Been nothing but heavy news lately. Deacon scandals, crazy priests, no-warrant constable raids. Let’s just take it easy for a bit.
This next one is a bit of a sentimental one for me. See, the lounge singer that sang it? She was a friend of my dad, God rest his soul. She’s out in Highbranch now, teaching the next generation how to soothe our souls. This one goes out to you, Jessica Hale.
Spring 32
Alisandra finished her patrol with a spot of butchery before dawn.
This herd had been horses once, roaming the scrubland where Whistler grasses faded into the great desert, but few horses hungered for fresh blood and howled like maddened wolves.
She slid the Hand of God down the last one’s gullet, splitting the still-warm corpse chin to gut. Blood and worse spilled out, but she had given up on these clothes two bells ago. Instead, she prodded the tip of her Blade into its stomach, turning the contents in search of black scales.
“The sword that buried the Tyrant reduced to butcher’s edge,” the Archangel muttered. And not even a scale for the effort.
Glancing up, she counted the corpses scattered across the dirt again.
“Butcher’s work indeed.”
She could have left this work to mortal hands. The beasts were only dangerous in their seeming as normal horses; a bullet or two for each would have sufficed.
Yet Alisandra thought of Iris and black scales grown large enough to whisper into willing ears.
“No,” she sighed. “I will not subject mortals to his machinations.”
The glorious Tempest can dice her own meat.
She circled the carnage once more, alert for the faintest echo of Jörmungandr’s laugh.
Hearing only the wind through the nettles, the angel wiped and sheathed her dissatisfied Blade.
“A third of the way through the season,” she sighed.
Mother…your Work…please hurry. It will be encompassing and kind, as I know you to be.
Not like the butchery of a Blade.
She shook off her mood and turned to the day ahead. In another two bells, she would have her chance to propose bills at the Conclave, and she had a list drawn for the problems at hand.
First: to order the immediate divestment of the Holy Receivership, with approval of the church budget held hostage to match.
Second: to strength civilian leadership of the constabulary so that women like Margaret Dune could no longer bully the officers into acceding to her demands.
Third, a sacrificial bill that would meet with such outrage she would be forced to withdraw it. This year she planned to request the truly scandalous approval of work holidays based on religious affiliation! The papers would run wild with the shock of it!
Alisandra detested such Mirielle tricks of state, but she did not have the luxury of pride. Not with a tattered alliance mostly attached to her purse strings and the ever-escalating pressure of her enemies. If her song and dance would help, then sing and dance she would.
Archangel and minstrel.
With a little time to herself, she stepped to Woodhaven and landed in the garden above her loft. Glancing around, she noted well-watered plants and ancient tomes left on the bench.
She picked up the books with a grimace.
I will have to speak to Valkyrie about the proper care of one’s books. Flipping, she read the cover and blanched. And perhaps take pity to find her better reading!
Another thirteen days would end the girl’s durance. Once the legal issues cleared and the season slackened, Alisandra could breach the topic of the girl’s future. Could gauge the full extent of the girl’s demon-touched talents and place her accordingly.
In truth, the angel privately savored the revenge of stealing Mirielle’s latest toy.
Books in one arm, she entered the dark loft. The blinds were drawn, and two rhythmic sounds dominated the loft: a wet popping and a steady crackle. Her eyes instantly adjusted to the dark, and she spotted Valkyrie asleep in a couch fortress of blankets and cushions.
The wet popping was Valkyrie’s thumb, lodged knuckle deep into her mouth; the crackle was the encrypted radio.
Clearing a spot on the table, the angel laid down the books. Then she surveyed the chaos, noting the abrupt end to the girl’s lockpicking experiment.
Novian locks are a miracle of precision engineering, after all.
Next, she spotted her father’s guitar, set beside the make-shift bed.
“Then she has kept up some practice at least. Good.”
The radio crackled, and someone yawned on the other side.
“The sun is rising in Waves, my little sister,” chided Alisandra to the radio. “You should be abed.”
“I am abed,” Esmie defended.
“And soon to rise!” the angel teased, fighting a smile. Her little sister would draw from her brand for stunts like these, an excellent form of incidental training, and Alisandra was pleased to see Esmie and Valkyrie putting the radio to use.
Esmie yawned again. “Sorry. Dancer was playing for me. Never said a word; just started strumming.”
Valkyrie snored faintly, dead to the world.
Dancer. The girl claims to reject her Azure heritage but chooses such a name? Ah, the contradictions of youth.
“It was…nice,” the Maiden confessed.
The angel arched an eyebrow. “Nice?”
“What’s wrong with nice? Things can be nice!” Esmie protested quickly.
Alisandra relented, instead asking, “Did the spymaster deliver the Bones reports?”
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Esmie huffed. “Ali, it’s too early.”
“You are awake,” she pointed out.
“I can fix that.”
They giggled together.
After a moment, Esmie delicately asked, “Did you…kill a lot tonight?”
“Mere beasts,” Alisandra reassured.
“Corrupted?”
“Reservoirs for the Wyrm.”
Esmie whined in doubt. “How can you know?”
“The first hint is when they try to kill me.” Some days I wish Angela would do the same. It would be a refreshingly honest conversation.
“Ali…do you…you know…like being the Archangel?”
Alisandra squeezed her eyes shut, biting off a comment unbecoming of her station. She sometimes forgot how young Esmie still was. How slowly she grew. A blessing, that her precious little sister would remain at her side for longer, but the Maiden lived in a world where growing up was a distant notion.
Alisandra would not trouble her little sister with these burdens.
“I am honored to be able to protect you,” the angel answered gently.
“I know, but…”
“Have you had good dreams? I’m sorry I am not there when you wake.”
“I did. You should sleep more. Maybe you’ll see Mother.”
Would my little sister be sneaking in visits through Yesod? I am sure you are a comfort to her, but we must let her focus on her Work.
Alisandra reminded herself that this was her break. “For the moment, I would prefer a bath.”
“What are you covered in this time?!”
“That I will leave to your imagination, dear Esmerelda. Let us take our respective respites.”
“Fiiine. Love you, big sis.”
“I love you too.”
Alisandra turned off the encrypted radio. Then – rolling back her bloodied sleeves! – she laid a blanket over Valkyrie.
The girl shifted, lips moving in her sleep with some phantom conversation.
“I remember what it was like to yearn for a new world,” the angel admitted. “Nevermind that I was raised by angels. It is human nature to seek new horizons.”
And I know what it is to have found that horizon – to have grasped it – and to then recognize its merciless burden.
With both children abed, Alisandra retreated to her room and stripped. Her ruined clothes went in a bag for Sebastian, and she set the Hand of God on the mantle to…
On second thought, she carried it with her into the bathroom.
Even after fifteen years, it still dragged at her with every step. Her most powerful weapon and the tool she dared not surrender anywhere but the very heart of her temple sanctum.
A mountain of wet towels lay in the center of the bathroom, courtesy of Valkyrie, and half of the proper soaps were gone.
Rolling her eyes, the angel dumped the remainder into a fresh bath.
Then she took the Hand of God and stabbed it tip-down into the scalding water.
“Stay.”
It did, floating upright on its sheathed tip like an obedient hound.
She slipped into the bath, letting the scent of more pleasant Spring fill her nostrils, and pushed away a chunk of congealed bath salts.
It bobbed away towards the Hand of God.
Met the sheathed Blade and was shorn down the center.
Both halves fizzled, sank, and died.
Watching the steam dance, Alisandra let her head rest on the backing tiles.
She tried to shed the past and the future both. The one done; the other yet to come. What wisdom was there in worry?
“Archangel’s mantle. Crown and Blade. Glorified nursemaid.”
Can this truly be eternity?
***
Soon enough, the angel entered the Conclave. With a packed legislative agenda for the day, the square swarmed with reporters and on-lookers like the days of old.
Scandal of scandals, Alisandra wore the same low-backed silver dress as last year, and the chorus openly wondered if House Mishkan had finally hit the end of its coffers.
As though I cannot step north with a briefcase of gold notes on a moment’s notice.
Entering the building, she passed under the dome of Aure with barely a tickle across her halo. Through the dark hall, she entered the Conclave proper…and frowned at the empty pews.
Thirty Lords and Ladies.
“Was I so early?” she muttered. Or will we spend an hour waiting for the stragglers to trickle in to the imposition of their duties?
Alisandra took the extra time to seek allies and enemies in equal measure, talking to each in turn.
The third floor echoed with the common folk, the second floor slept with priests sent by deacon masters to supervise proceedings, and the noble floor echoed with her heels.
At tenth bell, they took attendance.
They fell short of quorum.
At fifteen and thirty after the bell, they took attendance.
They fell short of quorum.
The common folk started to stir.
“You lot work fifteen minutes a day!” someone shouted.
“Fifteen minutes, and we’ve been waiting five years for redress!” another added.
“What good are you!”
“What are we even paying you for?!”
“Bloody well fix something! Anything!”
Though the constables hurried to prevent a disturbance, the words echoed through the holy building.
Because they are right, Alisandra admitted.
The pattern of this crisis slowly coalesced in her mind’s eye, connecting strands from decades of this theater.
As a rule, the act of leadership was unpopular. The act of making choices by its nature required that one be chosen over another; that distasteful compromise keep the peace; that the dirty business of reality pollute the high tower of principles.
To vote was to expose oneself to recrimination, regardless of subject or outcome.
How, then, could a Lord maintain a reputation as a renegade or iconoclast when he was required to vote on such mundane issues as roads and laws? Should he vote yes, he would condone the taxes and systems he claimed to hate. Vote no, and his enemies would castigate his negligence in duties of state!
The answer is simple: he doesn’t.
The ideal legislature was one in which all other parties did the dirty business of ruling and the Lord in question swooped in for a photo at the end. Absent from the decisions, present for the celebration.
Thus formed a collective action problem. Every Lord wished to act as little as possible while maintaining his own position; every other Lord wished to force the first to act in their stead.
Instead they skip the Conclave; skip the vote tax; skip the danger of debate. They are safe for another day, and the country rots to a standstill.
They surrendered the responsibility of their position that they might rest at ease.
Yet the world demanded action. New roads, new schools, new laws. Scoundrels noble or common found ten new loopholes a year – holes that grew like potholes the longer untended until the injustice rose like a flame for all to see.
Alisandra had once feared a Conclave oligarchy – rule by the last survivors. Now she pondered an empty Conclave, and she wondered how long such a seat of power would remain vacant once surrendered.
And who would seize it first.
The constables finished clearing the third floor, the narrow seats left toppled and covered in garbage.
Like a tectonic plate, the pressure builds.
“Shall we take another count?” the priest on stage asked.
The drums of war began to beat.
Alisandra rose and marched from the floor.
“I suppose not…” the priest muttered behind her. “The Conclave is dismissed!”
***
Alisandra found the mage already dead, burned out by the black scale dropped at his feet and pulsing with the fresh power of stolen life.
So hard to find good help these days, right?
Never fear, Archangel
These things take Time
She drove the Hand of God through the shard and twisted.
***
The Archangel landed in her temple to find her attendants in a huddle. Klara, Sariya, and Banu all hurried to bow for her, the smirks still on their faces.
“Welcome home, holy Tempest!”
Still tense with that last encounter, Alisandra forced a thin smile and a jovial tone. “Come now, ladies. What scandal circulates today?”
After a moment of squirming, Banu confided, “Word in the Azure halls is that the Maiden has been staying up late to talk to a mysterious figure through the radio!”
“Oh, really?” the angel drawled.
“Told you!” Banu whispered to the other two.
Of course our Tempest already knows!
“If I was concerned, the mysterious figure on the other end of that radio would have a bad day,” Alisandra stated.
All three burst into fresh giggles.
“Sadly, there is more clean-up to be done.” Dusting her hands, Alisandra ordered her servants to burn what remained of that mad mage’s laboratory and interrogate the locals of that city for any further leads.
Klara departed to execute those orders.
Sariya then reported, “I have news good and bad, Holy Tempest.”
“Proceed.”
“Good – the Dragon is fully cleared. Both vessels and sailors have been processed. A ship departs with the morning with those that demanded a return to Ruhum.”
“Excellent. The bad?”
Sariya smoothed her skirt. “Unfortunately, the investigation of temple girls in Ivory on the Coast has terminated without culprit.”
Alisandra raised an eyebrow. “I do not recall giving permission for the investigation to terminate.”
Her servant winced.
“I remain unconvinced that we have exhausted all leads.” The angel waved a hand. “Fresh clothes. In my official capacity.”
“At once!”
Changing into the Azure bandeau and skirts, Alisandra leaped southeast to Ivory on the Coast to encourage the investigation in person.
Her visit evoked a great deal of praise, patter, and assurances that there would be action. Immediately! As soon as the relevant parties could…
She raised her sheathed Blade and split the temple in half.
“Is further clarification required?” asked the Tempest, her voice ringing over the assembly.
This investigation will end when there is not a single temple girl left to suffer.
She would settle for nothing less.