God's Demon

Chapter Eighteen

Eligor watched the long, curving ramp from the main doorway of the palace. From this distance he could see that most of the traffic was heading toward him and the flow of demons continued unabated as it passed him and continued into the palace. The victory on the border was drawing the disaffected from the four corners of Hell, and they had been gathering for weeks. But it was still a small number considering the numbers of the Fallen. They are coming to him, now that he has returned from a great victory. But, for now, most remain guarded and are only sending their emissaries. It will take more than one success on the battlefield before they come themselves, Eligor thought. Will they leave just as eagerly if he suffers a defeat?

Palanquins and beasts, caparisoned in heavy, ornamented blankets and elaborate trappings, all stopped at the foot of the palace stairs, where each ambassador dismounted, each having finally received some form of invitation. Escorted by Zoray’s handpicked guards and accompanied by flabella-bearers and stooped lower demons bearing gifts, they climbed the many stairs and entered the palace, where they were met by Sargatanas’ trusted aides, his corps of junior ministers. Passing him with nods, Eligor noted that many were frequently seen faces and these were greeted with solemn familiarity while others, the newcomers, were met with all the official ceremony of court.

After a while, he grew restless and left his own Honor Guard at the door and headed in among the ambassadors. They were as dissimilar a collection of demons as he had ever seen. Most were Demons Minor with enough of the fallen angel about them as to be unremarkable. But others had adopted the conventions of their lands or their lords, bearing bizarre forms and countenances that he sometimes felt were borne solely for effect. Great coronets of horn or torso spines corkscrewed into baroque patterns, or eye-dotted flesh, trimmed and draped like layered scales, adorned them, as did prideful and intricate reticulations of embers that sizzled as he passed. He saw some from the Lowlands who, used to the colder temperatures, were wrapped in thick layers of soul-skins and others from the craggy Uplands who favored multiple winglets and featherlight membranes. Those demons whose wards incorporated the Wastes saw fit to integrate some of the fierce, visual decorations of the Salamandrine Men, combining spiky webs of incomprehensible, glowing marks with piercings of bones from Abyssals and sigils that hovered, slithering like worms, inches from their bodies. Eligor heard their many dialects and understood most; his talent for tongues was something for which Sargatanas valued him, he knew, but now it simply made his head hurt.

Feeling crowded in by the noisy, milling mass of demons, he made his way to Valefar’s side. The Prime Minister was deep in quiet conversation with Lord Furcas, one of the few regents who had journeyed, himself, to Adamantinarx. He was a stocky Demon Major, very plain in his appearance, with only a few modest hornlets and a round face bearing seven cobalt eyes of differing sizes. He made animated gestures with his hands as he spoke, gestures that reminded Eligor of the arcing flight of the Waste dart. It seemed, to Eligor, who could not hear what was being said, an almost ridiculous pantomime, but Valefar watched intently as Furcas finished his conversation. Eligor bowed to them and turned away to speak with his entourage. Distant trumpets sounded a signal causing heads to turn, and both demons fell into the current of the crowd as it began to move toward the arcades and the Audience Chamber beyond. Respecting Valefar’s silence, Eligor did not speak; the Prime Minister was clearly deep in thought.

And he remained so as the demons assembled in the immense chamber. Eligor took his position at the base of the giant pyramidal dais and looked out at the fervent expressions of the hundreds of ambassadors who had journeyed across Hell to proffer allegiance to his lord. Most had never been to Adamantinarx and seen for themselves the fabled domed palace; they would surely bring impressive tales back to their lords. High above the ambassadors’ heads, above their own multicolored sigils, floated Sargatanas’ Great Seal, larger than Eligor had ever seen it and casting a livid light upon them.

Eligor glanced around and up at Sargatanas, whose form, now alight with fire, flickered with intensity. He had not seen Sargatanas in a week and smiled inwardly; his lord was a fiery creature of destiny now, a force that could not be stopped by anything short of his complete destruction. He stepped to the edge of the dais and spoke in the old language, the forbidden language. Its mellifluous tones echoed throughout the chamber, causing a stir among the gathered demons.

“What is it that keeps us here? Is it our love of this place and its hospitable clime? Is it because our cities are luminous and golden and the air within them fragrant and cool? Or is it our love of its benign and forgiving ruler and its fair and just governance? Are we here because we are all truly evil or were some of us misled and misdirected, carried away on the scalding winds of rhetoric? Are we not still creatures beholden to the Throne, no matter how far we have strayed from it?” Sargatanas paused. “Or is it, perhaps, our damaged pride that keeps us filled with shame and bound to this place? Are we truly condemned to stay here, resigned to our fate, never to see the Above again? Should we never attempt to go back?

“So many questions. But Lords, Ambassadors, you would not be standing here before me if the answers were not clear. You would never have made the difficult journey to Adamantinarx had you not seen the truth. It is time for sorrow to become hope and hope to become action. It is time for you to reach up out of the charred flesh and the smoldering cinders to join me.”

Eligor saw the nearly immediate effect the words had on those assembled. He heard the growing murmur of assent and saw the rippling, outward-spreading wave of demons as they began to kneel. Above their heads their many glittering sigils began to disarticulate, sending attenuated tendrils of glyphs up toward Sargatanas’ Great Seal. There they embraced, intertwining like luminous tentacles until they rearranged themselves into a cohesive whole. The enormous, flat seal was now surrounded by an incomplete globe of delicate symbols, and Eligor realized that his master, ever looking to the future, was waiting to fill in the spaces with more allies’ sigils. Eligor looked back at the crowd, from bowed head to bowed head, and wondered if each of them bore the same thought: Will I walk, once again, through the cities of the Above? Will I look again upon the Throne? He suddenly remembered a moment long, long ago when another charismatic figure had stood before him and a similar, disaffected crowd and entreated them to join him and take up arms. Would this rebellion share the same outcome? Was Faraii, for all his bitterness, right? Of one thing Eligor was certain: Sargatanas was correct; there were many questions.

The greeting of each ambassador or rare lord took many long hours, with Sargatanas, seated upon his throne, patiently according each his due respect. Andromalius and Bifrons, already staunch allies, joined Eligor and a contingent of his Guard behind the throne while Valefar stood at his lord’s side, amiably making introductions, identifying each demon’s native land and highlighting the outstanding qualities of each. Eligor was, to start, watchful and interested but found his concentration flagging after the first hundred or so demons had passed; then only the most important of the new clients received his full attention.

“Lord Malpas has, for these long eons, studied the art of siegecraft, my lord,” Valefar said, intruding on Eligor’s thoughts. “He was instrumental in aiding Architect General Mulciber when many of the palaces were first built—including Prince Beelzebub and Lucifer’s empty fortress. He knows their strongpoints and their fundamental weaknesses. Of course much has been added to them since then… but still.”

“Malpas, thanks to you for joining me,” Sargatanas said. “Your knowledge and your forty legions will, I am sure, prove invaluable.”

Malpas bowed so low that his long, thick beak scraped the floor audibly.

An hour later Eligor saw an especially ornate Demon Major stand before them, his floor-length robes alive with dozens of souls flattened and picked for their unflawed pelts, each dyed, delicately stitched together, and highlighted with golden thread and embellished with rolling, precious stone eyes. In all, Eligor thought, a masterpiece of foreign craftsmanship.

Valefar, too, seemed taken with the figure, smiling and nodding openly.

“This, my lord, is the honored Lord Yen Wang of the distant Eastern Wards, who brings with him the swift and powerful Legions of Behemoths. Even as we speak, the terrible creatures are being stabled in some of the abandoned storehouses along the far shore of the Acheron. Well, I might add, away from the city.”

Sargatanas’ eyebrows rose. “I have heard much about you and your legendary Behemoths, Yen Wang, but have never set eyes upon them myself. I would like very much to visit my new stables with you at my side. I am sure there is much for me to learn about them. Thanks to you for bringing them so far.”

Yen Wang’s scarred face creased in an earnest attempt at a smile. “My pleasure, Lord,” he said in an oddly accented voice. “I am most proud of them and would be only too honored to offer my insights. As well as,” he added with a bow, “my generalship.”

“I would have them both willingly,” said Sargatanas with a nod.

Eventually, Eligor saw the crowd growing thinner. Dwindling like the fading light from the oculus, those demons who had passed before his lord descended and exited the chamber. What had started as a flood of dignitaries became a trickle until only a mere handful awaited introduction. Off to either side of the throne a moundlike, glittering collection of gifts lay arrayed, some items that Eligor recognized when he had seen their bearers arriving. Life-size gold statues of demon generals from ages past stood next to giant urns filled with the precious stones found in distant mountain mines. Beautifully crafted spears and axes fashioned from brilliant minerals and metals by local Waste artisans lay piled in neat arrangements atop fine rugs, tapestries, and carefully worked Abyssal pelts. In all, it was a fabulous tribute, but Eligor knew that, apart from its symbolic nature, it was of little value to Sargatanas.

Lord Furcas was the last to approach the throne, and far from being unhappy at his position in the queue, he seemed expansive and even eager. As he stopped before Sargatanas, Valefar, who seemed tired of court pretenses, relaxed and stepped forward to clasp hands with the portly Demon Major.

“My lord,” the Prime Minister said, “Lord Furcas of the high montane wards of Faragito Coraxo has amiably agreed to wait to be presented last, because he has brought us a most unique contribution that requires some demonstration. I had a chance to discuss this but briefly with his lordship, and he and I feel certain that you will be intrigued by his discoveries. Among his other qualities Lord Furcas is a Pyromancer Exalted. Lord Furcas.”

Furcas knelt heavily, bowed his head, and rose upon a signal from Sargatanas.

“Ages ago, my lords, I spent much time wandering the Salbrox Mountains of my home-wards. To most, I am sure, it seemed that my solitary journeys were no more than the meanderings of an eccentric demon.” Furcas paused as his silver eyes looked inward at the memories of his travels. “But I was actually prospecting, searching out the resources that I needed to make my armies strong—stronger than my neighbors’. For millennia I found nothing but the most common minerals, and because of that I suffered the kinds of defeats that gradually diminished my realm. And then one day I was sitting by a seething mountain cleft and looked down to see a small Abyssal carrying a crystal that flickered like solid fire in its armored mouth. I followed it and found an entire nest made of the rocks. I wrested one away from the creature but dropped it immediately—its heat was so tremendous. So I caught and skinned the Abyssal and carried the mineral home in its scaly skin. After many years I unlocked its stubborn secret, extracted its essential energy, and with the addition of a few crafted glyphs I learned to control and shape the mineral. It is solid fire, my lord.”

Furcas raised his clawed hands, holding them apart and at Sargatanas’ eye level. A tiny mote of the glowing mineral danced upon Furcas’ palm. With a glance toward Valefar he murmured a few words, and almost immediately an orange, artery-thin line began to glow between his bony palms. Thin, hairlike geysers of fire sprang forth from within the demon until his entire dark body was alight with a shimmering corona of thin fire. He then spread his hands farther apart and the straight, thickening line grew until it was twice his arm’s length. A tapered, pyramidal tip appeared at one end, sharp as a fang and white-hot. He grasped the newly formed javelin in a glove of glyphs, tightly conjured to negate the insufferable heat.

“I need a target for my malpirg,” said Furcas plainly, holding up the fiery javelin.

“Eligor, have your Guard place one of those upon the floor below,” Sargatanas said, indicating one of the golden statuary generals he had been given. “I am sure old Field Marshal Kethias would be flattered to be used in this way.”

Moments later three flying demons were, on the instructions of Furcas, positioning the life-size statue far out on the polished floor—farther, Eligor thought, than was reasonable. He looked dubiously at the portly demon who watched, confidently hefting the incandescent shaft.

Sargatanas stood and moved to Furcas’ side. The short Pyromancer took a moment to gauge his throw, and with a graceful gesture that belied his bulk he pulled his arm back and cast the malpirg far up and out into the air of the dome. At the top of its arc he uttered a word and the malpirg split in two, each gaining momentum as they fell until they appeared as long glowing lines. Both hit the statue squarely in the chest, erupting in a spectacular, smoky shower of molten gold.

“This I have taught my troops,” said Furcas. “I have ten legions of malpirgim ready to serve you.”

A great drifting cloud of smoke retreated and Eligor saw his master’s faint smile as he viewed the shattered and bubbling statue.

“Excellent, Furcas, excellent,” Sargatanas said quietly. “You bring me a great gift and in return you shall ride by my side in the next engagement, commanding those same ten legions.”

“Thank you, my lord.” With that Furcas bowed deeply, his pleasure obvious.

“Lord, someone is moving out there in the smoke,” said Eligor abruptly. His keen eyes had picked up a pale shape moving toward them. Immediately the Flying Guard rose, as one, into the air, their lances poised and ready.

“No one was left to be announced, my lord. The chamber should be empty,” Valefar said quietly.

The Guard closed rapidly upon the approaching figure.

“Stay their hands, Eligor! No matter who this is, I am reasonably sure we can handle him,” said Sargatanas drily.

The figure seemed to grow from the white smoke itself, becoming more solid and distinct as the clouds dissipated. Clad in pale skins, hood drawn up, it looked like little more than a common traveler.

“So this is my reward for my patience!” the figure said, its husky voice carrying easily. Eligor could not be sure, but he thought he recognized her accent, for surely it was a female beneath the swaths of Abyssal skin. Just as she climbed the last few steps of the pyramid and dropped her hood he remembered. Shaking out her thick, white hair, Lilith looked up at them and smiled. She dropped the skins in a twitching pile at her splayed feet. “I thought I would melt away wearing these for so long indoors.”

Lilith stepped away from the robes and stood before them pale as bone. Clad simply, she exuded that same mixture of fragility and power, eroticism and fierceness, that Eligor had felt the first time he met her.

Sargatanas knelt, followed by the other demons around him. “Consort Lilith—” he began.

“Consort no longer, my lord,” Lilith corrected, the words tinged with the barest trace of triumph. “Rise, Sargatanas. I no longer hold any position of rank in Hell. My being here should tell you that.”

“Lilith,” the Demon Major said, once more standing. The others around him rose and, with bows, began to descend the flight of steps and cross the broad floor. “I did not think you were ready yet to be out and about in Adamantinarx. When Valefar told me of your arrival I expected that you would want to remain hidden until the unrest with Dis was resolved.”

“True It does not yet know of my whereabouts, though It probably suspects the truth. If I may say, there is no point to my remaining in hiding, my lord. Your power and your disregard for Beelzebub’s orders have made your case plain enough to Dis; the Fly’s regard for you is already deeply questionable—”

“And will surely become more so when he discovers that you, his Consort, are residing within this city’s walls.”

“Would you have me return, then? To Dis?”

“No, my lady, never. But I will have to impose serious, personal safeguards upon you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Eligor’s eye met Valefar’s; the Captain of the Flying Guard had lingered as much from the lack of his lord’s orders as from his own fascination with Lilith. But now, with a meaningful nod from Valefar, Eligor turned and followed the Prime Minster as he began to descend the stairs. Valefar stooped and picked up Lilith’s skins, folding them as he walked. Minutes later, at the entrance to the arcades, Eligor turned back and saw the two distant figures deep in conversation.

Lilith watched Sargatanas walk to the edge of the dais and sit down upon the pyramid’s top step. His smoldering dark form contrasted sharply with the pale stones, the many ebon and red folds of his robes fanning out behind him. He seemed weary, cocking his head slightly as he looked at the distant, melted statue. “Very impressive, that,” said Lilith.

“Yes,” the demon said diffidently after a pause. “Just another tool for me to use against your former lord when the need arises. Please,” he said, beckoning Lilith to sit next to him. She sat and delicately arranged the folds of her long, sheathlike skirt.

Sargatanas turned away from the darkening chamber and looked at her for a moment without saying anything, studying her small movements. His carefully composed court face was expressionless, but Lilith thought she saw, implicit beneath the slowly sliding plates a mixture of emotions. Is it melancholia? As they regarded each other she saw his expression change, saw the plates cease moving, the tight set of his jaw lighten.

“So why did you leave Dis?” he said. “And then come here?”

Lilith looked away and for an instant she imagined that her vision cut through the palace’s stone walls, darting across the umber landscape all the way back to the Keep and her abandoned chambers. It was so odd that she would never see them again; she had spent so long within its confines. So long a prisoner.

“It’s actually very simple, my lord…. I cannot be… owned. It is how I was made.”

“Cannot… or will not?”

“Both.” The word hung in the air. “When Lucifer passed on his scepter to Beelzebub, when I became a bargaining chip in the transaction between them, I felt hurt, disgusted, outraged. But after all those millennia with that thing, I felt scooped out, bereft of my… self. The Fly took away nearly everything that I was. That is Its way. And then, after so very long, the tiny part of me that I kept locked away… the part that could imagine the Light… saw a possible way: the souls. If I could give them hope and nurture it, then maybe they could become themselves again and by weight of numbers overthrow the Fly. Perhaps it was naive, but I secretly began to send out my little statues, sowing them among the damned. They became my surrogates for freedom and salvation… and revenge.”

He nodded gravely. “That answers why. But not what made you come here.”

“I… suffered a great loss.” She paused. There would be a time to tell him about Ardat, about just how much she meant to her, but not now. “My lord, do you know what the demons in Dis call Adamantinarx? With slitted eyes and filled with hate they call it the ‘City That Fell from Heaven.’ Everyone there knows what it represents… that it is the best that one can find in Hell. Everyone, too, knows of its lord and how he rules that city.”

Lilith knew well the other reason she had chosen Adamantinarx, knew that she could not yet tell him that she had seen in his infrequent visits to Dis something in him that had reminded her of another demon—her lost lord. Sargatanas bore many of the same irresistible qualities that had made Lucifer the force he was: the ambition, the idealism, the ferocity. And now she had seen yet another similar side, the self-flagellating remorse.

“From what I have heard,” he rumbled, “they spit after they utter that. And not just because they say the word ‘Heaven.’ Everyone may know of Adamantinarx, but not everyone wants it to exist.”

“True, but I do. And I would call it home. I can never see Heaven; this is as close as I can come.”

“And just how did you make your journey? Valefar never told me.”

“Anonymously, alone, and upon the back of a beast. Prime Minister Agares had a hand in it. He is a strange one, my lord. On the surface dutiful, but beneath he is in great turmoil, I think. Were I the Fly I would not put too much trust in his allegiances.”

“Interesting. I cannot imagine being in proximity to the Fly each and every day and not being a willing vassal. It would destroy a lesser demon. Well, Lilith,” Sargatanas said, extending his hand, “you are welcome in the City That Fell from Heaven and as long as you stay here I will protect you with my last phalangite if need be.”

Lilith put her hand—so white and small compared to his—upon his upturned palm, feeling the heat of it spreading. She shuddered as an unfamiliar sensation spread throughout her, a clawing away of the fear and misery that was such a large part of her being. Trapped beneath the millennia-deep sediment of her torment and resentment lay a pearlescent sealed casket and, within it, that imagined, barely fluttering self that Lilith knew had been deeply buried since she had arrived.

She looked down, shaking her head slightly.

“What is it?” Sargatanas asked softly.

“I… I feel as if I am either dreaming or awakening.”

The demon lord rose and, still cupping her hand in his, drew her up.

“It cannot be a dream, Lilith. My dreams are never this… engaging.”

Lilith smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, and felt as if her soul, like a dock of winged night-silvers, had risen, released at last, from within that now-open box.