Seraphs

Chapter 7

Truth? How much truth? I stood, smoothing my skirt, drawing attention to the strange clothing, so different from the severe dress of the orthodox; to my skin and scars, both radiant; to my jewelry, which was ostentatious, and not a style humans would wear. It wouldn’t hurt to remind them I was a mage, with weapons hanging around my neck. And that I had never used them against the town. I allowed myself to be sworn in.

In the singsong voice used by mage storytellers, I started speaking. “In the Beginning of the End of the World, came seraphs bearing the judgment of the Almighty, and the plagues they brought that punished the humans. War followed the plagues. Few survived.

“Darkness came, the Darkness that was of the spirit and the flesh. The handful of living descended into anarchy and violence or chose sides, joining the seraphs fighting the Dark, or joined the Darkness and the lures they offered. Evil walked the earth, stalking humans, killing, eating them. Darkness that raped and pillaged and kidnapped and bred with human captives to create new demons to cavort with the old. In all, nearly six billion died.”

I heard the crowd muttering, and I knew what they were saying—that mages were the result of Darkness raping human women and getting them with child, false accusation based on prejudice. I drew on the tourmaline to amplify my voice, and slowly walked toward the edge of the dais so all of them could see me. With each firm step I let my boots ring like a drum on the wood floor of the platform, and made my skirt bells chime, the speaker becoming part of the storytelling art. In Enclave, mages lived for the story, and I wanted the humans to hear the neomage version of the end of the world. Wanted them to hear the truth. “And during the End of the World, neomages were born.” I told them of the human babies born during the time of the plagues, infected or dead at birth. Malformed, genetically damaged.

“Nine months after the first plague, at the end of the final plague, a few hundred thousand human women survivors, those who had been in the first trimester of pregnancy at the Beginning of the End, gave birth all around the world. These children were viable offspring, beautiful children. Children of human fathers and mothers. But they were not human themselves. Conceived just before the first plague, carried successfully through all three plagues, the pestilence and disease had twisted their DNA into something different. Something new. Something never prophesied in all the years of human existence.” I reached the edge of the dais. The TV camera was positioned at an angle to catch the crosshatch of scars on my cheek and the solid glow of scars on my left hand. I put it from my mind.

“The Last War was decades long and hard. The ice age began. When the first neomages came into puberty, in the fourteenth and fifteenth years of the war, their talents and gifts erupted. These children of man had no power of their own, but could use the power in the world around them, the leftover energies of creation. They could see these energies in the rain and storms, in the heavens, in the wind and the sea, in growing things and in the earth, in rocks and minerals. And they began to experiment with the power that was theirs to use.

“It wasn’t illusion or trickery, it wasn’t magic, not in the way of fairy tales or dark fantasy. It wasn’t religion or sorcery. It was the unused energy of the Most High, the residue of creation. But the mages had no training. No one to guide them. By accident, some released wild energies—what, for lack of a better word, they called wild-magic. Mages died. Humans died. Humans they loved. Pain and anguish rang through the world.”

I arched my neck and looked high at a round, stained-glass window. I raised my arms as I had seen the priestess do in telling the story of the Beginning of the End. “And humans feared.” My voice rang off the walls of the old church. “They killed us by the tens, by the hundreds. Perhaps by the thousands. Small bands of neomages gathered in every part of the globe, despairing, frightened, untrained. In Louisiana, in the French Quarter of New Orleans, a small group of teenage mages gathered, sharing their newfound power. Attacked, hunted, trapped, they stood before an army of humans.”

I looked down, dropping one arm in a sweeping wave, not saying “humans like you,” but the gesture implying it. My glowing neomage eyes picked out the faces in the crowd. European, Cherokee, African, and Asian genetic backgrounds were all visible, all human, all facing a boogeyman, a nightmare, just as in the Mage War. The crowd had fallen silent, staring at the apparition who stood above them, a pagan wild child, a wisp of a woman, so much smaller than they, so much weaker. Wielding power they had never known.

And I spoke the story that humans denied, repudiated, claiming a revisionist history that protected them from the truth of what their forebears did, or tried to do. “Some of the humans were parents, fighting their own progeny. They bombarded the small band of teens with rockets and mortars. The children of man devised shields and weapons,” I chanted. “But the neomages knew not how to manipulate the energies they could see and taste and feel in the world around them. With a single gesture, the human general ordered the ultimate weapon dropped, the nuclear bomb intended to destroy the neomages. And the mages called on the seraphs.”

The crowd gave a collective gasp. From the back of the church, a voice thundered, “Seraphs and God the Victorious don’t hear soulless mages. They’re not human! They’re animals!” I found him at the doors. It was Tobitt, the young acolyte guard who had sworn in the witnesses. He was holding a gun in both hands, out from his body, pointed at me.

Without thinking, I called on the white onyx fish that held my sphere of shielding. I didn’t snap it into place, as it would be like building a wall between the assembly and me. But I got it ready. And I watched Tobitt’s eyes as I spoke.

“They don’t hear Godless, heathen whores!” someone else called.

“The Most High don’t see no mages,” another said. “That’s why they’re in prisons!”

Watching Tobitt, I whispered, “Neomage children, the teenage children of humans, called on the High Host of the Seraphim, and upon the Most High. ‘Mage in battle, mage in dire, seraphs, come with holy fire.’ It was a child’s nursery rhyme, chanted by innocents filled with fear. And the seraphs came.” I raised my voice. “A dozen of the Holy Ones appeared in the air above the battlefield. One reached out his wings and caught the bomb as it plummeted. Another took the bomb and departed with it. It did not detonate. But the neomages had built up power while defending themselves. Much power. My ancestors were foolish, afraid and untaught, facing an army of well-armed, angry, frightened humans. They didn’t know what to do with so much gathered might, or how to control it.

“In their inexperience, they released the power. And the human army fell. Thousands died. By accident, not by intent. And the children of man screamed and mourned even as they tried to draw back the might that escaped from them. But there was no tool on earth or with the seraphim, to pull back so much power once released. And the energies rained down on the human army, on their own fathers and mothers.” I shared a small, sad smile. “A great anguish went up to the Most High with the souls of the human dead.”

The mage account listed all the names of loved ones they had killed that day. I mentioned only the best-known one. “General Bascomb, the human who ordered the nuclear bomb dropped, was the biological father of one of the mages he battled. Bascomb died that day. His son was orphaned. His son grieved.”

The church full of people had fallen silent again. Tobitt’s gun wavered from me, dropping to dangle, pointing at the floor. Truth, the sigil had suggested. Well, here it was. Truth that the human and neomage communities had never shared.

“In punishment, the seraphs gathered the mages they had saved, forcing them into the first Enclave, the shielded haven now universally called the New Orleans Enclave. All around the globe, seraphs collected embattled neomages and established Enclaves, where the few still alive could work and study their gifts in safety. Where they were imprisoned. Nearly one hundred years have passed, and still we are captives. We may not depart without seraphic approval, visas, and scrutiny by the Administration of the ArchSeraph.”

I looked around the hall. There was a lot I hadn’t said. I hadn’t mentioned that proximity to each other set neomages and seraphs into heat. Only recently had the Most High and the High Council of the Seraphim produced the sigils that controlled mage-heat for a few hours at a time. All that I kept to myself. “Even today, we mourn those we killed. Even now, we do penance for the death of humans, the death of our parents, in the Mage War.” This was truth untaught in human schools. Truth that might disarm the angry and contain the vitriol.

“To atone, we help where we can, where asked. We accept payment, yes, as each of you accept payment for services and goods. Yes, we have power, but it’s sealed inside the Enclaves with us, so it won’t harm humans by intent or accident ever again.”

I looked at Tobitt. Orthodox, weaned on mage hate, taught by elders focused on cementing their own political power. “You’re right. We have no souls. When our spark of life is extinguished, we die forever. There’s no afterlife for us. Don’t fear us; pity us. We’re empty vessels. We are the unforeseen.”

“So how did the seraphs hear the mages?” Tobitt asked, curious at last.

I shrugged. Bells rang softly, a funeral cadence. “We think it was innocence that called to them. Since that time, seraphs always hear the call of mages in dire. It’s their pact with us, though to call the capricious and volatile seraphs is always a danger to nearby humans.”

Audric touched my shoulder and gestured to the chair set aside for the accused. I walked back across the small stage, my boots and bells loud in the quiet church. When I was seated, my champard asked, “Are there more accusations?”

Derek Culpepper raced up the stairs to the dais and shouted to the crowd. I had forgotten him and was almost surprised when he spoke, his face filled with rage, a finger pointed accusingly at me. “Don’t listen to her wiles. Can’t you see she’s trying to seduce you with words? She’s spelling you all right now!” When no one agreed, he said, “They take our money and make us dependent on their trinkets. We’re humans, the highest creation of the Most High, beneath the seraphs. We don’t need mages or their conjures or amulets. They’re immoral and depraved.”

“Is there no good to be had from mages?” Audric asked. “No good at all from the conjures and amulets that humans buy and use?”

“No!” Derek shouted.

“Then the accused requests that you empty your pockets,” Audric said.

Derek paled and clenched his hands. Shocked, he looked to his father, and I followed the glance. The elder raised his eyebrows. Derek turned to me, taking in my small smile. I didn’t know what kind of amulet he habitually carried, but I’d seen him worrying it during a previous town meeting, his fingers caressing it like a lifeline. He opened his mouth and snapped it shut, a crafty glint in his eyes.

“She spelled me with it,” he said.

I didn’t know exactly what kind of amulet he carried, but to my mage-sight it glowed a yellow-green of earth-magery, the gift of life and all things growing. It had been quite powerful the first time I noted it on him. I breathed deeply and caught the scent of the conjure. It smelled warm and verdant, like sunlight on spring leaves.

“Show us,” Audric commanded.

Derek’s triumph grew. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the amulet. He held it between thumb and forefinger so the crowd could see. The audience sucked in a collective breath, swept back from the truth of the Mage War story into habitual, ingrained fear. Ignoring them, I studied the amulet from my seat, smelling oak and age and the working of a powerful mage. The amulet was made from the root of a live oak, a thin disc about two and a half inches around and a quarter inch thick, like a large coin, carved through with symbols. To my mage-sight, its energies weren’t beautiful, but it was powerful. The fact that it glowed with power was significant. It had been recently charged.

“What say you?” Shamus asked me.

“I can’t use that amulet,” I said.

“Say what?” Shamus asked, surprised.

“There are different kinds of mages and energies. I’m a stone mage. That’s an earth mage amulet. I can see the working of the conjure but I can’t use it, make it, or alter it.” I lifted a carved quartz rose on the necklace I wore. “This is an amulet for peaceful thoughts. This I can use because it’s made of stone and mineral, but not that. The amulet carried by Derek Culpepper is a kamea, an oak-carved, Oriental-style amulet, likely inscribed with the name of the seraph Garshanal. It brings success in financial negotiations to the one who carries it. He bought it from a licensed mage and had it recharged on a recent trip. Didn’t you?” I asked.

Before Derek could answer, Shamus said, “You’re still under oath, Derek. We’ve had one witness lie on the stand today. I ain’t gonna abide a second one. If you lie and survive it, and if I can find the mage you purchased that thing from, I’ll have you tarred and feathered. And you know I mean it.”

Derek looked at me, loathing leaking like sweat from his pores. He ground out, “I bought it. From a licensed witchy-woman. A mage whore in Atlanta.”

In the silence that followed, Shamus Waldroup bent to the men at the judgment table, murmuring. My hearing is good, but I caught only a word or two before the chairman banged his gavel twice.

“By a majority of judges and elders, Elder Culpepper abstaining, we find that Thorn St. Croix is a legally licensed mage, and all accusations made today are proved false. Unless someone has specific charges against her, charges with hard evidence to back ’em up, I intend to declare this case closed.” When no one offered damning evidence, Shamus banged the gavel once and said, “The accused is found not guilty. In fact, the accused is not and never was the accused. You’re free to go, Thorn, and this bench offers its heartfelt apologies for this fiasco. Prejudice is something we ain’t usually got to contend with in this town. I’m ashamed of my fellow citizens and of my fellow judges.” He banged the gavel again and stood as he spoke. “Recess. I need to get the taste of lies and collusion outta my mouth.”

Intense relief hit me and I shuddered, cold rippling across my skin with a soft jingle of bells. I would have slumped back in the chair, but my shirt’s steel supports held me upright. Audric leaned down and gathered the collar of my cloak, securing it. “Damp your neomage attributes,” he murmured. My hand stole to the amulets, first releasing the shield I had ready, then damping the glow of skin and scars. My flesh dimmed to human, untouched by magery.

“Need I carry you, little mage?” he asked.

I clamped my lips on a witless titter. “No. I’m fine. I think.”

He grinned at me, sculpted, full lips parting, eyes sparkling in his dark-skinned face. “You were magnificent. But if you fall on your ass crossing the stage, you’ll spoil the effect.”

I laughed, a breathy sound. “And the sight of you carrying me off won’t ruin it?” I stood, knees wobbly, drained and invigorated, all at once. Along with all the other mage children, I had studied the art of storytelling, but had never practiced, not before an audience.

“She’s got a touch of the ham in her, doesn’t she?” Rupert said, tucking my right hand into the crook of his left arm.

“She’s been around you too long,” Audric said. “It’s rubbed off.”

“Just remember, dearie. There’s room for only one queen in Thorn’s Gems, and I am she. What’s this?” he asked, lifting an amulet hanging on my necklace.

I looked down. In work-hardened fingers, he held a poor-quality sapphire, crudely carved into a fat owl, an amulet I had purchased at a swap meet without knowing what it did. It came from the time of the wild-mages, from before the Mage War. And it was glowing. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

He could hear the soft pad of human-style boots on the stone of the passageway. They were early. His wings weren’t healed over. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Despair swamped him. How long? How long would penance last?

He pictured Daria in his mind: her dark hair and fine brown skin, long lean legs wrapped around him, her amulets flashing with wild-magic. Her flashing eyes so full of mischief. He could almost feel her fingertips as they caressed his face. However long it lasted, she would have been worth it. How does one ask forgiveness for a sin one doesn’t regret?

The cell door opened and a voice said, “Barak. Rise and shine. We got a randy one for you. She can smell you already.” They laughed. There were only three of them this time. And it hadn’t been long enough. Something was different. Something had changed. Shackles clinked. He kept his head buried in the crook of his arm, breathing deeply.

“Yeah. It’s your lucky day. And ours, if you continue being stupid about ’em.”

“A bonus, you wingless wonder.” A boot landed in the small of his back. A hand clicked a thick cuff around one wrist, while another captor wrenched back his other arm. “We made Forcas happy and so we get the next one, and only three of us to share. And when she—”

Barak, the fallen seraph once called Baraqyal, lashed out with both legs and the partially healed stub of a wing. All three tormentors crashed to the floor.