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CLOAKED AS A LESSER warrior in burgundy robes, Pellus strolled the Great Plaza. He reveled in the sight of happy Covalent gathered to gossip or dance near the quickeners, who’d returned to the public space to recite their epic poems and play their music. No craven warlord sought to capture and execute him, no hostile adept would detect his cloak and sound the alarm. His mate, so beautiful and wise, refreshed her knowledge of Covalent Law in their chambers. He would avail himself of her counsel when he’d finished his task—to walk among the citizens, eavesdropping on their conversations. He wanted to know how they felt about recent events, if they had heard Abraxos’ former warriors whispering of revenge, if any adepts sought retribution for their dead friends, or if the friends and family of vanquished Covalent would threaten the peace that Pellus and his allies hoped to build.
A necessary task, but Pellus wished he didn’t have to search for negatives among the wonderful and the poignant. Remiel had brought her weary warriors back from the remote base in the Wasteland to enjoy the ministrations of the battalion healers, finally liberated from their confinement in the Keep. The citizens had come together to honor all the brave Covalent they had lost. Tears had flowed, it was true, but the jubilation created by deaths of Lucifer and Abraxos had turned the ceremony into another celebration of sorts. A celebration of sacrifice, a celebration of individuals of power and grace whose energy had returned home to the Creative Realm to be integrated with the beauty that thrummed over their heads. Pellus gazed up at the sapphire Stream with its new glints of onyx and pearl and thought of Ravellen.
At times, I wish we shared the human conception of the afterlife, my friend, so I could tell myself that in the future we would meet again.
“Ah, so good to see that energy has returned to the quickeners,” said an artisan, who hiked up his mustard robes to cool his legs after a bout of dancing. “For almost two phases, nothing came through the Conduit but melancholia.”
“It suited me during those dark times,” said his companion. “But now our light has returned to us. How fitting that the warrior who defeated Lucifer also delivered us from the tyrannical warlord. How we cheered to see Barakiel in Covalent City again!”
“Balance willing, we can keep him here, with that human mate of his.” They shared a dubious look and turned their attention back to the quickeners.
Pellus had been pondering that subject himself. Barakiel and Zan had gone to the Earthly Realm after several turns spent hunting down the usurper’s battalion commanders. Barakiel had butchered them all, despite Remiel’s suggestion that the less devoted supporters of Abraxos be spared. He had frankly terrorized the rank and file until there was little question they would submit to the authority of a re-established Council, at least for a time. Pellus chose not to weigh-in on an issue best left to warriors, but he had come to agree with Barakiel. If the leadership had been spared the iron fist, they might have harbored vengeful ambitions. Their motivation might not have been overweening love for Abraxos, but simply that they had lost.
Such is the way of Warriors of the Rising.
It had made for a strange few turns, with a berserk Barakiel killing these powerful warriors in various gruesome ways as the majority of Covalent reveled nonstop on the plaza, along the stone pathways, in the alleys, on the terraces, and in their chambers. The quickeners outdid themselves with the music and poetry of a society delivered—from Lucifer, from endless war, from a power-mad warlord. Artisans distilled spirits and prepared feasts continually. Those citizens lucky enough to witness Barakiel and his mate performing their grim work had rapt audiences afterward as they told their tales of martial mastery. For once, they didn’t need to embellish.
All we see now is celebration and relief, but this is a traumatized populace. It will sadden them, to lose their hero to humanity.
Away from the boisterous crowd around the quickeners, Pellus spied two scholars— marked by their sienna robes—in deep discussion over by their Guild Hall. If any Covalent were prone to discuss the state of the Realm, it would be scholars. He sauntered by and lingered in the shadows.
“ . . . he has been fed rank propaganda,” one scholar said. “He believes Barakiel’s goal is to take over the Realm. There is no convincing him otherwise.”
Though what he heard did not surprise him, a knot formed in Pellus’ stomach as he settled around the corner of the hall to listen.
“Not even your mate could convince him?” the other scholar asked. “Blood sometimes trusts blood, even if no other.”
“No, the warrior thought his sister had fallen to my pernicious influence.”
“So, Abraxos convinced his fighters that he had to take over the Realm to stop another from taking over the Realm? It is nonsensical!”
“They fear Barakiel and were taught to see him as Lucifer in waiting.” The scholar held up his hand. “Yes, yes, I know. Also nonsensical, considering what Barakiel and his mate endured at Lucifer’s hands. Perhaps the warriors wanted to believe what they had been told, to make their duty tolerable.”
“Perhaps this warrior and his kind will see reason once the Council is reconstituted.”
“I am not optimistic. I think they will label the Council, whatever its composition, as Barakiel’s tool. Their commanders conditioned them to believe that only Abraxos could deliver the Realm from tyranny and brutality.”
“As he plunged the Realm into tyranny and brutality.” The scholar slapped his thigh. “Gah! It is enough to make one scream! I find myself wishing Barakiel would slaughter them all.”
The other scholar chuckled. “I do believe that is precisely what he threatened to do if any of them misbehave.”
“The Council should appoint Barakiel as the sole high commander. If the warriors who served the usurper cannot be ruled by reason, let them be ruled by fear.”
“I agree. Fear may be the only thing that can keep the peace, and no Covalent is better suited to meet any threat, from within or without.”
“You scholars.” A lovely quickener in her celadon robes ran up to festoon them with garlands. “Always so serious. Always mulling over things you cannot control.”
“Someone must do it,” one scholar said.
“Nonsense!” said the quickener. “They will do what they do. Come. We are composing a poem to honor the very warrior of whom you speak and his extraordinary mate. We require your historical knowledge.”
The scholars smiled and allowed the beautiful Covalent to lead them away. Pellus left the shadows and resumed his stroll, wondering if Barakiel would accept an appointment to the High Command. Wondering if that was the best use of the citizens’ widespread adoration for him, and widespread terror of him among the disloyal.
The Council was to be formally reinstated the next turn, albeit with a much-changed membership. Pellus, Thanis and Remiel had invited all the surviving Council members to a meeting in the Council Chamber, save for those who’d been thrown in prison for material assistance to Abraxos. Pellus smiled to think that Serred, erstwhile master of the Scholars Guild, was one of those now languishing in the Wasteland Dungeons. A campaign among the membership had already begun to make Jeduthan the new guild master. Pellus nearly burst with pride to think of it.
I look forward to telling Barakiel and Zan the news.
The Covalent gathered around the great table in the Council Chamber, their faces hazily reflected in its surface. Pellus had manipulated the light to make the table’s mottled granite appear as a reflecting pool, a tradition favored by Ravellen. He wished he could transform it into a mirror, to better scrutinize those present by their reflections.
A short time earlier, Barakiel had entered the chamber dressed in the gray-green robes of a Warrior of the Rising. He strode past the shimmering pillars that continuously formed and reformed, past the gauzy curtains. He circled the entire meeting table saying his hellos, including an exuberant reunion with the Sylvan Three, who wore forest-green robes and looked as delicate and perfect as ever after their long ordeal in the Wasteland. Barakiel then stood behind the chair in the right corner nearest the door, the seat once held by Abraxos, as the others milled about. “Shall we begin?” he said, not at all meaning it as a question. Travelers Guild Master Thanis was supposed to open the meeting, but if anyone was displeased by Barakiel’s breach of decorum, they did not show it. They moved toward their seats.
Pellus took the seat to Barakiel’s left and tried to gauge his mood. The warrior had wanted Zan to attend the meeting. When Pellus pointed out that it was not particularly clear under the Council rules why Barakiel himself should be there, as formally he was only a rank-and-file fighter, he had laughed uproariously. Pellus felt compelled to join him in his mirth but insisted that a human at the table would be an overreach. Barakiel relented thanks to Zan’s insistence that she would not feel comfortable voicing her opinion, but his disappointment was obvious.
On their walk down from the hills behind the Keep to the Council Chamber, they had discussed what Barakiel wanted to happen at the meeting. He chortled viciously when Pellus told him about the chatter among the citizens.
“I am glad the craven servants of Abraxos retain enough common sense to fear me.”
“What about the citizens who love you? Fear is not the only thing you have to offer.”
“No, but at the moment it is the most useful.”
Barakiel went on to say he envisioned a unique position for himself—enforcer of the Realm, he called it—that would allow him to fulfill his purpose but still live in Philadelphia with Zan. Pellus lowered his eyes, not ready to have his friend see what he thought of that idea.
As much as I have come to love Zan, I am back to cursing her name.
“I know the Covalent expect me to return home,” Barakiel continued, “but I can be assigned a traveler. To live with Zan will be a mild inconvenience. Of course, I know it cannot be you, Pellus. You should be president of the Council. You or Remiel.”
“Do you not think it should be someone who served on the Council previously?”
“No. And I intend to make that clear.”
While Pellus had not continued the discussion, he wondered now if it had been the right choice. Perhaps he should have told Barakiel that he could not expect to dictate who leads the Council if he planned to reside in another dimension.
Then again, he may get whatever he wants, given the way the citizens have embraced him.
Remiel chose to sit at the head of the table to Barakiel’s right. The Sylvan Three sat next to Pellus. When everyone had taken their places, they stared at the empty seat at the opposite head of the table, the traditional chair of the Council president. Ravellen’s seat. Of course, no one had taken it.
“Greetings, fine Covalent,” Thanis said. “We will open this meeting with a quickener performance in honor of Council President Ravellen. Let us please remain silent.”
The quickener emerged from among the dusty-pink curtains. Famous in the Realm, she wore robes of golden cloth reserved for special occasions. She sang a cappella in a pure soprano as her eyes tilted Streamward, pleading with whoever or whatever would listen to release her from her great tide of loss. No Covalent was left with a dry eye. When she’d finished, she bowed and left as quietly as she’d come. Thanis rose to his feet.
“For you, Ravellen, my friend. Also for you, we will reconstitute the governing body you served so well.” A chorus of agreement went up around the table. “We have much to accomplish. Commander Remiel, would you please explain the situation.”
As attendants floated around the table serving root wine, Remiel told the gathering that the four Council members who’d supported Abraxos in his bid to take over the Realm were locked in the Wasteland Dungeons.
“That is the good news,” Remiel said. “You may know the bad news already. Every member of the High Command is dead, as well as every battalion commander except myself, Larethael, and Hadraniel.” Her voice cracked and she paused. Everyone waited with heads bowed.
“We need to fill the six vacancies on the Council and we need to appoint a new High Command,” she continued. “As is usual, the battalion commanders we lost had already stipulated their successors. We need to approve their choices if these warriors are still alive. Now, as you know, I was never a member of the Council. Nor were Barakiel, Pellus, or the Sylvan Three.” She gestured to them then took a sip of her root wine. “But Thanis, Derisen, and Metatron—Council members all—invited us here to participate in the deliberations because of our efforts to rid the Realm of Abraxos.”
“Your efforts?” said Derisen, the Artisans Guild Master. He laughed heartily. “Do you mean the way Barakiel crushed the usurper’s demon-cursed skull while the rest of you rendered critical assistance?” He drained his wine and grinned. “Let us dispense with this formality. I have always found it annoying. As far as I am concerned, there is no question that you all belong on the Council.”
“I agree we should dispense with protocol,” Barakiel said, rising from his seat. “First, we should choose the new president, someone untainted by the Council’s foolish policy to fight the Lord of Destruction to the status quo. I propose Pellus, the only adept to ever bend the energies of the Turning and the Destructive Realm to his will.” He scanned the table with fervid eyes. Everyone stared back at him. No one said a word because clearly he was not finished.
“Remiel will be our high commander, obviously, but she should also have a seat on the Council because the Realm needs her wisdom and empathy as well as her martial expertise. As for the Sylvan Three, we would be fortunate to have them at this table, but I suspect they will decline.”
The Sylvan Three laughed, a light, crinkly sound that made everyone at the table smile. “You know us too well, Barakiel,” they said in unison. “While we are flattered to be considered for seats on the Council, we enjoy spending much of our time in quiet reflection. In this way, we connect to the Creative Force that flows through us in all its mystery and strengthens our healing power. We are happy with our own company. While we will always do what needs to be done to safeguard the Realm, we look forward to quiet phases healing the citizens in our chambers and gathering our medicines in the Wasteland.” They bowed their heads with an elegant sweep of their shiny black hair, then lifted their silver eyes to Barakiel.
“But what about you, great warrior? You have not mentioned your seat on the Council.”
Barakiel sat down. He gazed at the Three fondly. “I propose that I fulfill a special purpose rather than sit on the Council. I am a warrior, after all, not an administrator. My sword will keep the peace. Should any of Abraxos’ craven allies act up whatsoever, I will kill them.” He turned to Remiel at his right side. “The commander pointed out to me that the ranks of warriors are much depleted. As we rebuild our forces, I can face any threat. I can clear demons from whole quadrants of the Turning with only a few helpers at my side, including my fierce mate. My purpose is to defend the Realm, and that is what I will do. I will enforce the new order.”
“I do not see why you cannot do that and also serve on the Council,” Thanis said. “You are not a Covalent who lacks insight.”
“I am afraid it is impractical, such a double duty. I plan to reside in the Earthly Realm with my mate.”
Gasps went up all around. Pellus guessed that not a single Covalent thought for even a pulse that the Realm’s greatest hero would choose to live in Philadelphia.
Except the Three. They do not seem in the least surprised.
“Do not be ridiculous, warrior,” Metatron said. Every head snapped to him. The most ancient Covalent on the Council, and perhaps in the entire Realm, Metatron rarely spoke. When he did, all who heard him could be assured that what he said was important. He was a striking figure, with his yellow hair and his blue eyes, no less piercing for their weariness. He rose and smoothed his steel-gray robes.
“You, Barakiel,” he said in a voice that reminded Pellus of the highest earthly mountains, “will be king.”
“King?” Barakiel laughed, probably the only Covalent who would dare laugh at something Metatron had said that he did not intend to be funny. “We dispensed with kings and queens an age ago. Even if this were not so, I would be a poor choice. My bonded mate is human. For half my life, I have lived in the Earthly Realm. As Pellus has told me, my mate and I possess an energy that is a mystery to him. Among Covalent, I am unique. I can protect the Realm and will do so with love in my heart, but I am incapable of ruling citizens with whom I am barely acquainted.”
“Then you will become acquainted with them. While you are king,” Metatron said. He regarded Barakiel with an ardor Pellus had never before seen on the ancient warrior’s angular face.
“Metatron, you honor me with your words,” Barakiel continued, rising to his feet again. “I know you are the wisest of Covalent, but I do not want to be king. I would not know how.”
“You will learn. You will have the Council to help you.”
With raised arms, Barakiel gave an exasperated huff and looked to the others at the table for support. He received none.
“Listen to me, Barakiel.” Metatron leaned forward, his hands on the table, granite spreading from his fingertips as they disturbed the watery illusion. “I have lived for a long time. I wielded my sword in the Civil Wars. I watched as Warriors of the Rising—one after the other—lusted for the throne, hungered for that power, convinced themselves that to impose their wills and visions on the Realm was the height of service. I watched as they purged any who dared oppose them, and then, any they imagined opposed them. Wholesale slaughter, blood as nourishment, madness as liberty.” He stopped, head bowed, then walked to Barakiel on the other side of the table. He seized his hand and looked up into his eyes, not much higher than his own.
“If you do not lead us, it will happen again. The resentment, the humiliation suffered by the Warriors of the Rising who supported Abraxos will turn into a hatred so virulent they will wage war solely for release. Unless you are here to stop them, and I do not mean as some part-time enforcer. I mean as the symbol of the Realm, its embodiment. Its king.”
Barakiel stood there with his mouth open. Pellus surmised his friend had never witnessed such intensity save from his father.
And himself, were he to look in the mirror.
“I loved your father, you know this,” Metatron continued. “I trained him. Mentored him. Never had I seen a star that shined as bright. Skill, intellect, and beauty. Yet despite his gifts, I watched him fall to the same rancid heart that had beat inside the warlords before him. Yes, it is true,” he waved his free hand around his head, “that at the time of his rebellion, Lucifer was right. The Warriors of the Rising needed a mission. To colonize the cosmos would have captured their imaginations and eased their restlessness. But also, he was wrong. He would not compromise. Pride and impatience were his downfall. His actions caused his separation from Yahoel. From you. His love turned to pain and Destruction drove him mad. He broke my heart and it is still broken. Soon, I will meet the Stream.”
Protests rose around the chamber but Metatron ignored them. “And I will do so with a whole heart so long as I can see you on the throne, Barakiel.” The two warriors studied each other before Metatron resumed. “Do you remember when I told you that you are more than your father?”
“I remember.”
“Now, I see it even more clearly. You are Balance. You are love and hatred dancing in such symmetry that it makes me feel alive again, and I have not felt alive for a very long time. You are whom we must follow if our society is to heal.” He smiled. Metatron smiled. It was unheard of. He turned around and went back to his seat while everyone gaped at him.
“I do not know what to say, Metatron,” Barakiel said. “Pellus, please tell me what I should say.”
Pellus realized in a flash that the same idea had been lurking in his subconscious. Metatron’s words gave it the courage to show itself.
“You should say you will be king.”
“What?” Barakiel fell into his chair. “I am quite astonished.”
One by one, those present agreed with Metatron and Pellus. Except for the Sylvan Three. Barakiel had stared down at his hazy reflection in the table while everyone joined in the chorus of kingly recruitment. Now he rose and went to the healers. He went down on one knee. “You have not said what you think, Three.” His voice was almost a whisper.
“Do you remember, warrior, when we bonded with you to free Pellus from his trap of complexity?”
“Of course. I will never forget it.”
“Ever since that experience, when you placed your consciousness in our hands with the trust of a child, we have wanted you to lead the Covalent.” The healer closest to Barakiel stroked his hair. “When we restored you under that earthly waterfall, we felt you again. We bathed you in Creation as you drew your newfound energies—raw Destruction, death, hatred, and the Void that lies beneath all things—into your integrated core. Deep within you, those forces met your love for Zanogara. A love that will never allow you to be lost. That holds you in Balance, joy, beauty, and compassion no matter how the Void calls to you. Yes, you are unique among Covalent, Barakiel, and this is why you must be king.”
Barakiel remained motionless. His eyes misted. “Do not forget my love for you, Three. And Pellus, Jeduthan, and Yahoel. Even my father.”
“Lead us, Barakiel, and your love for the citizens will become one with your perfection of Balance. You are young and can grow into your rule.”
“What about Zan?” he said, as if to himself.
“Zanogara will make a fine queen,” Remiel announced. “I have seen her fight for the Realm, for Pellus, and above all, for you.”
Slowly, Barakiel stood, his eyes now on Remiel. He went back to his seat next to the commander and leaned towards her, his blue eyes burning. “Will the Covalent accept a human as their queen? A full-fledged queen, with all the power that entails? I will accept nothing less. You know this.”’
“And I think you know that when she bonded with you, Zanogara became something more than an ordinary human,” Remiel said. “The citizens will accept whatever you ask them to accept. You have delivered them. Twice.”
When the attendants entered to pour more wine, Barakiel asked for spirits. As one ran off to fulfill his request, he raised his eyes to address the chamber. “I am overwhelmed by your faith in me, your support, and your love. I say to myself, ‘Who am I to refuse if they want me to be king?’ And we must be honest. I am a Warrior of the Rising, who craves power like any other. You are correct that I would not fall prey to the terrible impulses of the warlords of our past, but this hardly means I do not find the idea of the throne seductive. Part of me hungers to be king. However, I know my mate. She will never agree.”
Pellus worried his black robes under the table.
He may be right. I must solve this problem.
“I will convince her,” he said.
“Ha! Good luck with that,” Barakiel said in English, then glanced around. “I expressed my belief that Pellus will not succeed. But enough of this.” The attendant had come back with his spirits. He gripped the proffered goblet, took a swig, and grimaced. “I have much to digest, much to ponder. We need to move on to other business.”