by T. M. Lakomy
“Tell me, O angel,” she whispered into his ear, “how dire can it be to wrest open the gates of Hades and invite the fettered demons into your soul to exact vengeance? Do you think their fire burns greater than mine?”
“You have great fire. I saw it exit the heavens before my eyes. But I have in mind a being greater than you know.” Antariel lifted his head and met Estella’s gaze. “I made friends with a devil of another sort during my first time erring into the confines of this world. Deadly and vile, yet cunning and shrewd beyond the reckoning even of the gods. He was always hungry for more. Maybe you know him already?” and he whispered a name into her ear as she purred like a contented cat.
ESTELLA SLEPT SOUNDLY that night, Antariel watching over her with a sore heart. He knew her as she had never known herself, known her when she was thought immaterial in the endless, heavenly seas where creation took flight and wrought secrets and wonders beyond the knowledge of men. For such was Antariel’s nature. His voice gave substance and embodiment, and he shaped and clothed the divine thoughts and set them free to expand into the void.
What he dreamt he wrought into song. Then he discovered within his dreams his loneliness, and then he was truly alone and the dreams gave no more comfort. He and Estella traveled down pathways of her own creation, hand in hand, and she offered him the Twilit world robed in the glory of the olden gods. But Antariel did not love the world she loved so dearly, this world that hung between light and dark, suspended within the void through the thoughts of the gods of old, the elder guardians of a world long changed. Then morning came after a laborious voyage to conquer the night, and the gloom was lifted, but not from their hearts.
“Mikhail will know of your arrival,” Antariel said to Estella. “How do you intend to counteract his efforts and yet consolidate your endeavors, supposing he decides to trust you again? Surely you know his take on things.” Antariel watched his reflection intently in the glass mirror suspended over a magnificent marble table. His long hair was loose and fell to his shoulders in graceful waves while his eyes, scrupulously devoid of guile, waited for her reaction.
Estella was bent over her numerous chests, engaged in the process of choosing her outfit and jewels for the day. Her arms laden with jewels and expensive fabrics, she threw them all into a heap upon the bed and sighed.
“Either he maintains his distance and collaborates with me without deceit, or you are going to instill in him the fear of God. I know he loves me deep down, and that makes a man quite malleable, as you surely realize.”
Antariel froze, stricken with silent anger, avidly observing her as he searched for clues to her emotions.
“You may want to excuse yourself, holy angel,” she added mockingly.
Antariel raised a brow and shook his head slowly, but the mischievous glint in his eyes remained.
“Of course, Estella, I wouldn’t want to remind you of my darker days.” He gracefully swung around and made for the door. “I will check on Constance, I heard her wailing throughout the night and felt her dismal dreams.” He opened the door and passed through it, casting one last glance at Estella. She felt his gaze and met his eyes, smiling craftily.
“Maybe I could have made better use of you in your previous state. You were more amenable to my mischiefs then,” she said, turning her head away.
Antariel closed the door as he departed, whispering inaudibly, “You have no idea.”
Down the stairs he descended, past the heavy black drapes. An unnatural hush prevailed throughout the manor, and the dining hall was empty, except for Lady Constance. She waited at the table with eyes downcast, staring fixedly at the table. Her chestnut brown hair was pinned up and braided, and her black silken dress was heavily laden with numerous strands of pearls while tear-shaped pearls hung gracefully from her ears. She did not lift her eyes from the table as Antariel sat next to her. He watched her silently with compassion. Abruptly he leaned forward and breathed into her face. Constance did not move, nor was she startled. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, her large brown eyes suddenly focused and peaceful.
“Oh, please forgive me, I must have been dozing off. God knows I haven’t been sleeping properly these last few nights. I wonder why, perhaps it’s punishment for all the years as a child that I wouldn’t go to bed early,” she giggled, then blushed looking puzzled. “Forgive me, but I don’t remember your name.” She smiled kindly and dimples appeared in her cheeks. The heaviness that had added lines of worry to her face had vanished. Now her complexion was rosy and healthy.
Antariel beamed at her. “I apologize for not presenting myself earlier. I am Gabriel, Estella’s traveling companion. I escorted her to your manor.” His arresting eyes did not leave hers, and she sat there mesmerized and dreamy with a beatific smile. Then she looked down at her clothing and gasped.
“Oh my dear Lord, what have I chosen to wear? It is almost as if I were going to a funeral. Am I losing my mind at my age? I am barely twenty summers and five. I must change before Estella sees me and mocks me mercilessly.” She got up quickly, still flashing her most charming smile as her eyes took Antariel in. “You remind me of someone I once knew, but I can’t quite put my finger on it . . .” she added, frowning gently and pursing her lips. Then she shrugged, taking her leave of Antariel, and headed to her chambers to change.
A maid entered with a bemused look on her worn face, ushering in fragrant platters of breakfast foods, from cured meats to cheeses and duck pâtés. Antariel hummed softly to himself, striding up and down the hall. Then his voice grew louder and clearer. The maids stood transfixed in awe, and it seemed as if a spell held them enthralled as he sang. His melodious voice brought tears to their eyes, and the butlers and guards all hearkened and dreamt with open eyes. Antariel sang until the gloom that had weighed on the manor like a cloud of woe had finally dissipated.
Sunshine burst through the dull, choked skies, and shafts of light, like warriors’ spears, sliced through the gloom. They crowned Antariel’s head like a radiant halo and brightened the hall. The maids left their errands dreamily and began to take down the ubiquitous black cloths from around the manor. They went about with shining eyes as dancers at a ball, while Antariel’s song rose like a valiant wave. It reached heights of wonder that shattered the veil of despair, and rent the hearts of those that listened with the boundless beauty of sacred things. Hopes were no longer distant islands in time where one sought refuge from the weary world, but a promise unforgotten and awaiting an auspicious time to yield its harvest. Antariel’s voice seeped through the cracks of their minds and cleaved past the layers of disappointment and grief. When he finally stopped, the last vestiges of mourning in the manor were gone.
“You have cast your light on this place, little prodigious prince.”
Antariel did not need to turn his head to feel her amusement and fascination, but he did anyway. Estella stood before him, beautiful and proud as ever, a river of rubies as a diadem upon her ruddy brown hair. A large tourmaline burned fiercely like a blazing furnace at her neck, and her almond eyes were smudged with kohl. She emanated the scent of crushed roses, musk, and amber. Her eyes were dancing twin flames of deep garnet, and she smiled guilelessly, unaware of the settling spells woven in the air. She wore flowing black and crimson satins spangled with blazing white gems, and her girdle was gold, wrought in the shape of a serpent clutching its own tail, the eyes alive with the fire of sparkling diamonds.
“Finally awake and in your full splendor, I see,” Antariel remarked politely, observing her from beneath his thick lashes. Estella glided towards him and seized his arm.
“You could sing my mind into the farthest confines of the world, and yet you don’t. Why not? You have that power over me,” she remarked quietly, searching his face for answers. “And where is Constance?” she added worriedly, turning around to inspect the renewed hall.
At that moment Constance’s hasty footsteps resounded in the hall and she descended the stairs with a spring in her step. Standing at
the entrance of the dining hall, she smiled at Estella, clad in a royal blue dress sewn with sapphires and her loose hair flowing.
“Estella, I’ve really been feeling the need for a change lately,” she said. “I never had the chance to take up my desire to visit Éire, the Emerald Isle. My mother’s people lived there for generations before the pope uprooted them to this inhospitable country. I’ve been thinking about taking a sojourn there . . . and maybe you could look after the manor for me while I’m gone?”
Estella glowed at Antariel with understanding and slid her arm around Constance.
“I must get ready, for it’s a long way to go,” Constance continued. “Better to go sooner than later. And I must instruct the maids and housekeepers.”
Estella frowned to herself as Constance bolted off towards the maids’ quarters. “You do realize people will think she’s lost her mind, don’t you?”
“I’ve definitely considered it. But trust me, I will ensure that she reaches her destination safely, and with no memory of these dreadful events.” Antariel bowed his head. Then he lifted it, as if to listen to some strained, distant sound. Rolling his eyes, he fixed her with a sarcastic look. “Your great charmer has arrived. It would be better for me to leave you to it. But of course I am never far away if you need me.”
Estella raised her chin haughtily as she read the meaning in his look and nodded.
“Good, go for now,” she replied sternly, but Antariel grasped her arm and before Estella could avert it, he had breathed into her face.
18
CROSS PURPOSES
It was as pouring sand into a precipice, an awning tear
Of jagged rocks to the questioning skies laid bare
It was as if you held a sieve to the sea and sought its might to drain
Somewhere with your quivering hands that fear the strain
MIKHAIL WALKED THE EMPTY STREETS, HIS SILVER CANE PUNCTUATING each step with a heavy clank. His cloak was a dark grey, and beneath it he wore a reinforced black leather jerkin with black suede trousers tucked into high leather riding boots. The many rings he wore glinted dully in the morning light, and the clouds above seemed as if torn to shreds. Within them he could descry demons floating overhead, feeding off the auras of the hapless people below. His pace was hurried, and he kept his face hidden from the few passersby.
Seeking Estella with his mind, he was relieved to find her in the same location. He quickened his pace and the furrows on his brow deepened as he mulled through his thoughts darkly, considering how he would confront her. The love he bore for her hurt within his chest, and though he yearned to hold her and seek solace in her embrace, his pride burned with the scorn she had heaped on him with her betrayal.
Mikhail reached the manor quickly. He was surprised to note that the guards he encountered at the entrance had a light in their faces that shone with a brilliant purity. It seemed incongruous to him. They bowed, allowing him to pass graciously.
“Good morning, Sir Mikhail,” one of the guards greeted him warmly. “May you find respite in this homely home of Lady Constance Rosalind.”
Feeling disquieted, Mikhail touched the brim of his hat, then passed through the doors. Inside, the manor was full of light, as if the sun had turned its fiery visage upon it and held it in its gaze. The fragrance of sandalwood and musk permeated the air, conjuring up a stream of images in his mind. Entering the hall, he was met by a beaming maid who invited him to breakfast, where the lady of the house awaited him.
The maid led him to a brightly lit hall with a long dining table. At the far end, seated quietly, Estella was waiting. Mikhail was instantly reminded of the first time he had met her, fatefully drawn in by the ember of her soul burning through her eyes. She did not rise to greet him, but remained where she sat, relaxed and cordial but indifferent. As he approached, the disappointment ached within his breast. The anticipation that had risen to a crescendo awaiting the moment they would lock eyes once more had fallen, dashed to the rocks of his disillusionment. But he swiftly pulled a stern veil over his pain.
“You brought the sun with your arrival it seems, Estella. It hasn’t shone brightly here since you left me like a thief in the night those many months ago.” Mikhail took Estella’s hand, kissing it and waiting for the venomous knife in her reply. But it didn’t come.
“Forgive me for not comprehending convoluted chatter at this hour of the day. May I ask what’s gnawing at you?” she asked impatiently with genuine confusion. Her face showed none of the tender care she had once harbored for him.
“You left me in my moment of need when they had murdered Elmer. You left me to battle the cardinal on my own, selfishly choosing an easy life of luxury without a thought for the sake of humanity. Do not be so obtuse or play your games with me!” He pointed his finger at her threateningly, his grey eyes flashing.
“How dare you make such insolent assumptions! You must be raving. I left because the cardinal wanted to murder me and the children in my care,” she replied defiantly.
Mikhail, made reckless by his bitterness, cleaved into Estella’s mind suddenly without warning. Estella cringed and threw a glass of water at his face, sealing her thoughts immediately. But Mikhail’s face darkened with understanding, and he scanned the room around him in dismay.
“They tampered with your mind, you fool. Your memories have been altered and you no longer recall what we had, the love that was between us.” His chagrined voice was low, and grief seized him as he turned from her. Estella frowned, reaching out to touch his hand.
“Love? Between us, Mikhail?” The concern in her face was genuine, but it did nothing to placate Mikhail’s distress.
“Did we not find love in one another, though briefly? Go back in your memories, Estella. When did you leave me?” Estella bit her lip and uncomfortably looked away.
“I left you straight after the ball at the king’s palace, and the rest . . . well the rest is vague. I cannot really put my finger on it. But then, I have been much occupied. You are surely imagining things as most men do, dreaming up love stories, trying to stake your claim on me.”
Mikhail made a show of forced geniality. “Tell me how things have been since you left. You eluded even Oswald’s thorough hounding. But wait, where is Lady Constance?”
“Constance is off to visit her mother’s kin. But now let us discuss this war together, and if you permit me, I may opt for some wine.”
Mikhail’s heart felt like a millstone, but he held back on further questions. Although she seemed herself, the spark between them had been extinguished, and it was more likely that the knife would be twisted than retrieved.
“Let’s start again, then,” he said, stitching his face into an aloof mask. “Maybe this way I won’t be blinded by my heart, and it will make it easier for me to deliver my orders.”
“Yes, of course,” Estella said, rolling her eyes. “Pray go ahead, enlighten me. But first let me fill you in on some interesting details.”
For at least an hour she spoke and Mikhail listened. Then he questioned her over and over again about Prince Erik, the box of gems, and the devils they constrained as Estella recounted to him all the details she could recall. He hid his misgivings about Antariel from her, though he suspected the angel had a hidden role to play.
In turn, Mikhail told Estella what he knew. He spoke of how the cardinal sought to dismantle the orders and the Twilit world. By doing so he hoped to prevent the light of the ages, the messiah of each generation, from taking form on earth. The cardinal wanted to bend Estella to his will and wield her as a force to implement his dark designs.
So far the cardinal’s minions had set about gathering the artifacts of the pagan temples buried in monasteries and churches, openly murdering Mikhail’s trusted men. The king had long been taken mysteriously ill. Confined to his bed, he had given sovereignty over to the cardinal to rule as his steward under the banner of the holy church. The persecution of the Twilit was turning into a flagrant genocide, for wherever they fled
they were hung and tortured. Mikhail and the queen were among the few that converged efforts to support them, but amid the rift caused by ages of distrust, the result of their endeavors was mediocre.
Instead they directed their efforts toward binding the demons that hunted the Twilit. Every hapless Twilit soul the demons caught was stripped of their sight and fed to the servants of Samael, who sought to take back earth from God’s ownership. Samael was an abomination even worse than Lucifer, who merely corrupted everything, then left the dirty work to others. Every night was a contest of strength. Some nights they triumphed and Samael’s forces drew back and his sway was weakened, but other nights he pushed them back violently and stole countless lives and souls for himself.
Estella agreed to lend Mikhail her sight, under her own terms, in order to bring about Samael’s downfall and to contain the pestilence that had descended, for it was through her that the demons had been unleashed. And she agreed to consecrate her efforts through the Templars for the greater good. Her own world was in peril, and through her blood she would protect it.
“Since we are in this together, open your mind to me. Allow me to tell you a story, Mikhail.” Estella rose to her feet and trailed behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and soothing away the knots of tension. The curls of her hair swayed as she spoke, tickling his neck, and he felt the heat of her body close to him. He craned his neck to look at her, at the fires in her eyes revealing her true Twilit nature. But she was bitter, for she knew her words would never pierce the thick armor of his dogmatic mind. With a twinge of grief, Mikhail understood in that moment how disparate they were.
“What if I told you, Templar, that everything around you is polluted and poisonous? That your Christ did not come to save you from a world that is fallen, though beautiful? Hate the world he asked of you, hate it you shall, for without that hatred you cannot be free to see beyond the illusion. This is not your Father’s creation, this is not your home, and neither was this the work of angelic hands weaving the abodes of men from stardust.” She smiled grimly with knowing in her large, dark eyes.
