Ashes to Ashes

by Carrie F. Shepherd

  He knocked; then he waited.

  When the door opened, he wasn’t as surprised to see the archangel Haniel as he knew that common sense warned him that he should be. There had been rumors abound before the first revolution that Haniel and Raystlyn were friends. Still, given Haniel served the King of Lords directly, his disobedience, and his willingness to risk the wrath of his Master, was duly noted.

  “Sir Haniel.” Wisterian gave him the proper bow. “Is Raystlyn available?”

  Haniel gave him a wary look, nodded, and then slipped past him. When he was outside the door, he turned toward Wisterian and asked, “Does it need to be said that you didn’t see me here?”

  “Of course not.” Wisterian gave him what he hoped was an assuring smile.

  “I’m grateful.” Haniel nodded his head to Wisterian, jumped upward and took wing.

  Wisterian watched him until he was out of sight, marking that he was flying in the direction of where it was rumored that Michael and the dragon eggs resided. He pondered for the briefest of moments that, if this is where Haniel was headed, the archangel had twice broken the rules of exile.

  Wisterian decided that this matter of his better was one best put out of his mind.

  When he found the arch mage, it was in the kitchen, dishing out a bowl of stew. Probably it was one of the brews that Haniel was known for making. It certainly smelled divine.

  “Wisterian.” Raystlyn frowned at him from where he stood at the fire pit. “What a . . . surprise.”

  Wisterian gave him a wintery smile. “I need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Surely word regarding the war that my people have been dragged into has reached even these dark halls.” Wisterian teased him wearily. Given the bad blood between them, he wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

  “It has.” Raystlyn stood to his full height then. As he did so, a shadow of concern darkened his features. “Iladrul is . . . ?“

  “He has survived the heavy battles.” Wisterian crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, it is Iladrul that I’ve come to discuss with you.”

  “Oh?” His tone was cautious and curious.

  “Tell me true, Raystlyn.” Wisterian felt his eyes narrow. “Who is the boy’s father?”

  Raystlyn shifted uncomfortably by the fire before grabbing his bowl and stepping to the table. “Does it matter who sired him?”

  “It could save his life.”

  Raystlyn raised his gaze to meet Wisterian’s. “In what way?”

  “If he has your blood in him . . .” Wisterian flinched at the very thought that this might be true. “You could teach him to harness your magic.”

  Raystlyn considered him for a minute before looking swiftly away.

  “Raystlyn,” Wisterian heard the pleading in his tone. He didn’t much care for it so he bit it back. “If that lad is your son—”

  “Why unbury the past?” Raystlyn frowned as he returned his gaze to Wisterian. “What good can come from it? Even if he did inherit my magic, he’s too old, now, to properly harness it.”

  “What if he isn’t?” The pleading was back in his tone. But, now, Wisterian didn’t care. Even if he was not Iladrul’s biological father, the boy was every inch his son. “Raystlyn, please. If there is even the slightest possibility that you can teach him to defend himself, you owe it to the lad to do so.”

  “Don’t you mean that I owe it to you?” Raystlyn asked.

  “It would be a debt repaid.” Wisterian offered. “The issue would be forever buried between us.”

  Raystlyn considered Wisterian with his strange silver eyes before looking swiftly away. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Wisterian, he said, “Fine.”

  Wisterian was overcome with relief.

  “But know this, Wisterian,” he warned, “The child will not know how the magic came to be in his blood. I have no intention of drawing any more attention to myself to the eyes of the Gods than I already have.”

  Wisterian felt his lips purse at that. It was true that, as the first angel to publically admit to standing at Lord Lucias’ side during the first rebellion, Raystlyn had taken the brunt of the anger from the Gods who had stood on the side of the King of Lords. Though, he failed to see how admitting that Iladrul was his child could harm Raystlyn. The affair between the arch mage and Wisterian’s wife was, in no way, a secret.

  Still, rather than antagonizing him, he nodded his head in agreement.

  “Very well.” Raystlyn muttered. “I’ll take wing after I finish my supper.”

  “Your kindness,” Wisterian assured him, “will not be forgotten.”

  Raystlyn, not quite taking Wisterian at his word, gave the angel a tight smile and returned his attention to his evening meal.

  -11-

  Haniel was well aware of the risks that he was taking by visiting Raystlyn and Michael. Yet, after receiving a letter from Lord Lucias explaining Michael’s current plight, he felt compelled to do so. Michael, it would seem, was in need of his brews. And, given he was already breaking the rules of exile, what harm would there be in stopping in to visit an old friend before making his way to the grove where the lizard men had hatched?

  He understood that his justification would not serve him were the King of Lords to discover that he had betrayed his orders. Yet, given his brother’s fate, he was less than concerned for his own skin. If Michael could be exiled for the mere turn of his thoughts then not a one of the members of the Quorum was safe.

  So why continue to play by misguided rules?

  Knowing Michael as he did, Haniel should have expected his brother’s reaction upon opening the door to find him standing on the other side. Fierce, loyal Michael was livid with him for putting himself at risk. He lectured Haniel for his constant insistence upon defying King Noliminan’s orders and breaking the King of Lords’ rules.

  “You have always been far too defiant.” Michael seethed as Haniel, who had merely shrugged off his admonition, stepped past him into the small cottage that he shared with another angel and Emissary Lord Darklief’s eldest daughter. “One of these days it will land you in trouble.”

  “And you have always been far too level headed.” Haniel retorted as he passed a smile to the mischief fairy, who was watching them both in quiet fascination. “What has your constant obedience gained you?”

  Michael’s lips thinned and his black eyes flashed with indignation. “Why are you here?”

  “Lord Lucias sent me word that your children are ill.” Haniel shrugged. “I’ve come to brew them a stew.”

  “Will it help them?”

  Haniel turned in the direction of the fairy, who stood at the doorway to the kitchen with one of the strange looking creatures on her hip, and smiled. Michael, it would seem, had convinced her of the benefits of donning a smock.

  “By Moira’s will,” he nodded, “they will not be beyond the skill of my magic.”

  “You patched Zadkiel.” Michael grumbled, his black eyes flashing. “You can patch my gargoyles.”

  “Gargoyles?” Haniel’s lips pursed with his amusement. “Is that what you’re calling the little creatures?”

  “It’s a stupid name.” The fairy agreed in irritated tones as she swung the babe from one hip to another. “Maxium came up with it when one of them tried to suckle from me.”

  Haniel chuckled under his breath at the pun. “From your gargouilles?”

  “Inappropriate.” Michael growled his agreement. “But they respond to it.” His lips twitched slightly at their corners, suggesting that he was fighting back a grin. “So it’s stuck.”

  “Crude.” The fairy snorted.

  Yet, just as with Michael, Haniel could not mistake the turn of her lips as anything but a repressed smile.

  “My point is,” Michael ignored her, “you brought our brother back from the dead after Lucias stole his powers.”

  “What do you mean?” Haniel’s brow furrowed. “Stole his powers?”

  “For the sole purpose of
extinguishing Raguel.” Michael growled.

  “Dear Gods above and below.” The fairy groused. “Let’s not brabble about this again!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you know what our father is up to, dear brother?” Michael asked, his nostrils flaring

  “How would I have the slightest inkling?” Haniel frowned at him. “He’s always up to something.”

  “She.” He seethed through his teeth. “She is always up to something!”

  “What are you stammering about now?” The fairy stormed.

  Michael glared at her, grabbed Haniel by the bicep and pulled him out of the room into the kitchen. He slammed the door behind him, lest the fairy follow, and flung Haniel away from him. “Do you want to know her plans?”

  “I’m certain you intend to share them.”

  Haniel attempted to keep a light hearted note in his tone. It was a difficult thing for him to do. Seeing Michael in such a state, he certainly didn’t feel light hearted.

  “Sit upon Raguel’s throne.” Michael seethed. “With Lord Loki to replace our mother.”

  Haniel blinked. It was the only response he could muster.

  “They’re breeding, Haniel.” Michael stormed at him. “Twelve little monsters with which to replace us all.” He slammed his hands against his chest. “Beginning with me!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The Quorum is being disbanded.” He seethed through his teeth. “She intends to replace each one of us with the mortal monsters that she is breeding and then align our pillows on her side of the throne.”

  A nervous laugh escaped Haniel’s throat. Michael was upset about this? After all the ill deeds that had been done against every member of the Quorum at the King of Lords’ hands?

  “Don’t you see?” Michael’s eyes flashed once more. “Your turn is coming! You’ll join me in exile by the wax of the next golden moon!”

  Haniel took a deep breath and then stepped toward him.

  “Michael.” Had Michael been any one of his other brothers, even the mighty Metatron, Haniel would have reached for his arm to console him. “If what you say is true, then Lucias is trying to save us.”

  “Save us?” He spat. “Save us?”

  “You know he—”

  “You know she has never looked out for anyone but herself!” He stormed. “Zadkiel being flung from the Heavens was her doing!”

  “Zadkiel expired a Goddess without the King of Lords’ say.” Haniel corrected him.

  “Upon her orders!” Michael reminded him. “And Azrael is gone to us all because she convinced him to speak words he was never meant to share!”

  “To protect Prince—”

  “Do you honestly believe that Ishitar needs protecting?” Michael seethed. “From anyone?”

  “Michael.” Haniel swallowed. “You’re speaking irrationally now. The King of Lords could destroy Prince Ishitar with a turn of his thoughts.”

  “But he can’t destroy her.” Michael screamed at him. “Now can he?”

  Haniel shook his head. He didn’t know the answer to that question. None of them did. Lucias had withstood arguments against the King of Lords that other’s would have been expired for.

  “Ware her, Haniel.” Michael warned him, his fists balled at his sides. “And mark me well.” Haniel swallowed the fear he suddenly had the better sense to feel under his brother’s rage. “For if she climbs upon my Lady’s throne, she will become Queen of us all.” His lips thinned. “And when she does, every one of us shall be damned.”

  He turned on his heel then and stormed across the kitchen and out of the cottage. Once on the other side, he slammed the door behind him. As he did so, the one behind Haniel opened and the room exploded with the permeation of wild flowers.

  “He’s gone mad!” The fairy whispered.

  Haniel shook his head and turned his gaze upon her. He offered her a kind smile that she didn’t, necessarily, return.

  “No, my dear.” He assured her. Michael hadn’t gone mad. Not in Haniel’s estimation. “Michael has merely, finally, come to his Gods be damned senses.”

  -12-

  “Lord Loki has already left?” Samyael asked, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He liked Emissary Lord Darklief well enough. But the behavior of the mischief fairy was, oft times, unpredictable.

  “Several days ago.” Emissary Lord Darklief’s pale white brow furrowed. “Sam. You’re white as a winter storm. What’s troubles darken your heart?”

  Sam shook his head and lowered his gaze. As he did so, he began wringing his hands. “Nothing, my Lord.”

  “Nothing.” Emissary Lord Darklief snorted. “How long have we been friends, Sam?”

  “Ages.” He swallowed.

  “Then I think that I’d know when you’re lying to me.” He stepped out of the doorframe. “Come in. Share your worries with me.”

  Samyael raised his gaze and looked into Emissary Lord Darklief’s brilliant, violet eyes. He saw nothing within them but concern. “It’s . . .”

  “Out with it.” The fairy God replied as he closed the door behind Sam. “What’s troubling you?”

  “I’ve lurked in the King of Lords’ shadows for many days now.”

  “So you have.” Emissary Lord Darklief muttered, almost under his breath and clearly with great irritation.

  “I’ve seen many a queer passing.”

  “I’m certain.” This time the fairy God’s tone was guarded.

  “None so queer as the time he spends pondering over Jamiason’s elf.” He said it quickly lest he change his mind. “He watches the creature night and day. And he speaks old words that I neither recognize nor understand.”

  A strange light crossed Emissary Lord Darklief’s fair features. His nostrils flared slightly as his hands made their way to his hips. His feet, which were as bare as the day he had been born, seemed to plant themselves into the stone tile beneath him.

  “It’s troublesome to me, my Lord.”

  “What does Raphael have to say about all of this?”

  “That it’s been going on for many moons, my Lord.” Sam swallowed. He didn’t like the fire he saw burning within Emissary Lord Darklief’s eyes. “And that I should mind my own, lest I get caught in the line of whatever game the King of Lords is playing.”

  “Yet you intended to speak with Loki about this?”

  “Jamiason . . .” Samyael swallowed again. “He’s my dearest friend. If the King of Lords means to harm that elf . . .”

  “Settle down, child.” Emissary Lord Darklief frowned at him. It was almost as if he sensed Samyael’s fear about speaking of the elf’s existence to him. “I don’t wish to see Jami’s heart come to harm any more than you do.”

  He raised his hand and began to stroke his chin. He looked every bit the man in deep thought and careful consideration.

  “Raphael says this has been going on for some time, you say?”

  “Many passings of the Golden Moon, my Lord.” Samyael agreed.

  “Grant me a favor.”

  “Anything, my Lord.” Sam felt the relief of knowing that he had not angered Emissary Lord Darklief wash over him.

  “Watch him.” He said as he turned away and began walking toward the door that Samyael had just entered. “Talk with Raphael over what you find queer and keep me abreast of all of it.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Just do as I ask of you, Sam.” Emissary Lord Darklief paused and looked over his shoulder at the demon. “Do everything that Noliminan asks of you.” Samyael flinched at the sound of the King of Lords’ name. “Be as obedient as a rain in summer. And as observant as the smallest pixie on the wind.”

  “You wish that I should spy on him?”

  “On him.” Emissary Lord Darklief nodded. “And on his son.”

  “Prince Ishitar?!”

  “Ta.”

  “But Prince Ishitar is—”

  “If you love Lord Loki, you will do this for me without qu
estion Sam.” Emissary Lord Darklief opened the door and stepped through it. As he did so, he turned to face Samyael a final time. “And you will do it well.”

  -13-

  When the hand wrapped around Iladrul’s shoulder, he started. He hadn’t heard the footsteps of whomever stood behind him approaching and so hadn’t been expecting the company.

  He spun around, reaching for his dagger as he did so, and felt his mouth go slack.

  Although he had heard of the beauty of the Silver Mage, he had been less than prepared to have his eyes actually fall upon the creature.

  “Settle child.” The angel instructed him, raising his long finger to his lips to place it upon them in a manner which suggested that Iladrul should remain silent. “I am here at the behest of your father.”

  “Forgive me, my Lord.” Iladrul flew to his feet and gave the Silver Mage a proper bow. “Your presence is most welcome!”

  The strange creature’s silver eyes danced over Iladrul’s face before scanning the length of him and then returning to meet his gaze. Iladrul swallowed, hard, under his scrutiny.

  “You are as fair as rumor would have me believe.” The angel said as he raised his hand upward and pulled the locks of his long, flaxen hair over his shoulder so that they fell down his back is a shimmering river. “You’ve the look of your mother about you.”

  “So I’ve been told, my Lord.” Iladrul swallowed and raised himself from his bow. “And of my father.”

  “Well.” The Silver Mage chuckled under his breath. “That’s debatable.” He stuck the finger that had been on his lips beneath Iladrul’s chin to raise his face. Once done, he grasped at Iladrul and turned his head from side to side as if to get a good look at him. “Perhaps his nose.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Wisterian believes that you have the blood of a mage running through you.” His silver eyes narrowed. “What are your beliefs?”