Fall From Grace Read online

  Weakness: Satanail saw it everywhere now.

  “But how can you be certain? If my mind is diseased, isn’t it your oath to purge the sickness?” There was nothing within Satanail’s mind to remedy, but maybe if Raphael felt his thoughts, a new ally would be gained. He leaned his forehead against the bars. “What if you could end all of this? Please, Raphael.”

  “I promise nothing, but out of respect for our history, I will try. Once.”

  Raphael couldn’t deny a plea for help, even when every iota of sense was against it. He placed his hands against Satanail’s temples and closed his eyes. The tips of his fingers pulsed with light as he scoured memories and thoughts for something amiss. All he’d find was undiluted conviction of the highest order.

  Minds linked, Satanail bombarded Raphael with images of the Host united, prosperous, and freed by his hand. Do you see, Raphael? I haven’t lost my sanity. I haven’t betrayed Heaven. I’m its savior. Join me. I’ll protect you and the Thrones. You know where Michael’s obstinate faith will lead the Host. He’ll command you all into subjugation and ruin. I never will. I—

  Raphael severed their connection, spurning Satanail’s truce, and collapsed forward onto the bars as the physical world rushed back. “What you have done to yourself cannot be reversed. You are stained, mind and soul,” he said between panicked breaths.

  To hear Raphael, ever kind, spew that foul judgment brought a harsh realization. There were those whom couldn’t be swayed, no matter how clearly Satanail’s message was presented. A flush of rage negated any further thoughts of truce with the Seraphim.

  Certain angels would have to be…dealt with.

  “Though I prayed otherwise, this is where you belong—”

  Satanail’s hands shot through the bars and constricted the fragile tube of Raphael’s trachea. His chains only allowed a small reach, but it was enough.

  “I give you access into the most private corners of my mind, and you return my trust with malediction? Of all the Seraphim, I thought you’d understand that mine is a vision of peace and freedom, but you deem me stained? Yours is the tainted voice. What would become of your Thrones if I ripped it from your throat?”

  Satanail felt Raphael struggle to speak: the pressure of air blocked by his grip, the larynx vibrating to call for aid, the artery throbbing with blood, but there was no need for further harm. His point had been made, and he had to stay the course of martyrdom. Satanail released Raphael and offered a sip of manna to soothe the coughing Seraph’s throat.

  “Remember this moment, and know that I’m not without mercy.” Though he failed to recruit Raphael, the moment could still prove beneficial. “Now I petition you for the same. The heat has me flushed. May I have a cool cloth to wipe my brow?”

  Raphael backed out of Satanail’s reach. He wrapped a hand over his throat to heal the bruising and restore his voice.

  “Why…would I show you…any further kindness?”

  “Because it’s who you are, and because I’ve no schemes for a grand escape. When last I checked, cloth couldn’t break chain.”

  “There is no heat in here.” Raphael gestured to his visible breath. “You sweat because your thoughts burn with guilt. I should let them continue.”

  “Should but won’t. You hold onto hope that the smallest act of compassion can flourish into something more. That’s why you were the only Seraph to support Sammael’s decision to lead the Forgotten. Why you were the first to pledge yourself to Michael and Mankind. You’re goodness personified, Raphael, and have never proven otherwise.” Satanail knew the Seraphim better than they knew themselves, a fact that he would abuse as needed.

  Raphael tore a fragment off his tunic and threw it into the storeroom before closing his eyes to meditate. Satanail had trifled with him enough and couldn’t chance further provocation, lest Raphael turn all of the Thrones away from him. The support of one Seraph was not worth the risk of alienating an entire Choir, especially the Thrones.

  Satanail took the meager piece of cloth and receded to a shadowed corner of his cell. He scraped his wings against the rough wall to release a feather. He jabbed the sharp quill into the tip of his finger until a crimson dot pooled up. Using his own blood as ink, he began to write on the cloth:

  Heaven is freedom

  They can lock me away, but I remain free

  They can rescind my titles, but I remain free

  They can claim my lands, but I remain free

  They can’t take my voice

  They can’t bend my knee to bow

  They can’t move my hand to serve

  There’s always a choice

  Choose to be united

  Choose freedom

  Choose Satanail

  The message was easy to grasp yet complex in depth. Satanail wanted the Host to extrapolate its meaning for themselves. A lengthy script would only confuse the masses, but this could be passed from angel to angel free of misconception. No translation was necessary. Satanail had written treatises on innumerable subjects of Heavenly life, but this was by far his most important composition—empowerment in written form.

  Raphael heard the cautious steps of another angel approach, assuming it to be his replacement.

  “Gabriel, I had thought you were lost to drink,” Raphael said from his repose. “Gabriel…?”

  A hooded, two-winged angel rammed Raphael into the far wall, whipping his skull against the frigid ice chunks.

  Raphael crumpled into a motionless heap from the impact.

  The angel removed his hood—Azazel. He was lucky that Raphael’s gentle mind only functioned to heal, not harm. If he had accessed even a shred of his Seraphic power to deflect the surprise rush, Azazel’s attack would’ve been laughable.

  “I only m-m-meant to stun him,” Azazel fretted.

  “Deep breaths, Azazel.” Satanail peered through the bars and saw Raphael’s chest rise and fall. “He’ll recover, but you risk much coming to me. Too much. What of Gabriel?”

  “I arranged a disturbance in the bazaar as d-d-distraction, but we must l-l-leave.”

  “Then I suppose you’ve managed to lift the door key from Michael’s breast?”

  “K-k-key?” Azazel’s escape plan was one of devotion but not intelligence. “Surely no lock, no chain, can contain you?”

  “I’m contained only by my choice to proceed through the motions of law.” Satanail handed the cloth message to Azazel. “You’re my Logos. Spread my Word and fuel ambition in others as I have in you. In time, Michael will free me…or his domain will crumble.”

  “But look what he’s done to you. Remove him from power now,” Azazel pleaded.

  “We walk a thread that could snap from the weight of our aspirations. Tread carefully, bring others to our cause, and see that thread become a steel net to engulf all of Heaven.” Satanail heard Raphael begin to regain consciousness. “We’ve not much time. I need you, Azazel. Will you do this for me, for the Host?”

  “It’ll be my life’s honor,” Azazel affirmed and concealed the cloth by his heart.

  All was proceeding according to Satanail’s design.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Trial of Satanail

  The attack on Raphael was unthinkable, for he was among the most magnanimous in Heaven. He asked not to guard Satanail, his heart unsuited to the task, and Michael all but ordered him by invoking the Creator’s name. Though Raphael voiced no blame, so forgiving was his soul, Michael still felt as if he had personally struck the blows. The distinct line of piety that separated himself from Satanail could ill afford to be blurred by violence.

  Azazel, a merchant of simple repute, was now pioneering the support for Satanail and assaulting Seraphs. The sudden deviance of character and obsessive devotion was disturbing. How did he discover Satanail’s location when only the incorruptible Council knew of it? Did Satanail have other emissaries within Araboth’s walls, unseen eyes and ears stalking the Seraphim? The paranoia was repugnant, but Michael could not erase its blemish from hi
s mind. Satanail’s trial had to be expedited before another breach put more in danger.

  The Heavenly Court rested within the Seraphim’s corridor of the Grand Hall, its function to moderate the occasional minor dispute. The Court’s existence was enough deterrent for most angels, and the few disagreements that came before it were amicably resolved. There was no precedent for punitive action, but detaining Satanail in the storerooms was only a temporary solution. He deserved an opportunity to explain his actions before a tribunal of peers.

  Michael opened the Court’s burgundy double doors, each carved with mirrored angels beneath an all-seeing eye—equality under the Creator. Totems of the angelic Choirs supported the courtroom’s domed ceiling, and banners emblazoned with the standards of Heaven’s regions hung from the walls. Raphael, Uriel, and Cassiel sat alone in the public gallery. It was a solemn affair, not a spectacle for public observation.

  At the head of the courtroom was an elevated bench for the judges: four still angels in silken alabaster robes so emotionless that they appeared as statues. The identical twin Qaddisin spoke in unison as if sharing a soul. Their counterparts, the twin Irin, had half of their bodies vertically duplicated and finished each other’s oscillating sentences. The judges were impartial keepers of peace with no friends or loyalties, not even to the Seraphim.

  “Conspiracy, trials…exciting times.” Sammael entered with an unseemly swagger and sat in the gallery next to the others. “I hope I’ve not missed the pageantry.”

  “Mind your tone, Sammael. When your opinion is required, you will be addressed,” Michael snapped back.

  Sammael pantomimed sewing his lips shut.

  The doors swung open, and Gabriel escorted Satanail into the courtroom. The Seraphim stood as Satanail waddled past them, his links of chain dragging across the floor like metallic serpents. Gabriel kicked out Satanail’s legs and shoved him to his knees in front of the bench before joining the others. Sensing his presence, the Irin and Qaddisin stirred.

  “Michael, why has the Archon been brought before us?” the Qaddisin echoed.

  “During my recent announcement of the Creator’s Word, a moment of supreme importance for the Host’s future, Satanail defied our Father and attempted to befoul others with deceptive sacrilege,” Michael explained.

  “It seems his attempts were met with success. Should you not be concerned with—”

  “—The unrest gripping Heaven’s people and not the trial of a sole offender?” the Irin asked.

  “I believe that by proving Satanail’s error in this forum, the unrest will subside, and the Host’s union will mend.”

  The Qaddisin and Irin whispered among themselves. Michael looked at Satanail and was met with an impudent grin. Even if every dissenting angel came back to the Creator, there would be no return to the norm, no reclamation of innocence…not for Michael. Speaking against Satanail now guaranteed the outright dissolution of their storied kinship. That alliance, the measure of all brotherhood in Heaven, was about to be abolished.

  “The beliefs that founded this Court—”

  “—State that all charged are subject to fair deliberation.”

  “Thus begins the trial of Satanail,” the Qaddisin declared.

  Father, forgive us.

  The atmosphere of the courtroom was drenched in trepidation. Satanail couldn’t see the Seraphim but smelled their nervous perspiration. The entire process was a farce of justice meant only to alleviate their guilt. Satanail had none. They expected him to apologize and beg forgiveness, but he wouldn’t cave to their presumptions. Even if condemned, the staunch truth of his message would boom over their vacant arguments.

  “Speak, Seraphim, and let the Court hear your assessment—” the Irin began.

  “—Of the charges against Satanail.”

  “Stand, Cassiel of Shamayim,” the Qaddisin called.

  Cassiel exited the gallery and approached the bench. Based on the violent end of their recent encounter, his words against Satanail were a foregone conclusion.

  “Even before Satanail defied the Creator, I witnessed signs of aggression. When attempting to control a wild rainstorm, his frenzied mind nearly amplified the storm across Heaven. He refused my assistance, and when I confronted him…he struck me,” Cassiel said. There was an audible gasp from the gallery.

  More dramatic than Princedoms, Satanail thought with disdain.

  “It is my opinion that Satanail rejected not only our Creator’s Word, but the grace of his own soul. He can no longer be trusted as a Seraph or Archon.”

  The statement obliterated any remorse Satanail still felt from injuring Cassiel. Exercising his personal vendetta when Heaven depended on the trial’s outcome was fickle and reckless. That the shallow angel was considered a world leader was yet another testament to the ever apparent hypocrisy of the Seraphim.

  “Stand, Uriel of Zebul.”

  Satanail heard Uriel’s burly footsteps approach. Michael was sure to have coached the Seraph, robbing another testimony of candor. Erratic breaths betrayed Uriel’s frayed nerves. Satanail snickered at his mental frailty and received a vicious stare from the Irin.

  “Upon our inception, we agreed to uphold certain spiritual standards,” Uriel began. “Satanail speaks about choice, but he chose to follow the Creator, no matter how controversial His decrees. Only He knows what’s best for the Host. To question His omniscience is blasphemy, even from the Archon. Satanail’s unfit to lead.”

  The brute attempted to sound intelligent by spewing out the opinion of his cherished Logos. Perhaps Michael would toss him a treat like a coddled animal in the Reserve.

  “Stand, Raphael of Raqia.”

  Raphael hesitated in his approach to the bench. After their falling-out in the storeroom, Satanail was very interested to hear if Raphael’s placid demeanor had crystallized.

  “I agree that Satanail’s actions cannot be condoned, but I worry that punishment would provoke further discord. What is our message to the Host if those who speak their mind against the common opinion are met with ostracism and discipline behind closed doors? Freedom of voice without retribution should not be revoked lightly,” Raphael said.

  Well spoken, Satanail admitted internally, for an indecisive pacifist. Were Raphael’s will to dictate Heaven, the angels would all hold hands and sing eternal hymns by candlelight. Wasted power.

  “Stand, Sammael of Mathey.”

  “What value do the words of a degenerate hold—”

  “—Whom is a Seraph in nothing but title?” the Irin argued.

  “Degenerate? My feelings would be hurt, if any remained,” Sammael quipped.

  “Satanail, if you wish it, the Court will recess until a replacement for Sammael can be summoned,” the Qaddisin offered.

  “Unnecessary. Allow him to speak. I, for one, would like to hear his opinion after so many millennia,” Satanail replied. He would have a better chance at acquittal with Sammael than any angel handpicked by Michael or his accomplices.

  Sammael brushed back the stringy mats he called hair and cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you recall, I too have spoken against the…what’d you call it, Raphael? Ah, right, the ‘common opinion.’ But my people thrive because I dared to see a different future.”

  “Your people—”

  “—Are abominations.”

  “Yes, well, we all act in accordance to our individual design as drawn by the Creator. He doesn’t make mistakes. His design, one we don’t yet understand, has urged Satanail to defiance. That’s nature, not blasphemy,” Sammael finished.

  Using the Creator’s design as defense for Satanail’s actions, something impossible to disprove, was shrewd. In Sammael, he could have an ally with an undocumented brood of zealots to aid the cause…or see it derailed. Unpredictability was too dangerous a thing to juggle.

  “Stand, Gabriel of Shehaqim.”

  Michael’s apprentice spread his six wings and flew towards the bench. Gabriel couldn’t resist any chance to show that he belonged
among the Seraphim, a counterintuitive habit that exposed the flawed youth of his mind. Still, his talents were of considerable note. If Gabriel were destined for greatness as Michael professed, would it be as Satanail’s bane or boon?

  “I disagree with Sammael,” Gabriel began. “If Satanail were a common angel then, yes, his words could be discounted, but he’s the Archon. Millions upon millions of angels hold his opinion as divine fact. He’s embarked upon a course of self-destruction, and I’ll not see those millions join him in sin. He showed a blatant disregard for Michael’s role, for the Host’s welfare, and for the Creator Himself. Punishment isn’t a suggestion, it’s a necessity.”

  The fierce voice of a heart hindered by misplaced loyalty. Unfortunate.

  Having heard from five Seraphs, only one remained.

  “Stand, Michael of Machonon.”

  Michael walked to the bench but faced Satanail and lifted him to a stand in a display of valor and respect. Satanail’s only sorrow was the wedge driven between him and his brother, one hammered ever deeper by both their hands. But in asking others to sacrifice their connection to the Creator, what right did he have to mourn the loss of his bond with Michael?

  “It pains me to be here more than I can articulate,” Michael began. “None hold love for Satanail as I do. He is your Archon, but he is my brother above all. From the moment we emerged from the Fires, we strived to craft a beacon of light in the chaos of Creation. A utopia. A Heaven. I believe our paths can again align, I do, but Satanail’s insistence on disrupting the unity of the Host has made the decision for me…despite my personal desires to see it otherwise. Brother, until you return to Father, your place in the Host is compromised.”

  Satanail wanted to hate Michael, but their triumphs buzzed around in his head like maudlin flies. He had to swat them and become calloused.

  I can’t think of Michael as my brother. He’s the epitome of everything that I’m fighting against. He’s the enemy. The thought had to be branded onto Satanail’s soul if anyone else was to believe it.