A GATHERING STORM

[Nedward Underhill]

Borelin spent the next few hours brooding, racking his mind for what he might say to put the town off of the scent. Rook had wanted to know what was going on, and had pestered him with questions until Borelin snapped at him to be quiet. The nurses had given him dark looks, and of course he felt guilty, but he just needed to be left alone so that he could think straight. Besides, he didn’t have the first idea how to explain what was going on to the lad. He hardly knew himself.

Rook’s wings were relatively well hidden, thanks to the padded brace Borelin had crafted for him, but all the same any careful observer would see that he wasn’t human. Fully-grown seraph were generally a foot or so taller than men, while their bodies were slighter. Rook’s limbs and facial features all appeared slightly stretched in comparison to that of a human child. His skin too was slightly different; a bit too unblemished and perfect to be human. Borelin told himself that these minor variances could be overlooked. But try as he might, he could not persuade himself that anyone could mistake the lad’s golden eyes. They shone with a metallic lustre and proclaimed him seraph as effectively as raising a battle standard.

Snuffing the lights in the infirmary wouldn’t work. The room was bright during the day. Besides, if anyone came at night they’d just ask for the lights to be lit, and any refusal would seem suspicious. Maybe he could wrap Rook’s head in bandages, as if he had received a head injury when he fell. The bandages could either cover his eyes entirely, or maybe just leave a small slit so that the colour of his eyes would be cast in shadow. The lad might object, but it would be only until he recovered. A few days’ hardship, and then it would be over.

“Otal?” Rook called.

“Hey kiddo?” The big man answered from his cot.

“Can you keep telling me more about the ice walkers?”

Borelin had been so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize that Otal was shambling over to the visit the lad until the man was pulling up a chair to the other side of the lad’s cot.

Too late, Borelin leapt up to his feet. “Rook, I don’t think that is a good idea!”

Both Rook and Otal turned curious eyes on him.

“Don’t worry, buddy.” Otal volunteered, waving a large hand toward Borelin to suggest he could sit back down. “You got a lot on your mind. I’m just going to talk to boy. Tell him some stories about the north. You know, it’s hard lying in a bed all day, doing nothing. It will be good for the both of us!”

The lad reached out a small hand and grabbed onto his arm. He smiled winningly at Borelin. “Please? Uncle Otal was telling me about them earlier, and it’s really interesting. He’s hunted there!”

Borelin’s head spun. Despite the comments of the townsfolk, he didn’t really think that the lad was in any danger. It was everything else about the situation that was maddening. The fact that the two of them had already been spending time together, while Borelin was out. What did Otal know, or think? Could he really be too dense to realize that Rook was a seraph? In addition, the lad had adopted the “Uncle Otal” nickname. He had obviously bonded with the big idiot. Even Otal’s insistence on calling Borelin “buddy” drove him crazy.

Borelin closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath. “Otal, I’m not your buddy,” he said, “and you are supposed to be resting.”

“Okay buddy, whatever you say. Your name Borelin, then?”

So much for his privacy. Just another crumbling stone in the wall he had carefully constructed around his life. Opening his eyes again, he fixed Otal was a dangerous look, and said, “You seem to have effectively inserted yourself into the lad’s life. I do not know why you have done this. But even if I choose to allow it, it doesn’t mean that I like it, or that I like you. Now, I’m going to go talk to Mother Clara. If you are here with Rook, you will guard him with your life. Clear?”

Borelin waited for the man to get angry, but instead, Otal just smiled broadly and gave him a thumbs up. “You got it, bud—Borelin. I’ll keep him safe, don’t you worry.”

Borelin found Clara in the chapel. She did not agree to the head-bandaging plan.

“Borelin! Clearly, you aren’t even thinking straight anymore. Did you really just suggest to me that we blind the boy for a few days?”

“Or, we could just layer the bandages so that he could see a bit.”

“And what about Jaime, and Alleigh? And Otal?”

“They would have to be sworn to secrecy.”

The chaplain’s eyes flashed with anger. “Lie for you?”

“Umm…”

“You may not have noticed, Borelin,” Clara continued, barely allowing him a chance to answer, “But you are not the most popular person in my infirmary. Now, if you want people to lie for you, they generally have to at least like you.”

Borelin thought that was not exactly true. They could also lie if they were sufficiently afraid. He did not, however, volunteer this information.

“Alright, I can try to be nicer. Even right now, in fact, the lad is sitting hearing hunting stories from Otal. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

The chaplain’s eyebrows rose up. “Otal’s up again? How many times do I have to tell him…Wait a second, you had two nurses nearby, and you chose to leave him in the care of Otal?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that…”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the chapel door scraping open, followed by the stamping of feet within the antechamber. Borelin froze at the sound, his heart racing. A moment later, the inner door swung open and Falaff Gruuta, Crainil’s town chieftain, stepped into the cloistered space.

Borelin had seen the man before and knew who he was, though they had never spoken. Falaff had the unmistakeable look of a politician. He was a large man, both in height and girth. He stepped with confidence and purpose, and his movements suggested that power and strength remained with him. But years of table comforts and leisure had taken their toll, and his laboured breathing spoke volumes about the excess weight he carried with him.

Falaff paused at the chapel entry and made a half kneel towards the greeting statue. Straightening, he adjusted his belt, stomped his feet again, and then turned to face Clara and Borelin.

“Well, just the folks I was hoping to visit!” The chief had a warm melodious voice and a malleable face, which was currently curled up in a welcoming expression.

“Hello Chief. Welcome, and Yaelwe’s grace be with you.” Clara walked over to greet him, and was subjected to a great bear hug from their guest.

“Fal, please Mother!” he corrected. He released the chaplain from the embrace, but kept one large arm draped over her shoulder. Then he led them both back towards Borelin. “And here is our small town’s newest celebrity,” he said, favouring Borelin with a bright smile.

Borelin nodded stiffly.

After a moment, Clara spoke up. “Borelin, this is Chief Gruuta. Or just ‘Fal,’ as he tends to prefer.”

“Borelin, eh?” Falaff smiled, releasing Clara and extending his hand in greeting. Borelin shook it mechanically.

“Yes sir,” he answered.

“Borelin! Well, there you have it! And everyone’s just been calling you ‘Hermit’ all these years! As if that’s a proper name for an upstanding fellow like yourself!”

“I prefer to keep to myself, and don’t generally volunteer my name.”

“Keep to yourself, Borelin. Mind your own business. A good policy, as a general rule. One I agree with, Borelin. We agree on that,” Falaff answered, still shaking Borelin’s hand. Somehow, Borelin doubted that the Chief ever minded his own business. More likely, he spent his whole life sticking his nose into others’ business.

“But it's funny you should mention minding your own business, Borelin,” Falaff continued. “Because I just got a visit from a bunch of good folks – decent folks, salt of the earth – who were mighty interested in you and your business. But,” Falaff held up his hands to forestall further conversation, “Something like this needs a proper sit-down-and-get-to-know-you. And these benches are hardly what I’d call comfortable. Mother, you still have those stuffed chairs I got the Magnuson’s to make for you?”

“Yes, of course I do. Where would they have gone chief?”

Falaff laughed heartily. “And how about a little cake and tea? Folks can’t make good conversation without breaking bread together! Right, Borelin?”

Borelin attempted to smile, but only managed to produce something more like a pained grimace.

“Good!” Falaff cheered. He patted Borelin jovially on the back. “Well, then we’re all agreed! Mother, after you.”

[Nedward Underhill]

Back in the chaplain’s residence, the chief insisted on going through the motions of casual conversation. Clara appeared at ease with it, but Borelin sat on the edge of his chair, woodenly answering the questions put to him and wishing that the fellow would get to the point. To make matters worse, Falaff appeared to know a fair amount of Borelin. It was very disconcerting.

“So Borelin—you don’t mind me calling you Borelin do you? Do you prefer your family name perhaps?”

“Actually, I am fine with being knows as a Hermit…”

“Oh posh! We’re all friends here! But as I was saying, Borelin, how are those bolocs fattening up? You have about ten of the beasts, isn’t that right?”

“Umm, a dozen this year.”

“A dozen! Well! You still getting your feed from Glanra Tolsen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Fal. That Glanra, she runs a clean operation. Top quality. Good for you, Borelin. Go with the best, I always say. We agree on that.”

“I guess so.”

“Of course we do! You know, it occurs to me, I don’t think I’ve seen you in town since the harvest moon festival! That is, the Holy Harvest Days – begging your pardon, Mother.”

“I know that some of the townsfolk still keep the old ways, Chief, but you should know better,” Clara reprimanded. “We aren’t moon worshippers any longer.”

Unfazed, Falaff simply laughed it off. He helped himself to some tea and biscuits. “Old habits die hard, Mother. It’s the way of things. By the way, these biscuits are excellent! Very tasty indeed. Do you mind if I…?”

“Help yourself,” she answered.

So it went, on and on, for a few painful minutes, while Borelin ground his teeth in frustration. To add insult to injury, Falaff seemed to delight in dropping Borelin’s name into every other sentence. More than once Borelin had to bite his tongue to stop from just snapping out that they should get to the point already. But he held his peace, and finally, as Falaff polished off the last of the biscuits, the moved the conversation to business.

“So! It is certainly is important to spend quality time together like this, getting to know each other. Particularly you, Borelin. Don’t you agree?”

Borelin nodded.

“Not to say that folks don’t have their own private business. Of course they do. But Crainil’s a small town. A small town of folks with big hearts, as I like to say! Good people, the lot of them. And the thing about our town, is that folks help each other. When the cold is biting, and the snow’s coming down hard form the north, folks can’t rightly turn their back on each other. Why, it doesn’t matter if someone has done you wrong, you’d help them out. Take them in, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, Chief,” Clara answered. “Scripture leads us to such a life.”

“You and I might disagree on why folks watch out for each other around here, Mother, but we agree on one thing, these are helping folks. You understand that, Borelin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Fal,” he answered Borelin, then turned back to his main topic and addressed them both. “But you know, there’s another thing about our little town. Folks remember things. Something happens to one of ours – which includes our fine local hermit, in case you were wondering, Borelin – and we’re like to remember it. It’s because we watch out for each other, you see?”

“I’m sorry, Chief,” Clara interjected, “But I don’t quite follow.”

Falaff took a sip of tea and continued. “Well, about this boy. I guess you had words with nurse Ilsen, Borelin.” He held up his hand to prevent Borelin from responding, and quickly put in, “I’m not saying it was or was not justified. That’s not my concern. You strike me as a fine, upstanding fellow. I expect you had the best of intentions in all of your actions.”

“Thank you,” Borelin answered.

“Posh! No thanks needed. But here’s the thing.” Falaff sat forward in the chair, and hitched up his belt. “Mr. Ilsen – Hans – he gets himself all worked up about some slight to his wife, and he starts talking. What he talking about? Well, maybe at first he was talking about his wife, but by the time he gets to me, he’s talking about a boy. A boy about ten years old.”

Clara put down her teacup with a slight rattle. Borelin became very still.

“Now,” Falaff continued in a casual voice, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, “Hans has got himself a small group of folks with him, and he’s talking about this boy because they are talking about the boy. Especially the women. Funny thing about women, they remember things better than us men, most times, especially when it come to children.

“And here’s what they are remembering, these good women. They are remembering that about ten years ago, Borelin, you showed up in our town. You are a good looking man, and turned a few heads, including that of our new chaplain, Mother Clara.”

“Now just a minute,” Clara objected.

“Let me finish, Mother.” Falaff turned back to Borelin, and continued, “Needless to say, folks around here might call you Hermit if you ask them too, but they still remember everything about you, Borelin. They don’t forget how you kept to yourself, but spent almost all your time at chapel. They remember how you had a lot of silver in your coin purse, and a strong desire to get a farm built way out on the plain…with no questions asked. And they remember other details, things that women notice more than men do. Things about, well, to call a spade a spade, a baby.”

“Chief, what are you suggesting?” Clara’s voice had gone cold.

Falaff turned reached out a friendly hand to pat her. “Clara, I’ve known you since you came to do the Sky Father’s work here, and you should know that I’ve been a strong supporter of the church, and you, all these years. Everyone has secrets. I understand. And, honestly, I don’t judge people for being human. But, sometimes, our secrets have a way of coming back to haunt us. And that is the sort of situation that you two are in, right about now.”

Borelin had forgotten to breathe. He took a deep breath and found his voice. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s a good question, Borelin.” Falaff replied. “I’m trying to figure it out. I can tell you one thing. There are a bunch of womenfolk who think that a man trying to raise a boy on his own, out in the plains, well that’s not a good idea on a number of counts. No disrespect intended, you understand.”

Borelin felt a flare of anger in his gut. “Maybe such womenfolk should mind their own business!” he retorted.

Falaff raised his hands as if to concede the point. “I understand where you are coming from, Borelin. But there’s a point there. Ten years is a long time for a boy to be alone, without his mother nearby. Not to mention the dangers.”

Clara had been cast into a stunned silence. Now she spoke up again. Her voice shook with the effort of controlling it. “Chief, I think you have made a huge mistake.”

“Now just hold on, Clara. I know what you are thinking. I understand the teaching of the church, and your vow of celibacy. It understandable what happened. But we need to think about the boy now. That’s why I’ve come over to have a quiet private conversation with the both of you. To work it out.”

“Chief…”

“Look, this is the north,” Falaff continued quickly. “Things are different here. Prayer, worship, and the teachings of the church are all well and good, but then there’s life. Life happens to all of us. Remember I said that we take care of our own? We do. And that includes you both. I’m here to offer you an opportunity, Clara, to live a normal life. Folks don’t care what you’ve done, and how things happened. You’re flesh and blood, and you were a young women. They understand. Borelin’s a good man, and obviously devout. You’re a good match, even now. Frankly, if you want the honest truth, the folks that have been talking to me for the last few hours are most upset that the boy has had to suffer all these years, without his mother. Now, we need to change that. You are a damn fine chaplain, and we still want you. But the fact is that this boy needs his mother, Clara, and no one outside of our little fortress town needs to know anything about it.”

There was a long stunned silence. Having delivered his speech with as much eloquence as he could muster, Falaff sat back comfortably finished off his tea, waiting for a response.

Clara and Borelin regarded each other. It was now clear that the townsfolk had misunderstood their secret. Falaff had inadvertently provided a perfect escape from discovery, a perfect lie. But Borelin knew that to play along with the lie was profoundly unfair to Mother Clara. She had lived with his secret, and helped him in every way that she could. He could not ask her to proclaim to the world that she had failed to keep her vow of celibacy, and given birth to the lad in secret.

Steeling himself, Borelin turned his eyes back to the waiting chieftain. “Falaff,” he began. His voice was surprisingly calm. “Clara is not the lad’s mother. It’s impossible.”

[Nedward Underhill]

“Sweet Father above,” Falaff breathed.

Rook sat up as best he could manage, his wing harness lay in Borelin’s hands, and his chest was bare. Behind his small shoulders, his wing-spikes wavered timidly.

Of course, once Chief Gruuta learned the truth, he had insisted on seeing the lad himself. A hush had fallen over the infirmary as Borelin had entered and approached the lad, leading the chief and chaplain behind like a tiny procession. Borelin had insisted that they pull the stall curtains while he explained things to Rook. Not that it made that much difference; everyone in the room crowded about them. Mother Clara stood next to Borelin, as if to lend him moral support. Falaff stood across from them nervously hitching up his pants, his pasted-on joviality forgotten. Jaime and Alleigh hovered at the edge of the stall, whispering to each other. Even Otal was there. He watched eagerly from the end of the bed, evidently enjoying both the spectacle, as well as the freedom allowed to him by being momentarily neglected by his caregivers.

Falaff seemed to be unable to believe his eyes. His held his hands out towards the lad, but it was unclear whether he wanted to take hold of him or ward him away. “All this time…” he whispered to himself.

“Borelin, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Rook asked, turning frightened eyes towards his guardian.

“Nothing’s wrong, lad,” Borelin answered. “Chief Gruuta is just a bit surprised to meet you. Isn’t that right, Chief?”

Falaff didn’t seem to hear the question. His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. His fat neck swivelled to Mother Clara, back to the lad, and then to Borelin.

“Chief!” Borelin said with slightly more force. The man needed to get himself together. “You wanted to see the truth for yourself, and now you have. I trust that you are satisfied, and you understand our situation?”

“But how…?” Falaff blurted out. “How did this happen?” His wide eyes turned back to the lad, and wondered aloud, “A seraph. Living among us. Here in Crainil.”

The lad reached across his chest and scratched an itch on his wing mantle, ruffling the downy feathers where his wings grew out of his upper back. His golden eyes moved from person to person, looking for safe shelter. Borelin laid a protective hand on the lad’s shoulder.

“It’s kind of cold,” Rook suggested, crossing his arms over his bare chest. It wasn’t really, but Borelin understood that the lad felt self-conscious about being so much on display. He didn’t blame him.

“Why don’t we get you back in your harness and get you dressed again?” He suggested.

Rook nodded. But as Borelin raised the padded leather harness, the boy’s body was shook by a nervous shiver, which cast out his unrestricted wings to their full extension. For a moment they hovered there above him. It was a striking image, the lad’s frail broken body framed by two great down-covered spikes like a broken halo.

“What in Heaven’s name…?” Falaff took a startled step back, staring at the lad in evident confusion. “Where are the …umm…rest of them? His wings, I mean. There’s no—”

Borelin could not believe the man’s insensitivity! His voice cracked like a whip. “That is how the lad’s wings have grown, and it is perfect acceptable to me, and to him. He is young, and they have not fully formed. But if he does not ever grow functional wings, sobeit!”

Recovering his composure, Falaff quickly tried to make amends. “Yes. Of course. I did not mean to imply anything. I was merely surprised as I have expected…but, as you say, I’m sure that they are---I mean, he is perfectly acceptable…more than acceptable, of course…” The chief’s turned back to regard the lad as his words stuttered, and then petered out. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he placed his fingers to his lips, lowered himself on one knee, and bowed his head. “Please forgive me,” he managed.

As if impelled by his example, everyone around the cot got down on one knee before the lad. Even Clara fell on one knee before him. Rook and Borelin were left looking around in shocked confusion.

A hush fell over the room. Rook’s golden eyes turned to Borelin seeking help and guidance.

“Chief. All of you,” Borelin said, “don’t do this. I’m sure that the lad is feeling awkward enough.”

No one rose.

“It’s okay,” Rook said, hesitantly. “You can get up. Please.”

“To think I was telling my snow stories to a heavenly being!” Otal exclaimed from where he knelt at the end of the bed. Apparently, he hadn’t figured it out on his own. Borelin shook his head in amazement.

Falaff raised his head.“A seraph in Crainil!” he repeated. “Here at the Divine Spirit Luial’s! Who would have thought!”

Borelin saw visions of grandeur in the man’s eyes, and scowled. He turned and reached down to help the chaplain to her feet.

“Clara, surely you of all people can see the lad for what he is.”

Clara rose up slowly, but not before bowing her head one more time. “I’m sorry Borelin,” she said. “It’s one thing to operate on a sick or unconscious child. But to see him fully alive and so…real, it’s just overwhelming.”

Borelin helped the lad back into his harness, and then into his shift. Finally, the group seemed to break out of the spell that had come over them.

Falaff turned and regarded Borelin with fresh eyes. “Who are you?”

Borelin had no desire to answer the question. “I’m no one important,” he said.

“But how did you come to have a seraph child?” Falaff insisted.

Borelin sighed. “I was a soldier serving in the human-seraph alliance, before it was ended. While I was in service, Rook came into my care. As you know, he was an infant when he came to me. His parents died, and he needed care and safe housing, so I headed to the north. To Crainil, the farthest northern town in all Aerland. I hoped that he might live a quiet life here. When I arrived, I appealed to Mother Clara to help me, and out of the kindness of her heart she did. As you know chief, I had enough silver to get a farm started. I did so. I’ve raised the lad on the farm ever since.”

“Amazing!” the chief exclaimed, evidently still overcome by a rush of excitement.

“Rook injured his leg a few days back,” Borelin pressed on, snapping his fingers to recapture Chief Gruuta’s wandered attention. “We had to make an emergency trip to the chapel for Mother Clara’s healing. The lad survived the surgery, looks like. But unfortunately, ever since we arrived, one thing after another has conspired to expose the secret of his existence. It is very important,” Borelin paused for emphasis, and swept his eyes over all assembled, “to me, and young Rook, that his presence here remain unannounced to the general population. Or to anyone.”

Otal scratched his head, and asked, “But if he’s a seraph, why can’t he just heal himself?”

Borelin shook his head. “The lad does not have any holy powers such as prayer healing. As I told you, he’s just a boy. He’s just as vulnerable to injury as any other child his age would be. Which is exactly why I am asking all of you for your help in keeping his existence here a secret.”

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 9

The great pale-blue sky shone down clear and bright as the small sled cut a thin and lonely line in the white expanse of the plain. Reflected morning light glared hard and blinding off the snow. Borelin ran the dogs hard, frustrated by the need to return to the farm without Rook. But the bolocs wouldn’t feed themselves, and he couldn’t afford to lose the herd. The air was sharp and crisp, but with no real wind blowing, the sun’s heat pressed down hard. He pushed back the fur-lined hood of his overcoat to let the wind cool his sweating face. The dogs worked at a strong steady pace, but it felt like he was inching his way forward. His eyes futilely scanned the featureless horizon for a glimpse of their lonely farm, but it would be a couple of hours sledding yet before it would come into view. Though, as always, he breathed a sigh of relief in being away from the press of the town, he hated to leave the lad’s side. Sky Father only knew what the townsfolk might do next.

Everyone maintained that they had kept the lad’s secret, and had only told one person under promise of utmost secrecy. Somehow, within a day of the revelation of a seraph child in their midst, the entire town was abuzz with the news. At first they came and congregated outside the infirmary, by ones and twos, just to stand about and whisper to each other about the wonder within. Mother Clara went out and sent them off, but inevitably within a few hours they were back, and in greater numbers. When Jaime and Alleigh went home, they were mobbed with questions, most of them wildly exaggerated. Was it true that a seraph had fallen from Heaven? Had he sung prayers for them? What miracles had he performed? Did he glow like a star? The townsfolk, too frightened to come inside and see the wonder themselves, listened with rapt attention to every detail they could squeeze out of the women. Borelin stood just inside the door listening to their eager voices, grinding his teeth in frustration.

One of the lads from the town got it into his head to climb up the outside wall of the infirmary in order to peek in the windows, and managed to fall and break his wrist. He was of course rushed inside to be administered healing. This then led to a rash of “emergency” injuries from other townsfolk. Unlike the hapless boy, however, these complaints were invariably lacking in clear physical symptoms. The entire town had apparently been struck with a sudden onset of hearing loss, terrible migraines, and aching joints. Clara sent as many packing as she could; but all the same, by the third day every cot in the ward was full.

Otal loved it. He went from bed to bed making sure that everyone knew that he had been there first, and that the seraph child was under his protection. Borelin sat hunched within the drawn curtains, trying not to listen to the big idiot’s pompous blather. When Otal came to visit the lad, Rook was so excited to see him that Borelin could not deny him, but he made pointed suggestions about how Otal might keep his mouth shut. The words made not the slightest impact on the man. In fact, the only good thing about Otal was that he continued to snore, which sent the less determined pilgrims back home to their own beds.

Just as Borelin began to hope that they might go back home, Rook’s condition took a turn for the worse. The fever returned like a stubborn thief, and sapped the boy’s strength. Rook lay in bed, sleeping fitfully or gazing up at the ceiling with vacant, red-rimmed eyes. Mother Clara insisted that it was normal to have such setbacks, and that the fever would break in time, but Borelin felt that she was putting on a brave face for his sake. He knew he was showing the strain. It was heartbreaking to watch the lad so weak and helpless and be unable to do anything to help. The nurses changed the sweat-soaked sheets daily, and managed to get liquids into him, but the lad was clearly delirious and understood nothing that was said to him.

Borelin rented a small place in town, and started commuting out to the farm every two days to tend to the herd. Gone was any vestige of anonymity. Everywhere he went, people called him by name. He was universally standoffish, but the cheery residents seemed to pay it no mind. The merchants frequently tried to give him free products and services. Even his room was offered as a gift from Chief Gruuta. Borelin insisted on paying anyway. Though he said nothing, in his heart Borelin believed that Falaff had deliberately let the secret out, which was unforgivable.

A sudden gust whipped up the ground’s surface powder and tossed it into Borelin’s face, yanking him out of his reverie. He removed his snow visor, smeared the melting snow off his face with one hand, and focused back on his surroundings. To his surprise, they had already made most of the journey. In fact, scanning in front of them, he could just make out a tiny triangular break in the horizon.

“Come on, Rand, almost there!” He shouted. “Hike!”

The silverbacks obligingly picked up the pace, and they fairly flew the final mile to the farm. As Borelin approach, however, he realized that something was wrong. Though he had not been back to the farm for two days, and had not left a fire burning, a thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the house. Borelin pulled the dogs to a stop at about five hundred yards, and cautiously regarded the scene. At first glance, there was no sign of life. But when he looked more closely, he saw tracks around the property that were only partially obscured over by the shifting surface cover. Whoever it was had arrived not long ago, a half-day at most.

Borelin studied the smoke trail, trying to determine if anyone was inside. He didn’t see a sled team, but that didn’t mean much. They could easily be hidden behind one of the buildings. Best not to take any chances. Borelin stepped off of the sled and set about unhitching the dogs. If there was trouble, he didn’t want them restrained or getting tangled up in the harness. Catching his mood, they pawed about him alternately whining and letting out low growls. He then retrieved the replaced short spear that was strapped to the side of the craft, and set out to complete the last few yards on foot.

The dogs fanned out behind him, their hackles raised. Borelin strained to hear some sign of life, but the only sounds were the crunch of his footsteps, the panting of the dogs, and the occasional slight puff of wind on his jacket. In the house, one of the second floor glass windows face south and looked towards him. Borelin could not help feeling watched. He repeatedly scanned the glass for signs of life as he approached, but it was impossible to inside.

As Borelin rounded the corner of the house, he saw the sled team. Thirteen lutas, resting in the snow between the house and the barn, harnessed to a well-laden sled. Whoever it was, they had come a long way, and with haste. The lutas’ heads came up as Borelin came into view. Even with the added strength and power of the silverbacks, twelve on four was not good odds. Rand’s ruff rose up to its full height, and he let out a murderous growl that brought the harnessed pack to its feet. Borelin commanded Rand to be still, but the damage was already done. Both packs erupted into a furious exchange, the lutas’ shrill yappings answered by the rumbling woofs of the silverbacks.

The element of surprise lost, Borelin moved as swiftly as he could manage in his snowwalkers over to the entryway into the house. Placing himself next to the stairway, he leaned against the house, lifted the snow spear, and waited for someone to emerge. The dogs continued to clamour back and forth terribly, but neither pack closed with the other. After a minute, the door opened, and a single tall figure ducked out into the light. His jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a ruggedly handsome face of about Borelin’s vintage. A strong, pointed nose sat over a freshly clean-shaven jaw that worked down to a cleft chin. Wrinkles creased the sides of his steel grey eyes as he scanned out over the uproarious scene. In his hands he held a washing cloth.

“Yield!” Borelin barked, lunging forward to bring the spear-point against the man’s neck. A moment later, as recognition dawned, he pulled back his weapon.

[Nedward Underhill]

“Urkhart?”

Borelin had served with Urkhart before he settled down, but had not seen the man for years. The man turned to regard his would-be attacker, and then smiled warmly. “I yield,” he answered, playfully tossing the cloth into the snow. “Not only have you the drop on me, I suspect that your weapon is slightly more effective than mine. Though I never did consider you much of a spearman, Rocca.”

A moment later, Urkhart had ascended the last few steps and the two men were heartily grasping each other’s wrists in greeting. Urkhart stood an inch or two taller than Borelin, but his open coat revealed a significantly slighter build. Indeed, there did not appear to be any fat on the man. His cheeks had a slightly gaunt appearance, and his grasping hand, though long and muscular, looked to be more bone than flesh.

They spent the next few minutes quieting the dogs, and then together they retrieved the sled from where Borelin had abandoned it. Urkhart had an easy, confident way with the silverbacks, and after being properly introduced, Rand quickly accepted him. With the silverback team safely chained back up and fed, Borelin let the bolocs out to pasture, and the two men headed into the house to get reacquainted.

The interior of the house was, for the most part, a single open space. Extending over the back half of the main floor was a second-floor balcony that housed the sleeping quarters. These were accessed by way of two ladders, one on either side of the room. Other than by the entryway, where the frozen ground was covered in woodchips, the floors were entirely blanketed in furs, giving the home a very warm, comfortable, appearance. In the centre of the house was a large fieldstone fireplace with a cooking pit. A lively fire burned in the pit, beneath a large blackened pot of boiling water.

“I arrived this morning,” Urkhart explained. “When I didn’t find you here, I just got the fire going and made myself at home. Frankly, after two weeks on the trail I was in desperate need of a shave and a wash, so I got some water boiling and cleaned myself up. That’s when you showed up. Hope you don’t mind.”

Borelin shook his head, dismissing the need for apology. “You must be hungry. Let me get some food on.”

“Mighty kind of you. A hot meal would be perfect! Maybe a little wine?”

Borelin’s head snapped back to the other man. “Wine?”

Urkhart laughed dismissively. “Oh Rocca, it’s been a long time! I take from your shocked expression that you still live an austere and faithful life?”

Borelin was shocked. “I live by the principles of the church, as did you when last we met.”

Urkhart’s smile faded slightly and a hint of sadness crept into his eyes for a second. “It has been a long time. Too long, my friend. I still keep the faith, but this life is hard and it takes its toll.” Recovering his easy manner, he continued in a lighter tone, “I say, if the worst of my sins are the enjoyment of a bottle of good cheer now and then, I’ll call myself a divine spirit and die a contented man.”

Borelin didn’t know how to respond, so said nothing, and merely headed off to get the meal started. In the southwest corner of the main floor was a sitting area with covered chairs seated around a short round table. Urkhart settled himself, and after a minute or two Borelin came and joined him.

“So you’ve really become a farmer,” Urkhart said, as Borelin sat back down. “Who would have thought!”

Borelin shrugged. “It’s not a bad life. I don’t mind it, really.”

“And bolocs!” Urkart exclaimed, in amazement. “Where’d you get that idea? I hear they are bloody hard to raise. Surely you might have chosen something a bit easier?”

Borelin shrugged. “There’s a demand. You just need to know how to handle them.”

Urkhart settled back in his chair and put his feet up. “Well, I’m impressed. I think I would have gone mad with nothing but the snow, the wind, and a handful of surly beasts for company.”

“Well, I’ve got the lad as well,” Borelin pointed out.

Urkhart smiled. “Oh yes. Bolocs, and the duties of fatherhood.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted your lot.”

Borelin didn’t like the insinuation. “He’s a good lad.”

Urkhart threw his hands up in surrender. “No offence intended. I’m sure you’ve done well with him. By the way, where is he, anyway?”

Borelin wasn’t willing to get into the details until he knew more of his visitor’s business. “He’s safe,” he answered, and then redirected the discussion back to his guest. “What about you? What have you done with yourself since we last met? Where are you living? Have you started a family?”

Urkhart cracked out a whip of a laugh at the suggestion, and then gave Borelin a curious smile. “You talk about keeping the faith; why, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve been doing good work where I can, defending the people from unjust tyranny, and generally trying to improve humanity’s lot in life.” Urkhart had a habit of talking with his hands. Now he threw open his arms for emphasis. “You may have noticed, life hasn’t gotten any easier under the rule of the usurper, Rocca. It’s gotten harder.”

Borelin put up a stopping hand. “Urkhart, Cracovia’s not the ‘usurper’, he’s the King. It’s not our business anymore.”

“On that point you are wrong, old friend,” Urkhart insisted. “You know full well that there is only one rightful King, and he’s not on Heaven’s throne.”

Borelin sighed and looked away. “What we fought for was just, and I still believe in it. But we lost. There’s no point chasing the wind.” Wiping his hands on his thighs, he got up, ending the conversation. “I had better check on the food, or it will burn.”

Borelin turned out a plain, but hearty fare for his old companion in arms, with fire-baked potatoes and butter, flat bread, milk, a block of sharp cheese, and thick gravy to go along with heaping portions of boloc steak he roasted up on the fire. His guest devoured everything that was put in front of him with and gusto. Between mouthfuls, Urkhart regaled Borelin with remembrances of old times. His chronicles inevitably involved a fair amount of exaggeration. Borelin was not surprised; Urkhart had always been one to prefer a tale of grand adventure to a plain recounting of the facts. It wasn’t that Urkhart was lying. In fact the opposite, he clearly believed that what he was telling was the real truth. The yarns were certainly entertaining, but Borelin would have preferred a simple chronology without embellishments.

By the time the meal was done, the light outside was already starting to fade. Borelin was anxious to get back to town. He stood up. “Unfortunately, I need to head back to Crainil. You are welcome to stay here as long as you need,” he said.

“Crainil? Is that where the boy is? You said he was safe?”

Borelin considered his question, and noted that Urkhart had neither missed his offhand remark nor been put off the scent. He was reminded never to engage in a battle of wits with the man.

“The lad hurt his leg falling out of a tree, and is recovering at the local infirmary in town. He’s in good hands.”

Urkhart raised an eyebrow. “Sounds serious. What happened to him?”

Quickly, Borelin explained. When he was finished, Urkhart asked, “Are you sure about this chaplain? No insult intended, but she’s a wasteland chaplain. I can get you a proper healer in a few weeks.”

Borelin shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll be long recovered before then.”

“What about the locals? Do they have any idea who he is?”

Borelin sighed. “Word that he’s a seraph has gotten out, and there’s a lot of interest. I’m doing what I can to control it…”

“Really?” Urkhart interrupted. “What do you mean, interest?”

“Though the chapel has an eyrie, I doubt that it has ever been used. They certainly have never set eyes on a seraph. There’s a lot of wild speculation, and a growing number of townsfolk are camped out at the chapel, trying to see him.”

“And they have no idea.” Urkhart shook his head in amazement. “Rocca, that’s perfect.”

Borelin frowned in confusion. “I don’t see…”

“If they are gathering like you say just to see him because he’s a seraph, imagine what they would do if they knew the truth! And not just in Crainil. Everywhere he goes people will flock to him.”

“Urkhart, please. When we served in the Sons of Adam, we fought for a dream. But those days are gone. The Sons disbanded years ago, and those dreams died with them. The only life for the boy now is in hiding and obscurity. If any word of his existence got out, we’d have seraph assassins here in a day.”

Urkhart rose up and put his hand on Borelin’s shoulder. “But what if the Sons of Adam weren’t disbanded?”

“I don’t deal in ‘what ifs,’” Borelin insisted.

Urkhart smiled, obviously enjoying Borelin’s confusion. “That was a long time ago, Rocca. Things change. If you weren’t so isolated you’d know the truth already.”

“What are you saying?” Borelin asked.

“I’m saying is that the Sons are active again, Rocca. It’s like I told you. Look around. Life has not been good for us under the usurper’s rule. The people are tired of the endless cold and the dark, and who can blame them? A few years ago, a handful of us reswore our vows and began to work in secret to bring the usurper to justice at last. Since then, our numbers have been growing. There are more Daurican loyalists out there than you might think. If you didn’t live out in the northern wastes, you would know. We’re everywhere, and we’re stronger than ever. It has taken a long time, but we are at last ready.”

[Nedward Underhill]

Borelin was shocked. He pulled away from the other man. “Urkhart, this is madness. Have you forgotten the defeat of the uprising at Mont Gomorrah, and the massacre at Black Talon Pass? Humans cannot hope to win when they take up arms against seraphim. Surely that is plain to you.”

Urkhart’s eyes flashed with fervour. “In that you are wrong. Yes, we suffered terrible losses at the hands of the seraphim. We had no idea what we were up against, and no allies. Everything is different now. We know our enemy, and we have powerful allies. Seraphim bleed just like you and I, Rocca. Trust me.”

Borelin struggled to take it all in. “So you’re at war,” he muttered, putting a steadying hand on the back of the chair beside him.

“No,” Urkhart corrected. “We are at war. All of humanity is at war, and has been for years. We have been the victims of war ever since the usurper took the throne by blood and force, and cast humanity out of Heaven. Now, we are just starting to strike back.”

Borelin hardly listened to the response. His thoughts were on Rook, and the quiet life that they had led together over the last ten years. Borelin had seen more than enough of bloodshed and violence during his time of service. He was glad that it was behind him. It was not something he ever wanted the lad to see.

After a moment, Borelin squared his shoulders and looked his old companion in the eyes. “Well, it’s no longer my business,” he said.

Borelin could see Urkhart taking in the answer and reading his body language. For a moment it looked like he was going to argue the point, but then he just relaxed and smiled. “That’s it?” he asked.

“Urkhart, I’m just a farmer now,” Borelin said, defensively. “I know that we fought together, and I admire you for keeping the faith. But I’ve got a farm to tend, and a boy to raise. I support your efforts, but I just can’t join you. I’m sure you understand.”

Urkhart laughed. “Of course I understand! Did I ask you to join?”

[Nedward Underhill]

Borelin felt himself relaxing. Despite his old friend’s words to the contrary, there was no doubt in Borelin’s mind that the purpose of the visit was to recruit him. “No. I suppose you didn’t,” he answered.

Urkhart patted Borelin on the shoulder, good-naturedly. “You, my friend, have faithfully done your duty for all these years. Speaking of which, we’d better get back to town! It’s already pretty late. What is it, an hour or so sledding?”

“Maybe with all those lutas,” Borelin answered. “It takes me a good three hours with my team.”

It wasn’t until they were dress and back outside that Borelin realized that Urkhart had invited himself along. The intrusion didn’t really sit well, but Urkhart had been so obliging that Borelin felt it would be rude to refuse him the chance to meet the lad. He owed him that much, after all that they had been through all those years ago.

[Nedward Underhill]

The wind was starting to pick up as the two men worked at bringing the bolocs into the barn. The sky was clear, however, so Borelin didn’t figure the blowing snow was sign of a coming storm. Urkhart was too cautious with the hairy beasts, which made the herding more difficult. More than one of them turned and barrelled towards the wiry fellow, sending him scampering off. Urkhart just laughed it off, seeming to find the whole business a great joke. Borelin found himself grinning goofily at the other man’s antics, and felt his spirit rise just by the presence of Urkhart’s irrepressible good nature.

Still, by the time the work was done the sun was fat and resting on the horizon. Borelin wiped the sweat off of his face, looking off into the distance and considering their options. Three hours sledding would put them well into the dark of night, which brought with it new risks and dangers. It wasn’t so much that they would lose their way, though that was always a possibility. No, the greater dangers were the freezing cold that came with the night, and the rare chance of encountering a nocturnal hunter. Such beasts were not to be trifled with. Indeed, Borelin knew that some of the more dangerous varieties of hunters only came out at night. In the featureless landscape of the north, the larger predators had no way to hide themselves by day. But under cover of the darkness, even a massive stalker could remain hidden from their prey until it was too late. Normally, it just wasn’t worth the risk.

Urkhart sidled up beside him. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Getting late,” Borelin answered.

“I’m not in a hurry. You want to wait ’til morning?”

Borelin shook his head. With things the way things were in Crainil, Borelin really didn’t like the idea of spending the night away from the lad.

Urkhart turned and considered the declining sun beside him. After a minute he suggested, “My team can get us to town before dark. We’ll comeback tomorrow for the silverbacks.”

As fond as he was of his old friend, Borelin knew that to sooner he sent Urkhart on his way the better. Especially if Urkhart had gotten himself embroiled in a new human uprising.

Borelin weighed the risks and came to a decision. With four silverbacks and thirteen lutas, they should be a large enough company to be avoided by anything but the worst night creatures. All the same, it never hurt to take precautions. He turned and headed back into the house. The northwest corner of the main floor functioned as the home’s storage room, and was jammed full with an orderly collection of cupboards, chests, and boxes. With Urkhart’s help, Borelin lifted aside several of the heaviest boxes and dragged out old wooden crate. It was long and narrow, and was fitted with a hinged lid that was sealed with a heavy iron padlock. He hefted the crate and placed it on one of the boxes of foodstuffs, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. Then, as his friend waited, Borelin then proceeded up to the loft and retrieved a skeleton key from under his mattress. Returning, he clicked open the lock and put it aside.

Inside, nestled on a bed of straw and wrapped inside soft cloth, were the remnants of Borelin’s time in as a soldier. His armour he had sold years ago in order to pay for the costs of setting up the farm, but his weapons he had kept. Now, Borelin carefully lifted out a small crossbow, as well as a quiver of bolts. Setting the crossbow aside, he buckled the quiver into place at his side. Then, reaching back into the crate, he drew out a large sword, sheathed within a worn leather scabbard. The blade was as wide across as a man’s palm, and a hand-span longer than a man’s outstretched arm. The hilt was simple and plain, without ornamentation or flourish. It had no pommel to speak of. Instead, the grip was long enough to accommodate two hands, and eight iron finger-guards looped out from the red leather on one side.

Urkhart’s eyes flashed. “Now there’s the old Borelin! Feeling better already, I bet.”

Borelin shrugged. “I’ll feel better when we get to town safely.”

[Nedward Underhill]

The strong wind at their backs made the dogs’ work easy and the two sleds flew over the snow, skimming along the surface at a dozen paces from each other. Urkhart kept his team at a pace to match Borelin’s, but travelled a safe distance beside him so as to keep the two teams apart. They called back and forth a few times as they got started, but it was difficult to hear with the blowing wind and incessant scraping of the snow upon the skis, and soon the two men gave up the attempt at conversation. Shadows crept around and over the odd rise in the flat expanse around them, and the fading light cast a blue tint over the horizon. The air was sharp and crisp; the first hints of the bitter cold that would come once the sun had fully set.

Borelin didn’t mind the time to himself; it gave him a chance to fully digest what Urkhart had told him. The Sons of Adam reformed and on the move against the King. It was hard to accept. Harder still to believe that they might have a chance against the supernatural might’ve the ruling seraphim. Just what wild wind had his old comrades in arms decided to unleash on humanity?

Just over ten years prior, Azriel Cracovia’s ascension to power had been quick and ruthless. Cracovia had then been Grand Marshall of both seraphim and human armies, and by all accounts was considered one of King Daurican’s closest advisors. In a startling turn of events, the ruling family was suddenly cast down. The uprising was executed with military precision. Not only had the insurgents deposed the former King and his family, Cracovia decapitated virtually all of the houses that might have opposed them. Within a week, only a scattered remnant remained among the seraphim to challenge his claim to power.

Humanity received word of the new King by royal proclamation. Perhaps Cracovia considered humanity beneath notice. It was clear that he did not expect resistance from them. He was wrong. As the initial shock subsided, civil unrest broke out in the cities. Even if the seraphim appeared ignorant of the truth, humanity understood that King Daurican had ruled by divine right. He was not just the King; he was Sky Father’s anointed in Aerland. In the human churches and on the street the people spoke with fear of God’s imminent retribution.

For a hundred years, ever since the Holy Crusade and final destruction of demonkind, humans and seraph had served the King together. Now, as the seraphim remained unwilling to take up arms against the usurper, the human armies cast off their age-old allegiance. Human forces and their leaders reasserted human independence. The Sons of Adam were formed, and soon became a banner that united the discontented and brought a promise of justice.

A young man of twenty, Borelin had recently begun his service in the King’s army. Like everyone else, he was horrified by the usurper’s foul deed, and disgusted by the lack of concern shown by the seraphim. He willingly joined the new army of the people, and lent his voice to the growing throng of humanity crying for justice. Urkhart too had been there in those early days, and if anything was even more outraged than Borelin. He had gotten himself involved in a splinter group that met in secret and spoke of organizing their own coup. Borelin attended a few meetings, but came away with mixed feeling about their bloody plans. In his heart, he wondered if killing the usurper was itself now regicide. Urkhart had no such misgivings.

In Heaven, seraphim and humans clashed in the streets. Despite the rising unrest, Cracovia did nothing, until Mont Gomorrah fell. When word trickled back to Borelin and Urkhart that human forces had overtaken the floating fortress, everything changed forever. Even as a host of seraphim ascended in force to put down the uprising, the remaining seraph armies turned viciously on their human counterparts. The Sons of Adam fled the floating cities and gathered in force upon the ground. Within the mountainous province of Feltrensis, protected by those few remaining seraphim Daurican loyalists, the human armies assembled within the impenetrable Fort Hatelin, an army fifty thousand strong. But they did not remain within the walls of the fortress. When Cracovia’s seraphim army arrived and issued challenge, the Sons of Adam marched out to engage the seraphim host at a place called Black Talon Pass. But though the humans had the best military minds to guide them, and though they fought with all their training, might, and determination, they could not face the mystical powers of the seraphim. How could they hope to defeat an enemy that could call down heavenly fire to consume them within their armour, or sweep over them singing prayers of death that ripped the very breath from their throats? The battle lasted only three days. When it was over, Black Talon Pass was choked with the human dead.

Even after the commanders of the Sons of Adam surrendered to him, King Cracovia took steps to ensure that the human resistance was utterly and forever shattered. Citing an obscure passage of scripture, the King issued an edict that all of humanity was required to leave the heavens. Naturally, humanity had always lived on the ground, but over the century of King Daurican’s reign a growing number had begun to join to settle within the floating cities. Now, they were commanded to return to the frozen surface once again. The exodus was not violent; there was no one left to resist. Seraph soldiers would simply arrive at the homes of the human citizens and announce that it was their time to leave. People took with them what they could carry. After a few months, every man, woman, and child had been taken down from the sky, to join their brethren and to make their way as best they could within the human settlements.

[Nedward Underhill]

Now, these ten years later, Urkhart was claiming that the Sons were reformed, that they were stronger than ever, and that justice was at last to be delivered on the King. How could he even say such things? What had he said, that humanity simply did not understand their enemy? Borelin knew that ignorance alone was not the reason for the catastrophic losses. Even with the best of preparation, the seraphim simply had too many advantages. They were taller than humans by a head. They were faster on their feet and with a blade. They could fly out of range, or even use their wings to buffet and blind their enemy. They lived twice as long, and therefore had the benefit of greater experience. And, of course, they could wield prayer. With all of these innate advantages, it was hardly any wonder that Cracovia might have considered them small and inconsequential.

His companion had also justified their losses claiming that they had had no allies last time. That was either a convenient lapse in memory or an outright lie, as it was plainly false. Giving Urkhart the benefit of the doubt, Borelin assumed that he must have talked himself into a convenient revision of the past. The Sons of Adam had had seraphim allies fighting along side them at Black Talon Pass. Not many, it was true, but they had stood with the human army. It had not made a difference. While their numbers were less than the massive casualties of the Sons of Adam, they too paid the ultimate price. If those numbers had been insufficient to turn the tide of battle, there was hard to believe that there could be a greater chance of success now. Surely there would not be more support among the seraphim for King Daurican ten years after his death.

However, there were several things that Urkhart had said that rang true. The years had been hard since Cracovia came to power. Life on the ground had always been harsh and unforgiving, but for the last few years it seemed like conditions were getting worse. The storms were increasingly unpredictable, and more frequent. The cold seemed to bite deeper. Each year Borelin had needed to buy more feed, as the bolocs dug up less and less vegetation from beneath the snow cover. Such harsh conditions would certainly breed discontent. When people suffered they looked for answers. And when they lost hope, they might even become willing to sacrifice their lives for a cause that gave meaning to their suffering. It could well be true that the Sons were gaining in support and interest if they provided such a ready answer.

Borelin was surprised by his own lack of interest. He well remembered how passionate he had been about the usurper’s heinous sin, and his own willingness to give his life for the cause. His exile to the northern wastes had itself been a supreme act of sacrifice, driven by his faith and commitment. Over the years, when he had struggled or faltered, he had often come back to his duty and vows as a source of strength. It was true that his prayers had changed as the years passed. He found himself praying less for strength of principle and more for mundane assistance in life’s daily tasks. The change had been slow and natural, and he had not worried about it. After all, his whole life had become a service to the lad. In the end, the choice he had made stopped being a duty and service, and became merely their quiet life together. But now, faced with Urkhart new message of hope, optimism, and justice, he felt that he should have been inspired to a passionate return of his old beliefs. Instead, he just felt worried about the man traveling at his side in the darkness.

[Nedward Underhill]

About an hour out, the sun disappeared completely under the horizon. The sunset flared out and was gone. Above the two sleds, the night sky spread out a panoply of sparkling stars, like a great black basin studded with diamonds. Urincia having just made passage across the sky the night prior would not return for another fortnight. As for the mother, Naewin, she would not appear to light their way for a few hours yet. The landscape around them was filled with black shadows and darkness, and Borelin was forced to rely heavily upon the instincts of the dogs to find their way forward.

By day the snow-covered ground appeared flat and featureless, but by night a different truth was revealed. The land was actually quite uneven, riddled with small bluffs and valleys, and peppered with breaks and jagged cracks in the snow cover. Periodically, low thorn-covered brush covered the ground or cropped up in their path. The snow too was itself a danger, shifting as it did from soft powder, to hard pack, to sheet ice without warning. Borelin legs began to ache from the strain of continuously bracing for another shift and jolt as the sled scrapped forward.

Without the sun’s heat, the cold began to bite hard. Even in his layers and heavy leathers, the icy wind cut through him. Borelin’s fingers ached with the cold, and from keeping a firm grip on the handlebar as he was jostled about. The wind was at their back, which was a mercy. Still, Borelin’s face burned as the air whipped inside his fur-lined hood and froze his skin. Inside his facemask, his lips became dry, chapped, and brittle. His gritted his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

The journey became a long silent struggle in the darkness. It was too cold to think of anything but the bitter cold and his slow forward progress. Steam puffed out of the mouths of the silverbacks as they strained forward. They at least were warm from their exertions. Borelin stamped his feet to keep his blood moving, even as he felt his body shutting down. His eyes crusted over with frozen tears. After awhile, he stopped being able to feel the freezing in his hands and face, which was not a good sign, but was a relief nonetheless. Mostly he stared at the ground immediately in front of him, doing his best to avoid the dangers that appeared in his path. Every so often, he would raise his eyes to scan ahead, hoping to see some sign of the Crainil rise. But beyond the length of the sled team, the world was consumed by a featureless murk and darkness. Even Urkhart’s team beside him was no more than a vaguely moving shadow.

Without the moon’s guidance, there was no way to be sure that they had not lost their way in the darkness, or even overshot the town. It seemed like they should have come across the rise ages ago. Borelin scanned the skies, doing his best to reassure himself that they hadn’t gotten turned around in the darkness, but as he rarely travelled by night he wasn’t sure that his navigation by the stars was that reliable.

It was hard to say exactly how it began, but as he slid along in the darkness Borelin began to feel an itching sense of dread. He found himself looking behind, as if something was out in the darkness following them. He never saw any sign of pursuit, but his sight was so limited by the gloom that he felt no reassurance. He wore the light crossbow on his back, and the sword was strapped within easy reach on the sled in front of him, but Borelin hands were so frozen that he wasn’t sure that he would be able to work the weapons. The silverbacks seemed to sense that something was wrong. Their silvery ruffs spiked up, and they began to let out curious growls and whines even as they ran. The lutas too seemed to sense or smell something, as they drew closer to the silverbacks until they were running a few feet from each other. The fact that there was no challenge between the teams was itself a bad sign. Borelin glanced over to Urkhart, but the man was wrapped in his own thoughts and merely stared ahead.

Out of the darkness lurched a great black shape, at least six feet across and double in height. The dogs veered off, silverback one way and the lutas the other. Borelin ducked down instinctively before he realized that it was only a great boulder sticking up out of the ground. A few dozen yards more and another dark sentinel rose up beside them. With a sudden rise in his spirits, Borelin recognized the stones. These were the great stones in the north field before Crainil. They were almost there.

The sleds raced a winding course through the stones, risking their lives as the dark shapes suddenly materialized around them. The ground was sloped and uneven as the snow piled up around the towering field stones, and more than once Borelin felt the sled tip up on one ski as Rand led the team off sideways at a breakneck pace. In addition to the great boulders, the ground was dotted with smaller rocks and stones buried underneath or jutting out of the snow. Running blind, there was no hope of avoiding them, and they jarred the sled violently every time he ran into them. Borelin began to worry about cracking a ski. Still, he knew he could not slow down. The sense of pursuit had not abated, but rather became more imminent as they whipped through the stones.

Finally, the ground rose up before them, a great black rise that blotted out the stars. The first of the sunvanes appeared, their vanes shuttered tight for the night like great battered pillars in the night. Borelin turned and followed the edge of the trees searching for the pathway up to the town gates. He called out to Urkhart, telling him what to look for, and the received a nod in return. The lutas pulled out front and raced ahead.

Borelin was well aware that he was the last warm body in the racing train of dogs and men. He fought back a rising panic as he clattered forward. Looking back, he thought he saw something shift and move in the darkness, but his eyes were so crusted with ice that they were not reliable. He urged his team faster. In the darkness in front of them, Urkhart’s sled team suddenly turned and disappeared into the trees. A moment later they were racing through the forest. Borelin let the dogs find their way, and kept his eyes on the path behind them. The tall sunvane shafts around them blocked out the light of the stars except for a small patch immediately above them. Borelin could feel the silverbacks tiring as they clawed their way up the last rise. They had run hard for three hours, and they were past exhausted.

Something was moving behind them. Looking back, Borelin was sure that he had seen a dark shape come around the corner of the path. Whatever it was, it was large. It seemed to fill the entire path as it came after them. Borelin pressed one hand to his facemask to clear the ice and snow from his eyes and nearly fell off of the craft. His boot slipped and trailed in the snow even as he struggled to get back to his feet. His heart racing in his chest, he hooked an elbow in the handlebar and hauled himself back upright. He did not want to even think about what might have happened to him if he had lost his grip.

A few seconds later and the team had broken out from the tree cover and into the open space before the great gates into the town. As he rode up, he saw that they had been closed for the night. Urkhart, had already stumbled off of his sled and was beating a fist against the logs, shouting in a cracked voice for the gates to be opened. Borelin pulled up beside him and turned his team to face their pursuer. Reaching forward, he drew out his sword from its scabbard, raised it up beside him in both hands, and braced himself for attack.

Behind them, the path was empty and quiet. The dogs began barking furiously, pulling at their harnesses in a frenzy. The silverbacks hunkered down, their heads whipping back and forth as they sniffed out the hunter behind them.

Urkhart pounded again on the wood again, shouting out, “For God’s sake! Open the damn gate!”

Borelin’s blood was racing now, but his hand could not hold the weapon properly. He kept squeezing them on the pommel, trying desperately to get some feeling back into them. Whatever was out there was staying in the blackness of the trees, but it was only a few yards from their edge to the dogs. There would be precious little time to react if it broke out upon them.

Finally, with a great creaking moan, the gates opened behind them. A small contingent of arms locals, torches in hand, appeared between the gap.

“Borelin, come on!” Urkhart shouted. He leapt on his sled and commanded his team inside the walls.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the forest path, and the darkness, Borelin walked backwards, holding his sword aloft with one hand and pulling the sled backwards with the other.

“Come! In!” he commanded.

Rand remained growling menacingly for a few moments, and then began to slowly back up as well. A low answering rumble emerged from the darkness of the trees, so deep that it felt like the ground was shaking. Then the gates swallowed them up and closed in front of them. They had made it.

[Nedward Underhill]

Both teams of dogs immediately lay down in the snow, their tongues hanging out and steam billowing out of their open mouths.

“What the hell was that?” Urkhart shouted, crowding in close to Borelin. The strain of fear showed in his eyes.

Borelin lowered his sword to rest its wide blade on his shoulder, pushed back his hood and ripped his snowmask off. He shook his head and blew out a long breath, considering.

One of the townsfolk approached them with a torch. “From the sound of it, might have been a morroth. I didn’t catch sight of it.”

Borelin shook his head. “Morroth don’t normally stalk men like that. That thing’s was after us awhile.” His lips were cracked and his voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

The rest of the group came over and gathered around them, talking excitedly. Each person had to put in their own two coppers worth. It was all wild speculation. Borelin only half listened, letting the talk float over him. With the crisis passed, his exhaustion returned. All he wanted was to check in on Rook and then sleep.

With a shock, Borelin realized that one of the townsfolk was trying to get his attention.

“Mister Borelin!”

Borelin didn’t have the heart to correct the man. “Hmm?” he answered. He was still staring at the gates in front of him, thinking about the monster out in the woods, but he inclined his head to show he was listening.

“Something’s happened while you was gone. I think you might want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s about the boy; the seraph boy at the chapel. There’s another seraph come.”

Borelin’s eyes snapped to the man. “What?”

Something in Borelin’s appearance must have frightened the man, for he took a cautious step back before answering. “She just flew down not long ago. Landed right in the eyrie while everyone was watching. There’s been talk all over the town. Just came down from the sky, and went on inside. No one knows what’s going on. There’s been no one come out of the chapel to give us any word. But she must be here for the boy, as we’ve never been visited before…”

There was more, but Borelin had already run over to the sled and mushed the dogs towards the chapel. Urkhart ran and leapt onto the floorboards behind him, evidently realizing that Borelin wouldn’t wait, and would be long gone before he was able to get his larger team organized to follow.

“What’s the plan?” he asked in Borelin’s ear as they skidded down the street.

“No plan,” Borelin admitted. He drove with the reins and handlebar in his left hand, the sword in his right. “Just get to the lad, is all,” he barked.

Urkhart gripped Borelin by the shoulder. “You can’t just rush head-first in on a seraph, Rocca. If she can wield prayer, you’ll be helpless from the first moment she sees you.”

Borelin shrugged. “We don’t know how bad it is yet.”

“I think we know exactly how bad it is,” his friend answered grimly. “Where exactly is the boy?”

Divine Spirit Luial’s came into view. Outside, the grounds were covered with people. Other than the few folks they had just left at the gates, the whole town was evidently gathered outside the chapel. A few fires had been set up for a night vigil, and folks gathered in clusters for warmth and conversation. A great host was gathered immediately outside the main chapel entrance.

Ignoring the swivelled heads of the crowd, Borelin led his team over the infirmary doors, grabbed his scabbard from the sled, and ran inside. The room was silent. There was no sign of struggle or violence, but neither was there anyone in the room. All of the cots were vacant. The curtains to the lad’s stall were pulled back against the wall, but the cot was empty.

Urkhart appeared at his heels. “Is this where the boy was?”

“Right there.” Borelin pointed with the sword to the lad’s old cot.

Borelin turned and pounded his way down the corridor into the chapel. Once again, nothing was out of place, but no one was to be found in the worship room. Borelin stood amongst the pews trying to keep his thoughts together. The heavy aromatic air of the crypts assaulted him. The heat was a boon to his frozen muscles, but also reminded him of several heavy layers. He quickly tossed off his heavy outer coat, gloves, and snowwalkers. Then he belted his scabbard in place and sheathed his sword at his side. Finally, he retrieved his crossbow from his back, strung it, and notched a quiver into place.

Urkhart followed suit. From somewhere in his leathers he produced a shortsword and dagger. Both had the unmistakeable white sheen of sarsonite, a precious metal preferred by the seraphim due to its lightness and keen edge. The dagger was a runic blade with a wicked-looking curved edge.

With the chapel empty, that left the eyrie and the crypts. With a quick decision, Borelin headed over to the heavy door that led downstairs.

Urkhart grabbed his shoulder again and stopped him. “Where are you leading me?” he whispered.

“These stairs lead to the holy waters of the chapel crypts,” Borelin answered. “It’s a large underground cavern surrounding a stone altar. The lad was sick with a high fever for several days. Perhaps the seraph has taken him down to heal him.”

Urkhart fixed him with a sceptical look.

“We don’t know who she is, or what she knows.” Borelin argued. “If she merely considers him a sick child, she would undoubtedly try to save him.”

Urkhart looked down the curving staircase. “Is there another way in?” he asked.

Borelin pulled away. Losing his patience, he snapped, “Urkhart, there was no time for planning or subterfuge now. I’m just going in to find him. Stay here if you want to be safe.”

“Rocca, don’t be a fool!” Urkhart whispered urgently, but Borelin ignored him and raced off down the stairs.

A bright light shone out of the fissure that marked the entrance into the crypt. A light singsong voice echoed out to his ears in the unmistakeable pure tones of a seraph. The rising and falling cadence was that of a prayer being woven within the great cavern.

Borelin proceeded into the crack in the earth, hugging the rough-hewn walls and holding his crossbow ready in his hand. Slowly, the inside of the room came into view. A harsh bright light burned out from the centre of the room and cast sharp black shadows behind the standing dripstone columns. At the start of the path leading over the water Otal stood warder, a massive hunting spear held with both hands and planted on the floor in front of him. Out at the centre of the room, Mother Clara and the two nurses knelt on three sides of the altar, their heads bowed in prayer. On the fourth side, and standing with her back to Borelin, stood a radiant seraph, chanting prayer in the strange and beautiful language of the seraphim. Rook lay unmoving upon the altar.

Burning light poured out from the seraph. She stood before the stone altar, her arms and wings spread wide. By some mystical power, her raiment appeared transformed into cloth made out of pure light. Golden hair fell down her back to her waist, and it too glowed with an inner fire, as if light had been woven into each perfect strand. Her voice was the most strikingly beautiful thing that Borelin had ever heard.

Laetabimur in salutari tuo
Et in nomine Dei nostri magnificabimur
Impleat Dominus omnes petitiones tuas
Nunc cognovi quoniam salvum fecit Dominus christum suum exaudiet illum de caelo sancto suo
In potentatibus salus dexterae eius
Hii in curribus et hii in equis
Nos autem in nomine Domini Dei nostri invocabimus
Ipsi obligati sunt et ceciderunt
Nos vero surreximus et erecti sumus
Domine salvum fac regem
Et exaudi nos in die qua invocaverimus te

As the power of the music poured through him, Borelin stumbled forward to the edge of the dark water to stare at the spectacle before him, his weapon forgotten in his hand. Only as the sound echoed and the light began to fade away did he come back to himself. The burning torches reasserted their presence as the heavenly light was extinguished.

Out over the water, Rook stirred and sat up. He rubbed his eyes as if merely waking from a pleasant dream. He wore his light leather upon his legs, but his chest was bare and his wing spikes unfurled timidly as he looked up into the eyes of the seraph in front of him. A hush fell as the lad regarded his kinswoman. The only sound in the room was the soft bubbling of the holy waters. Rook’s face filled with awe and wonder. It was a small thing, but that single look pierced Borelin’s heart. He wanted to call out, suddenly desperately afraid of losing the lad in a way that he had not expected. But all that came out was a broken sigh.

Over the water, Rook’s voice carried. “Are you…like me?” He touched his fingers to his small chest.

The woman nodded. “You’ve been very sick. Are you feeling better?” Even from a distance, Borelin could hear a kindly smile in her voice.

“Yes. I’m not hot anymore.” The lad thought a moment. “Or tired. I’ve been so tired.”

“That’s good. Hopefully you wont be so tired any more. Would you like to stand up?”

The seraph extended her hand to the lad and he took it in his, then slipped his legs over the side of the altar. They hung in the air a moment, and the seraph stepped aside to let him hop down, revealing her profile to Borelin. Now that the mystical light had faded, it appeared that she was dressed in a silver velvet chasuble, ornately decorated at the front with deep green threading. Though her hair was exposed, her face was covered below the eyes by a filigree veil that hung down to the top of her chest. Her garment was drawn in at the waist by a rope belt, and slung at her side was a delicate longsword, resting within its scabbard.

The next moment, Rook was walking unaided. It was as if he had never been hurt. The lad’s eyes hadn’t left the seraph. He walked around her, staring at her furled wings with undisguised wonder.

“Do all seraph have wings, like yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Did you heal me? Mother Clara was trying to heal me, but she said she couldn’t wield prayer, so I would have to be strong and fight to live.”

“Yes. Mother Clara is very kind and her prayers helped to save you, but she is only human.”

Questions began to pour out of the lad. “What’s your name? Where did you come from? How did you find me?”

The seraph released a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. “We will have lots of time for all of your questions. But right now I need to talk to the humans for a moment. All right?”

Rook nodded and went back to studying her.

To the kneeling women, the seraph said, “Arise. You have done well this day.”

Clara and the nurses stood, pressing their fingers to their lips. The eyes of the nurses were like saucers.

“Thank you, milady,” the chaplain said. “You have performed a great wonder for us, and for the child.”

[Nedward Underhill]

“It is Yaelwe who performs wonders,” the Seraph corrected. “His presence is strong in this place. I am glad that we brought the boy to it.”

Clara bowed her head. “Of course, milady. As you say.”

At that moment, Rook happened to look out over the water and saw Borelin for the first time. His face burst into a brilliant smile.

“Borelin!” he called.

All eyes turned across the water. Borelin suddenly became very aware of the loaded crossbow in his hands. He lowered its point.

“Hello lad,” Borelin answered. He began to move around the edge of the water towards Otal, and the stone path.

The seraph turned and watched Borelin’s progress with a guarded look. Placing a hand on Rook’s shoulder, she asked, “Who is this one?”

The lad tried to pull away, but she held him close. “That’s Borelin,” he said, confusion in his voice. “I live with him. He’s like…he takes care of me.”

The seraph turned to Clara. “You said that a hermit had found the boy and brought him to the town.”

“Did I?” Clara answered guiltily. “Well, it’s true. That’s the hermit.”

Rook managed to wiggle out of the seraph’s grasp and bolted out over the stone path. At the same time, Borelin came up to Otal, who still stood blocking the path.

“Hello Otal. Looks like you are feeling better.”

“Well…ummm…the seraph, you know…” The large man clearly was confused at to what he should do. He stood the end of the path, making it impossible for Borelin to reach the lad, but looked questioningly from Borelin to the seraph.

“Uncle Otal, let me by!” Rook demanded. A moment later, he had squeezed past, and had run up to Borelin. “Borelin! Look at me! The seraph healed my leg! I’m all better!”

“That’s good news, lad.” Borelin answered. He carefully held the cocked crossbow above his head.

“Say buddy, what are you doing with that crossbow?” Otal asked.

The seraph spread her wings and flew across the water. In the flickering shadows of the torch-lit cavern, her wings appeared to shift in colour from grey to white as she passed over the bubbling water. She landed lightly behind Borelin, effectively preventing his escape.

“An excellent question,” she agreed. “I had instructed that the chapel remain empty of further visitors. What is your purpose in coming here, Borelin?”

Borelin turned to face the seraph, and noticed the glint of a large gemstone ring on her hand. She showed no outward sign of concern. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and did not move towards the sword at her side. Borelin was well aware of the fact that she did not need to draw her sword to kill him.

“The lad is with me,” Borelin answered.

The tension in the room was as thick as the moisture in the air. After a moment, the seraph answered, “Curious. I had been led by the chaplain to believe that the seraph child was abandoned. Surely you are not claiming his as your own?”

“Call it what you will,” Borelin gritted. “I appreciate your kindness in helping him get heal…”

“The seraph child was near death when I found him,” she interrupted. An unmistakeable note of condescension was in her tone.

“My name is Rook,” the lad put in.

“He had a fever, is all,” Borelin insisted. “Clara saved him. He was on the mend.”

“And you know so much about seraph constitutions, and healing? You do not have the look of a healer about you, Borelin.”

Borelin really did not like the way that she said his name. Not only was it awkward on her lips, it somehow sounded vaguely primitive.

“Why did you come? Why are you here, in Crainil?” he asked.

The seraph regarded him a moment, clearly unwilling to let him direct the conversation. “I do not believe that you have answered our question yet. You have brought a drawn weapon into a sacred place. It does not reflect the best intentions.”

Borelin’s mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. Even if he could get a shot off before she could react, it had been a long time since he killed anyone, let alone a seraph. He certainly did not want to start now, and in front of the lad.

Mother Clara and the nurses had come down the path to join them. Clara reached over and touched Borelin’s arm, “I’m sorry Borelin. You should put the weapon away. We can talk about this.”

Rook looked up at him. “What’s going on?”

Borelin looked down into those golden eyes, and saw the confusion in the lad’s face. He reached up and removed the bolt from the crossbow, then cast the crossbow aside.

“Nothing,” he answered. “I’ve just come to collect you, is all. Now that you are all better, we can head on home.”

The seraph fixed her piercing pale green eyes on Borelin, clearly incredulous. “Home? Here in this small human town?”

Now it was Borelin’s turn to parry. “It’s my turn to have a question answered. Why did you come here?”

“Very well. I was on church business, carrying a message to a human settlement a day’s flight south of here. While there, I heard a rumour that a seraph child had appeared at this chapel. I decided to investigate, hardly expecting it to be true. Perhaps my flight was guided by the Sky Father, for I found the child lying sick and in desperate need of divine intervention.”

“Actually, my name is Rook,” Rook put in again.

The seraph turned and smiled at the boy. “Rook is no proper name for a seraph. We will have to find your true name.” To Borelin, she added, “What do you know of the boy’s parents? Where did you find him?”

Her questions were too close to dangerous territory. He shook his head. “As I said before, I do really appreciate what you have done. But the boy’s past, and his life now, is not something that I wish to speak about.” He took a breath and considered his next words carefully. “In fact, your coming here is…very awkward. For everyone’s sake, I have to ask you to forget about the lad’s existence.”

Again she laughed, a beautifully sing-sing tone that echoed in the air. “I’m sorry Borelin. I cannot merely forget. Surely you know that!”

“It really would be best…” Borelin insisted, trying desperately to stay calm.

“Borelin, if you found and raised this boy, you have done a great service. You may even have developed feeling for him over time. That is to be expected.” She looked kindly upon him, and under the influence of her beatific gaze he suddenly felt tears well up in his eyes. “But he should not say here now. A seraph needs to grow up among his own kind. He should learn what we can teach him. He should learn who he truly is. I will certainly need to discuss this matter further with my superiors, but I expect that the boy will need to return to the heavens with me.”

[Nedward Underhill]

The seraph’s voice was kind, but brooked no refusal. She spoke as if to a child, providing instruction on a simple fact. Rook looked from Borelin to the seraph, a look of confusion on his face.

Borelin put his arm protectively around the boy. “You don’t understand what you are saying.”

The seraph raised an arched eyebrow at his tone. “Really?”

“I don’t know what Clara told you, but the lad is my concern. I have raised him. His home is with me, and he will not being going anywhere.”

The seraph’s wings fluttered out in anger. Behind him, Borelin felt the others stiffen.

Clara stepped forward, raising her hands for calm. “Perhaps my residence would be a better place for this discussion? In private? I am sure that this is a difficult matter for everyone…”

“Haven’t you done enough already, Clara?” Borelin snapped, his temper flaring. “How could you allow her in? How could you do this?”

“Now just a minute,” the chaplain replied. “The Lady Cellensis is a seraph, and a priest of the church. You heard the truth yourself. She arrived on her own, and asked to see the boy. What could I have done?”

Borelin released Rook in order to point an accusatory finger at Clara. “You could have lied to her! Sent her away! Something!”

Clara’s eyes were reflected her shock and outrage. “Lie to her? Get a hold of yourself!” She pointed up towards the chapel and outside. “Did you not see that the entire town is gathered outside? Do you really think that any lie would have been effective?”

As Borelin and Clara exchanged words, Lady Cellensis approached and calmly took hold of the boy. “Come, child,” she whispered.

Something in Borelin snapped. Pushing Clara roughly aside, he stepped forward and confronted the seraph. “Get your hand off of him,” he growled. His hand reflexively moved towards the sword at his waist.

The seraph’s response was immediate and effortless. Raising her gemmed hand, she cast it over him while casually reciting a few words of prayer. There was a surge of power and Borelin found himself on his knees. A great invisible weight pressed down upon his head and neck, forcing his body to crumple into submission. Borelin strained to resist the force controlling him. He dropped his hand on the rough stone floor and tried to push himself up. The muscles of his neck bulged out, but it felt like a great stone was laid on his shoulders.

“Otal! Protect the boy!” he commanded.

Behind him, Borelin felt the warrior shift, as he moved warily forward. ‘Too slow!’ he thought, even as the seraph cast another prayer and the huge man was tossed back into one of the dripstone pillars, shattering it. Otal’s spear rattled over the stone floor and fell silent.

Jaime and Alleigh started to scream.

Still the invisible power pressed down on Borelin, buckling his arms. The weight was impossibly large. Borelin fell heavily on his forearms, and his forehead was pressed against the floor.

“Calm yourselves!” Cellensis’ voice cut through the screeches of the nurses. Terrified, they obeyed. Borelin could see them huddling behind Mother Clara for security and protection.

As they quieted, the sound of Rook’s weeping suddenly could be heard. That sound was worse to Borelin than anything the seraph could do to him. He let out a helpless howl of frustration.

“Rook!”

Though he knew it was helpless to resist, Borelin refused to give up. With a great effort he raised his head off of the ground, only to have it forced back down again hard. Sweat poured off his body from his exertions. His hair smeared the floor.

Cellensis was talking to the lad, attempting to calm him. “Child, I am indeed sorry for what you have seen. But quiet now, it’s all over.”

“Please, please don’t hurt them,” Rook burbled.

“I promise. There, there. It’s alright.”

“You don’t understand! You are going to kill him!” Borelin shouted.

Cellensis approached and stood over him. “You are certainly a strange one, Borelin,” she replied. “Why would I heal the child of his wounds, only to have him killed?”

He slapped the floor in frustration. The pressure on him continued unabated. It constricted his chest and made it difficult to talk. “You may not mean to,” he managed, “but if you take him up, you condemn him to death as certainly as if you killed him now.”

“This is madness. Must I remind you again that he was deathly ill when I arrived? The boy is in greater danger among humans than he will be under the protection of his own kind.”

“No! You don’t know what you are doing. You don’t know who he is!”

There was a pause. With a supreme effort, Borelin raised his head and looked up into the condescending pale green eyes. Cellensis regarded his struggle with interest, still holding the lad firmly by the hand. A small smile played over her lips. “Very well. Educate me, then. Who is he that my taking him to Heaven will endanger his life?”

Borelin opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, all of the torches in the chamber were suddenly snuffed out. The room was cast into absolute darkness. Behind Borelin, someone screamed. In front of him, Cellensis’s body seemed to stumble away. A moment later, he felt the mystical pressure holding him suddenly abate. He stumbled to his feet even as the torchlight flickered back and returned.

Before him, the seraph lay upon her back, her wings cast out haphazardly over the floor. At Cellensis head, Urkhart’s wiry form huddled sideways, one knee pressed against her chest and pinning her body down. His right hand was forced into her mouth. In his raised left, the runic dagger dripped blood. As Borelin blinked in surprise and shock, a red flood poured out of a great open gash in the seraph’s neck and spread over the floor. Her perfect body writhed under the man’s weight, and then finally fell still.

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 10

Chancellor Insulis’ funeral was a lavish spectacle, more fitting for the passage of royalty than a mere leader of the church. No one mentioned how he had died. The official position was that the holy seraph had died while at prayer within the holy of holies, possibly at the summons the Yaelwe himself. Publicly, everyone paid lip service to the King’s claim. Privately, rumours and speculation were legion.

The heavy golden-plated casket sat in state before the tall iconostasis walls, raised up to eye-level upon an ornately carved stone dais. An unending procession of mourners trailed through the cathedral and slowly passed the Chancellor, silently paying their last respects, before being directed to their proper seats. Hidden from view behind the iconostasis walls, the Order of Mercy cantors sang plaintive prayers to ease the passage of the dead. Above, in the vaulted dome of the sanctuary, half a dozen royal guards hovered in full battle regalia, watching out over the great congregation.

Maciael no longer recognized the mourners as they stepped forward and presented their burial tithes to the Fathers who stood ready on either side of the open casket. These were the lesser wellborn, destined to fill the furthest pews at the back of the church, and their small offerings were beneath notice. Most likely, they were overjoyed to be sufficiently prominent to be within the church at all. Most were outside. A great mass was gathered on the streets to pay their respects to the High Chancellor. The windows of the cathedral were thrown wide to allow the music a chance to echo out to them. For the most part, however, they would receive their service from the Fathers stationed outside.

The rounded pews within the room were divided into four pie-shaped sections. Carpeted aisles divided the sections, leading out north, south, east, and west. The King’s Council had, of course, been placed in the front of each section. The zealous Lords Nitidus and Dulcis were placed together. Similarly, Maciael had been placed with the orthodox Lady Mimatense. These pairings were safe, and obvious. The foremost pews of a third section, however, placed Lord Crinis, an avowed orthodox, with Lord Lucencis, the zealot. Maciael wondered at the pairing, remembering Djannus’ scribbled warning about Crinis. Could it be that Crinis had shifted his adherence from orthodoxy? It was the first time he had seen Lord Crinis since the High Chancellor’s death. The seraph had barely acknowledged him, and looked even more drawn and dour than ever.

The fourth section held the Royals. The King knelt tall, his body fixed and rigid as if carved from silver. Next to him, the shrouded form of Queen Nava knelt with head bowed and hands crossed demurely in front of her. Like the King, she was tall and thin, but whereas Azriel was regal and commanding in appearance, she was delicate and withdrawn. Both King and Queen were dressed in magnificent garments, tailored in the colours of House Cracovia. His were dark and striking, laced with gold and precious stones, and made to showcase the contrasting green and silver colours. Hers, on the other hand, were a layered design of silver and grey cloth, with only the hint of emerald in the threading. Her crown pinched her headscarf in place, and her face was hidden from view by a traditional veil. It was common knowledge that she spent most of her days in silent prayer.

Nyssa knelt next to the King, looking more regal than the Queen herself. Though she merely rested one manicured hand on the arm of the King, her body language managed to suggest that she understood the depth of his loss. Like her father, she knelt tall and held her head high. She was dressed in a shimmering silver robe woven from the finest silk, ornamented with white lace and diamonds. The fabric fairly clung to her body, subtly accentuating her feminine curves. Her headscarf was nothing more than a small triangle of lace resting like a crown upon her head, and her transparent veil did not even fall far enough to cover her full and coloured lips. Her perfect features were fixed and still as she gazed penitently forward, but somehow Maciael felt her eyes upon him.

Maciael tried again to focus on the cascading prayers of the cantors. It was no use; his heart refused to be elevated and remained heavy in his chest. Even presented with the lavish spectacle of these last rites, surrounded by thousands of worshippers, and confronted by the murdered body of his former closest political ally, Maciael could not get Shaiah out of his head. He felt haunted.

It was the first time that Maciael had been in seraph society since the events of the lower ward. When he had returned, he had found House Diluculo is a state of high panic. Divio had wept openly at the sight of him. Not surprisingly, squads of Diluculo guards had been searching the throughout the city since his unexpected disappearance. Pax too, had made covert inquiries, without success. Everyone had feared the worst. Captain Duans had even led a team down to sweep the frozen plains beneath Heaven’s shadow, searching fruitlessly for some sign of him.

Word of his disappearance and return was a new subject of interest among the elite. Maciael refused all visitors and invitations. He had no interest in seeing anyone. Without divulging the full truth, Maciael explained that he had been attacked in the alleys of the lower ward, and that an angel had saved him. He said nothing of her mystical abilities, or the strange connection that had opened between them. Claiming that it was a matter of honour, he commanded that Shaiah be found. Duans was to form the guards into squadrons and to focus every effort into finding her. A guard was to watch her room at all hours. He insisted that they have an artist brought in to sketch her likeness, and had copies distributed to the search parties. They were, however, to make no public inquiries, and to speak to no one about this. When they found her, she was to be brought immediately to him, and only him. She was not to be questioned. He made himself abundantly clear.

Upon hearing of the attack, Duans insisted on summoning a priest to examine Maciael. The Father could find no blemish upon him. Still, it was obvious that there was something wrong. His behaviour was erratic. Though he was in perfect health, he could not eat or sleep. As the days passed, Maciael lapsed into a brooding silence, interrupted only by bursts of rage. More than once, he sent Divio scurrying from the room in terror over the most minor of incidents.

But though he commanded one of the greatest Houses in Heaven, there was no sign of the angel. It was infuriating to be so powerful and yet so helpless. When Maciael left the manse, he inevitably found himself at Shaiah’s old room, brooding on her absence within the dingy little space. He scribed a long letter explaining that there had been a misunderstanding and left it lying prominently on the bed. He offered to guard her safety. He left a lavish gift, and promised her an even greater reward should she but show herself to him. They could meet in secret if she wished. But the gift merely gathered dust and the letter remained untouched. She never returned to the room. Looking around, he had to admit that there was really nothing to return to. A few dented pots and pans; the odd tattered garment. No decorations on the wall. Already, a few of the guard looked at him like he had dreamt it all. Sometimes, he almost believed them. It was like she never existed.