by Jane Kindred
Around midday, Sarael found a small clearing, thick with virgin snow, where they stopped to feed and water the horses, as well as themselves. Vasily was only too happy to be off the path, and off the horse. Every part of him ached as if he’d been in a bad fight—which he had, he realized. Only two days ago, he and Nebo had cleaned the clocks of those insufferable angelic soldiers. The demons had managed to keep the upper hand, but Vasily had been roughed up a bit when the soldiers caught him.
He smiled to himself as he ate his cold pork, remembering the looks on the soldiers’ faces when Nebo had tossed them on their backs like scrawny adolescents. There was something to be said for the superiority of mixed blood. Vasily himself had used the advantage of his element, though he normally considered it not quite sporting. The average enlisted man in the Heavenly armies, after all, was a twelfth-order waterspirit who had never so much as broken a legitimate sweat, let alone manipulated his own element. The officers, of course, were Powers from the Third Choir, and as their element of earth implied, were built more sturdily than mere angels. But like the rest of the purebloods, they shunned the cultivation of elemental “peasant magic.”
The winds picked up when they set out after lunch, and it took all Vasily’s concentration to follow the horse ahead of him while snow whipped across the trail. He only hoped the horse ahead of him wouldn’t plunge suddenly into the abyss.
Their descent began when the sun was hanging low in the sky, and by the time they reached the bottom and the relatively flat ground of northern Aravoth, there was nothing but shadows. Sar Sarael’s manor was little more than a dark shape hulking against an even darker sky by the time they arrived.
This time, Vasily asked Sarael discreetly if he might share a room with Anazakia. The Virtue was happy to oblige, and Anazakia was pleased that he’d thought of it. They were too tired to do anything but sleep, but at least he knew whom he held in his arms.
By daylight, Pyr Amaravati Manor was like a world under water, its immense windows of pale bluish glass blocks keeping out the cold while still filtering in a warm and calming light. Like the Hekhaloth, the manor was heated by some kind of pipes beneath the tiled floors, with hollowed columns along the walls to carry the heat through the rooms and out the chimneys.
Vasily’s inexperience on horseback had caught up with him, however, and he woke too stiff to move. Sarael insisted that he partake of Pyr Amaravati’s bath and his personal masseur to ease his muscles, and would take no argument. Vasily felt guilty indulging in such luxury while being the cause of even a slight delay, but he had to admit there was nothing else like it in the Heavens.
Luckily, the morning’s pampering did him good, and they were able to start for Gehenna before midday. A horse-drawn sleigh carried Anazakia and Vasily, along with Nebo and Lively, who insisted they would see the mission to its end. Vasily was grateful for Nebo’s presence but could have done without Lively’s. Along with the driver of the sleigh, four dozen mounted Virtues from Sar Sarael’s personal guard accompanied them to challenge the Cherubim and the leader of the Social Liberation Party for Ola’s return.
It took them approximately three days to reach the southern banks of the fiery Pyriphlegethon across the Empyrean’s empty white expanse. Anazakia was quiet, looking into the orange glow with a solemn expression as the Virtues set up camp beside the flaming river. When Vasily pressed her, she at last admitted that according to Helga, this was where his mother had taken her own life.
She was tender with him as they lay together in the tent, her soft touch, though it belonged to another woman’s hands, as healing as it had once been to his Seraph-ravaged flesh.
“My angel of mercy,” he whispered to her as he traced her flesh and watched their light illuminate her skin. He tried not to think of where the light came from, or of the river of fire winding past their tent, and when he was sure she was sleeping, he held her to his chest and wept.
They would be another eighteen days on the gruesome river’s bank, following it northward until they reached their destination. The solitary angelic habitation in the Empyrean, the Citadel of Gehenna was situated at the very pinnacle of Heaven. Surrounded by the ever-circling Pyriphlegethon, it could only be reached by a high stone bridge across the river, as if the Pyriphlegethon itself were its mote. The bridge crossed the river at its northernmost point so that those who wished to reach Gehenna had to follow the outer bank until it turned and circled back on itself toward the south like a fiery snake swallowing its own tail.
They had all grown weary of the bleak, monotonous landscape by the time they saw the citadel at last. Its high, imposing walls were made of massive blocks of stone carted from the southern princedoms over the miles of ice long before recorded history. The bridge was composed of several tons of the same stone and spanned the half-mile of burning river in a road wide enough to accommodate an army of Empyreanese. No one had seen the Empyreanese in modern times, of course—if any still existed. The airspirits of the First Choir who were said to have built the citadel had long been absent from celestial discourse.
The closest thing to locals now were the Seraphim born of the flaming Pyriphlegethon itself—a sort of reincarnating bath of celestial fire from which they rose like phoenixes—but they loathed the cold and flew to warmer climes as soon as they emerged from it.
One such fantastically born creature must have been his own father, Vasily reflected. He shivered beside Anazakia in the sleigh as they approached the bridge. She gripped his hand, her borrowed olive skin pale with anxiety as they came close to finding Ola at last. The horsemen went before them, trotting carefully over the ice-slick stone, and at the opposite end of the bridge, they pulled up before the towering grey walls, where a single Cherub stood before the gate tower. From the rear of the procession, they couldn’t hear what was passing between the Cherub and Sarael’s men.
“I can’t stand this.” Anazakia threw off the lap blankets and grabbed Vasily’s hand as she leapt down from the sleigh. He allowed her to pull him with her toward the front, vacillating between a rage that made him want to grab the Cherub and throw him into the river, and a terrible fear that Ola wouldn’t be here after all, which threatened to freeze him in his tracks.
The towering Cherub turned its angelic face toward them as they approached. “Who are these?” The fourfold voice grated as the Cherub spoke from each of its mouths at once.
The Virtue Haniel, who led their expedition, answered. “Eager revolutionaries, Zophiel. They wish to see the heir for themselves and have come all the way from Raqia to dedicate themselves to the cause.”
“We were not informed of any reinforcements coming.” Zophiel’s eagle eye regarded them doubtfully. “I understood this was all to be kept quiet for now.”
“Well, apparently, someone has let the cat out of the bag. Might as well allow these eager youngsters in, as they’ve come all this way. And surely you see why you need the reinforcements. Sarael sent us specifically to help defend the citadel now that word has gotten out. There are only four of you, are there not? All alone up here in the unpleasant cold?”
“We are not alone.” The Cherub corrected him with a tone of annoyance. “The Party Leader is here with a company of her advisers. One hundred in all, including my brothers.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Still, one hundred men against the Queen’s Army is hardly a defense, particularly men not trained in war. We’ll send two of our men back with word to Sarael that you need as many as Aravoth can spare, but the rest of us are at your service immediately.” Haniel signaled to two of the riders, and they turned and headed back the way they’d come.
Zophiel signaled to the demon in the gate tower to raise the portcullis as if he were not quite sure when he had agreed to do so, and Sarael’s men rode forward into the Citadel of Gehenna. Lively and Nebo came up beside Vasily and Anazakia as they entered on foot, and the sleigh was left on the bridge.
“One hundred men to our fifty,” Nebo murmured to Vasily as they marched
through the ward. “Those are not good odds. I wish we’d been better informed. I don’t like the idea of having to maintain this charade for a month while we wait for Sarael’s reinforcements.”
Vasily whispered to him as they continued walking. “This has always been a fool’s errand, Nebo. Nazkia and I don’t expect to return. We only want to see Ola while we can. It might be better for you if you head back with the scouts. We won’t think poorly of you.”
Nebo stopped and gave him a deeply offended look. “I made a promise to my sister. She did you a terrible wrong, and I vowed to right it. I always keep my promises to Vashti.”
Vasily stared at the Nephil a moment. He’d almost forgotten about Vashti, and that Nebo was her twin. As Anazakia dropped his hand, anxious to keep moving, he contemplated what to say, contemplated whether this man was a friend, as Vasily had come to regard him.
Before he could speak, however, an entourage emerged from the inner ward of the citadel to greet them. Among them was a handsome older woman who exuded authority. This was surely the Party Leader of whom the Cherub and the Elohim spoke. As she drew closer, her gaze moved from the mounted Virtues toward the four on foot, and she stopped and smiled. He’d seen her somewhere before. Anazakia gasped.
“Lively Ivovna.” The woman greeted Anazakia warmly, holding out her hands.
“I’m over here.” Lively stepped from behind them.
The older woman glanced at Anazakia a moment and then took Lively’s hands and embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Hello, Auntie Helga. I’ve brought them, just as you asked.” She folded her hands over her belly beneath her navel and looked at Vasily with a smirk. “And I’ve brought some of his seed.”
Pyatnadtsatoe: Within the Keep
from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk
The scene was simply incomprehensible. My childhood nurse could not be the Leader of the Social Liberation Party. This could not be Helga. She could not have kidnapped my child. And what in Heaven’s name was Lively doing? The demon girl’s words throbbed in my head. I’ve brought some of his seed. I stared at Vasily, hoping to see the same confusion in his eyes, but he’d lowered them, his skin more flushed than usual. Had everyone betrayed me? Nebo, at least, looked baffled, and the Virtues seemed angry.
Helga turned to the uniformed men beside her—her advisers, if she was truly who she seemed to be. “See to our Aravothan friends’ needs. I’m sure they’re all very tired and hungry after their journey.” She smiled at me as they carried out her orders. “My goodness, how like Lively you look. She’s my brother’s daughter. But of course you’re not interested in my family, dear. Come, let’s see to your own.” Helga turned, tucking Lively against her with one arm as they walked, carrying on the intimate conversation of relatives who had much to catch up on. I had no choice but to follow.
Vasily stepped up beside me as we passed between two Cherubim at the entrance to the keep. “About what Lively said…I can explain.”
I turned on him. “Do you really want to? Right here? Right now? Is that really what concerns you most at this moment, when you are finally so close to your daughter—what I think about whom you bed?”
Vasily stared at me, stung, but I wasn’t in the mood to prance about his delicate feelings. He wasn’t what was important now.
Helga led us up a winding stone staircase into the foretower of the keep, dimly lit with torches. At the top, another Cherub stood before an iron door, and he opened it for Helga with a large iron key. Inside the tower room, a delicate beam of winter sun from the window illuminated the dark hair of a woman seated on the bed, her head bent over a book. On her lap, intently interested in what she was reading, sat a pale red-haired child—not an infant, but a child. This could not be my baby, not already, not so big without my having seen a moment of it.
Love looked up and dropped the book from her hand. “Bozhe moi! Vasily, you’re here!” For a moment, I couldn’t understand why she was ignoring me, until I remembered I no longer had my own face.
“We’ll give you some time to get reacquainted before dinner,” said Helga, and she closed us inside.
Ola looked at us with interest, her blue eyes bright and intelligent. She rested those wide, beautiful eyes on Vasily’s flame-red bound locks and said with solemn certainty, “Papa.”
The tears of pain and joy in Vasily’s eyes made me ashamed that I’d spoken to him so scornfully. He went to Ola and bent down on one knee, putting his hand on her head as if to be certain she was real.
“Yes, sweetheart, it’s Papa,” he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. He looked up at Love. “I was afraid she wouldn’t remember me.”
“I printed out a picture for her at the dacha.” Love took a folded piece of paper from the large front pocket of her overalls. “I show it to her every day.”
Ola took the worn sheet and pointed at Vasily’s likeness in it. “Papa,” she said again. “Ola’s Papa.” She pointed then at the rest of us in the photo. “Ola’s Mama. Baby Ola. Beli.” She looked up at Vasily, proud of her recital, and he swept her into his arms, unabashedly weeping.
Love glanced toward Nebo and me. “Where are Anazakia and Belphagor? Aren’t they with you?”
“I’m here,” I said, feeling like a ghost among them. “I drank a glamour.”
“I’m sorry,” Vasily gasped, standing with Ola in his arms. “I’m so sorry, I should have said at once.” He brought Ola to me. “It’s your mama, darling. She’s been looking for you for so long.”
Ola stared at me as at the stranger I was to her and shook her head. She held her paper up to Vasily and pointed again as if he were not quite bright. “Ola’s Mama.”
Vasily handed her to me and I balanced her on my hip—so much heavier than I remembered. I was trembling now that I held her at last. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I could think of nothing to say to her. With everyone else aware of my identity, it was a bitter sentence to be forever glamoured with Lively’s face, unrecognizable to my own daughter.
Vasily took something from his pocket and held it out to me: a glass vial like the one that had held the glamour, filled with clear liquid. “There’s a way to restore you. The apothecary told me.”
I looked at the vial doubtfully. “You said we needed a drop of my own blood, and mine is spoiled now—by Lively’s,” I added bitterly.
“A drop of your ’pure angel blood stored up someplace,’ the apothecary said.” He looked at Ola significantly.
I pulled her away from him to my other side, horrified. “You will not take a drop of my baby’s blood!”
“Nazkia—”
I shook my head vehemently, holding her away. “Besides, it’s no more my own than what I have in my veins. She’s both of us.”
“But you’re the source of her, Nazkia,” Vasily insisted. “Every cell of her body was fed by your blood for nine months. I believe it will work.”
“No. I won’t do it. You can’t ask me to.”
“Then I’ll do it.” Vasily stared me down as he took the pocketknife from his belt.
I stepped back, holding Ola tightly against my chest.
“Nazkia, Ola needs the mother she remembers. She can’t understand.” His eyes flashed a bit of fire and his voice dropped to a growl. “And if you think I want to keep touching that bitch’s body when I touch you, you’re out of your mind.” He pulled the cork from the vial and held out his hand for me to give him Ola’s. “I’ll be the monster. It’s only fitting. She’ll associate me with the pain.”
I refused to hold out her hand, but I didn’t stop him, and Ola whimpered in surprise when Vasily pricked her index finger with the sharp tip of his knife. Her little lower lip protruded in a wounded pout as he held the finger over the vial and squeezed a single drop of blood into the clear liquid. It swirled and dissolved colorlessly. Ola buried her head against my chest, and Vasily handed the vial to me. With an accusing look, I snatched it from him and drank.
I felt no different, but Vasily breathed a sigh of relief at once. “There, sweetheart,” he said to Ola. “See? It’s Mama.”
Ola peered at me with one eye and then sat up, looking pleased. “Ola’s Mama.” She patted me decisively.
“I’m here.” I wiped my eyes and kissed her. “Mama’s here.”
Wiping tears from her own eyes, Love hurtled toward me from the bed and threw her arms around me. “I was afraid we’d never see you again. But you’re here…is Belphagor with you? Are we going home?”
I hugged her tightly, too overcome to speak, and Vasily answered for me.
“Belphagor and the rest of our party were detained by the Queen’s Army,” he said soberly. “We managed to escape to Aravoth, and we brought a small company of men with us, but I don’t know if it’s enough to get us out.”
Love’s hopeful expression faded as she stepped back, and I noticed how pale and thin she’d become, though Ola looked healthy.
I squeezed her hand, searching for words. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am, Love. You’ve been taking such care of Ola, and all this time…well, we thought…” My voice failed me and I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been.”
Love shrugged, the sort of gesture one made to avoid crying, though she still clung to my hand. “You look familiar,” she said to Nebo, who’d stood so quietly behind us that I’d forgotten his presence.
Vasily nodded grimly. “Nebo is Vashti’s brother.”
Love dropped my hand and recoiled, hugging her arms to her chest with a guarded expression.
“You must be Love.” Nebo’s warm brown eyes were full of guilt, as if he’d been the one to wrong her. “My sister spoke of you. She very much regrets everything that’s happened.”
Love’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, well, that makes it all better, then.”
The key turned in the lock as she spoke, and the heavy door opened. One of Helga’s lackeys had come to bring us down to dinner.
