Seraph of Sorrow

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “You seem to have thought about this. Unusual for a teenager.” Victoria gently smiled. Glorianna didn’t smile in return.

  “I don’t have the luxury of youth anymore. These people are depending on me. Dad was right: We’ve been giving ground and giving ground to these things. It’s time for it to stop.”

  Victoria reached over and caressed the girl’s cheek. “You take on so much, Ri. Your father would worry about you. I worry about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Ms. Georges. We’re going to make things different. Better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been reading Dad’s papers.” She lifted a heavy folder from the wicker table next to her rocking chair. “He’s got a study full of this stuff. Teachings passed from one generation to the next. Some of it he tried to show me after Mom died. I thought it was fancy myths.”

  “What do the papers say?”

  “Have a look.” She pried a few from the folder with close-cropped fingernails and handed them to Victoria. “That stuff goes back to the nineteenth century. Remember the tale of the treacherous dragon, the one who chased a woman for two full days to catch her and eat her, only to have her turn at the end and slay him? That’s in here. It’s not a fable. None of it is.

  “What’s in the study goes back further—to the time of Europe’s colonization of America, and the Magna Carta days in England, and the Roman Empire. There’s something that must have come straight from an ancient Egyptian temple, and a page or two written in what I figure is Chinese. I can’t read the oldest stuff, and Dad kept it in plastic since the pages are so frail.”

  “What’s this here?” Victoria held up a yellowed, fractured page separated from the others. It was covered with faded ink, depicting a shining body with brilliant eyes but no other facial features, and broad wings. It held a sword sheathed in flame. A smaller, unidentifiable body lay at its feet.

  “The artist called it a seraph. There’s an inscription beneath. There it is; you can just make it out: Its mother is death, its father an enemy’s tears. That’s the only picture with wings, and the only one where it’s called a seraph. Usually, these warriors went by another name.”

  Victoria began to flip through the other pages. “This stuff lists battle after battle . . .”

  Glorianna stood up, and for the first time noticed that she was a bit taller than the other woman. “Yes, and town after town burned to the ground, and child after child was murdered, as well as the few soldiers who were able to make a difference. They had a word for these warriors, Ms. Georges. They were called beaststalkers.”

  She was surprised by the skepticism that crossed Victoria’s face. “Your father used that word from time to time,” she admitted, “but I never thought of myself as anything special. I was just someone your father trained to fight. Like you’re training these people.”

  “We’re more than that,” Glorianna insisted. “We can do things normal people can’t. Look at me—I stood in that dragon’s fire, and I was fine.”

  “No one else could do that! Not even your father—”

  Victoria went pale as she cut herself off, but Glorianna did not react to the slip. “Maybe I’m unique when it comes to fire,” she admitted. “But things you’ve done, and things my father did, are extraordinary. We’re extraordinary. It all goes back to a figure named Barbara the Protector. She was the first, thousands of years ago.” She lifted a book from the wicker table. “This monastic text says she single-handedly defended a town, where her mother lived, against an invasion of fifty dragons and fifty giant spiders. Only one dragon survived, and one spider. Together, the two of them managed to kill Barbara’s mother before they fled like cowards, but Barbara survived. Her descendants, to this day, seek vengeance against the murderers’ brood.”

  “And that’s us? How can we all be descended from one woman? That makes no sense.”

  “Up until the night Dad died, I didn’t think dragons made much sense, either. It doesn’t matter if the monks exaggerated the legend—the point is, beaststalkers are real. We’re real.”

  “Then how come we’re never heard about any of us in the news?”

  Glorianna did not hide how angry the question made her. “Because the average person denies it all. They can’t cope with reality. Most people have already forgotten the dragons from the night Dad died. They call it the ‘Downtown Fire’ now, as if some cow kicked over an oil lamp and things got a little out of hand before the fire truck showed up!”

  Victoria didn’t have a response to that, so Glorianna continued. “In a town of two thousand people, there are less than thirty who have come to this farm. People want to ignore the truth. Fine. Let those who can’t handle the truth blind themselves. Those of us who are strong have a greater responsibility. I’m not going to sit back and wait for another ‘Downtown Fire.’ The days when dragons picked off towns are over. Now towns are going to start picking off dragons.”

  It was, again, the first night of a crescent moon. There was, again, a rally: Everyone who could show up at the farm who appeared human was a friend. Any locals who dared not show . . .

  “I have the list,” Victoria assured Glorianna. She held up the sheaf of papers, which rattled in the mid-September wind. There were about twenty pages, each with one hundred names. Over the past three rallies, most of the names on each list had been blackened out. “There are only forty-three people in town, not counting children, who have not yet come to a rally.”

  “Send Farrier with a group to visit their houses,” the girl ordered, without breaking eye contact with the main crowd waiting in the yard. Victoria did not hesitate; she nodded at a red-haired man nearby. He nodded back and snapped his fingers; three large specimens from the group of soldiers closest to the house followed him.

  Victoria turned back to Glorianna. “I’m counting about six hundred tonight. Our largest night ever. As usual, the vast majority are regular people, no special skills.”

  “Every one of them can hold a sword, Victoria.” She had begun using her friend’s first name about a month ago, at the older woman’s insistence. “Every one of them can report a strange shape in the night. Every one of them is worthy of our protection.”

  “Of course. In any case, there are maybe forty here talented enough to practice beaststalker skills. You know most of them, but a few extra showed up tonight. They came all the way up from the Ozarks. They’d like to meet you—”

  “Later.” Glorianna was distracted by a figure near the two bonfires at the back of the crowd—a tall, willowy, dark figure slipping back and forth among the townsfolk. It had the shape of a girl, but she couldn’t see the face. What captured Glorianna’s attention was the weight on this girl’s shoulders. The figure moved both mournfully and purposefully, while everyone else around was standing and chatting and waiting good-naturedly. Was she a child separated from family, straying through the wilderness? Whoever she was, this girl had lost something . . . and then she had come to Glorianna hoping to find it again.

  For some time, Glorianna had not thought about herself as a girl. This figure made her remember again, as if it were her own reflection in the distant bonfires.

  The memory did not last. I have to focus, Glorianna chastised herself. I have to think about the future. I have to think about this girl, and what it must be like for her now, and what a better future for her will look like. What I do, I must do to protect her, and those like her. If I was a girl like her, fine. So was Andrea. None of us can afford to stay girls for long.

  After tracing the figure’s path along the edges of the bonfires, she lost the shape. She sighed and returned her focus to what Victoria had been saying. “I’ll have time after the rally to talk with them. Are they staying overnight?”

  “They’re hoping to stay longer than that, like everyone else. They don’t know many folks around here. Traveled by a Winnebago I figure is about to fall over, parked out back.”

  Glorianna would let them stay, everyone knew. She l
et them all stay, for as long as it took. Some built new places in town; others moved into available houses; others stayed on the farm and lent a hand with the never-ending jobs. As a result, her father’s farm had never been so successful. You couldn’t beat the price of the labor—free, in exchange for training. What the crops wouldn’t pay for, the Richard Evan Seabright Memorial Fund could manage, with donations from across the country (and some from as far away as Great Britain and Japan).

  “I should start,” Glorianna murmured.

  Victoria raised her arms. Everyone settled down and waited for the two of them. Glorianna looked for the dark figure she had spotted before, without success.

  “Friends,” she called out. Victoria backed up a step, and all eyes shifted to the teenaged hero. Adoration tinged each face. She saw neighbors, acquaintances, and strangers. “Warriors.

  “We commemorate a brave few who gave their lives”—her lips curled—“in the ‘Downtown Fire.’ They died defending a town—a small town, our town. We will not forget them, no matter what pretty lies try to hide the events of that night.

  “Whether we admit it or not, we are engaged in a great war. It is a test of whether our way of life can go on. It is a test of whether my father, and others, died in vain that day.”

  The crowd stirred, and a few voices piped up with No! and Never!

  “The world may forget him someday. It may forget the others. But we here, we strong and privileged few—we cannot forget why they died. We cannot let those who murdered them get away. We cannot let justice die with them. Will you help me?”

  “Yes!” they cried, and “Justice!”

  Glorianna stepped back and let Victoria take center stage. Her friend continued the rally, while Glorianna used the time to watch the crowd. Most of the people here were hunters—a common pursuit in this part of the country. They already had weapons discipline, and a few were savvy enough to leave the guns at home and bring compound bows. She made a mental note to spend extra time with this group. It would not do to yield the air to winged beasts.

  She also noticed a group she had seen before, a motley collection of people on their knees who had spent the entire rally in fervent prayer. Some of these were silent; others spoke openly and loudly of this god or that one. Those who spoke often peppered their prayers with mention of the “spirit child”—to both her pride and embarrassment, she had learned days ago that they were talking about her. One or two were also beginning to mention a Saint Barbara.

  “I carry this,” Victoria was declaring to the rapt crowd. She held up a charm bracelet that might have been silver once. It was black now, and the initial shape of the charms were warped beyond recognition. “Every day I carry it. This is a gift I gave my daughter for her fifteenth birthday, less than eight months ago. I found it among her ashes, after we fought the demons and won. It is my reminder of lives that ended, and a job that will not end for a long time to come.

  “I will not forget her, or those who killed her. I will not yield; I will not rest. Will you?”

  The crowd roared. No, they would not.

  Victoria gave a bitter smile as she held the bracelet high. “I don’t know what will happen next on our journey together,” she admitted. “But I do know where that journey will end. I know how it will all end!”

  “Death is on our side!” The call went up spontaneously, starting with the few toward the front who had been there from the beginning. It spread quickly. Even those who were on their knees paused in prayer to join in. Soon the entire field around the farm was filled with the cry. “Death is on our side!”

  Glorianna stepped up again and took Victoria’s trembling hand in her own.

  “Death is on our side!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Tested by Love

  “Rook to d5.” Glorianna tipped the ebony pawn over with her white marble tower.

  He kept scribbling on his pad. “Knight to d4.”

  The careless speed of the reply annoyed her. “You could at least move your own pieces.”

  “When you beat me, I’ll move all the pieces.”

  A hiss seeped over her stiff lower jaw. “You’re such an arrogant ass.”

  Eyes still on what he was writing, he reached out with his left hand and squeezed her biceps. “That’s why we’re perfect for each other, love.”

  She chewed her lower lip and moved the enemy knight. “What are you writing?”

  “You know what I’m writing.”

  The answer softened her a little. “Another one?”

  “Actually, the same one.”

  “How is that possible—all the months I’ve known you, you’ve only ever had the one page!” She scanned the configuration of pieces. She had seen this board before, hadn’t she?

  He paused writing to scratch his glistening bronze scalp. He took in her concentration, and she sensed him tense with amusement. Freshly annoyed, she slapped down his left hand when it offered a neck rub. “We’re replaying one of those stupid classics, aren’t we?”

  “You said you wanted to get good at this game.”

  “I am good at this game. I said I wanted to get great.”

  “Yes.” He continued with his page for a few moments. “You’ve set quite an agenda for yourself. Harvard graduate, leader of the people, chess master, mother . . .”

  “Yes. All that.” She moved her queen to the far right edge of the board, away from the attacking knight and closer to the enemy king. “And more.”

  He glanced at the board. “Rook to f8. Ah, nice try, dear; but you know I mean the other rook. So you’ll do this all by the age of twenty-three? That doesn’t leave you much time.”

  She smiled back, moved the correct rook, and settled back on the couch. Her next move was clear—the forward rook was nearly useless where it was—but she wanted to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. A deep breath cleared her head. The scent of his cologne mixed beautifully with the cabin’s crackling fire. This Vermont getaway had been his idea; she did not believe in vacations or pauses. Now that she was here, she had to admit this weekend was a pleasant enough diversion from their last semester of studies.

  “I’m graduating a year early. That gives me two years for everything else.” She wasn’t sure herself if this was ample time, or not nearly enough.

  “And what happens if you don’t get everything done by your appointed hour? Will all the beaststalkers in the world vanish into thin air?”

  “Not right away,” she admitted. Seeing no traps, she went ahead and slid her rook over one square. “It will start with some of them losing faith. I’ve been away at college for a few years. Folks back home may forget, or change their minds. People get distracted by rainbows and illusions. They forget reality.”

  “No one can possibly forget reality with you around.”

  “That’s why I need to get back. You promised you’d move with me to Minnesota. You agreed there are good medical schools out there and that you’d apply. Well, graduation’s coming in two months. And you haven’t said a word about it—or more to the point, packed a bag.”

  His gentle smile never faltered. Carefully folding the page over, he set it and his pen on the floor of the cabin and shifted closer to her on the couch. “So what’s my next move?”

  “You pack your fu—Oh, you mean the game.” She cocked her head at the board and saw the pin. Was there anything she could have done to prevent that? No, and it wasn’t that big a deal. “Rook to h6, right?”

  “Correct. To threaten your queen.”

  The next two moves were quick. She moved her queen out of the way, and he slid down the file to take her bishop. There was something imminent in this game; she could feel it—why couldn’t she remember?

  His left hand returned to her neck. This time, she let him rub.

  “What am I missing?”

  “I could tell you, but then you’d be angry with me.”

  She reached back and patted his forearm. “Yes, I would.” It was difficult to hide her impatience wit
h the way this game was going. He had the initiative. Every move seemed to bring his pieces closer to her king, and her own pieces farther away from his. She was bringing no pressure, doing nothing proactive. He was doing; she was reacting.

  Death is on his side.

  The enemy queen, she noticed, was isolated from the rest of the assault. She could corral it, cut off its escape, and perhaps force an unfavorable trade. It would take away his initiative and give her a chance to mount her own assault.

  Her mind raced through the next few moves. Where would he go? Yes, she could see two or three possibilities. None were particularly threatening. Whichever way he went, she would be able to deflect his moves with increasing force, until he was cornered and had to submit. She would define the battlefield.

  Using her left hand—the right was scratching his leg as he continued to work the base of her skull—she lifted her rook to slide it over two files and threaten his queen.

  “Queen to g3.” He gave his countermove before her castle had landed in its new square.

  Like ice water, the realization she had lost filled her throat. Queen to g3. She swore and whipped her rook at the fireplace, ripping a hole in the wire screen and splashing sparks from the dead center of the placid blaze. His hand slipped off her neck before she could rip it off.

  Queen to g3, you moron! Queen to g3!

  The entire game rushed into memory now, five seconds plus an eternity too late.

  “Marshall versus Levitzky,” she spat, staring at the cabin ceiling. Her stomach churned.

  He nodded. “Nineteen twelve, at the Eighteenth German Chess Congress in Breslau. Some know it as the Gold Coin Game, because spectators showered Marshall with—”

  “Screw you and your history lesson.” She got up and kicked the board, feeling like she was going to vomit now. “Screw you!”

  Without moving, his placid gaze followed her sharp movements. “I love you.”

  “Did you hear me? I said screw you!” Tears were filling her brown eyes. She couldn’t help it. This was so humiliating—the loss, and her reaction, and how calm he was. She was supposed to be the one in control. She was supposed to be the leader. She was supposed to win.