Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JACQUETTA MAGICKED an invalid chair out of thin air. Or rather, from one of the rooms that lined the corridor. A wooden chair–with large iron wheels, a sturdy cane back and made from polished wood without a hint of gold or embellishment–rolled of its own accord at her whispered word, and came to a stop before Pitch.

The Child insisted that Edward be placed there. She insisted too, on wheeling him along, but one glare from Pitch, a protest from Charlie, and the scowl of Scarlet seemed to put paid to that notion.

Pitch took hold of the handles and pushed the barely conscious Edward along. They travelled down a long, wide corridor, one with all the embellishments and grand dimensions of a palace. The glamour and richness of this place could not be understated, its beauty very evident, but Silas found it impossible to be awed by a location that had been such a prison for Pitch.

A prison that, if the prince recognised it, he gave no sign. But that the Sanctuary had an effect on him, was indisputable. Since they had walked into that courtyard with its flourishing garden and ostentatious water fountain, a change had come over Pitch, one that bothered Silas greatly. His sharp tongue had dulled, his propensity to lean into Silas had not been evident. Subtle things. But Silas knew far more of Pitch than the curves of his body, and the devastating beauty of his face. He knew when his lover's thoughts darkened.

Silas blinked. The Sanctuary was the antithesis of darkness. His eyes pained with adjusting to the rather dazzling glow of the building's interior. Silas took a more studied look at his surrounds, needing to distract himself from his concerns.

Of where this walk would lead them.

There were mirrors set into the walls, floor to ceiling, one upon every second panel, adding to the vastness of the space, and accentuating the illumination coming from elaborate sconces on the mirror-less wall panels. The sconces were gold, of course; that hue dominated the decor. Each had four arms, in the form of swans, with long sinewy necks and exaggerated beaks. Four fat white candles sat upon each arm; candles that gave off a far brighter, and indeed, far more golden light than any Silas had seen before.

His gaze did not stray long from Pitch, though. Silas took in the sway of the black cape he wore as the daemon pushed Edward along. Beneath that layer of borrowed clothing was an undeniably beautiful body, but one that had been strained by the trials put upon it. They needed a dozen more meals like the last one shared, to fill Pitch out and put some extra meat upon sharp bones. Silas bit at his lip. To think of such a time, both the past meal done, and those he had yet hoped to share, was to torture himself.

He started at a sudden thump.

Lucifer had stumbled again, his hip contacting the wall. He was ahead of Pitch, and behind the Child, who kept on, and did not look back. Scarlet was the only one who dared react. And their reward was to be taken aim at by the cantankerous, wounded, daemon.

‘Piss off.'

The wisp's sigh preceded a retreat. Back to the safety of Charlie's shoulder.

The king of daemons walked, or rather stumbled, along the bare floorboards at the edge of the cream and honey-gold runner that dominated the walkway, propping himself against the walls. He dragged one hand along the pristine panels and left more than a few smudges upon the stark white plasterwork with its gold edging.

When Jacquetta had suggested a wheelchair for him as well, Silas feared the Child about to be turned to stone by the look Lucifer gave her. But there was no doubt he would have benefited.

Lucifer looked wretched. His face was bruised, his moustache scorched clean off at the right side, his cheeks were notably hollow, and the careful styling of his hair long since ruined. More horrid bruising peeked from the parting of his shirt; awful marks of russet and grey at his collarbones. Some other evident marks might have been healing burns, and there was a tear in the king's trousers that revealed an appalling wound beneath, a gouging of flesh causing a shocking hole in his thigh. Worst of all was the damage the king tried hardest to conceal. He kept his hand close to his chest, his fingers curled, but he was already like a drunkard on his feet, and once or twice he'd used both hands to brace himself. Silas had seen the space between thumb and middle finger; the festering cut upon his palm too, red and weeping. A nasty infection, he surmised, whilst wondering how his majesty could be vulnerable to such simple things. But most of all he wondered, and worried, about what the downing of the other Seraph meant for them. Was Michael strong enough to enter the Sanctuary? Or, perhaps worse, did he return to Arcadia to spread word of a prince who had escaped the abaddon? How many legions would be sent to reclaim Pitch?

‘Silas? Is everything all right?' Charlie said softly.

Pitch had turned, frowning. ‘Do you hear something?'

Silas had not yet opened his mouth to answer them when Jacquetta called out, ‘Do try to leave my candles burning, if you will. It shall make it far easier to find our way.'

Silas was utterly lost until he realised how dim it was where they had all come to a sudden halt.

‘The candles all went out.' Charlie pointed to the nearest sconce, but no sooner had he done so than unlit wicks burst back to life. Dazzling and causing the lad to shade his eyes.

‘Did I do that?' Silas said, glancing behind, where all else seemed fine. Save for the fact that the corridor seemed to stretch in perpetuity; he could see no evidence of the substantial green-gold entrance. The place stirred reminders of The Atlas and its endless staircase, and, less pleasant a thought, the Fulbourn with its labyrinthine passageways.

‘You did, twice now,' Pitch answered. ‘Silas, tell me, are you hearing something that we should be worried about?'

‘No…no, I was just wondering…' Silas stopped himself. Idiot. He would not add to the prince's load even more by talking of vengeful angels. He'd save his thoughts until he spoke with Lucifer, alone. ‘Just wondering how much further.'

‘If you kept walking, it would be less far for you than it is now.' Jacquetta had not slowed at all and had moved a considerable distance away from them. She stood at a pair of double doors, white with gleaming gold handles. ‘Come on. There are three more doors to pass through, three more corridors after this. I am not known for the simplicity of my designs. Don't dally.'

Jacquetta raised her hand, fluttered her fingers, and the doors swung open. A sitting room lay beyond, an ostentatious design with bulging lounge chairs and settees in satins of the deepest gold hue.

Lucifer made a quiet sound of unhappiness, his shoulders hunched, most of his body pressed against the wall.

All at once, Silas could stand it no more.

‘Scorch me if you like, your majesty, but I am going to help you.' He spoke sternly, and the nearest candles fluttered dangerously, bending to near horizontal upon their wicks. His shadow cast over Lucifer, darkening the rings of fatigue beneath his eyes. Silas eyed the disturbed candles, and a deep satisfaction swept over him. His body hummed with energy; with power his goddess had made sure was filled to brimming. With Lalassu's loss, and Pitch's distant state, Silas had sunk too deeply into grim thought, losing sight of what was most important.

He was not powerless. Far from it.

Silas took Lucifer's arm. The heat was immediate, searing and intense, and vastly disconcerting. Silas's breath quickened. The candles fluttered once more. But he held fast, and the burning sensation lessened. ‘We shall take all day if you insist on this senseless independence. Give me your weight. It is no challenge, I assure you.'

They locked in a brief, silent battle, one where Lucifer held himself rigid, as unyielding as he could make himself. Scarlet came between them, darting straight up to Lucifer, and landing a swift, tiny punch to the end of his nose, following it up with a chittering tirade.

‘Good gods.' Lucifer sagged, covering his ears. ‘If it will shut you up, I'll let the blasted ankou throw me over his shoulder. Foolhardy, creature.'

The moment he slumped against Silas, Scarlet's high-pitched admonishment ceased. Peace reigned, and Silas's ears rang. But the clever little wisp looked suitably pleased with themself as they returned to Charlie. And well they should. They had given the king an excuse he desperately needed. An ability to accept aid, without saying a word.

And Christ, how he needed the aid.

The king was solid, no doubt–built like a war hammer, where Pitch was the leanness of a small sword–but there was an added heaviness to the daemon that alarmed Silas. Lucifer's naming melody had always been faint, as though it did not deem Silas worthy of listening to it, and had always been laced with notes of grief; but there was a new chord present now. One forlorn and frightening. Silas shifted his fingers, and heat pulsed from Lucifer's body; striking out at Silas's touch, as though seeking to remove him.

Silas drew his breath. Lucifer looked at him. The daemon was tall, and it was not much of a raise of his head needed to meet Silas's eye.

‘What bothers you, ankou? This help was your fool idea.'

Silas frowned, trying to fathom the melody that played. Deathnotes, perhaps? But if so, they were like none he'd known. And this was a King of Daemonkind, with Silas an ankou of the purebreds. Did Izanami's reach include such creatures as Lucifer? Or did another god of death hold sway in Arcadia?

‘You are greatly harmed.' That much Silas was certain of.

‘Say no more, ankou.' The faint hint of flame burned in Lucifer's eyes. ‘I am not your concern. Focus on the prince. See him through.'

Silas nodded, shifting his fingers again as the king burned with this strange fever.

Their party carried on, Lucifer muttering every once in a while under his breath, his weight growing heavier and heavier.

When they entered the next room, Jacquetta was already at its far side, standing in front of another set of doors.

Gold was a highlight in this room too, of course. It was there in the thick roped cords that held back velvet green curtains, and there too, in the gilded edges of the furniture. Lucifer exhaled heavily, and leaned them towards the blazing hearth, where a massive painting took up all the wall space above the mantle. The scene depicted an angel, shrouded in flowing white, with tightly curled gold hair and golden wings stretching, upon a black horse whose mane held hints of midnight blue. The angel carried a sword, ready to strike down at a fearsome dragon that menaced him from the ground.

‘St George and the dragon,' Lucifer said, hoarse as though he'd smoked a pipe all day. ‘He gifted me one very similar, though there is armour worn in mine.'

‘Ah yes, the final version,' Jacquetta said. ‘He took a long, long while until he was satisfied enough to send it to you. I tried to warn His Grace that purebreds needed more sleep than the painter was afforded, but he'd not listen. The chap would no sooner finish one piece than His Grace decided on a different appearance. The poor sod was painting day and night, until exhaustion claimed him.'

Silas winced. ‘The artist died from overwork?'

‘I did suggest we allow him to leave when the man started to babble and couldn't keep water down, but I'm afraid my advice fell on deaf, divine ears. His Grace easily forgot those who surrounded him did not hold a strength of his magnitude.'

Pitch's laughter was bitterness personified. ‘Oh, you don't say.'

He stared up at the painting, and the emptiness in his expression frightened Silas.

‘Do you recognise the painting?' Silas watched him, searching for any sign that memories pained him. But he was closed off in a way that Silas had not known since their very first meeting.

‘No, only the arrogance. The light curls do him no favours.'

Lucifer grunted, as transfixed as Pitch appeared to be. ‘I disagree.'

Jacquetta hummed where she stood. ‘My lord could manage any shade, really.'

‘I preferred his hair pale,' Lucifer said, pressing his free hand to the mantle.

‘Yes. He knew that,' Jacquetta said.

‘So, this is truly Seraphiel?' Silas stared anew at the artwork. Finally, a face to put to all the misery. A face for him to despise. A pity it was not uglier.

‘Of course not.' Lucifer's indignation caused him pain, and there was a pause before he continued. ‘You are not fit to behold his true form. It would blind you, send you mad, for you are, at your core, a purebred. The Seraph are but one step away from the Celestials themselves.'

‘And don't they like to remind us of it?' Pitch muttered.

Silas itched to reach for him, but Pitch had put himself out of reach.

He turned back to the painting, taking in the powerful shoulders, the ripple of muscles along the arm, veins raised where the angel clenched the sword. His face was diamond shaped, his features bold. He was imposing, and fierce, not far removed from how Silas had imagined Seraphiel.

‘This is merely one reiteration he chose among many,' Jacquetta said. ‘I believe the scene is from one of your favoured mythologies of humankind. Is that right, my lord?'

The king elbowed Silas's side in his restlessness. ‘No time for all this nonsense.' He coughed, seeming in danger of another fit.

There absolutely wasn't time, but Silas noted a welcome gleam in Pitch's eye, a sly twist of his lips as he spoke. ‘By Enoch's filthy balls, this monstrosity was commissioned for you. A lover's token.' He stared at Lucifer, the delight doing much to thwart the glumness. ‘He worked an artist into his grave to bring to life one of your fucking fairy tales.'

The king's anger fed his fever, and the heat stung Silas's hand where it pressed to Lucifer's back. At a great muffled distance, the daemon's contorted melody played out, causing a shiver to run down Silas's spine.

‘St George and the dragon is not a fairy tale, you cretin,' he returned, ignoring the snider remarks. ‘It is an old legend, from the faith of Christianity –'

Pitch snorted with derisive laughter. ‘I could not give a basilisk's cock what old damned book you read of it in.'

‘It was not in a book,' Lucifer snapped. ‘There was artwork in one of the Bodleian libraries at the University of Oxford. I commented on its beauty when we visited. I did not know he'd worked upon so many versions.' Now a shiver replaced the tremble of rage. ‘Superb place, the University. You heathens have no doubt never heard of one.'

There was a strange silence. Perhaps they were all doing as Silas was; trying to absorb the picture of the King of Daemonkind strolling about a library.

‘Actually,' Charlie said, cautiously. ‘My uncle read history at Oxford, and we visited once. The libraries were marvellous.'

Lucifer's scowl was not entirely mean-spirited. There was some satisfaction there, pleasure in being deemed right. He gave Charlie a sharp nod.

But now Pitch utterly lost his mind. His laughter was strained and high, but anything that was bringing him to life was fine by Silas. ‘You took a Seraph to a library? Wait, you demeaned yourself so low as to step foot in a purebred library, amongst the stench of old paper and sniffling academics?'

Only Silas heard the stifled groan from Lucifer before he shot back a reply. ‘They are the only places of merit in this world. Will you wipe that ridiculous smirk off your face, Vassago, and get on?'

‘I'm quite done with being ordered about.' The prince spoiled for a fight, which was encouraging, but not useful here.

If Silas stepped away, Lucifer would fall. The king was desperately weak. Any fool could see it, and Silas felt it, beneath his skin, and ringing in his ears.

He caught Pitch's eye, sending a glance down at the king before looking back. Hoping fervently Pitch would not take what was about to be said to be a command or order, ever mindful of pushing the prince anywhere he did not wish to go. ‘We are all in need of a place to sit down, to rest. I think it best we move on quickly now.'

The prince's verdant eyes narrowed, never leaving Silas's face. ‘Very well, but only because it is you asking. And you shall have to make it up to me later, for losing me my chance at mockery.'

‘A chore, but one I shall endure,' Silas returned, relief sweeping through him at hearing the prince so very like himself. Scarlet giggled, the tittering like a mouse's squeak.

‘You are quite changed from the creature I recall, your highness.' Jacquetta fussed at the embellished lines of her burnt-orange hose, a defiant hue amongst the golds and white. ‘A true lover at your side, and friends, to boot. It is a fine thing to see, but let us hope the Beserker Prince is not the creature needed for this task.' Seeing the angry twist of Pitch's mouth, she held up her hand. ‘Do not misunderstand me, your highness. Your changes are admirable, and your happiness deserved. Yours was a greatly pained spirit. Many feared you, but I did not. You always seemed so very lost to me, and lonely. Now I see that you are neither of these things anymore.' Silas felt her eyes upon him. ‘Please, if you don't mind, follow me this way.'

She turned on her heels, slippers of the same hue as her clothing, and left them in her wake.

Pitch was first to follow, pushing Edward along as the man slouched in the chair, eyes closed, chin bobbing against his chest. Silas mostly carried the ailing daemon king, and kept close behind the prince, Charlie and Scarlet, in turn, were right on his heels. They moved into the next room; past huge decorative pots with healthy palms spreading their fronds, past magnificent sideboards, and a remarkable dining table of gleaming marble, set for at least twenty places with crystal glasses and golden cutlery, past a chess board as large as the card table it sat upon. Excess and extravagance were everywhere; candles with long tapered flames lighting each room as brightly as though it were upon the stage.

As they entered the next room, the last, Jacquetta declared, Silas gazed absently at the elaborate tapestries that hung from the walls. Still mulling over what the Child had said about the Berserker Prince. Wishing he understood it fully.

Let us hope he is not the creature needed for this task.

Her meaning tormented Silas, but burned a tiny spark of hope. If she did not know if the wildness of the Hellfield prince was needed, then perhaps this truly was the very last step. Perhaps, and the thought had his pulse thumping hard, they could simply hand over the simurgh after all.

And walk away.

Edward let out a cry, banishing Silas's sombre musings. The lieutenant's body stiffened, wracked by another harsh spasm. His fingers bent to claws as muscles contracted. Charlie dashed past Silas, bumping into him in his rush.

‘Edward, it's all right. Edward.'

‘Please, hurry.' Spittle flew as the lieutenant sought to speak. Pitch had gone to move around the chair, but Jacquetta's shout sent him straight back to the handles.

‘This way, quickly. Move.'

There was no hesitation, no snide remarks, from the prince, nothing but a heeding of the instruction. The Child tore down one of the tapestries, a peaceful scene of flowered meadows and spring lambs.

A stark iron door lay beneath. A coarse, unrefined contrast to the elegance of the rest of the palace, so far. Etched into its surface, in ink black, were the emblematic curls and flourishes of runework. There was no evident door handle.

‘He is coming,' Edward spoke, though clearly under duress, his cheeks ruddy, sweat dampening his brow. ‘I cannot hold him.'

‘Here, come to the door.' Jacquetta stepped up to the chair, and against Charlie's shouts of alarm, she lifted Edward clear.

‘What are you doing?' Charlie sought to intervene, but Pitch stepped forward, wrapping his arms about the lad, and dragging him away.

‘Let them be, so this might be done.'

Silas tried to catch Pitch's eye, to get a glimpse of any pain that might lurk there. Did the simurgh roil violently within him?

But Pitch kept himself turned, away from Silas's careful eye.

Jacquetta handled Edward roughly, but there seemed no other way as the cruel twists of his body made his movements so erratic. The pair looked to be in a sort of half-hearted tussle, and with Charlie's cries growing ever more fearful, Silas considered stepping in. But Jacquetta was soothing, not demanding.

‘Doing well, just a little further.' She moved him another step.

‘I see the crest. Please, help me…with my hands, lift them…' Edward pleaded, or rather, instructed. He was not asking for help from any other but the Child. She obliged, clearly knowing what must be done.

‘Of course, Your Grace.'

‘Stop…calling me that,' he grunted. ‘I am Edward, still. He does not…rule me.'

A valiant protest, from a noble man, but his struggle was horribly apparent.

Silas's distraction saw his arm loosen around the king's back, and Lucifer made a stifled grunt of pain.

‘Sorry.' He quickly adjusted his hold, taking a handful of Lucifer's trousers to hoist him upright more firmly.

Pitch, with Charlie a wriggling eel in his grasp, frowned at Silas, and the frown deepened when he looked to Lucifer. But Silas shook his head. Now was not the time.

Jacquetta lifted Edward's hand. His fingers were splayed wide, but bent at the first knuckle, which were white with strain.

‘There, that's it.' Edward's head jerked to one side, unsettling in how like the ravens he moved. ‘Now, Child.'

Jacquetta heaved him forward, his legs bowed, his torso stiff as a board.

Edward's hand landed upon the iron.

The black markings of the runes lit piercing white.

A laborious groan came from hidden parts. The door did not swing open, rather it rolled into the frame, disappearing. Jacquetta and Edward moved across this new threshold, stepping into light as bright as that which had greeted them at the main door.

Like looking into a fledgling sun.

Pitch grunted, cursed, and lost his grip on Charlie, the lad slipping from him. Both dashed forward, one seeking to escape, the other to capture. Edward made it through the doorway, disappearing inside, but Pitch only made it as far as the threshold.

He stopped in its frame, hunching over, a quiet whimper of pain leaving him. His hands wrapped about his belly.

‘Pitch, does the simurgh pain you?'

Silas cursed the burden of the sickly king, and was none too gentle about gathering him up, lifting him off his feet so they might move faster. Lucifer's low moan was not pleasing, but Silas did not like how still Pitch was in the doorway.

‘What is it? Is something wrong?' Silas winced, Lucifer's heat almost too much to bear. ‘Talk to me, damn it.'

Pitch turned. The light made his appearance seem gaunt and haunted. His eyes shimmered, cold chips of emerald.

‘I remember, Silas. I remember this room. This is where Seraphiel kept me on my back. And it seems he's found a new plaything.'