Faith Hunter: Seraphs

Barak rolled swiftly to his feet. “Who are you?” he shouted.

Zadkiel. We are trapped. Help me. Help us.

His wild laughter roared, the sound more than mad, reverberating off the walls of his small cell. “Then we shall die together, O mighty one,” he said. “For by decree of the Most High, I cannot transmogrify. And the Dark One has clipped my wings. I cannot fly.”

Oh, a softer voice belled. What have they done to us?

As I climbed, the dregs of my fear began to evolve into something leaner, sharper, and a lot more angry. The orthodox wanted me to be afraid. The toadies of two senior elders wanted to see me panicked, crawling and quaking in my silly little human boots, wanted me to cry and beg, to be submissive and weak, so they could protect the town from the evil magic-worker, a sexually promiscuous, wicked, licensed witchy-woman.

I stopped on the landing at the top of the unheated stairs, one hand on the knob. Yeah. They want me afraid. I pulled out the summons, fingering it in the dim light, tracing the broken seal. My skin tightened into tiny peaks of chill bumps. “Blow it out Gabriel’s horn,” I swore, and pushed open my door on the echo.

Inside, I ripped off the tunic, boots, and leggings and tossed them to the floor. Standing in my underleggings and long-sleeved, low-necked, silk tee, I opened my armoires and rummaged in their backs, between the clothes and linens. In the back of the third armoire, behind the dolls that smelled of my foster father, Uncle Lem, and my early years in Mineral City, I found what I wanted and tossed bags packed for a fast getaway on the stripped bed, abruptly fighting angry tears. A sob, a wretched sound like linen tearing, caught me by surprise and I stopped, shocked, as anger and grief welled up. I hadn’t known tears were so close to the surface, and I was fiercely glad no one was here to see me cry.

For a long moment I gave myself over to misery, one hand on the armoire door, one holding a baby doll, its body soft, its porcelain face angelic. I had named her Asia, for her tilted eyes and blue-black hair. Tucking her under my chin, I stroked her hair, soft as seraph down. Her lace dress wavered in my tears.

When my breath came easier, I wiped my face and smoothed Asia’s dress. Holding the doll close, I breathed in her scent. If I had to run, I wouldn’t be able to take the dolls, and they were all I had left of Uncle Lem. They still carried his scent: old pipe smoke, stone dust, and after-shave. I put Asia on the shelf, straightening all the dolls, giving myself a moment of respite, a moment to grieve.

When I was forced to leave Enclave at age fourteen, I was brought to Uncle Lem, a human man who had no idea what he was harboring. Though he had wanted a son, he opened his home to an orphan, thinking me wholly human. For years, the taciturn, gruff old rock hound had given me beautiful dolls, which I adored, and he shared with me his love of stones, taking me into the hills looking for mineral specimens. I had grown to love him, and he me, until he died unexpectedly in my eighteenth year, leaving me totally alone.

Suddenly, I missed Uncle Lem with an ache that felt brand-new. Of the two loves, dolls and rocks, only the love of rocks had lasted. But I still kept the dolls. And now I might have to leave them all behind. Stroking Asia’s hair, I closed her up with her friends.

More settled now that tears had come and gone, I held up the battle uniform I had worn in defense of the town, and the formal mage-clothes I hadn’t put on in over ten years. I hung both sets of garments over the armoire doors and walked around them in my sock feet, studying. Dobok or formal attire? Acid-burned and talon-scored black mage-leather, or silk and lace? Battle dress or sex in silk?

I added items to the luggage as I considered what I might do and the impression I might make. The dobok would treble any guilt the orthodoxy felt about my fighting Darkness on the Trine only a few weeks past. It would remind them that I was a warrior, and that I could kill six of them before they even noticed. The fact that I fought for the Light wouldn’t occur to them.

The silks would have an entirely different effect. They’d probably swallow their tongues. Not that I would be any less deadly in the formal attire. Which reaction did I want? Could I do this? I fingered the material of each outfit. Yeah. I could.

Satisfied that I had the guts to follow through with the role, I opened the stained-glass window at the back of the loft and dropped the packed bags to the ground. At the thump, Jacey’s big, strapping stepson, Zeddy, stuck his head out the barn door and waved up at me. “Morning to you, Miss Thorn,” he called. “Hope you live through it.”

I waved back with sour amusement, shutting the window and cutting out the cold. “Me too, kiddo,” I said to the apartment. Then I let down my hair, set my amulets aside, and laid out my weapons.

On top of the underclothes I pulled a heavy silk mageblouse that followed the plunging neckline of the undershirt. The points of the long sleeves were navy lace; the neckline was brightly embroidered, and sown with delicate stones to signify my status as a stone mage. I smoothed the teal fabric to my waist and tightened the stays at the front, pulling them out and pushing my small breasts up against the lace and stones, tying the cords under them. The blouse was part come-hither bustier, part defensive weapon, its torso lined with thin, mage-tempered steel laths that shaped me and provided a limber, mail-like corset.

The silk and lace would offer less protection against sleet and snow than the dobok or even street clothes did. Stone mages react badly to the touch of water that has passed through air, elements that work better for water mages, sea mages, and weather mages. A prime amulet blunts the discomfort, and the fact that I have two primes, one more than most mages, means that I seldom even think about protection from the weather. A dunking, however, is torture, and with the thin clothes, I’d feel the patter of snow or sleet. Not that I would change my plans because of minor pain.

I settled the copper and gold bracelet of my office over the sleeve, where it couldn’t be missed. The bangle was too small to slide off over my hand, and had been equipped with a GPS locator device. It was inscribed with the words “106 Adonai.” If I cut it off, the seraphs would know. If someone severed my hand to get it, the seraphs would know. If I died, the seraphs would know.

Presumably, if I needed seraph help, I could call them with it, but no one had bothered to tell me how, other than cutting off my hand, and Lolo, the Enclave priestess, had stopped receiving me when I tried to scry her. Maybe my constant questions had ticked her off. Or maybe she was still dealing with the fallout of a mage in hiding being found, going into battle, and being licensed after the fact by the seraphs. Couldn’t be easy, explaining me away.

On my forearms I strapped my ceremonial weapon sheaths. I hadn’t worn them in ten years, but they gripped my arms perfectly. I’d stopped growing taller at the age of twelve. I still looked pretty much the same now, slender, short, muscled, little body fat. The sheaths were tooled leather, dyed teal and fuchsia, and I slid long-bladed throwing knives into the casings, checking to see that I could pull them unimpeded. I missed my kris, its wavy blade catching the light as I fought, but I’d broken off the blade in the body of a Minor Darkness and damaged the hilt in the following battle. I figured my life was worth its loss.

I stepped into a Bohemian-style skirt, see-through silk gauze floating around my calves with the movement of the overhead fans. The fabric was studded with tiny rings and small copper and brass bells that chimed with each step. I shimmied mage-fast, the bells a warning or a paean of joy. It would all look perfect, if the ambient temperature of the meeting hall were warm enough to go without the underleggings and undershirt, but the outfit looked pretty good even with extra layers.