Angel returned to the Bastion and found Scribe IV in his tower room, under the watery-green glow of the sky.
“I promise you, the Sisters can’t detect my movements,” Angel said, hoping to reassure Scribe IV, who looked startled. “And if they could, I sincerely doubt even their Mother Superior would be willing to risk the wrath of an angel.”
Xe grinned, another attempt to put Scribe IV at ease, but he did not look reassured.
In truth, Angel couldn’t blame him. Xe didn’t know what the Sisters would risk. They’d called a waterspout to kill a frightened human trying to flee. They’d threatened the entire Bastion with Drowning. Drowning wasn’t meant to be a punishment; it was a holy act. If the Sisters were willing to pervert it so, that meant they no longer spoke with the voice of their slumbering god. It was possible they had not done so for quite some time.
“Is Mr. St. John well?” Scribe IV asked.
He moved to pour Angel a measure of scotch.
“He’s safely back on the station,” Angel said.
It wasn’t a full answer, but Aquinas St. John’s secrets weren’t xyr’s to tell. And, if xe was being wholly honest with xemself, xe didn’t want to share what little xe knew for selfish reasons as well.
Xe’d felt the shadow haunting Quin – fragments accidentally gleaned from his mind. Some of what troubled Quin was related directly to interactions with one of xyr own kind. Angel wanted Scribe IV to like xem, not put it into his mind that close association with an angel was a painful thing.
Xe also wanted to be worthy of being liked, to not be or become a dangerous thing that ought to be feared. The faint tug xe’d felt earlier lingered, when the fleeing worker had been killed, and Scribe IV had nearly asked xem to intervene. For the briefest of moments, xe’d felt a stirring far below the waves, below even the depths that the Drowned Sisters had plumbed. Something had called to xem, and xe’d been tempted to respond.
Angel pushed the thoughts away.
“Was Dominic able to tell you anything more?” xe asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Scribe IV said. “And the Sisters have taken custody of the Pope’s body, at least for now, so you won’t have the opportunity to examine it yourself.”
“I could, if I wanted to,” Angel said. In fact, xe would enjoy circumventing the Sisters’ rules, however that would likely make Scribe IV even more uncomfortable, so xe went on. “But I trust your assessment of the Pope’s condition when you found him. Motive, then. Do you believe the Pope was killed because of his intention to propose the abolition of organized religion?”
Angel lifted xyr glass, let the alcohol within catch alight before sipping, fire rolling across xyr tongue.
“Perhaps so,” Scribe IV said. “Many people would lose their jobs, have their entire lives upended. Not just the invited members of the conclave, but countless people in their flocks, their congregations. Even the Bastion and its staff would be impacted, myself included.” Scribe IV couldn’t smile, but Angel suspected he was trying to make a self-deprecating joke.
“The Bastion would no longer have an official purpose. We would have nowhere to go,” he continued. “I would like to believe that no one on my staff is capable of murder, however the possibility cannot be ruled out. Am I clouding matters if I hold onto that belief?”
“You fear you cannot be impartial.”
“It’s why I asked for help,” Scribe IV replied.
“But you don’t wish to remove yourself from the investigation entirely.” Angel leaned over the lowest broken section of tower wall, peering down at the crashing waves. The Sisters’ leviathan was half-beached, bronze and verdigris, sinew and bone washed by the restless tide. It looked infinitely ancient and infinitely patient, though Angel knew – despite their claims otherwise – that the Sisters’ presence below the Bastion was relatively recent as the scale of history went.
“The gods have never been the purview of any one church, temple, synagogue or otherwise. They have always belonged to themselves,” Angel said. “If the Pope’s views did get him killed, then I fear he died for nothing.”
Xe hopped up onto the broken section of wall. Being in motion made xem feel better. Scribe IV made a sound of disapproval, and Angel held xyr arms out with exaggerated care to reassure him. As if gravity even applied to angels.
The moons had already passed their highest point in the sky and started their descent. The falling light was lovely. Xe could have happily remained contemplating it until the moons reached the horizon, but xe felt Scribe IV’s restlessness. Time was a strange thing – a very human way of viewing the world. But Angel understood Scribe IV’s sense of urgency, contemplating what their next step should be as xe paced the wall.
On the way back to the Bastion, xe’d made xyr appearance younger – frame narrower, feet bare, cheekbones less severe, eyes no longer like smoked glass. It had suited xyr whim in the moment, but perhaps xyr new aspect made Scribe IV feel protective, the way he seemed to feel toward Dominic.
It warmed Angel; the idea of someone caring for xem was appealing.
The sleeves of xyr jacket now overlapped the bones of xyr wrists, slipping halfway over xyr hands as xe scrambled up another section of wall. Xe reached the highest remaining point of the crumbled tower wall and executed a neat pirouette, dropping into a gargoyle crouch to peer down at Scribe IV. His polished eyes gleamed green with the light. He looked like he wanted to chide Angel and tell xem to get down from there, like a fretting parent. It only made Angel’s grin wider.
“What do we know about the Pope, beyond his office?” Angel asked. Xe splayed xyr fingers over the edge of the wall, knees jutting up sharply on either side of xyr body. Xe could maintain this pose infinitely if needed, long past when the Bastion would crumble to dust and the land was reclaimed by the sea. But xe took pity on Scribe IV, shifting to sit with xyr legs dangling back into the tower room, hands braced comfortably beside xem.
“He came from a wealthy family,” Scribe IV said. “The family made their fortune in mining on Hephaestus, and the Pope was something of an aberration among them. I believe he was truly faithful, but there were also rumors that his title was purchased, perhaps in an effort to lend his family a sheen of respectability, and to give them some degree of immunity regarding their less scrupulous business practices.”
“If his family did purchase his title,” Angel said, “perhaps they also arranged his death? Better to have him die a martyr than to abdicate his position?”
“It’s possible.” Scribe IV sounded melancholy. Curiosity made Angel change xyr line of questioning. The mystery of the Pope remained, but Scribe IV himself was a mystery as well.
“Why are you here?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “I was assigned.”
“When?” Angel kicked xyr feet against the stone.
Angel knew Scribe IV’s recall was instant; he didn’t need to gather his thoughts before answering. He was stalling, trying to work out the motive behind xyr questions.
“During the rule of Her Holiness Lisbeth III.”
“Over a hundred years now. Why do you stay?”
“I…” Scribe IV faltered, a hitch, as if one of the crystalline processing units inside him had developed a minute flaw.
“I like it here,” Scribe IV answered at last. “It… feels like a place I belong.”
“You remember it in its glory days.”
“The Bastion used to be a haven for pilgrims,” Scribe IV said. “Rituals of all kinds were observed in the gardens and in the caverns above the sea – some kind, and some cruel. The Twinned God sang a flight of angels from the sky, then cast them into the waters. Mortals were raised up to saints and gods. Miracles of all sorts took place here, along with the open exchange of ideas and discourse. Now, it is largely forgotten.”
“And you feel a kinship with the Bastion?” Angel leaned forward slightly.
“Yes.” Scribe IV’s voice grew quieter. “We both belong to another age.”
“Where else would you go?” Angel asked. “If you weren’t this, what would you be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you wish to be unmade? Or remade? Do you wish to evolve?”
The questions were dangerous. All the years of prayers layered into these walls, the gods that had walked here, the angels that had fallen… Angel felt the weight of all that faith. It might not even require a specific prayer. Xe could do what xe had offered. Unmake Scribe IV. Remake him.
The realization should have been more startling. There were angels who never left the bounds of Heaven because the temptation to tap into this raw power, the very threads of creation, was too great. There were angels who chose to remake themselves for fear of what they might do.
Angel felt a stirring deep beneath the waves again. Possibility. Power. The knowledge that xe could change into something vast, if xe allowed xemself. The knowledge that perhaps, xe had already changed before.
It was an uncomfortable feeling. Xe’d seen glimpses in Quin St. John’s mind of what an angel could do, of what they might become. Angel shuddered, pulling back into xemself, pulling away from the ragged edges of history xe felt in the Bastion’s stones. Xe’d only wanted to help Scribe IV better understand himself, see that he could become more than his programming if he so desired.
A glimmer of something that might be alarm, or hope, or both, flashed in Scribe IV’s eyes. This was a thing Scribe IV might have considered privately, but never out loud, and Angel had plucked it from the air and offered it to him.
“You could…” Scribe IV did not finish the thought.
“I could,” Angel agreed – softly now, less certainty in xyr voice.
Xe’d been proud of xemself, rooting out something in Scribe IV that he’d never acknowledged aloud before. Xe’d been having fun. And xe’d been careless. But now that xe’d drawn Scribe IV’s attention to the possibility, xe couldn’t lie about its existence either.
“If you wished. If you truly believe yourself to be obsolete. If you are unhappy, you could become something other than you are. I could help.”
Xe watched contemplation slide like light over Scribe IV’s polished features. It wasn’t xyr place to impose any sort of decision, only present options. That was all xe’d done, wasn’t it? Xe hadn’t pushed Scribe IV to change his nature, only shown him that he could.
Angel understood how some gods could grow addicted to prayer, how they could gorge themselves on human desire, and how, in the great turning of existence, many had gone mad with it.
“I will think on it.” Scribe IV bowed his head in gratitude.
“Good.” Angel pushed the unease away, turning xyr mind back to the problem of the Pope. “I want to search the grounds,” xe said. “Starting with that structure.”
“The labyrinth ruins?” Scribe IV looked where xe’d indicated. “Why?”
“If I were human, I would call it a hunch.” Xe let mischief slide across xyr expression.
Angel pushed xemself off from the wall. Scribe IV gave a flinch and a half-step, as if he meant to catch xem before remembering himself. Angel landed neatly, xyr feet making no sound.
“Aren’t you curious about what we might find?” Angel asked.
“I suppose.” It was a grumbling admission, but Angel knew the truth – no mind-reading required.
Scribe IV valued mystery as much as xe did.
“Good. Then you can come with me. Satisfy my curiosity. I promise to keep you safe from the Sisters’ prying eyes.”
Angel held out xyr hand. Scribe IV barely hesitated before taking it. Quick as a thought, xe folded them inside out, stealing Scribe IV away from the Bastion and down into the ruined garden high above the crashing sea.