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AS PELLUS APPROACHED Barakiel’s door, he heard him playing his violin. The notes were low, long and thick, dripping with sorrow. He knew that Barakiel had written this music. He waited until he finished before entering.
“That was beautiful,” Pellus said. The warrior murmured his thanks, put the violin away and stood staring at the case. “Are you all right?” Pellus asked. The adept was struck by how fragile Barakiel seemed.
He never seemed fragile before.
“You were right, Pellus,” he said. “About Zan. About everything.”
“Why are you saying this? What happened?”
“I made choices for her I had no right to make. I thought loving her would be enough. I ruined her. I had no right.” He closed his eyes.
“What happened?” Pellus asked again. Barakiel told him about Zan’s song. He told him that now he understood what Pellus had been trying to explain to him.
“I should never have asked her to love me.”
“Zan will heal,” Pellus said. “In time, she will move on.”
“Guardian save me, I do not want her to move on! How can I be so selfish? I am, I am! I want her! Please—”
Pellus put his arms around Barakiel, something he had never done. Barakiel leaned on him, nearly falling, his face against his shoulder, weeping like a child.
Amid clanging metal and the grunts of warriors, Barakiel threw aside the mangled body of a Corrupted and skirted his eyes up the line. He saw weakness on the far side and knew their enemies had detected it as well. High Commander Osmadiel was there, fending off two particularly tenacious Corrupted. As she parried a blow, another dark warrior approached her from behind. Barakiel’s heart lurched, but Osmadiel tricked the Corrupted into thinking she had fallen, then tumbled away. The trap evaded, she ran up the line, shouting to her fighters to shore up the weakness. Rallied by her cries, the warriors pressed against the horde of demons, but there were too many. They would be engulfed at any moment. The mass of beasts pushed the line back, a foul stain spreading over the silver and amethyst light of the Turning.
Barakiel’s orders were to stay with his band of warriors, to hold that part of the line, but they could do without him now. They had slain every Corrupted in the vicinity. He paused for a beat, gathering the power of the Turning within him, then he sped towards Osmadiel and burst into the line at its weakest point, cutting a swathe through the demons, his blue steel sword like lightning among a storm of brown blood.
The Corrupted rushed over to the weakened line, ready to finish what the horde of demons had started. When they saw Barakiel they intensified their attack, calling for yet more demons to charge through the gaps created by their blows. Barakiel watched his comrades fall in sprays of scarlet as the Corrupted sought the ultimate prize, Lucifer’s son. He saw an opportunity. He shot out of the line and ran forward into the ranks of the Corrupted.
“That’s right, come and get me,” he bellowed. “I’m right here! Come and take my head to please your master, slaves.”
A handful of Corrupted came at him, forgetting the line. Osmadiel surged into the gap, directing her warriors to follow. Confused, the demons scattered. The high commander shouted for Barakiel to get back in formation, her voice cracking with rage. He knew she could not abandon the line to help him as he fought among a forest of Corrupted. She was braced to see him fall, as were the other warriors, judging by their howls of frustration.
These slaves will not take me. Not this turn.
Barakiel’s sword screamed with speed, creating glowing circles and streaks as he took the heads of the Corrupted, as he severed their limbs and skewered their chests. A roar went up from the other warriors, who broke formation and ran forward, drawn to Barakiel’s gleaming hatred.
Osmadiel turned toward the noise, a stinking pile of demons at her feet. She barked to her two closest warriors. They made their way to the broken line, shouting to recall the fighters from their foolish gambit. When the errant warriors saw the high commander they fell back into formation. Barakiel was left alone, but he did not die. He systematically slaughtered each Corrupted within reach of his sword. The reformed line began to move forward, strengthened by Osmadiel’s rage. The remaining Corrupted fled. Barakiel was about to pursue them when Osmadiel shouted at him to return to her. The warriors fell to the task of clearing away the demon horde.
A battle they were poised to lose had completely transformed thanks to Barakiel and his virulent hatred, but this did nothing to lessen Osmadiel’s fury. When the demons had fled in the same direction as the Corrupted and the battalion began to reassemble, she approached him.
“What in all the realms is the matter with you? You cannot break formation. You put us all at risk with such behavior, yourself most of all!”
Barakiel tilted his head back and looked down at her.
“What do you want from me? How many Corrupted did I kill? I saved that battle.”
“Do not take that tone with me, warrior.”
“I will take whatever tone I want with you or anyone else.” He walked away. Osmadiel gaped after him.
To combat his boredom as he waited in the Council Keep for Barakiel to return from battle, Pellus sat among the kinetic sculptures in the rear gallery envisioning the methods by which he could escape should the Council ever decide to lock him in there permanently. He mapped the corridors and stairways in his mind, marking the exits, noting the walls he would render to dust and the places it would be easiest to throw up a barrier to block pursuit. He was surprised to find it fun.
I’ve changed since I went from respected adept to object of mistrust. Perhaps for the better.
He had almost finished his exercise when Adonael walked slowly into the gallery. His glance shifted from Pellus to a particularly arresting sculpture that sent iridescent liquid rising and falling through a series of transparent pipes by virtue of some mysterious property of Balance. Adonael stopped in front of Pellus but seemed mesmerized by the sculpture.
“Lovely to see you again, Adonael. How may I help you?”
The damaged warrior said nothing, still transfixed by the art.
“Adonael!” Pellus said sharply.
“What? Oh! Adept, there you are,” he said, before jerking his head from side to side to see if anyone was near. “Does he know? The shining one?”
“I told Barakiel about our conversation, warrior, but neither of us understands.”
“Not good, not good. He must understand, he must know.” Adonael swayed back and forth.
Let me try something simple.
“Adonael, I am going to ask you questions. You can answer yes or no. Perhaps in this way, I will come to understand. Then I can tell Barakiel what you want me to tell him, but we should be quiet, very quiet.” The damaged warrior nodded.
“Is the war going badly? Worse than the Council has revealed?” Pellus asked.
“Oh, yes. Worse, much worse.”
“Is the city in danger?”
“Um, ah, hard to say, hard to say. But they are dying, adept! Needlessly dying. It is not right, not right!” Adonael’s face contorted.
“Shhhh. Shhhh. I know, you are trying to make it right. Please answer yes or no, remember?” The warrior nodded again.
“Do you think we should go on the offensive against Lucifer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why the Council has rejected this strategy?”
“Yes.”
“Is it because they fear heavy casualties?”
Adonael grunted and paced. “Liars, liars! Thought they could keep him in his place, but he is too clever, too strong. We must destroy him!”
Pellus made a motion with his hand, signaling Adonael to keep his voice down. He looked around but saw no one. The Council had said it feared its forces would not succeed if they marched into the Destructive Realm after Lucifer. That they would be routed. Was this a lie? For all his problems, Adonael was furious about something.
“Please, help me, Adonael. You can help me if you stay calm,” Pellus said, in as soothing a voice as he could conjure. “Are you saying that the Council is lying about its reasons for not mounting an offensive against Lucifer? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“I am going to ask you a question now that needs more than a yes or no answer,” Pellus said. The warrior nodded.
“What is the Council’s reason for failing to mount an offensive against Lucifer?” Adonael leaned in toward Pellus, who could see disgust in eyes.
“Cowards! The warriors do not fight each other, no, no, not each other. No holding swords to the throats of cowards. Filthy cowards! They lost sight of their purpose long ago. She does not deserve it, adept. He killed her, he killed her!” Adonael stopped, hiding his face in his hands. Pellus placed a hand on his arm.
An age has passed, and still, he feels the loss of his mate.
Although Pellus did not completely understand what Adonael was trying to say, the damaged warrior had been through enough for one day.
“Thank you. I am sorry to remind you of your pain, but this has been very helpful. I will tell Barakiel everything you have told me.”
“Good, good,” Adonael murmured. He resumed staring at the sculpture.
I do not know what to make of this. Is he referring to divisions on the Council? Demon take this maddening nonsense.
Citizens crossing the wide bronze expanse of the Great Plaza of Covalent City stole furtive glances at Barakiel as he lounged against the monument to the Guardians. Pellus did not know what in the name of Balance he thought he was doing, leaning like that.
He is disrespecting the Guardians.
No one dared say a word, considering the look on his face. Pellus would not be surprised if the citizens reported a Warrior of the Rising about to go on a murderous rampage.
After all, it has happened before.
Despite Barakiel’s deadly mien, Pellus approached with a broad smile.
“Word has spread that Osmadiel’s battalion prevailed in the Turning. Congratulations!”
“Casualties were high,” the warrior said, causing Pellus to erase his grin.
“Yes, that word has spread as well.”
Barakiel’s face fell into weariness. “Take me back, Pellus. I want to be alone.”
“Of course.”
They walked toward a kinetic rift on the far side of the plaza. As they passed inside the sleeve of ultraviolet light, Pellus formed the connection travelers made when shuttling their passengers through the rifts. Without such a tether, a passenger would be lost, doomed to spin along forever, trapped in the black veins of the heavenly systems.
Usually, Pellus enjoyed his connection with Barakiel, when he felt an intoxicating internal power so unlike his own. But this turn, he felt nothing but pain, as if the warrior’s own energy was consuming him from the inside out. When they got back to Barakiel’s compound, Pellus was reluctant to bring up his conversation with Adonael, but he had to take the opportunity. He was no longer allowed to visit the warrior whenever he wanted.
“I know you want to be alone, Barakiel, but I had another conversation with Adonael,” Pellus said as they headed to the door.
“Was it any clearer than the last?”
“This much is clear. Adonael believes the Council is lying about its reasons to not mount an offensive against Lucifer.”
The murderous-rampage look reappeared on Barakiel’s face. He charged into his house and poured himself a big glass of scotch. Pellus began to recount his conversation with Adonael but stopped when Barakiel downed his scotch and threw the glass against the wall with such force it was pulverized to dust.
“Demon take this human whiskey! Pellus, you must bring me haze. Or better yet, dire essence. I can sink into oblivion, at least for a little while.” Barakiel’s voice grew smaller as he spoke. Pellus gasped to hear him. He clutched his stomach and gaped at the warrior before he managed to speak.
“Do you want to end up like Adonael? He destroyed himself with haze. And dire essence? It could kill you with a single dose.”
The look in the warrior’s eyes told Pellus that part of him saw that as a favorable outcome. He stepped close and grabbed his arm.
I need to slap him out of this self-pity.
“You will not do that to me. You will not do that to the Realm.”
Barakiel stared straight ahead, but he did not remove his arm from Pellus’ grasp. “Look at me,” the adept shouted, an occurrence so rare that it had the desired effect.
“Promise me that you will not take dire essence.”
Barakiel gave him a barely perceptible nod. “Then bring me tor distillate,” he said. “I need something.”
“That would make it worse! Tor distillate is the most vicious spirit ever devised by the Covalent. You would lose control entirely.”
To Pellus’ surprise, Barakiel laughed, a crazed laugh. He yanked his arm away and paced along his kitchen counter.
“Yes, let me suck down a decanter before my next meeting with the commanders! Ha ha ha! Osmadiel thinks she has a reason to make me go pound rock now. Ha ha! Fuck it all!”
“Barakiel, please stop.” Pellus scrutinized the warrior. “Why did you say that about High Commander Osmadiel?”
“I am to be disciplined. I suspect Osmadiel will send me to the quarry to pound rock.” Barakiel said this with no more emotion than if he was stating the date and time.
“What in the name of Balance did you do?”
“I told her to fuck off, basically.”
Pellus dropped his head and rubbed his eyes.
Insubordination? Who knew it was this bad?
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Evidently.”
“What led to such foolish behavior?”
“Do not ask me asinine questions.” Barakiel poured himself another glass of scotch. This time he poured one for Pellus and slid it to him across the counter. He gulped the whiskey down and stared at his feet.
“Look at me,” Pellus said as he touched the warrior’s arm, gently this time. “I was worried about you before, but now I am sick. I thought you were coming to accept was has happened, but you are getting worse. Tell me how I can help you.”
Should I tell him I have seen Zan’s energy harmonize with his own? Balance help me! I want him to forget her. She will so shortly be dead.
“Thank you, but there is nothing you can do.” The warrior’s voice was soft now. Pellus let go of his arm. He remembered Barakiel’s despair all those earthly centuries ago when he’d felt useless. His duty had saved him. He could stand to be reminded of this now.
“With all that you have been through, your devotion to your purpose was always inviolate,” Pellus said. “You cannot compromise your duty with insubordination. I think you know this. Service to the Realm will bring you back to yourself.”
Barakiel closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them Pellus saw a weariness he had only ever seen in Covalent who were much, much older.
“When I enter battle now, the flames of hatred burn so hot in me I feel as if nothing can stop me,” Barakiel said. “When the battle is over, I am afraid to let it go. My anger is like madness, but I cling to it. It is better than this pain.”
“Your struggle is beyond me. I do not understand. I am sorry.” Pellus placed his hand on the warrior’s back. “Perhaps your punishment is a good thing,” he continued. “Perhaps mindless labor will help you.”
“Perhaps it will.” Barakiel rubbed his forearm. “Um, ah, I know you wanted to tell me about your conversation with Adonael, but can we wait for another time? I cannot think straight at the moment.”
“Of course. At any rate, I think you should speak to him yourself. During your next battle, I will ask him. A clandestine meeting will not be easy to arrange, but getting him to agree is the first step.”
“All right, Pellus. Thank you.” Barakiel walked over to the computer table and stared down at the pouch Pellus had left there two weeks previous. “I sent Zan a note. I told her I would leave her alone.” He took a deep breath. “I told her I would send the information I have about her case. Can I send this as is?”
“Yes. It is coherently arranged and labeled.”
Barakiel absently played with a pen on the table. “I can always rely on you,” he murmured.
“I do not think you should tell Zan about the monks in the Camargue in writing,” Pellus said, his voice as gentle as he could make it.
“No. Perhaps she will see me after she receives this evidence.” He picked up the pouch and ran his hand over its surface.
The commanders ended their meeting and emerged from the Nexus, a black stone chamber deep within the Council Keep. Remiel passed into the anteroom with the light steps of relief. Even though Osmadiel’s battalion had prevailed during its last battle—in large part thanks to Barakiel—it had suffered terrible casualties. High Commander Camael had suggested that Osmadiel’s depleted ranks be relieved of their upcoming duty to defend the quadrant of the Turning directly before the city gates. Galizur, the third high commander, agreed with him. Osmadiel bristled. With its reserves to draw upon, she said, her battalion had not reached the threshold that should result in a loss of duty.
Remiel offered to send more of her warriors to fight with Osmadiel. After everyone stared at her like she had sprouted tusks, a few other battalion commanders matched her offer. Galizur protested that this would merely weaken the other battalions, but Camael was satisfied. With two high commanders in favor, Osmadiel’s battalion retained its assignment to defend the gates.
Galizur scowled at Remiel as he strode past her after the meeting. Then he disappeared into the long corridor of polished stone that led upward to the main part of the Keep.
I wish he had given me the chance to scowl back, the ill-tempered buffoon.
Osmadiel approached her, grinning.
That’s more like it.
The red-headed warrior grabbed Remiel’s arm and suggested they stroll through the maze of multilevel canals behind the Keep. Part of Covalent City’s water filtration system, the canals glowed like mercury in the perpetual twilight, as beautiful as they were utilitarian. Covalent often took in the sight, but Osmadiel’s request made Remiel a bit nervous.
She is not one for strolling.
The high commander did not leave Remiel to wonder for long. When they had moved some distance away from the others walking the path, she came to the point.
“What is the matter with your warrior, Remiel?”
I should have known.
“I take it you are referring to Barakiel,” Remiel said. “What has he done?”
“He was reckless and insubordinate,” Osmadiel said. “He would not stay in formation. I have never seen such bloodlust. He ran about slaughtering the Corrupted as if they were the only thing his senses allowed him to perceive. I think if I had got in his way, he would have slaughtered me.”
“Balance help me, he is getting worse. I knew there was something bothering him during his last battle.”
“Did he disrespect you too?” Osmadiel asked.
“Oh no.” Remiel placed her hand flat against her forehead. “In what way did he disrespect you, high commander?”
Osmadiel related her brief exchange with Barakiel. Remiel groaned.
Mouthing off to a high commander? Barakiel, you have lost your mind.
“What could possibly have caused him to act like this?” Osmadiel asked.
“I do not know.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Of course I have asked him, high commander! He tells me nothing.”
The high commander stopped to look out over the canals, her hands clasped behind her back. “I was tolerant with him, and with you, regarding his loss of Balance and your cryptic explanation as to why he entered battle in that condition.” She turned back to Remiel. “Did I make a mistake?”
Many a Covalent had withered under the scrutiny of Osmadiel’s imperious green eyes, but Remiel met them with certainty. The high commander’s faith in Barakiel was not misplaced.
“Not to excuse his insubordination, high commander, but I do believe he slaughtered an impressive number of Corrupted in that battle.”
Osmadiel’s nostrils flared. Remiel thought she might be fated to join Barakiel pounding rock in the quarry, but then her companion chuckled.
“Yes. Yes, he did.” She abruptly strode away. Remiel followed a few steps behind. They reached an ornate footbridge that arched over a canal in a sweep of coral-colored marble. Osmadiel stopped halfway over the bridge.
“Strong blade, strong passions. It has ever been so,” she said. “I need his sword, but I want to know the cause of his rage. Ask the adept, uh, the former adept. If he refuses to say, tell him that unless he talks to you, I will make sure he is withdrawn from his duties. I will make sure he never sees his beloved warrior again.”
“Yes, high commander.”
“Also, I should inform you that Barakiel will be disciplined. He will be pulled from battle and set to hard labor for a time.”
“I suspected as much, high commander, and I agree. Insubordinate warriors cannot be allowed to fight.”
As he stepped away from Jeduthan’s naked form on the bed, Pellus reflected on her magic ability to remove all worry from his mind. For the past half turn, he had been giving himself to her, over and over, caressing her and kissing her and moving within her until he heard that delicate tone escape her mouth, the tone that meant he had pleased her. Each time she would press her lips to his ear and whisper to him that he had given her a precious gift. She would run her smooth hands along his body until he was delirious with love, ready to bestow his gift once again. But now, their time was up.
I want to stay with you, Jeduthan.
“So, what do you think Remiel wants?” she asked, stretching her body in a way that nearly made Pellus jump back into bed.
“To discuss Barakiel, no doubt.”
“How is our fair warrior?”
“He is a mess. His broken heart is now compounded by remorse. He feels he has done that human woman a grievous wrong.”
“Perhaps it will be for the best in the long run.”
“I hope so, Jeduthan.” Pellus finished dressing. He returned to the side of the bed and bent to kiss her. “Wish me luck,” he said.
“My brilliant Pellus, you have never needed luck.”
He smiled, then left for his meeting. When he arrived at the appointed terrace, Remiel was standing at the railing overlooking the Great Plaza, seeming as worried as Pellus felt.
“Commander,” Pellus said, joining her at the railing.
“Hello, adept. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“You can tell me what is wrong with Barakiel.”
“What do you mean?” he asked with studied ease.
“Your insouciance is annoying.”
“I do not know unless you tell me what you mean.”
“There is something the matter with him,” Remiel said, her voice taking on the tone Pellus imagined she used with her fighters. “He has grown reckless. He surges headlong into bands of enemies alone. For now, he is slaughtering demons and the Corrupted as if channeling the Stream itself, but I fear if he makes one mistake he will be killed. I do not want to lose him as a warrior, or as a friend.”
“You will have to ask him what is bothering him yourself, Remiel.”
“I have asked him, Pellus! Osmadiel has asked him! He tells us nothing. He simply walks away.” Remiel paced in a tight circle, grasping the edges of her deep blue robes. “He was insubordinate. To Osmadiel, of all the Covalent! He seems awash in despair. He does not care whether he lives or dies. I am his commander. I have a responsibility to him. I have a responsibility to the other warriors. They follow him. His actions may place them in jeopardy. If you know something, I have a right to know it, too.”
The adept’s lack of response caused Remiel’s black eyes to harden into onyx.
“I may be asking you to break a confidence, Pellus, but Osmadiel has also demanded an answer. She will remove you from your duties and prevent you from ever seeing Barakiel again if you do not tell me what is wrong with him.”
Pellus knew Remiel would not relent. As for Osmadiel, she was not the kind of Covalent who made empty threats.
I have little choice. Perhaps they can help him. Protect him.
“I know something, but it is dangerous information,” he said.
“Of course, we will tell no one,” Remiel snapped. Pellus took a deep breath.
“Barakiel is in love with a human woman,” he said. “Very much in love. But she found out what he is and she left him. He pines for her.”
“A Covalent in love with a human? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“I thought the same, but she is an extraordinary human, a warrior among them, highly trained. Do you know how she discovered the truth about Barakiel? The demons attacked her, no doubt intending to use her as bait. She evaded capture and killed two of them in the process.”
“A human killing demons? Excellent!”
“They would have overwhelmed her in the end, but Barakiel arrived to dispatch them. After going through that, this woman must have felt like she was losing her mind. She told him to stay away from her.”
“Has he accepted her wishes?”
“He has stated that intention, but it is not easy for him.” Pellus looked out at the gleaming stone of the Council Keep and the manicured terraces of the spotless city. Everything in its place. Everyone in their place.
I must choose my words carefully.
“The Covalent are accustomed to viewing humans as inferior but Barakiel has lived among them for many earthly centuries. He understands them. I once viewed them as inferior, but I am no longer so sure. Their short lives are imbued with the consciousness of death, and the best among them seek its defeat, even if they do not realize that is what they are doing.
“This woman, her name is Zan, she spins beauty from her fingers as the music of her realm. When she sings she shines with something that cannot be measured against a transient human life.”
“It sounds as if you love her too, Pellus.”
“I do not know her well, but I respect her.”
“I would also respect a demon-slaying human. I just wish she had not driven Barakiel to such despondency. I cannot imagine someone who could walk away from him like that. After all,” Remiel said, spreading her arms wide, “we are absurdly devoted to him, even without the sex.”
“Ha! Yes, we are.” They shared a moment of understanding, paired with wry smiles.
“Is there a chance she will return to him?” Remiel asked. “That she will feel that devotion once she has recovered from the shock?”
A group of artisans went by, laughing in loud, rough voices. Pellus wanted to tell them to shut up. “I do not know what will happen,” he said. “Barakiel thinks he was wrong to pursue Zan when she was unaware of his nature. He has said he will leave her be. This should make me happy because I was against the relationship, but I hate to see him like this.”
“If he truly loves her, he will never get over this,” Remiel said. “Do you understand what it means when a warrior like Barakiel gives his heart?”
I know far better than you do.
Pellus wished he could forget. The last time he had been with the pair, the adept had seen their harmonious vibrations. He had watched their energy communicate. Astonished, he could only conclude that Barakiel had transformed Zan somehow. He never told the heartbroken warrior what he had witnessed. He felt his face burn, but he certainly had no intention of telling Remiel.
“You are obviously conflicted.” The commander leveled her black eyes on him. “But I will say this. If you think he has any chance of winning her back, you should help him.”
“Think about what you are saying,” Pellus said. “The whole situation worries me. It is much safer for her to stay away from him. She knows what he is now. It is likely she knows about the Covalent Realm, the Turning, everything. Barakiel does not see the problem, but I worry about unforeseen consequences.”
“The Council would have her killed if it knew,” Remiel said, her body tense. “It would order someone to pay the price, Balance be damned.”
“Yes.”
“They will not know. Help him, Pellus. Give him hope. This human can do more to protect him on the battlefield than I ever could.”