David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“Wait here,” Loen said.

The angel stepped through the door, which was oversized to accommodate his wings. All of the doors and walkways were large like that, making Qurrah, who had grown up thin and sickly, feel all the smaller. Staring up at the spire, Qurrah admired the craftsmanship it took to build it. For some reason, it had a newness to it the rest of the city did not. Perhaps it was the height, or maybe because it was the lone building he’d seen so far that possessed a pointed rooftop instead of a flat one.

“Qurrah?”

Azariah stepped out of the door, followed by Loen.

“I’d have words with you,” the half-orc said, falling to one knee.

“Of course,” Azariah said. “All are welcome here. If we might have time alone, my dear Loen. My guest and I will require privacy for him to speak his troubled heart, but do not go far. He will need you to return home.”

Qurrah held back a chuckle. So his troubled heart would be the excuse to hide his lessons at magic? Oh well. Whatever worked.

When Loen was gone, Azariah gestured for Qurrah to step inside. As the door shut, Qurrah’s eyes needed a moment to adjust. Azariah’s spire was bright even by Avlimar’s standards. Light shone not from torches but instead various gems, crystals, chandeliers, even candles carved of marble with no visible wick. It all spoke of magic. Amused, Qurrah wondered if Azariah had lost his clerical abilities because he wasted them on something a simple torch and wax candle could accomplish.

“You should have requested my presence,” Azariah said, gesturing for Qurrah to take a seat. The chair was large, the cushions overstuffed with feathers. There was an ornate fireplace before it, and in the hearth burned a fire that gave off heat yet appeared to have no effect on the log within. The carpet was thick, a deep crimson that was easy on the eyes, a welcome respite after all the shining metals. Kicking off his sandals, Qurrah slumped in the chair (which was, of course, far too big for him) and let his bare feet sink into the carpet.

“If I’d known teaching you magic would have such comforts, I’d have agreed far more readily,” he said, closing his eyes as the heat from the fire washed over him.

“Such tutelage will no longer be necessary,” Azariah said.

Qurrah’s eyes snapped open, and he peered around the chair. The angel remained standing beside the stairs leading higher up into the spire. All around him were paintings of forests, of which Qurrah had no doubt Azariah had both been to, and painted himself.

“Is that so?” he said, trying to hide his surprise. “You seemed rather insistent when we last met.”

“I’m sure I did.”

Qurrah frowned, and he pushed himself out of the chair.

“I came to Mordeina at your request,” he said. “And maybe it is just me, but it’s a bit rude to request someone’s help, then turn them down when they arrive to offer it. Now, I wouldn’t claim myself as brilliant in the ways of Ashhur as you, so perhaps you can answer the question for me…is rudeness a sin?”

“Your wit and sarcasm are both unnecessary and unappreciated,” Azariah said, crossing his arms.

“Then care to tell me why you changed your mind?”

The angel looked to the side, and he seemed confused, almost frustrated.

“My decision should not reflect poorly on you or Tessanna,” he said at last. “My coming to you…that was not wise. If my power from Ashhur is waning, then I should accept that as reality, and not try to hide it. Unfortunately I came to you in pride, seeking to remain the most powerful of angels. I’m sorry to waste your time, Qurrah.”

It didn’t make sense, no matter how many times Qurrah ran the words through his mind.

“You said you came to me in humility,” the half-orc insisted. “Now you say it is pride?”

“I wanted secret training to avoid the mockery of mortal men,” Azariah said. “That is pride. I wanted power to replace the power I lost. That is pride. I cannot do this for such a reason. I cannot let my pride control my actions. I thank you for coming, Qurrah, but perhaps humility is what I need to learn now.”

“So you’re accepting the loss of your clerical magic?”

Azariah sighed.

“Accepting it? Yes. I will not lie and say I am pleased. I will not pretend I do not miss it, nor act like I do not wish it returned. But I won’t have you as a teacher, Qurrah, nor your lover. This is a decision I made on my flight home, one I cannot fully explain. I hope you understand.”

Qurrah didn’t, but then again, he was trying to understand an angel. It seemed that, while on the outside they seemed simple and predictable, the truth of them was anything but.

“Very well,” he said. “We will remain here for a time longer, at least until I’m certain of my brother’s safety. If you change your mind, let me know.”

“I assure you, Qurrah,” Azariah said. “I won’t.”

Something about his tone of voice was strikingly cold. Azariah opened the door, and when Qurrah stepped out, he called for Loen. The angel landed moments later, having spent the time hovering above the spire in a lazy circle.

“Return my friend to the castle,” Azariah said. “I have much studying to do in preparation for the convening council, and cannot afford the time.”

“I would be happy to,” Loen said, turning to Qurrah. “Are you ready?”

Qurrah nodded.

“The night is late. Yes, please take me home.”

Once more they walked through the city to the very edge before Loen wrapped his arms around him and beat his wings.

“I must warn you,” Loen said. “The trip down is far more intense than the trip up.”

At first Qurrah thought it an exaggeration, but as they plummeted off the edge in free fall he changed his mind. Perhaps there were a few things left that might frighten him. Several times he glanced at the angel’s outstretched wings, having to remind himself that yes, they could indeed support their weight. As the city neared, Loen banked upward, stealing much of their speed so that during a second descent they came in much slower toward the castle. With surprising gentleness Loen pulled up at the last moment, setting Qurrah’s feet on the ground without the slightest difficulty.

“Many thanks for being my guide,” Qurrah said, turning to face the angel.

“Perhaps when you are not so tired, and the hour not so late, I can better show you the artwork and structures.”

“I would very much like the chance.”

Loen saluted. Before taking flight, he placed a hand on Qurrah’s shoulder.

“I once doubted your worth, even after the trial,” he said. “But I heard of your stand on Ashhur’s Bridge. And when you killed Karak’s prophet, a great evil left this land. It was like a thorn pulled from all our minds. You have done great things, and I would thank you before I leave.”

The admiration left him stunned. He’d gotten used to his accomplishments being overlooked, or remaining completely unknown.

“What little good I’ve done, I did not do alone,” Qurrah said, feeling his neck flush. “But I accept your thanks nonetheless.”

Loen took to the air, slowly fading away into the clouds as he soared toward Avlimar. His heart troubled, Qurrah stared at the glowing city, like a great star in the night, and wondered.

Kinamn looked a desolate wreck, but Tarlak knew looks could be deceiving. After all, why else would he prance around in his yellow robes?

“Are you sure you want to attack?” the wizard asked. Beside him, Antonil nodded.

“This city represents my greatest failure,” the king said. “We can’t ignore it, and we can’t leave so many orcs gathered at our flank. We take it back, or we return now to Mordeina. Those are our choices.”