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AS PELLUS APPROACHED the monument to the Guardians he saw Remiel and Barakiel emerge from the luminous palace of Healers Hall. They traversed the bronze expanse of the Great Plaza towards him, their heads bowed in intense conversation as violent energy crackled all around them. The citizens moved aside as they passed as if afraid the warriors would knock them over.
Remiel is no doubt relieved to have him back from the quarry. Her battalion is awash in new fighters.
When they reached him, Remiel grinned at Pellus like she never had before. “Lovely to see you, adept!”
“I am no longer an adept, Remiel.”
“Phffft. Nonsense.”
Pellus smiled and bowed his head. “What were the two of you discussing so intensely?”
“The new warriors,” Barakiel answered. “For the most part, they did well. Now that Remiel has had the chance to assess them, she will be able to use them more effectively in the next battle.”
“You were good with them,” Remiel said. “Perhaps I should request your presence at our training sessions.”
One corner of Barakiel’s mouth curled up. “I seriously doubt your request would be granted.”
“Let us not spoil my good mood,” Remiel replied. They shared a sour look. “Well,” the commander continued, “I am off to report to the High Command.” The warriors grasped each other’s shoulders. Remiel nodded to Pellus, then strode off across the plaza in the direction of the Keep.
“No time to waste, Barakiel,” Pellus said, heading towards rift. “We have much to discuss.”
Once in the Earthly Realm, the Covalent paused in the chill air to watch a flock of sparrows alight upon a tree, filling it with chatter. Pellus reminded Barakiel that they had cut short their discussion of the adept’s last conversation with Adonael.
“I was too much of a mess.”
Pellus squinted at him. “And how are you now?”
“I am coping.” He watched the sparrows. “Zan texted me. She thanked me for my help.” He made a visible effort to brighten. “She asked me to thank you, as well.”
“Please tell her she is very welcome,” Pellus said with a gentle smile. “But now to the matter at hand. I managed to corral Adonael during your battle. He is willing to meet with you. When I have determined the best way to go about it, I will let you know.”
Barakiel nodded. “I am eager for this meeting. Damaged or no, he may have information that will help me persuade the High Command that the Council’s defensive strategy is idiotic.”
Despite the warrior’s deadly serious air, Pellus was cheered by his words. The High Command’s refusal to insist on an offensive against Lucifer had filled Barakiel with fury and disgust, and this was a good thing. The battle at the city gates had given him back his mettle.
The pain is still there, but his clarity of purpose has returned.
The two Covalent went inside. Barakiel said he needed a shower. He asked Pellus to light the wood he had arranged in the fireplace, then went upstairs. The adept concentrated. With a hot rush of air, the pile burst into a perfect triangle of fire. Pellus breathed in the scent.
Such beautiful Balance, the power of fire. At once destructive and life-giving.
Like Zan. For Barakiel, she was fire. Pellus had to admit he admired the way she and her colleagues had apprehended the false monks’ followers and were pursuing the rest of the repulsive creatures involved in their foul business. At least Barakiel could feel good that he had helped her.
By the time the warrior came back downstairs, Pellus was relaxing on the couch, sipping expensive cognac.
“Before we get to Adonael, I meant to ask you,” Barakiel began. “Has Roan made any progress in his search for the traitor among you?”
The adept kept his eyes on the flames.
I do not want to lie to him, but I cannot tell him about Domist.
“He gave me a promising lead. I would rather tell you about it when we have more.”
“Afraid I will get myself in trouble again, are you?”
“Obviously.”
Barakiel chuckled. “Twelve centuries, and still you must mind me.” He matched the adept’s gaze into the flames. “So what did Adonael say to you, exactly?”
Pellus recounted the conversation. “Unfortunately, when I asked him why the Council is lying about its reasons for refusing to mount an offensive against Lucifer, he became agitated and lost coherence. He called the Council members cowards, which is clear enough, but then he said, ‘The warriors do not fight each other. No holding swords to the throats of cowards.’ What do you think he meant?”
“No holding swords to the throats of cowards,” Barakiel said. “No holding swords to the throats of cowards.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared into the flames. He remained motionless for so long that Pellus assumed his thoughts had wandered.
Is he thinking of her again? Do I see anger at the edges of his eyes?
“Well, Barakiel?”
“And he said, ‘The warriors do not fight each other’?” Barakiel asked.
“Yes.”
“He said the Council wants to keep Lucifer in his place?”
“I think so. He did not state it that clearly.”
The warrior rose to his feet. He paced. The anger that played at the edges of his eyes flowed to their center and hardened into rage.
“So help me, if what I suspect is true, I will kill them, every one of them.” His voice filled the space. Pellus could feel its vibration in the couch cushions. “I will force them to look into my eyes as I rip their brains from their skulls and crush them to pulp in my hands.” He clenched his fists and growled, his eyes locked on Pellus as if he was afraid to move. That if he did, he would go utterly berserk.
“Barakiel, please, what are you talking about? You are frightening me.”
In a voice now terrifying in its quietness, Barakiel said he thought Adonael was trying to tell them that the Council would not take the fight to Lucifer because it wanted to preserve him as an enemy. With such a foe, no Warrior of the Rising would ever move against the Council in an effort to seize control of the Realm. So long as Lucifer was there, the war would rage against him. The lust for power would not creep into the warriors’ minds while this challenging external enemy sharpened their purpose.
“Do you see? Do you see?” The tendons stood out on Barakiel’s neck. “‘Keep him in his place?’ He speaks of Lucifer’s place as our adversary. ‘The warriors do not fight each other,’ is a reference to the civil wars. ‘No holding swords to the throats of cowards,’ means the warriors will not attack the Council. The Council members are afraid of their own warriors. Afraid they will lose their precious power and control.” He walked to the kitchen table and back again, his eyes darting about the room, the energy of anger storming through his limbs.
“Oh, I will kill them. Zan is in danger because they hold those they govern in contempt. They ruined my life for their vanity and comfort. I will kill them all.”
Pellus struggled to digest what Barakiel was saying. They had been through a lot together, but he had never seen the warrior’s eyes as they were now, wide open and blazing with hatred so intense it bordered on lunacy. The flames of the fire reached for him, striving to be one with that force.
The power of Destruction burns in him. No wonder his father sees him as a threat. No wonder the Council does.
If the adept ever had to choose his words carefully, it was now. “What are you going to do, Barakiel?” he asked quietly. The warrior did nothing but growl.
“Think about what you are saying,” Pellus continued. “If you are right, I share your rage, but we need to confirm your suspicions. I cannot imagine that Ravellen would agree to this. We need to be absolutely certain of its truth before we do anything.”
The lunatic hatred still ruled in Barakiel’s eyes, but it was clear he was listening.
“You cannot kill them,” Pellus added. “You might manage to kill several, but not all, and you would be slaughtered in turn. If this is true, we need a plan. It is not a situation you can remedy alone.”
With a jerk of his head, Barakiel’s eyes flashed. Pellus barely managed to keep himself from fleeing the room.
“You are with me?” the warrior asked.
“Yes. If you are right, I am with you. If you are right, the Council is full of contemptible sophists. But we need to confirm this, and we need allies.”
Barakiel stared at Pellus for a long time, every muscle in his body tense. He did not even seem to be breathing. Finally, he closed his eyes and inhaled.
“First, you and I will meet with Adonael,” he said. “We will ask him if I am right. We can judge whether he speaks the truth, or at least believes what he is saying. If so, we will tell Remiel. She will be more objective than either of us. If she believes it is true, she can advise us.”
Pellus nearly slid to the floor in relief, though he presented calmness to Barakiel.
“I agree, and Balance help us if it is true.”
The corridor was steeped in shadows. Pellus padded his way quietly past a wall of multifaceted windows. When he reached the entrance to the restricted area he stopped to admire the art installation in the courtyard. He remembered the first time he had seen an earthly Zen garden when Barakiel lived in Japan. With their rocks arranged within a field of patterned sand, Zen gardens were surprisingly similar to this installation in the Travelers Guild Hall, which featured layered rocks in muted colors jutting up from serene pools or tilted into black moss.
Now, he would wait near the spot where Roan had eavesdropped on the two adepts complaining about Domist. Only adepts could enter the restricted area. Since he had lost his rank, his energy signature was no longer recognized by the door. Lucky for Pellus, most of the adepts thought his punishment ludicrous. When one came along he would enter and make his way to the records room, where he would try to determine if Domist had disappeared at the earthly autumnal equinox.
Less than a hundredth turn passed before he entered the hushed and shadowy Archives. Shelves lined with thin storage plates of luminous silver dating from the ancient times extended upward into blackness. Pellus sat at a glowing violet terminal and called up the desired period with a series of musical sounds. The elegant logograms of the Covalent language cascaded down the screen. He was unlikely to find anything baldly stating that Domist had been absent. The best he could hope for was something to corroborate the complaint that she had been nowhere to be found when they needed her to cover a lecture.
After an annoying amount of digging, he found it. Foderen, another adept, had been forced to cover a lecture on the turn coinciding with the earthly equinox. He had been indignant enough to file a request that any adepts who missed their lectures be made to perform extra duty maintaining the energy barrier at the gates. Foderen did not mention Domist by name, but then, he would not dare. That was the problem. No one would dare.
Dread hardened in Pellus’ gut like cooling lead.
Should I approach Ravellen with such flimsy evidence? If I tell the Council about Domist’s treachery, Domist will tell them about Zan.
Pellus was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of the door. Domist entered the oblong pool of light that hung over the terminals, her copper eyes fixing him with an accusatory glare.
“You are not supposed to be here, navigen,” she spat. Pellus turned his head but did not otherwise react, despite his jangling nerves.
Is she having me watched?
“Oh, you have caught me. I will leave immediately.” He rose and moved toward the door.
Domist scowled. “Stop right there.” She put herself between Pellus and the exit. “I demand to know what you were doing in here.”
“I am curious about the damaged gates. I was looking for mention of any parallel phenomena in the records. I wish to be of help.”
“The adepts do not need your help.”
Pellus smiled at her as if she were a child. “Yet many have told me they wished they had it.”
She raised her chin. “Who let you in here?” she demanded.
“It would hardly be polite to answer, would it Domist?” Pellus lingered on the “S” sound in her name as coldness edged into his gaze.
If she thinks I will step around her, she is mistaken.
“The Council will hear of it, navigen.”
“You will bother the Council with a violation of a minor Guild rule? That is not the protocol.”
“You are hardly one to mention protocol.” She narrowed her extraordinary eyes.
“Do whatever you want, Domist, but if you are looking to cause me trouble, I would at least wait until the quickeners have ceased performing their tributes to Barakiel on the Great Plaza. Given his valor in defending the gates last phase, this is not a good time to annoy him.”
“Do not threaten me, Pellus.”
“Then do not threaten me.”
They sized each other up through the gloom. Pellus utilized the technique he had devised to cloak Barakiel to examine her energy signature. She was not frightened, nor was she preparing for a fight.
“Leave this chamber now, navigen.” She spoke to him with a tone more suited to an apprentice.
“I will when you get out of my way.”
Domist scoffed, then walked to a terminal. Pellus left the room.