Mythangelus

by Storm Constantine

  Angeline stalked the battlements crying out her marriage vows, shrieking of fidelity and the painful fate awaiting those who discredited those vows. In numerous ways, Angeline sought to cause trouble for Ashalan, especially with his father, the king. She knew Ashalan had no desire to rule, so in some undiscovered way, persuaded the old king to abdicate in favour of his son. Then she was queen and for a while the power of that position put a binding over her wounds, but it did not last. Ashalan’s original indifference towards Angeline developed over the years into an abiding aversion. He wished her dead a thousand times a day, longing only to be free of her obsessive vigilance, her troublemaking, her carping demands. What she saw in him, he could not fathom. He was powerless to end her pain. She would not listen to reasoned argument. She would tolerate no compromise.

  One night, as she had done many times before, the queen followed Ashalan to the high tower on the north wall of Ashbrilim. She knew that Ashalan was friendly with a captain of the guard there, and through her spy network had discovered the two men had arranged to meet that night. Ironically, it was not a lovers’ meeting. Ashalan and the captain were good friends, yes, and with similar tastes but had never been physically close. In fact, since the episode of the poisoning, Ashalan had not been close to anyone. Angeline did not believe this for an instant. She followed Ashalan up the winding, yellowstone steps to the battlements and concealed herself among the shadows of the buttressed wall. She must have watched them for a long time, perhaps becoming disappointed, for all they did was share a bottle of wine and talk together. However, as Ashalan got up to leave, he bent and kissed his friend on the cheek. That was enough evidence for Angeline. She waited until Ashalan had gone back to the palace before leaping out of hiding. All that the captain saw was a frenzied, shrieking shape, hidden by robes, rushing towards him, brandishing a long, curved knife. He rightly presumed it meant to murder him.

  Angeline did not have much time to regret her reckless behaviour. She did not think about how the captain was one of Ashbrilim’s best warriors, well trained in self-defence. She had no chance. He did not know who she was. Perhaps he thought she was a mad woman from the town. After a brief scuffle, he disarmed her, but still she would not give in, frenziedly tearing at his face with clawed hands, her face unrecognisable with the insanity of her rage. Afterwards, the captain said he could not recall exactly what happened, but during the struggle, Angeline fell or was pushed over the city wall.

  She did not die at once. The captain, remorseful for using violence against a woman, no matter how crazed, ordered his men to look for her body. They found her still alive, crawling brokenly among the filth and offal of the city that was thrown regularly over the walls at that point. It was the rubbish that had arrested her fall somewhat, although both her legs were ruined. Because her face had been cut, they found her with rats clinging to her head, devouring even as she crawled along, head wagging to dislodge them. She was clearly a mad woman, some poor wild soul, tormented by demons. It was also clear that she was dying, beyond the help of any physician. The soldiers carried her back within the walls. They never expected anyone to claim her, but made her as comfortable as they could and sat with her, waiting for her to die. No one recognised the ruined figure as Angeline Hope De Vanceron. No one, until a priest passed the lodge and the soldiers called him in to bless the dying woman. The priest lifted her hand and there, on a ring, he recognised the symbol of the house of her parents, which the soldiers had not known. A frantic search was organised and it was discovered that the queen was missing from her rooms.

  She died before they could carry her home, in discomfort and filth, halfway down the main road to the palace.

  ‘The whole business was tragic and sordid,’ Ashalan said, which Jadrin thought was rather an understatement. ‘None of us had realised the depths of her feelings, nor how they had dragged her into insanity.’

  Jadrin thought this was rather stupid. Angeline must have had these tendencies from the beginning and in Ashalan’s position, he was sure he would have identified them.

  Ashalan rubbed his face. ‘My father tried to persuade me to have the captain executed, because, no matter what the reason, he had killed the Queen of Ashbrilim. Perhaps I should have ordered this execution. Perhaps it was my duty, but I couldn’t. You see, in the depths of my heart, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel grief for her death. Secretly, I felt I owed that captain a favour, not the death sentence. Do you see, Jadrin? Do you see how terrible a creature I am?’

  ‘You were caught in a difficult situation,’ Jadrin said carefully. He was unsure how he felt about these disclosures.

  ‘Ultimately,’ Ashalan said, ‘I had the captain posted to the border of Cos, where he was out of harm’s way. My father never understood me, or sympathised with me at all. He made sure I was punished for what had happened in small, subtle ways until the day he died.’

  ‘Angeline’s spirit must have been waiting for the chance to wreak its revenge,’ Jadrin said, unwilling to comment on Ashalan’s story. ‘Unwittingly, I gave it that chance. I gave it power: my breath and my warmth. Oh, to live those few days again!’

  ‘You sound bitter,’ Ashalan said. ‘I have disappointed you and it has killed our love. She has won.’ He put his head in his hands.

  Jadrin stared upon the king, caught in a maelstrom of conflicting feelings. In his view, the main tragedy of the story was that Angeline had obviously been very ill: no sane woman would have behaved and felt as she had done. No one had helped her. She had suffered alone, and for that Jadrin felt very sad. Still, despite the wretchedness of the story, he thought there was no excuse for the queen’s spirit to continue her obsessive vendetta beyond the grave. He knew now at least that he was dealing with a mad ghost, and in some way, that gave him courage. ‘Do not crumble, my lord,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘Angeline has not won yet. Perhaps you are to blame to some degree, but who among us acts always in complete wisdom? The fault is not entirely yours.’

  Ashalan made an anguished sound. ‘It is certainly my fault that she has this advantage over you. If I had been content after the first night of your spinning, this would never have happened. All she wanted of you then was a kiss. Oh, I was blind to the true gold that was in you all the time!’ He put his head in his hands once more.

  ‘Do not punish yourself with guilt any further,’ Jadrin said. ‘What is done, is done. Now leave me to resolve this matter, once and for all. I shall go to the bedroom. Wait here for an hour and then come after me, but no sooner, mind.’

  Jadrin went alone to the king’s bed chamber and drew all the drapes against the balmy evening. He lit pungent incense on a brass saucer and robed himself in white and let down his hair. From the velvet bag, he withdrew the two halves of the lilac quartz and laid them on a table next to the smoking incense. It lay like two halves of a broken egg, glowing inside, reflecting the light of the smouldering charcoal upon which burned the perfume. Jadrin sat down on the bed, calmed his mind and made a call. Within minutes, the spirit appeared at the window. It looked a little confused. ‘Let me in Jadrin,’ it said. After a pause, the boy arose and opened the window.

  ‘It is time, Jadrin.’

  ‘Indeed it is!’

  ‘If only you’d had true magic eh?’ it giggled.

  ‘If only !’ Jadrin agreed.

  ‘Well, I must give you the chance, I suppose. Have you thought of my name?’

  ‘I have pondered it deeply,’ Jadrin said. ‘Would it be... Grizelda?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nanune, Riboflax, Tanteberry, Archimund?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ The spirit flickered with delight. Jadrin patiently recited every name, both male and female, that he could think of. All the while, the spirit glittered and spat light and laughed.

  ‘No,’ it said, ‘none of those. You have just one more try. Your time has run out.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jadrin, ‘in that case, would you, by any chance, be the shade of Angeline Hope De Vanceron, de
ad queen of Ashbrilim?’

  At these words, the spirit shrieked wordlessly in horror, manifesting itself more definitely into the form of a gaunt, bedraggled woman, clothed in the rags of a shroud, with terrible, staring eyes. ‘Sorcerer!’ she shrieked.

  ‘I am learning,’ Jadrin said mildly. ‘Be at peace, Angeline. You are free of flesh, so be free of pain. Why carry it with you? Fly!’

  ‘Never! I must have my revenge, for my broken body, my broken spirit!’

  ‘Broken long before you became queen,’ Jadrin said. ‘Be healed, Angeline. Fly!’

  The spirit uttered a horrifying squawk and flew at Jadrin, spectral claws reaching for his face.

  Jadrin stepped back swiftly and picked up the broken halves of the quartz. ‘If the earth cannot contain you maybe stone can!’ he said and, reciting a spell that the witch at the roadside had sold him, he issued an Irrefutable Order that the spirit of the dead queen could not ignore or fight. She was sucked like smoke into the quartz, whereupon Jadrin snapped the two halves together. They sealed in an instant as if they had never been apart. For a few moments, the quartz glowed as if it contained a small flame within its heart, but by the time Ashalan came through the door curtains, it lay innocent and cool upon the table.

  The next morning, Jadrin took the quartz and buried it deep beneath the garden of the palace. Over its grave, he planted three creepers of ivy to bind it into the ground. He surrounded it with scented flowers, and called upon the spirits of the earth to heal the essence of Angeline. In time, he hoped, when all that was dark had left her tortured soul, she would seep through the stone as a radiant light and soar to the celestial realm. He could do no more. But whether his actions in this regard were successful or not, the spirit of Angeline never bothered him, or Ashalan, again. But there is no doubt that what Jadrin did upon that night changed him forever. He took a little of Angeline’s darkness into his being.

  The Nothing Child

  Jadrin, consort of the King of Cos, desired a son. He pondered long hours upon this vain hope, sitting among the dappled shadows on the palace terrace, pacing the marble stairs, watching the stars from pointed windows. Between them, it was impossible for two beings of masculine physical aspect to conceive life, but neither was Jadrin composed to commit some sordid infidelity with a woman. As for encouraging Ashalan to do so, this was beyond him, beyond the hot, possessive passion of his love. There seemed no solution to his problem, yet the yearning would not leave him. He watched the palace women with their children. Perhaps he could sate this uncontrollable and inexplicable longing by adopting somebody else’s offspring? He considered this idea and then put it aside. No, it was a child of the flesh that he wanted. Nothing else would do. So obssessed was Jadrin with this desire that others came to notice a dark and poisonous aura about him, violet with the intensity of his feelings. It was mentioned to the king in careful terms. Was Jadrin perhaps not quite in the full flower of health?

  Ashalan questioned him, at first tenderly, then sharply, fearing some other reason for the change in behaviour.

  Jadrin was reluctant to speak his thoughts aloud; surely the king would think him mad. His excuses only fuelled Ashalan’s suspicions. An argument ensued. Fleeing from hostile words, Jadrin ran blindly from the more inhabited areas of the palace. When his anger had left him and his breath, clutching furiously in his chest, forced him to pause and rest, he found himself amongst a clutter of abandoned buildings, far from the rich apartments he was used to. Curiosity at his surroundings chased the bitter words with Ashalan from his mind. Entranced, Jadrin began to explore. Some of the doorways had been boarded up, others left open to the elements, so that the winds had scoured the buildings barren. Naturally, it was the boarded entrances that interested him most. Especially that of a structure embellished with weathered, stone fetishes. Tearing the boards from their rusty nails, Jadrin forced an entrance into the building. All was dark inside, dark and silent. Jadrin’s flesh prickled with excitement.

  This, he thought, this is a place trod by other than mortal feet.

  He was right. And, as in the tradition of magical tales, it was within that place he found a great, old book...

  That evening, the court noticed a change in Jadrin. He seemed more like his old self. Not everyone present at dinner was gratified to see he and Ashalan seemed to have settled their differences, but on the whole, the atmosphere was one of relief. Jadrin smiled secretively into his purple wine.

  Ashalan watched him carefully, mollified by Jadrin’s apologies, but still wary. He had seen this strange and guarded smile on Jadrin’s face before. It spoke of power, the kind of which Ashalan had only a cursory grasp. It made him feel as if he was sitting next to a total stranger, and someone not entirely human. It made him afraid.

  Unbeknown to the king, on the night of the next full moon, Jadrin robed himself in black cloth and flowed like a vapour through the midnight gardens of the palace. He sought out a sylvan grotto, decorated with tumbled stones that had been designed to resemble an ancient temple, artfully strung with trailing arms of ivy and convolvulus. Pale, glowing blooms exuded a secret, aching perfume into the moist darkness and above the cracked and mossy stones of the garden, the moon swam, pregnant with light, in a smooth, velvet sky, sequinned with stars. Jadrin felt energy course through the fibres of his flesh. He stood upon the stones and raised his arms to the moon. The cloth fell from his back and he was an aloof and dignified courtier no longer, but a witch-boy, the creature of his childhood, he who had sung the water spirits from their gnat-gauzed homes: Jadrin, as white and deadly as the hottest of consuming flames.

  He conjured forth a rare and capricious angel, whose hair burned the moss at his feet, whose eyes were pale as milk, as if blind. Jadrin had memorised an ancient invocation from the old book he had found. Some of the words made his teeth ache, some made his tongue stumble and become thick in his mouth, but he persisted. The angel swayed, sometimes fading a little as if to reprimand the boy when his words slipped.

  ‘Lailahel, angel of the night, prince of conception, I implore you...’

  ‘Implore me, nothing,’ the spirit interrupted. ‘You desire a child, yet you know this cannot be under the sway of the laws of the earth mother. You are male, Jadrin; your lover is male. There can be no issue from your union. This you know.’

  ‘This I know!’ Jadrin answered defiantly. ‘Yet I have summoned you, Lailahel; your power can facilitate my need. You would not have come otherwise.’

  The angel shimmered - a vagueness that could have signified amusement or displeasure. ‘I have been called on pale, cold moon-nights by the fairest and most ill-favoured, youngest and oldest of women, yet never, in my experience, have I been summoned by a boy! Maybe I can ease your difficulties, but the Goddess will not be pleased. You risk needling her wrath.’

  ‘My Prince, I work magic, thus do I understand I must take responsibility for my actions. Make it happen. The child will be consecrated to the Goddess as soon as it is named.’

  ‘It will not be a normal child, Lord Jadrin.’

  ‘What is? I ask only for its body to be fair, its face to be the mirror of the moon, its mind to be swift and canny as the hounds of the Maiden.’

  ‘So few specifications?’ The angel laughed; a sound both musical and sepulchral. ‘Very well. I shall instruct you in what to do.’

  Jadrin bowed deeply. ‘I thank you, Lailahel.’ He raised his head. ‘So what is your price?’

  The angel smiled. ‘My price? By the Heavenly Spheres and all their Motes, dare I ask a price for such a boon? My price is this: nothing. I want nothing from you, Lord Jadrin.’

  Jadrin frowned. ‘Forgive me, but this is not the usual way.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is what I ask.’

  ‘At least permit me to light a temple candle in your name and blend a sacred incense to be burned for the next three nights.’

  The angel shrugged. ‘If such fripperies appease you, then by no means let me prevent you from realising them.
If I should ask for anything, I should ask for your silence, but, as I said, I ask for nothing.’

  ‘You have my silence anyway. You may also have my blood, if you wish.’

  The angel shook its radiant head, causing the cascade of hair to wave like weed under water. ‘No need. I want nothing from you.’

  Jadrin could not help but feel uneasy. He understood that there is always a price for everything and he had been fooled by sly spirits before. However, the intensity of his desire forced him to ignore any misgivings in his heart.

  He knelt upon the stones and Lailahel, prince of conception, whispered instructions as to what he must do.

  The moon fell to her rest and Jadrin hurried back, like a shadow, insubstantial and furtive, to the palace and his king.

  On the night of the first crescent of the waxing moon, the Maiden’s time, Jadrin bathed himself in salt water. Emerging, dripping and stinging, from the pool, he stood in the unlit bathroom of hollow echoes and slick water sounds, gazing towards the skylight, where hasty clouds muffled the stars. He closed his eyes and quickly, with a knife as sharp as a blade can be, cut the pale skin of his breast above the heart. Blood rilled eagerly over his fingers as he pressed the wound. Shaking, he knelt and lifted a silver chalice, catching a measure of the dark, warm liquid in the bowl. Inky, diluted streams ran down his body into his wet footprints. Perhaps he had cut too deep. He had not expected so much blood from a wound in that place. The air was still, watching. Magic, then. Magic. He hurried from the room, not even bothering to cover himself with a robe or towel. By the time he reached his dressing room, the wound had dried.