Angelslayer: The Winnowing War (15 page)

He lifted his hand, and they slowed a bit. The torch revealed a wide cavern, as wide as a Galaglean mead hall, and though it was naturally formed and stalactites still dripped down onto stalagmites, there were also man-made catacombs with rows of massive granite slabs, some holding sarcophagi. Loch seemed to be slowing out of respect. She noticed that the lettering above the tombs was Etlantian.

At the end of the catacombs, he turned his horse about, pausing. “The path will narrow from here on. And I am sorry to say there are even more pitiful beasts below, bolder than the ones we passed above. Best we stay close together and move swiftly.”

“Understood.”

She leaned forward, her thighs gripping the dappled gray hard.

Loch flicked the end of his reins on his horse's rump and the white mare bolted into a quick flight. Adrea struggled to keep up with him.

“We will soon reach the lower bowels!” he shouted. “Some years ago a ship smashed into the rock off Dove Cara. Flotsam and jetsam spilled onto the beach, and some of it managed to crawl into the sunken caverns. Living things. They were Failures—the failed generation of the angels' offspring. What they all were doing on that ship, no one really knows, but there were plenty of them, an extraordinary variety of shapes and sizes and features. I have always guessed they were a carnival. In any event, they now make the bowels of the Earth below us their home, and we will have to ride through them. Make sure you show them you are unafraid.”

“I will offer my bravest face. How big are they?”

“Some are as the offspring of the early generations, giants; others are smaller even than humans. There are all sorts and sizes, but no need to worry. I am known to them. But you should never try coming here without able escort.”

“I have no intentions.”

There were shapes scurrying among the shadows, fleeing the flickering light of the torch, but their skin was so pale that Adrea could sometimes make them out. She rode closer to Loch since they seemed itching to rush forward. There were sounds—clicking sounds, sliding sounds, sharp sounds like nails against rock. Once or twice, whispers echoed along the walls, and as before, they sounded human.

“Are you all right?” Loch asked, maintaining the steady pace.

“Yes.”

He drew the long sword and shouted a brief war cry, causing lots of quick scatterings of creatures, grunting, running over each other to get out of the way. She saw one of them fleeing—a huge creature on two tiny legs, arms flailing.

“Someone with imagination should come down here and turn them into steady workers,” Loch said.

“What do they eat? I have heard the Failures are all cursed, that they can only survive on human flesh and blood. There seem few humans to feed on down here.”

“They set traps for passing barges, but apparently they can survive on fish if they have to. But as the curse grows stronger, I find more and more Failures dead of starvation. Even the firstborn of the angels have begun to thirst for human blood.”

“What of you? What of the Daath? Are you not the seed of an archangel?”

“But we are not born of women; we are of the mothering star.”

She thought of that—how he was not human, how he was what some disgruntled Galagleans, still bitter of the gathering wars, called
breeds.

He pointed to a corner as they rode past. “Look there,” he said.

She noticed a wall, built smooth and well fitted, floor to ceiling, with human bones, mostly thigh bones, but also the tops of skulls used to form symbols.

“Apparently the Failures are not stupid,” he said. “Those are words.”

She marveled. If they were intelligent enough to write on walls using the skull caps of the humans they'd managed to trap and eat, what could they do? And what purpose could Elyon have for such creatures?

“An underground river emerges just ahead,” Loch said. “The horses will be doing a bit of swimming. Anything in your packs you would not want wet?”

“Nothing in my packs.”

He urged his mare into the water and the horse went without hesitation, the water up to her neck as she started swimming. Adrea's dappled gray followed trustingly.

They crossed to the other side, then waded through clear, shallow water. Finally, they rode into the open, into what from ancient times had been called the Dove Cara. It was almost like still being in a cavern. All but three sides were high, sheer cliffs. The western edge opened to the dark purple of the Western Sea. She feared the lingering malevolence she had felt above might be even stronger here, but Adrea found her fears misplaced. It was simply too beautiful: high spires of sheer cliffs dripped in foliage and others spilled ribbons of white, crystal falls.

“I can promise we are alone here,” Loch said. “In the Dawnshroud it was said that for nine hundred years the Etlantians tried to take this shore, but the sword of Uriel could not be breached. Even to this day, none dare land here. However, you and I, we need not fear; we both have in our veins the blood of Uriel—you through the mothering star of Dannu, and I, if it is to be believed, from the archangel himself.”

“How often do you do this? Bring women down here?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Merely curious.”

“I am not a womanizer. Not as it is whispered of me. I take comfort in women, but I do not exploit them. Still, there is no comparison. The others I have brought here were for companionship. You are here for a very different reason. You are a Water Bearer, a maid of the lake of Lochlain, where my mother was born and lived.” He drew back on the reins and turned to her.

“Odd,” he said.

“What?”

“I cannot read you. Most women, I can see through as if they were glass, but not you. Nothing. You must be very powerful.” “I have never thought of myself as powerful.” “You are also very brave.”

“Brave? You said we came alone. What do I have to fear except you? Should I fear you, Loch?”

“Are you familiar with the Book of Angels?” She nodded.

“There is a passage in the fourth chapter: ‘In those days the stars shall forget their path, and the Earth will tilt, and all of time will begin to turn toward the mirrored abyss.' Are you familiar with it?”

“Since I was young I have listened to any singer, any Follower who passed through our village. Yes, I have heard these words.”

“I have trained all my life to face the prophecy of that passage. What I am about to tell you, I bid you listen with the knowledge that was gifted you as a Water Bearer, as a child of Lochlain, the birthplace of my mother. You may have no idea how strong
the knowing
is in you, but it is very strong, and it will be only through that gift you will discern the truth of what I am about to tell you. Let your powers judge my words, and you will know I speak no lies.”

That startled her, for she understood what he meant. All her life, she had been able to spot a lie, even when not directed to her, even when spoken from afar. The gift of seeing truth was strong in her, and the Daath knew it. It appeared he was about to depend upon it, which worried her a bit.

The wind off the sea seemed suddenly colder, and she stared at the dark blue waters, not really wanting to hear what he was about to tell her. Feelings, whisperings, they were coming at her swiftly, too swiftly, leaving her off balance. She began to wonder if coming had been a mistake after all.

“Before you say more,” she asked, “can you tell me, Loch, if are you a Follower?”

“I believe in the truths given by my mother. Yes, Enoch is a seer, but his days are numbered, and his people cannot save this world. I would be his protector if I could reach him, but they will destroy Enoch, and his city will be left like an empty hole in the center of the deep. And you—you are a Follower?”

“Always.”

“Yet, none have taught you to find them, the singers of Enoch. Your father made you swear an oath to stay away from them. Still, you went. And even though you are a Water Bearer, none of your so-called elders have invited you to counsel; no mentor has taken you aside to teach you of the secrets, have they?”

“Perhaps because I have not inquired.”

“They fear you. They fear your eyes; they know you carry the light in you so strong it would blind them, so they pretend to keep you a mere initiate. But, in fact, they have nothing to teach you. Each day you grow in the light your ancients called the star knowledge. You do not know who you are. Let me guess; you have this sense you have been sleeping and you cannot wake up?” “Perhaps …”

“This is why I have brought you here, to help you find yourself. For instance, your name, Adrea, means child of the wine dark sea. You were named for this water, the water out there, the dark, the deep of it. It is called by seafarers the terror water. Hundreds of ships have been lost in it, never to return.” He stared a moment, his eyes no longer soft, growing more and more serious. “It is why you come alone to the cliffs so often, why you stare over the ocean searching for something you cannot name. You are kindred of this sea; it is your soul.”

“How can you know such things? How can you know secrets I've never told a single person, not even my own mother?”

He fingered something about his neck. She noticed it for the first time, a ring on a silver chain. “I have been searching for you a long time. I have looked carefully, making certain always there were no mistakes. It is not me that knows these things about you, Adrea. My magic pales before yours. The ring led me to you.” His eyes were now dark, intense. “It belonged to my mother. As she lay dying, she set it in my hand, curled my fingers about it. It has been my curse ever since. It has given me dreams, visions.”

Adrea knew his mother was the last queen of the Daath, Asteria. She was the most famed of all Water Bearers. She was called the Little Seer, because she was small and frail. But Adrea knew, by faith, that she had been Elyon's chosen. Suddenly it struck her. She hadn't thought of him that way, but this was the son of a prophet.

“Come,” he said, dropping from the horse. “Walk with me a time.”

He helped her dismount, then let her reins dangle.

“Let them wander,” he said.

“What about the creatures back in the cavern?”

“They know I am here; they will stay well hidden.”

Adrea and Loch began to walk along the surf's edge, the beauty and wonder of the Dove Cara all about them like a mirage.

“Would it offend you if I spoke further of your powers?” he asked. “It seems no one has bothered telling you that you are not ordinary. Some know, some of your elders, but they have chosen to keep it secret. Perhaps they hope you will not discover it yourself.”

“Why should they hope that?”

“Because their powers, in comparison, are no more than common tavern tricks.”

“I still do not understand how you know me so well.”

“You bear the blood of the archangel. Not as I. It does not tint your skin or give you night vision, but it courses through your veins; it runs through you like a pure, crystal stream. My knowing—my inner knowledge—comes from the Light of Severity, the burning light of Elyon, but yours is given of the mothering star, the
Light Whose Name Is Splendor.
That is our difference, why you are called human and why I am called a
breed.
Your knowledge, your sense of things, comes not from training, but directly from the blood of your ancestors. It is gifted.”

“But why? My mother, though she walked the path of the Water Bearer, knew of no spell bindings or star knowledge,” Adrea said. “You do not mention your grandmother.” “She was different.”

“Yes, very different. When I was young, I wondered the same of myself during my training, so much so I even fought heaven to understand why such feelings were in me. And we are left on our own. Like all of Elyon's chosen, we are simply thrown to the wind, like leaves—left to fight its currents. Any guidance we receive is useless to us. He leaves us to find our path alone. Yet, here you are, Adrea, knowing the names of stars that no one taught you, effortlessly following their paths, understanding secrets scholars spend a lifetime searching for.”

She did not deny she knew the names of stars and that she understood things of which others seemed utterly unaware.

He reached behind to unlatch the silver chain about his neck. He let the ring it had secured fall into his hand. Adrea could not take her eyes off it. The capstone was a deep, dark purple like a diamond, and yet looked soft, palpable.

“She died four and ten years from this very day,” Loch said. “It was why I chose it as the day I would bring you. Some say she died of illness, that she was frail always, even from birth. None of that is true. She was murdered. And this is not only her ring, but also the ring worn of five queens before her. It was forged from the light of the mothering star, Dannu. But on Earth it has always been known as the Ring of the Water Bearer. Before you, my mother was the last born seer of the Lake People, the Lochlains.”

“Before me? But I am Galaglean. My father, Lamachus, he is the son of—”

“He has raised you his own, but he is not your father. Your father—a Lochlain, like your mother—fell in battle many years ago. Your mother and Lamachus chose not to tell you.”

Adrea gasped. All he had said thus far had rung true, but this, that Lamachus was not her blood father—though it was not a lie, it did take away her breath for a moment. Maybe she had known, but she had been so young, and it had been so long, it was something that had slipped away. Yet, she knew he was speaking true. There was no Galaglean blood in her.

“I still do not understand how you could possibly know these things,” she said, slightly angered.

“You cannot guess? The ring. I know because of the ring. For me, it has always spoken in dreams. I wear it about my neck, and the dreams have haunted me all my life. If I could have thrown this ring into the ocean, I would have. But I could not. It was all I had of her. All I had of you, if you choose to think of it that way.