Descent of Angels (9 page)

But for Brother Amadis, those thoughts would have been correct.

He would keep these thoughts from his fellows when he told the tale. He would be asked to tell the story often, but he realised no one wanted to hear of his private doubts. They wanted to hear something more stirring, full of heroic exploits and the expression of valour, something that spoke of the inevitable triumph of good over evil.

It was human nature, he supposed, but his listeners expected him to be the hero of his story. They wanted him to be confident, wise, debonair, unflappable, dashing, handsome, charismatic, even inspiring. The truth was that at the time he had fully expected to fail. He had not allowed that thought to undermine his resolve, but it was there all the same.

No one wanted to hear that truth.

No one wanted to know their heroes could have feet of clay.

Occasionally, in the brief quiet moments he would experience in the life ahead of him, he would wonder at the folly of human judgements.

To his mind, his victory had been more special precisely because he had been afraid.

His fellow supplicants, however, seemed to think it was improper to speak of the emotion at all. It was as if fear was a secret shame in every human heart, and his listeners wanted to be reassured that their heroes did not feel it, as though it meant they might one day be freed from their own fear.

It seemed to Zahariel that this was wrong. The only way to overcome fear was to confront it. To pretend it did not exist, or might somehow disappear one day, only made it worse.

BOOK TWO

BEAST

FIVE

Y
EARS PASSED, AND
Zahariel’s standing within the Order grew. His fight with the winged monster of the woods had almost cost him his life, but it had been the making of him. The senior masters of the Order knew his name, and though the monster had been slain by Brother Amadis, the knight had ensured that every member of the Order knew of Zahariel’s bravery in fighting it.

The dead boys were buried with full honours, and life went on as before, with the supplicants training and living within the walls of the fortress monastery on the road to becoming knights.

Zahariel spent more time than ever honing his skills with pistol and blade, more than ever determined that he would not be at the mercy of another beast in his lifetime. The next time he faced a monster of Caliban, he would be ready to kill it without a moment’s pause.

As the latest lesson concluded, Master Ramiel said, ‘Always remember, you are more than just killers. Any fool can take a knife and try to push it into his enemy’s flesh. He may attempt to strike, feint and parry with the blade. Given some instruction, he may even become proficient. But you are more than that, or you will be. You are knights-supplicant of the Order, but in future, you will be the protectors of the people of Caliban.’

‘Fine words, eh?’ said Nemiel, moving to one of the rest benches and picking up a linen towel to mop his face.

‘Fine indeed,’ agreed Zahariel, ‘just as fine as the first hundred times I heard them.’

The lesson had been spent mastering the principle of the inner circle sword defence, and both boys were lathered in sweat from the sparring session. Though honours were still more or less even between them, Nemiel had begun to claw ahead in their perpetual rivalry.

‘Master Ramiel does love to quote the
Verbatim
.’

‘True, but I think he thinks we’re all like Attias, writing down every pithy quote we hear.’

‘Well, so long as we master the fighting, I can live with hearing a few repetitions now and again,’ said Nemiel.

‘I suppose,’ agreed Zahariel. ‘Next time we fight a beast, we won’t be so unprepared.’

A heavy silence fell between them. Zahariel cursed himself for bringing up the subject of the beasts, for it always served to remind Nemiel of how his cousin had won glory and plaudits for his role in protecting them long enough for Brother Amadis to kill it, when all Nemiel had won was time in the infirmary.

‘Do you think the beast was sentient?’ asked Nemiel.

‘What beast?’ replied Zahariel, though he knew fine well what his cousin meant.

‘The winged beast that attacked us in the forest all those years ago.’

‘Sentient?’ asked Zahariel. ‘I suppose that depends on what you think the term means. I think the beast was intelligent, yes. I really believe it. But was it truly sentient? I remember Brother Amadis saying that the true test of sentience was whether a creature was capable of planning towards the future, and using reason to solve its problems.’

‘So what do you think then, cousin?’ asked Nemiel. ‘Do you think the creature was sentient or not?’

‘I don’t believe I know. I think it’s too difficult for a human mind to understand the workings of an inhuman one, but I can only tell what it felt like to fight it.’

‘And what did it feel like?’ asked Nemiel.

‘It felt like the beast was a spider and I was a fly.’

Z
AHARIEL RAN THE
oily rag through the barrel of his pistol, clearing it of the residue of repeated firing. The gun was starting to pull to the left, and it had let him down in the firing drills with the rest of the supplicants.

When he had pointed out the weapon’s fault, the knight armourer had simply recommended that he clean the barrel thoroughly before trying again. The implicit insult in the armourer’s comment had angered Zahariel, but he was still just a supplicant and had no recourse to answer back to a full knight.

Instead, he had politely thanked the knight armourer, and returned to the dormitories to break out his cleaning kit and meticulously clean every moving part of the weapon.

Not that he expected it to do any good. He suspected that the imperfection with the weapon was more to do with the weapon’s age than any impurities lodged in the barrel, for he was as fastidious with his weapons as he was with his armour, more so, in fact.

‘The armourer told you to clean your weapon more thoroughly, eh?’ said Nemiel, watching as Zahariel angrily sat on his cot bed, lifted another component of his pistol and began cleaning it with vigorous strokes of the cloth.

‘As if I don’t keep it clean enough already!’ said Zahariel.

‘You never know,’ said Nemiel, ‘it might help.’

‘I keep this weapon cleaner than anything else I own. You know that.’

‘True, but the armourers know what they’re talking about.’

‘You’re taking their side?’

‘Side?’ said Nemiel. ‘Since when did this become about sides?’

‘Never mind,’ snapped Zahariel.

‘No, come on, what did you mean?’

Zahariel sighed and put down the breech and the brush he had been cleaning it with.

‘I mean that you seem to be relishing this.’

‘Relishing what?’

‘That you managed to beat me in the firing drills,’ said Zahariel.

‘Is that what you think, cousin? That I need your gun to fail for me to beat you?’

‘That’s not it, Nemiel,’ said Zahariel. ‘I just mean—’

‘No, I understand,’ said his cousin, rising from the cot bed and making his way down the central corridor of the dormitory chamber. ‘You think you’re better than me. I see that now.’

‘No, that’s not it all!’ protested Zahariel, but his cousin was already walking away, his pride ruffled. Zahariel knew he should go after Nemiel, but part of him was glad he had finally given voice to the irritation that his cousin took such relish in watching him fail.

He put the disagreement from his mind and continued cleaning his weapon, head down, putting the background noise of the dormitory from his mind as he focused his efforts on making his pistol shine as good as new.

A shadow fell across him, and he sighed.

‘Look, Nemiel,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, but I need to get this done.’

‘It can wait,’ said a sonorous voice, and he looked up to see Brother Amadis standing at the foot of his cot bed, dressed in full armour and white surplice. Amadis carried his winged helm in the crook of his arm, and his black cloak was gathered at his left shoulder.

Zahariel dropped the magazine feed onto his blanket and sprang to his feet.

‘Brother Amadis, my apologies, I thought…’ he began.

Amadis waved away his apology and said, ‘Leave the pistol and come with me.’

Without waiting, Amadis turned away and marched down the length of the room, each of the supplicants in the dormitory watching with awed faces as the heroic knight passed them.

Zahariel smoothed down his robe and quickly followed Brother Amadis towards the door. The knight was marching quickly, and Zahariel struggled to keep up.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘It is time for you to move deeper within the Order,’ said Brother Amadis. ‘It is time for you to see the Lord Cypher.’

T
HE
L
ORD
C
YPHER
.

It was not a name: it was a title of office given to the man responsible for preserving the Order’s traditions, and Zahariel felt nerve-wracking fear at the thought of being brought before the old man.

Might he offend the Lord Cypher through some inadvertent breach of the Order’s protocols? Might he have forgotten some ancient formality when presented to him that would forever dash his chance of ever becoming a knight?

Brother Amadis led him deeper into the heart of the monastery. Their path took them down into the dark catacombs that riddled the rock the fortress was built upon. They passed darkened cellars, forgotten chambers and ancient cells as they journeyed ever downwards and ever deeper into the ground.

The air was cold, and Zahariel saw his breath feather the air before him as he followed Brother Amadis into the darkness. The knight carried a flaming brand, the leaping firelight reflecting from the glistening rock of the tunnel they travelled along. Intricate carvings decorated the walls, depicting scenes of war and heroism that reached back many thousands of years.

Who had carved them, Zahariel could not say, but each one was rendered as a masterpiece, though none now travelled to see them.

At last their path took them into a long, vaulted chamber of dripping echoes and orange light. The walls were fashioned from enamelled bricks that reflected the light of the torch and threw back hundreds of reflections from the many candles spread throughout the chamber in a wide, spiral pattern.

The Lord Cypher stood at the centre of the spiral, his hood pulled up, and his surplice dark, as tradition dictated. A golden hiked sword protruded from beneath his robes, and his gnarled fingers were curled around the weapon.

‘Welcome, boy’ said Lord Cypher. ‘It seems your peers judge you worthy to move upwards through our Order. Deep chasms lie beneath this rock, boy – deep chasms and deep places long forgotten by the world above. Mysteries lie entombed within this world and secret places that only the wise may know of. You know nothing of this, of course, but here you will take the first step on the road to knowledge.’

‘I understand,’ said Zahariel.

‘You understand nothing!’ snapped Lord Cypher. ‘Only by understanding where you have come from can you understand what will be. Now begin to walk the spiral.’

Zahariel looked over to Brother Amadis. ‘Don’t look to him, boy,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘Do as you are told.’

Zahariel nodded and began following the path of the candles, walking purposefully, but carefully.

‘Though our Order is nowhere near as ancient as many of the other knightly orders of Caliban, it has accumulated an impressive array of customs in the course of its history. I am the Lord Cypher of the Order. Do you understand what that means?’

‘I do,’ said Zahariel. ‘The man appointed to the role of Lord Cypher is expected to police those customs. He ensures that the Order’s rituals are preserved, and advises on matters of protocol as well as officiating at ceremonies.’

‘And my name, boy? Do you know it?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is forbidden to know your name.’

‘Why?’

Zahariel paused. ‘I… I am not sure. I know that no matter the identity of the man appointed to the position of Lord Cypher, it is forbidden to call him by his real name once he takes up its mantle. I do not know why’

‘Indeed.
Why
is often the most interesting question, but often the one not asked. Where, when, how and what are mere window dressing. Why is always the most important question, would you not agree?’

Zahariel nodded as he continued walking the spiral. ‘I agree.’

‘I have a variety of arcane titles: Master of Mysteries, Keeper of the Truth, the Lord of the Keys, or else simply Lord Cypher. Do you know why this is so, boy?’

‘No, my lord. It is simply the way things have always been with the Order.’

‘Exactly,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘
It is the way things have always been with the Order.
The value of tradition is that it guides us, no matter that the real reasons may have been forgotten. Beliefs and actions that have seen us prosper in the past shall serve us well in the present and the future. I have held this position for over twenty years, and though the role is usually given to one of the Order’s more venerable knights, as a younger man, I was chosen with the hope of infusing new blood into the role. Above all else, it is my task to maintain the Order’s customs as a living tradition, rather than allowing them to degenerate into ossified relics.’

Zahariel listened to the old man’s voice, its hypnotic rhythms lulling him into slowing his walk around the spiral. Soon he would be standing before the old man, his steps carrying him in tighter and tighter circles around the candles.

‘Yet my role is one of contradictions,’ continued Lord Cypher. ‘It is one of the most senior positions within the Order, and yet I hold very little real power. In many ways, my role as guardian of the Order’s traditions is symbolic. If that be the case, then who really holds the power of our Order? Quickly boy, before you reach the centre.’

Zahariel forced himself to concentrate, working through the obvious answers as his steps carried him inexorably towards the centre of the spiral.