back the rest of his drink—not cider, like mine, but hot just the same, yet it didn’t seem to bother him. “Raqia is a princedom.”
I stared at him blankly. Raqia was barely large enough to be called a town. It was most certainly not a princedom.
“Every demon knows it. Every demon remembers it. And yet the daughter of the Principality of All the Heavens has never heard of it.” His tone was disdainful and incredulous.
“You’re not making sense,” I said a bit tersely. “How can Raqia be a princedom? That’s like saying this tavern stop is a princedom.”
Vasily sighed and set down his tankard. “The Princedom of Raqia once stretched from the River Lethe to the Acheron along the Gulf of the Firmament and from Ma’on to the coast. Arcadia was the capital.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking, but the glimmer of orange in his pupils said he was serious. “But that’s impossible. Arcadia is the capital of Vilon.”
“It is now.” He spoke patiently, as if I were a slightly dim child. “Aden used to be their capital. The Firmament annexed Arcadia and gave it to Vilon when Mikhail I redrew the borders to erase Raqia. It was a concession for their grab of the entire coastline of the gulf along with Erebus on the coast. They had to give Vilon something to ensure their cooperation.”
