Ashes to Ashes

by Carrie F. Shepherd

  I smiled at him. He gave me a weary smile in response.

  “Do you feel the same?” He asked. “Do you agree with Lady Zamyael?”

  I met his gaze, my smile tightening. This was, as Zamyael and Sappharon had both pointed out, a mortal war. Though I was prone to side with the elves in this instance, it was not my place to judge or interfere until the time of aether came. No more than it was my place to interfere with the bronzies’ abduction of the benandanti.

  “I believe that there is no stopping or interfering with the designs of either one of your parents.” I replied, knowing that he was the only one who could actually hear me speak. “And I believe that your only recourse, if you wish Loki to do so, is to grant the trickster the favor of another one of your Gods be damned pies.”

  He chuckled at that and lowered his gaze.

  “Ishitar,” Sappharon was watching me with guarded interest. She knew that Zamyael was courting a mortal man but she didn’t know that mortal man was actually me. So it was, she didn’t understand why Ishitar would bother with asking my opinion on the matter or why I would, seemingly, merely grin at him without granting him the courtesy of a response. “I understand your reluctance to stand against your mother and father.”

  I rolled my eyes at that, though she didn’t see. Zamyael, however, gave me a guarded, narrowed eyed glare. Her admonishment only served to please me.

  “But do you wish to have the race of elf completely removed from all worlds and times?” Sappharon implored. “There is but one benandanti left which we are aware of! Breeding with a wolf whose blood is so diluted that the race will never reach the glory it had once known.”

  Ishitar sighed and turned his gaze to Zamyael. She was watching him wearing an expression which should have told him, if it did not, that she not only agreed with Sappharon, she would have him stand up for the pretty elfin creatures if she were to have it her way.

  “You wouldn’t be alone.” Sappharon continued when he failed to agree to her demands immediately. “The elves do have allies.”

  “Fairies and humans.” Ishitar reminded her.

  “The Devonshires and Emissary Lord Darklief.” Zamyael corrected him. “One of the most noble line of Adam and the other a living, mortal God.”

  “And Jamiason.” Sappharon nodded. “Don’t forget that the very King of the race that attacks them would see to the elves’ protection.”

  “Yet he cannot convince his own people to behave.” Ishitar scoffed. “Why should I assist?”

  “He called on Aiken knowing it was his only course.” Zamyael reminded Ishitar. “He is outnumbered! He can’t stand directly against his people when his own guard would slay him the barest moment that he tried.”

  Ishitar gave her a doubtful smile before turning his attention to me. I shrugged, telling him, in my own way, that I wasn’t going to get involved in this discussion any more than I already had. Nor was I about to spill Lord Jamiason’s secrets in regard to the rumors that circled around him.

  “The elfin city burns now.” Sappharon reminded them all, her hands flying. “There isn’t time for debate or discussion.”

  Ishitar assessed her for a long moment before his eyes landed first on me and, then, on Zamyael. I sensed that it was Zamyael’s soft, encouraging smile that finally seemed to convince him.

  “Very well,” he told us as he stood. “I’ll speak with my father about the matter again.” His eyes narrowed as they returned to Sappharon. “But no guarantees, my Lady. I may, after hearing his side of things, change my mind.”

  Zamyael and Sappharon, who knew both Noliminan and Ishitar better than the two Gods knew one another, exchanged a weary smile.

  -65-

  The moment that Louis had explained to Jamiason and Paul what they had come across in the forest, James had disappeared in a flash of light, the smell of electricity burning the air. Paul’s mode of transportation to Wisterian’s lands had not been quite as swift. Still, he was only half a night’s march behind Iykva and his murderous band of demons as Faunus let the Hells’ fires reign within its walls.

  Though he was not where he wanted—or intended—to be in time, Moira, for once, had given him her blessing. Had he been with Iykva, rather than on his trail, his path wouldn’t have crossed that of the frightened doxy with the baby swaddled tightly in the grasp of his arms.

  He recognized the lad at once as being one of Prince Iladrul’s servants. For the barest of moments he thought to let him run by. After all, he was running at breakneck speed through the forest clutching at his trickla as if his life depended upon it.

  Then Paul heard the baby cry and he understood, all too well, what the doxy’s presence in the forest, without the escort of his master, must mean.

  He swerved into the doxy’s path. The lad almost collided into him. He would have, had Paul not jumped swiftly out of the way. As it was, Paul had to grab him by his long brown hair and yank him backward lest he fall, crushing the baby beneath himself.

  The doxy screamed as Paul flung him around by the hair so that he was facing him. The baby, sensitive to the lad’s fear and confusion, lent its howls to the boy elf’s, ringing a horrifying chorus into the night.

  “Stop.” Paul seethed, shaking the lad by his hair. “I don’t intend to harm you.”

  The elf, not believing this, suddenly had the presence of mind to reach for the blade at his hip. Though he was fast, and surely a force to be reckoned with on the battle field, he had the disadvantage of the baby in his arms. Contrarily, Paul had years of feeding from Jamiason’s neck, which had made his curse strong.

  “I’m on your side!” Paul tried again. As he spoke he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves in the distance. The centaurs of this forest were growing short on patience. And they—Paul and this blathering boy—were growing short on time. “Quiet boy! And hush that baby as well! We’ll have an entire herd of wildered centaurs upon us if you don’t pull yourself together.”

  Whatever fear the child had of Paul was clearly minimal to his fear as to what would happen to him if he were to be dragged away by wildered centaurs. He let out one more hitching sob, pulled the baby close to him and glared definitely up at the vampire Prince.

  “Better.” Paul muttered, letting the boy’s hair free. His eyes flicked to the baby, whose face the doxy was covering with the blanket to muffle its cries. “Whose babe is that?”

  The doxy pulled her even closer as his gold rimmed eyes gleaned in what light shone through the leaves of the forest from the moon above them.

  “Is that Prince Iladrul’s babe?” Paul demanded. “We’d heard rumors that your sister was fat with child.”

  “Hers is a neck you shall never sink your rotted teeth into!” The doxy seethed.

  An amused, somewhat surprised, chortle escaped Paul’s lips. He knew it was an ill timed laugh, but he was helpless not to let it loose.

  The boy had found his brevity, for all the good it would do him.

  “I have no intention to sink my teeth into her neck.” He tried to keep the amusement from his tone and utterly failed. “No more than I do yours.” He shook his head. The sound of hooves on moss and leaping over underbrush was drawing nearer. “Do you mean to protect her?”

  “With my life.”

  “That may not be necessary.” Paul replied, turning his back to the elf. “Come. And be quick about it. I know a place where we can hide until the herd passes.”

  Having no other choice if he wished to avoid the raging madness of the wildred herd of centaurs, the boy did as he was bid.

  -66-

  Jamiason bent over Wisterian’s body and begin to weep. He knew there was no time for such nonsense, but he also understood that once an angel or demon expired it was a permanent thing. Wisterian, unlike the mortals who had fallen this night, would never grace Martiam’s halls or Loki’s cages. Certainly, his feet would never touch the sacred marble tiles which, it was rumored, made up the Guf. He had had his chance to rise to glory. And he had, according to
the laws of the King of Lords, abused it.

  Zadkiel, James knew by the cold, rigid flesh of his friend’s body, had already claimed him and willed his soul to the portal that would take him to the world beyond the Sixty Realms.

  That there must be another world beyond the one that he knew, he was certain. It was incomprehensible to him to believe that, when the immortal death breathed upon you, it all just came to an end.

  “Goodbye, old friend.” Jamiason whispered before leaning forward to press his lips to Wisterian’s brow. “Wherever one goes after failing the tests of the Heavens, I hope that you finally, and at long last, find peace.”

  Screams swelled all around him, forcing him out of his reverie. Standing, he keened his ears in the direction of those that were nearest to him.

  One thing, he knew, was certain: his friend’s death would not be in vain.

  -67-

  Raystlyn ran on swift feet, his wings catching the wind so that he might take flight, the barest moment that he heard her scream.

  Men were not allowed in the Temple of the Charbala; it was a place where women prayed.

  He didn’t care.

  He knew this tradition belonged to the exiled angels of Wisterian’s rebellion. But, then, Wisterian had never had the relationship with Theasis that Raystlyn had shared with the Goddess. As a result, Wisterian misunderstood her general silence toward them as lack of care. In the minds of the angels of this exiled generation, the only time the Lady visited was when she overheard an elf or an angel’s prayers. And she only answered, they believed, if the prayers came from another woman.

  Because the Temple doors were locked to him, he was forced to revert to the magic that had been granted him to burst his way through. He allowed a ball of silver energy to form within the palm of his hand, which he pulled backward and flung with all of his strength toward the door.

  It exploded in spray of marble and glass, littering the steps so that those Priestesses who came running from within would cut their bare feet as they escaped the monsters who had made their way into the Temple to see to their slaughter.

  He heard her scream again, this time louder; more desperate.

  “Helena!” He cried her name, desperate to find her. Despite the pain she had caused him when she had chosen to stay with her husband after their affair, he did still love her. “Where are you, my angel?!”

  “Raystlyn . . .” Even though she was screaming, her cries were muffled. She had locked her door to sit Charbala. And now, because of her foolish traditions and beliefs, she was trapped. “Please, Rayst! Help me!”

  Knowing that the doors to the Priestesses chambers were as locked to him as the front door had been, Raystlyn began flinging balls of silver light to the right and the left of him. His arms crossed gracefully over one another as chaos reigned in his wake. The women, all of them terrified, flew from their prayer chambers to run like lemmings to the front of the Temple.

  Every one of them smelled the burning wood and flames as the castle and the city burned around them. Every one of them understood that, trapped in their chambers as they had been, if the Temple, itself, had caught fire, they were little more than the kindling wood that was the structure of the building around them.

  She was in the last chamber on the right. As the door exploded in front of her, the fire that they had all feared caught and shattered the window behind her, blasting into the room. She escaped with just enough time for him to slam the door shut to contain the fire long enough for him to wrap his arms around her waist, lift her into his arms and take flight.

  Had anyone still resided in the Temple to see him, he would have appeared to them to be little more than a blur.

  As it would turn out, his speed, which had been born from his love for her, saved them both.

  -68-

  The barest moment that the pixies landed on Aiken’s palm to advise him that his charge was in trouble, the fairy God willed himself into the center of the chaos. He stood in the courtyard, his eyes wide, looking right and left and wondering how, in the name of all of the Gods that he had ever loved, hated or been indifferent to, things had gone so horribly wrong so terribly fast.

  He saw demons rushing to angels; angels rushing to demons. He saw elves—still babies, Gods, they are all still babies—standing around with wide, terrified eyes and vampires pouncing on them, grabbing them by the sides of their necks to twist them before sinking their teeth into the children to drain them of their blood.

  “Piss on the Gods . . .” He muttered, swallowing the bile in his throat.

  He had known that if it ever came to this it would be bad. He simply hadn’t understood that it would ever be this bad.

  He knew then, without a doubt, that if Loki could see this . . .

  If Loki saw this . . . If he understood . . . He couldn’t, then, deny me.

  Hoping the gamble was worth the delay, he willed himself to Loki’s library.

  Much to his dismay, he came face to face with—not Loki, as he had hoped—Ishitar.

  -69-

  Na’amah gave a foolish girl’s cry of surprise that sounded more human than canine as Emissary Lord Darklief appeared before Ishitar with an expression of pain and desperation on his brow. He flicked his eyes to her, started momentarily, then, to her great relief, dismissed her.

  “Your Royal Highness—”

  “Aren’t we past that, Aiken?” Ishitar sighed. Na’amah, watching them both, fidgeted. “I don’t wish your adulation. Not in your own home.”

  “It isn’t my home.” Aiken reminded him, his violet eyes narrowing. They flicked to Na’amah once more, then returned to Ishitar. “It’s your mother’s.”

  “Semantics.”

  Another swift look in Na’amah’s direction before Emissary Lord Darklief, clearly, decided that he didn’t have the luxury of time to be curious about the sound of her squeal.

  “Come with me.” He said. “I need your aide.”

  “My aide?” Ishitar gave him a tight smile.

  “I came for Loki.” Emissary Lord Darklief seemed to seethe whilst still holding his tone. “But you’ll have to do.”

  Laughing, Ishitar reached for his hand and allowed him to take him where he would. Na’amah, not a Goddess, was unable to follow.

  -70-

  Ishitar wasn’t laughing for long.

  From the eyes of a child who was reaching up to him, her body battered and broken and her blood draining from her—blasphemy in such a war as this when it would have been lapped up by her enemy had they the luxury of time—I saw the pure expression of horror first dance, and then crawl, over the lines of Ishitar’s handsome face.

  Knowing there was a war, with all of its destruction and devastation, was one thing. Standing in the center, smelling the stench of burning flesh and listening to the screams of children, put an entirely different light upon his perspective.

  “Please,” the child reached for the hem of his shendyt with her small, delicate fingers, “help . . . me.”

  Ishitar, swift to react, bent over to will the health back into her.

  She had lost too much blood; he was too late.

  Standing behind him, I had no choice but to step forward and take her soul from her expiring body. As I did so, I raised my gaze to meet his. He looked at me as if I were the greatest of all his enemies.

  “This,” I schooled him, “is a small cost of a mortal war.” I swallowed as he blinked at me. “Perhaps now you can decide, for yourself if you wish to interfere.”

  -71-

  It would seem that he did.

  He was gone in a flash, raging through his father’s apartment, throwing the door to the library open without so much as a knock.

  “Father!” He roared. “Do you see what is happening?”

  “The demons are winning.” Noliminan shrugged. “One side or the other always does.”

  “And you do not care about the means by which they do?”

  “The demons run this war, Ishitar,” Noliminan raise
d his gaze to look deep into his son’s eyes. “What would you have me do about it?”

  “Bid that every last one of the blasted demons, from the first to the last of them, be ever, hereafter, turned to ash!”

  -72-

  With Ishitar’s command tossed carelessly into the wind, a new brand of chaos ensued.

  -73-

  The masked, corporeal part of me lay with Zamyael, content and trying to ignore the things I saw, felt and heard with the rest of my being. I snuggled my face into the warmth of her neck, loving her more in that moment, for distracting me from the war with the elves and the demons than I had ever, in all of my long years, loved her before.

  I was about to tell her so. I was about to give myself over to her completely. I was about to bind my soul with hers for the remainder of eternity.

  Before I had the opportunity to do so, my beloved lady, the one bright star in my overly long, miserable life, exploded in flames and turned to ash in my arms.

  -74-

  Through the blood red of his rage, Iladrul saw the demon responsible for this madness. He sprang forward, his split sword flying, with every intention of cutting Iykva down.

  Iykva, seeing him, gave him a malicious grin.

  This only served to drive Iladrul’s rage all the more.

  He sprang forward, his blades flying—

  Deprived of the satisfaction of taking the demon’s life, he screamed with rage as the creature burst into flames and fell into a pile of ashes at his feet.

  Reason lost on him, Iladrul ran forward and kicked at the pile of ashes that had, a moment ago, been his greatest enemy, scattering them into the wind.

  -75-

  Never before, in all of my days, had rage overcome me as it did when Ishitar called her name.