God's Demon

Epilogue

When he put his quill down it was atop a large stack of neatly arranged leaves of parchment. It had taken him over two full cycles of Algol’s transit to complete his reminiscences, two cycles in which he had wandered far to collect the fullest accounts of the events surrounding Sargatanas’ Rebellion.

In that time, the palace, the city’s focal point and arguably most unharmed building in Adamantinarx, had been tirelessly repaired. No longer was it open to the tempests of Hell; no longer could he so easily hear the murmurings of passing demons through holes in the walls. He could hear the hammers of artisans—demon and soul alike—as they brought the wounded friezes back to life. Even now, he could see the barges heavy with native stone as they docked, manned by souls who wanted to work rather than had to. It was a new time in Hell.

The Rebellion was over and yet it continued on in its new reforms. While he was aware of the changes in those wards and cities that had been closest to the battles and survived, he also knew that there were many regions as yet unaffected. This, he thought, would take time. Already there were some who did not fully understand Sargatanas’ gift, who thought to simply take up arms and indiscriminately rid Hell of their own concept of evil. Theirs would be a long path.

As he thought of these changes, he also thought of Lilith and wondered where she might be. Somewhere, wandering the distant Wastes, undoubtedly. He had watched her leave the city, watched her as she and her handmaiden had boarded a barge on the Acheron, and watched, too, as the ship had disappeared into the ashy distance. And on his ascent up the Rule and back to his chambers he had thought about his lord, Sargatanas. It had all begun, the discontent and the dream, at the massive statue that still stood not too far from where he climbed.

Eligor sighed and straightened the stack of parchment leaves, placing the beautiful statuette of Sargatanas and the cruder one of Lilith atop them and donning his cloaks, and left his chambers to descend through the palace and out onto the Rule. The avenue was growing more crowded each day with a steady flow of workers and artisans, but it was not yet as bustling as it had once been. While there were very few buildings left, he walked the Rule out of habit, not necessity; only the sidewalks remained and he could have easily walked a more direct route, but he liked to see the city’s progress. He stopped a few times to observe the foundations of some new buildings being laid by souls and demons alike, but, distracted, he focused on the giant cruciform statue and headed toward it. When the city was at its height there would have been no chance of seeing its relatively low base, but now, with few buildings standing, he could see it still survived, an anomalous soul-brick structure in a city now growing only with native stone. Why, he wondered, had it not been taken down?

He walked steadily until he arrived at the foot of the stepped plinth. For just a moment he thought of that other plinth, the one from the Black Dome that he had had brought back to Adamantinarx and enshrined.

Slowly, he paced the base’s periphery until he came upon that which he had hoped to find. He put his hand upon the rugose brick and felt its warmth and then, suddenly, it opened a piercingly blue eye and stared up at him. For a moment their gaze met and then he sighed and stood up. He looked into the heavens and saw the equally blue star—the star they called Zimiah, the Gate—and knew what he would have to do. The statue would have to come down and the bricks of its base—this brick in particular—would have to be resurrected. That much, he knew, he owed his lord.