The Midnight Court

by Jane Kindred

  The monk stopped eating, and the soldiers stopped bothering to remove his gag to attempt to feed him. Belphagor kept him hydrated—breaking off icicles from the opening of the tent and forcing them into his mouth past the gag so that he swallowed involuntarily as they melted—but by the time they reached Gehenna, the monk had to be hauled behind the supply carts on a strip of hide.

  Just shy of eight weeks after they’d left Elysium, the field marshal and his company arrived at the long stone bridge that connected the island fortress of Gehenna with the rest of the Heavens across the protective barrier of the Pyriphlegethon. The forces that occupied the Citadel of Gehenna were waiting for them.

  …

  Her field marshal was supposed to be within a day’s ride of Elysium, but she had sent word to him after the defiance of the princes of Aravoth, only to learn he’d taken his entire company north on some undefined mission. Aeval was beside herself with fury. She hadn’t given him command of the Armies of Heaven so that he could pursue his own agendas. He ought have no other agenda than what she gave him, no other thought than what she put into his head, no desires but her own.

  Like everyone else, he failed and disappointed her.

  A full regiment of four hundred men, twice as many as the company he rode with, was dispatched to retrieve the field marshal. He would turn straight around and head back to report, no matter how far he’d gone, or she would have his head. If there was a legitimate need for the troops where he’d taken them, the extra company would more than make up for it. But she could not imagine why troops would be needed on the route he’d chosen.

  Aeval commanded that a single rider be returned to Elysium each day to report on their progress so that she would never be more than two days without word. When the fifteenth rider returned to her in a month’s time to report that the company had been seen heading out of Araphel into the barren northern quadrant of Zevul, Aeval was through waiting for reports. They could only be headed for her Pyriphlegethon—she had come to think of it as hers after the time she’d spent there planning her conquest of Heaven—and the field marshal had no business there.

  Aeval had come to Heaven long before the fortuitous meddling of the impertinent syla had provided her with inspiration in the form of the daughters of the House of Arkhangel’sk. She’d wandered the earth aimlessly for a time, having left the Russian lands in the world of Man once they ceased to be Russia. The nonsense of the Bolsheviks had been disappointing. That was the trouble with revolution; it encouraged the lowest common denominator, the least qualified, to think they had what it took to govern a nation. Invariably, the most opportunistic rose to the top of the precarious structure left in the wake of the heady thrill of having overthrown the Powers That Were.

  The lofty aim of equality that drove such revolutions was meaningless. There were simply some who could never govern themselves, those who needed to be ruled, and there were others who had ruling in their veins. Men had called it Divine Right, having been subjugated themselves by the opportunistic forces of Heaven and the Unseen World, allowing themselves to be governed by myths. Whether the syla and their kin had begun to spin the cords of the royal courts in response to the rise of such notions or whether their spinning had engendered the myths was immaterial. The end result was that rulers were bred and cultivated.

  The price they paid for power was something the masses never thought about. They saw the world in simple terms of Haves and Have-Nots, and assumed that all that was necessary for the Have-Nots to become the Haves was to overthrow the ones who had it now.

  That was why Heaven was ripe for Aeval’s designs. She had channeled the restless energy of the masses into projects of reform rather than waiting for another revolution to brew. If it hadn’t been Aeval who had taken down the House of Arkhangel’sk, the discontent of those masses would have boiled over on its own and the throne would have been forever lost in a chaotic attempt by fools to govern themselves. The fact was that Heaven needed her.

  When she’d abandoned the Polnochnoi Sud and then abandoned her plans for ruling in the world of Man, Aeval had remembered the syla’s talk of Heaven. It was a place she’d never been, and the idea that these impertinent wood spirits dared consider her to be unworthy of something had made her more determined than ever to have it. She studied Heaven and its Choirs, biding her time, learning where the most likely weakness was that she might exploit.

  The Virtues, soft and senile in their moral purity, had been the ideal place to get her foothold. They were so obsessed with form that they had never looked beyond hers. Once she settled on the Virtues as her way in, she styled herself as one of them and they took it for truth—of course, this made their recent insubordination particularly galling. It meant they’d chosen to turn against not just their queen, but one of their own.

  Aeval had set up her base in the empty Empyrean, observing Aravoth and the Firmament in turn. First she discovered the source of the Seraphim in the lovely Pyriphlegethon, and then she learned to play with their element. It was they who told her about the Citadel of Gehenna hidden at the center of the eternal river. Built by the airspirits of the First Choir and then abandoned when the mysterious caste of angels disappeared from Heaven, it had proven an ideal spot in which to practice her control of the elements. The Pyriphlegethon and the Empyrean were rich in pure, elemental energy easily accessible in three of the four elements, and in Gehenna, the stones provided the fourth.

  There was nothing else but these in the North Country, and an empty palette for elemental transformation could not be of any use to her field marshal. Whatever he was up to, Aeval would have to put a stop to it herself.

  …

  The massive fortress at Gehenna, practically a town unto itself, was over a millennium old, and the field marshal couldn’t even recall why it had been built. It seemed an unlikely—and pointless—place to defend against siege. Heaven had seen little warfare in nearly as long, and as far as anyone from the other princedoms was aware, the walled village of Gehenna hadn’t been occupied in centuries.

  Yet today, in front of it, a line of two dozen mounted Virtues blocked the access to the bridge, preparing to defy the Queen’s Army at ridiculous odds. If the human monk spoke the truth, Cherubim were involved in this rebellion as well. They must all be mad to go against their queen, who had done nothing but unify the Heavens and work toward the improvement of the lot of the unfortunate Fallen—though, of course, many were beyond help.

  The field marshal called his captain to his side and advised him to bring the leader of this defiance to explain himself. It wasn’t that he couldn’t give such orders himself, but the chain of command was important. Captain Jusguarin was in command of this company, and the field marshal had only joined it in routine inspection as they arrived in Elysium. He had no wish to usurp the captain’s authority among his men. As leader of his company, Jusguarin was, after all, only an extension of the field marshal’s authority, just as the field marshal was an extension of the queen’s. Through him, her reach stretched throughout the Heavens.

  There was also the matter of his damaged voice that didn’t carry. He’d had to prove himself worthy of the queen’s commission and earn the respect of his men without the benefit of an imposing physicality or a booming, authoritative voice barking orders. Instead, his shrewdness in battle had earned their admiration—and if it hadn’t, his unpredictable cruelty when his orders were defied had at least earned their fear.

  Not that there had been much battle for any of them to prove themselves in, but there were always enclaves of revolutionaries and rebels in the smaller communities upon whom their skills could be honed. Thus far, no princedom had resisted Queen Aeval’s demands for fealty or tribute, and until now, none of the Host had participated in any rebellion.

  Captain Jusguarin returned to his side, the look of irritation on his face almost certainly masking an underlying dread that the field marshal wouldn’t like what he was about to tell him. “They say they have no leader and ther
e is no defiance. They claim they’re merely defending their property from unreasonable search and seizure.” He backed up his horse a bit after delivering his news, a wise move learned from experience.

  The field marshal unsheathed his sword. “Perhaps they’ll elect someone leader if I start killing them one by one. Bring me the first one from the left.”

  The captain took two of his men and rode off to the end of the line, hauling the first angel from his mount and dragging him before the field marshal. The other Virtues drew their weapons in a pitiful display of force. The long silver hair of the angel before him was tied up in a traditional Aravothan queue bound into a knot at the top of his head. The hairstyle looked quite nice against the snow when the field marshal struck the man’s head from his body with a quick swing of his sword. The blood, of course, was far more striking as the headless torso dropped to the ground.

  There was a commotion as the Virtues started forward in shock and anger, and then pulled back, aware that they were hopelessly outnumbered.

  One of them held his hand out beside him, instructing the others to stay back, and brought his horse forward from the formation. “I am Sar Haniel. I answer for these men.”

  The field marshal’s lip curled in a smile that pulled against the stiff scar-tissue of his right cheek. It always paid to be direct.

  …

  Love had taken Ola to the tower for her afternoon nap, and Vasily seized the opportunity to screw up his courage and attempt to work things out with Anazakia.

  He cornered her in the pantry as she took inventory of the dried goods. He blocked the light from the windows in the kitchen beyond, and she glanced up from where she knelt on the floor. A scarf bound her hair, a smudge of dirt marked her cheek, and the sight of her made his heart beat faster. Damn, he was far gone. How the hell had this happened?

  Vasily cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his pants. “We haven’t talked about what happened with Lively, and I mean to do it now. I know neither of us wants to,” he added as her face clouded. “But you keep turning away from me at night, and I know it’s bothering you.”

  “There’s hard work during the day. Naturally, I’m tired.”

  He crouched down to her level. “Please talk to me. I know you’re angry and I don’t blame you—”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “—But you know I would never have done it if I’d realized it wasn’t you.”

  Anazakia went back to her counting.

  “Nazkia.”

  “You could have asked,” she said without looking at him. “You would have known if she’d spoken.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. She had spoken, he remembered. It had been a whisper, but it was one more thing he might have paid attention to, like the absence of what he now thought of as their seraphic light.

  “I’m sorry. I was stupid. I don’t know how to take it back or make it up to you.” He lifted her chin to look into the ocean of her eyes. The light danced palely at the tips of his fingers. “I’ve missed your face.”

  She lowered her eyes, trying to hide the moisture that had swum across them.

  “Please forgive me,” he whispered. He kissed her and at least she didn’t pull away. “And I’ve missed this.” He watched the light trail his touch along her jaw to her throat. “I think I let myself be fooled because it wasn’t there. All that talk of quintessence and grand dukes and Seraphim…I just wanted to believe I was still me, nothing more than an ordinary demon.”

  “I like our light.” Her tone was slightly wounded, but she was no longer resisting him.

  “I like it, too.” He grinned. “Let’s make more of it.”

  She couldn’t hide her smile, and he took advantage of it, pulling her close and teasing the pale fire between their lips until she was squirming against him, trying to get closer. Tumbling together among the sacks of grain and legumes, each grappled at the other’s clothes, releasing just enough to reach what they needed. They stroked each other like frantic teenagers until they both climaxed quickly and fell back against the sacks, breathing as if they’d just run a race and laughing at the absurdity of it.

  As pleasant as it was, he wished they had more privacy, and some “protection,” as their old friend Knud had called it—Anazakia had run out of her pills weeks ago. What he really wanted was to be inside her. His cock twitched as if it agreed and was already eager to go again.

  “I wish there were condoms in Heaven,” he murmured. “As much as I love Ola, I don’t think I want any more surprises just now.”

  Anazakia pulled her clothes together. “Well, don’t speak too soon.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice.

  His brows drew together in consternation. Surely she didn’t want another? “What do you mean by that?”

  Anazakia sighed as she buttoned up her shirt. “Lively’s been looking a bit green around the gills.”

  …

  Blood spattered the white, fleecy greatcoat of the kneeling Virtue, and flecks of it peppered the silver hair that had slipped from its topknot. The field marshal observed these details almost philosophically, detached from any sense of empathy by which a lesser man might be bound. His reputation for brutality was built upon his unflinching and emotionless execution of justice. Hesitancy and lenience were excesses he could not indulge in, or the queen would be seen as weak. He was her emissary.

  He struck Haniel once more with the back of his gloved hand. “I want to know what you’re keeping here, and I want to know on whose command you’re doing it. The Empyrean is the domain of Her Supernal Majesty, Queen of All the Heavens. This citadel belongs to Her, and if you continue to defy the authority of Her agent, you will watch as I line up every pretty little Virtuous head in your sad platoon here in the snow.” He thrust his sword into the eye of the first dead Virtue for emphasis, pinning it to the frozen ground.

  As he waved his hand toward the captain to bring him another, Haniel spoke quickly, if grudgingly, to prevent it. “Sar Sarael of Pyr Amaravati sent us.”

  “Ah. I see you’re a reasonable man after all.” The field marshal lifted the bruised face. Haniel’s silver eyes were dull with shame. “Don’t torture yourself with conscience, Sar Haniel. After all, you’ve acquiesced to save your men, not your own head.” He squeezed the bloody cheeks between his gloved fingers. “He sent you to do what?”

  Haniel’s eyes flitted to the headless corpse at his feet, but he said nothing.

  The field marshal shoved him over onto the snow. “Bring me the next.”

  When Captain Jusguarin signaled for another to be dragged from the line, Haniel whispered from his place on the ground. “For a summit with the leader of the Social Liberation Party.”

  Gripping the Virtue by the loosened topknot, the field marshal pulled Haniel back up to a kneeling position. “Thank you, Sar Haniel. You’ve been most accommodating.” He pulled his sword from the dead man’s skull and slashed into Haniel’s gut, twisting the blade and spilling his viscera onto the snow.

  With a startled, gurgling shout, the angel grasped for his own intestines as he crumpled, as if he could put them back in. It would have made a striking painting.

  The field marshal wiped his blade on the Virtue’s white coat. “Kill the rest.”

  …

  A great commotion in the common hall met Vasily and Anazakia as they emerged from the pantry. Demons were running from every direction, while Helga shouted orders. The Queen’s Army was at the gate.

  The Virtues Helga had stationed on guard to prevent intruders from reaching the bridge had already been lost, while the others, stationed along the battlements, were taking heavy hits from the queen’s archers. The rest of the population of the citadel was a motley assembly of demons untrained in the art of war.

  Despite his hatred for the Social Liberation Party, Vasily had no desire to let the citadel fall to the queen. He offered his services, such as they were—he’d fought in the skirmish on the night of the Solstice Co
nflagration—but Helga would have none of it. He and Anazakia were among what the queen was seeking and must be kept from her soldiers at all costs. For their own protection, Helga had them locked in the tower room with Love and Ola—and Lively—leaving them with a cache of nonperishable food and water to last several days. There was no telling how long the Queen’s Army might assail the citadel’s defenses before they risked running out of their own supplies.

  Lively, as Anazakia had said, was visibly under the weather. She sat by herself, looking miserable, and though he wasn’t pleased at the probable cause of it, Vasily couldn’t help but take a certain amount of satisfaction in her misery. Anazakia, however, astonished him by going to Lively and holding her hair out of the basin when she was ill. Luckily for the rest of them in the enclosed room, Lively was only vomiting small amounts of an odorless, clear yellow bile, but Anazakia confirmed this was a likely indication of morning sickness. She encouraged Lively to eat small pieces of cracker bread at frequent intervals to keep the nausea at bay.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” Lively asked with suspicion.

  Anazakia’s answer was simple. “Because no one was nice to me when I was pregnant.”

  …

  The petty magic of the demonic revolutionaries was easy enough to evade once they were familiar with it. The field marshal had the company’s supply carts emptied to use for cover against the bolts of cherubic energy, along with two Aravothan sleighs that had been left on the near side of the Pyriphlegethon as if docked on a frozen sea. The green hides of the horses that had been slaughtered on the march were stretched across these to keep them from catching fire. Beneath one of the overturned sleighs, a group of soldiers was hard at work drilling into the mortar between the thick stones with a mechanical bore to make a breach in the wall. By the third day, the outer wall began to crumble, and by the fifth they had breached the inner.