Page 1 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

MOUNT MERU

T he cells faced east so prisoners could watch the legions drilling in perfect unison on the plaza below, golden armor dazzling at sunrise.

Alluin Westwind was the only occupant. It was the nature of angels to be obedient—their father had made them so—and few broke the laws of Sion, fewer still the first commandment.

Witches and angels shall not procreate.

Adamantine chains bound his wings, but that was nothing to the agony of yearning for his lover and their child. Over the hundred days and nights that Alluin awaited judgment, he’d thought of little else.

It was snowing hard when the seraphim came for him.

They were imperial officers with intricately enameled breastplates and scarlet brocade along their sleeves. He stood as they flew through the open arch of his cell.

“It is time,” the female said. She had brown eyes and wings a shade darker with bars of green along the primaries, iridescent like the breast of a hummingbird.

Alluin allowed each of them to grip an arm.

The officers bore him through the snow, circling ever higher.

He mentally rehearsed the argument he would present to their father.

How he had tried to stay away from her. Had fought to remain aloof.

But the spark that ignited when they first met had only grown brighter over the years, until neither could resist any longer.

Who had they harmed? No one! The child would go to the cyphers. As long as she never bedded an angel, there was no need to worry.

And she would not, Alluin assured himself. Cathrynne was a sweet, docile child who did as she was told.

Wind tore at his thin garments as they flew above the shining towers of Mount Meru, the angelic capital in the far north.

Snatches of song rose from the Chorale, angelic voices joined in blissful harmony.

The sound made him tremble. Why was he not dutiful like the others?

What had planted the seeds of unrest? Was he flawed? Or was the law itself wrong?

His mind swam with confusion—but not regret. He would not regret a moment of their love.

Other angels glided between buildings, but none deigned to look at him.

He was an outcast. Beneath notice. At last, his keepers banked sharply, and the tallest peak of the Sundar Kush loomed ahead.

The place of judgment sat atop this peak, a square platform open to the sky.

It had a single wall of dark gray stone flanked by two squat, crenellated towers.

There was the suggestion of a door in that wall, a faint outline, but Alluin had barely a glimpse of it before the seraphim dropped him without ceremony upon the icy ground.

He landed on his knees, chains rattling, and fixed his gaze on the symbol of the empire—a triangle within a circle—hewn into the rock.

“Rise,” a deep voice commanded.

Alluin expected to see Valoriel, but when he lifted his head, it was not their father who stood over him.

Valoriel had wings of burnished gold, but this angel’s were black as midnight.

He wore a magistrate’s robe, also black, its severity interrupted only by a violet cincture around his waist. Coal-black hair curled at his nape.

He would have been pleasant to look upon were his face not so dour.

Alluin had seen Gavriel Morningstar from afar once or twice at the Chorale. He had heard tales of his pure heart and keen intellect. None did justice to the archangel’s physical presence. It was almost as unnerving as their father. The air felt suddenly thin.

“You are Alluin Westwind, a census enumerator stationed at the Angel Tower in Arjevica?” Gavriel asked.

“Yes, Lord Morningstar,” he managed. “Where is . . . where is our father?”

“Valoriel is away from Mount Meru.” Gavriel’s wings unfurled like living shadows, then settled once more. “I stand as regent in his stead.”

A flicker of hope kindled. Perhaps the man known as Light-Bringer would prove more merciful.

“Let us commence with this disciplinary trial.” Gavriel ignored the guards, his unwavering attention fixed on the prisoner. “You stand accused of consorting with a witch in violation of every law and custom of this land.”

There was no point denying it; he’d been caught fleeing her bedchamber.

But this was no impulsive tryst. They had been acquaintances for years before Hysto opened her heart to him.

Then he had pined for her every moment they were apart.

He knew each curve and dip of her body as well as his own.

The sound of her laughter was sweeter than the Chorale.

The time they’d had together was the happiest of his life.

Meeting Gavriel’s stern gaze, Alluin could find words for none of this.

“The charge is true,” he said at last. “I love her. We have a daughter together.”

For eleven years they had managed to keep her parentage secret. Eleven years of stolen visits, of watching her grow from afar, pretending to be merely a friend of the family when all he wanted was to claim her as his own.

“If you decree it, I will remain here at Mount Meru for the rest of my days and never see them again,” Alluin said, the words hollowing his heart. “Return me to the cells. But I beg you to grant them leniency. The fault is mine.”

Gavriel’s expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered in his eyes.

“The fate of your lover and her child are not mine to decide. It is yours that concerns me this day. You have violated the first law of Sion. Angels shall not mingle their blood with witches.” He leaned forward.

“Worse, you produced a child. A cypher, cursed to bear a monster.”

Alluin raised an imploring hand. “But she won’t,” he said with desperate urgency. “She would never?—”

“Repeat her mother’s mistake?” Gavriel interrupted. “Let us hope she has more sense.” He studied the symbol carved into the rock, his face growing contemplative. “Do you understand how the empire works, Northwind?”

“Yes,” Alluin replied hoarsely.

“Explain it to me.”

He swallowed with a dry throat. “The circle is Sion. It stands for unity among the children of the Divine Trinity. Valoriel created the angels. Minerva, the witches. Travian made the mortals. We are all cousins.” His shackles clinked softly as he gestured.

“It is represented by the triangle. Three together.”

“And?” Gavriel stared at him with a touch of impatience.

“I . . . ” He trailed off, uncertain what his inquisitor wanted.

“We are the base of the triangle,” Gavriel said sternly.

“The foundation. All rests upon our virtue and wisdom. If we falter, if we question the will of our father, then the ley, the lifeblood of this world, of magic, will be corrupted. Our cousins will sink into anarchy. Perhaps even into evil. Do you not grasp this?”

“I do, my lord,” Alluin replied. “But I love this witch with all my soul. With every breath and thought and deed. Have you never loved someone thus?”

Angels were not expected to be celibate.

They married each other or took human lovers.

The first was encouraged, the second tolerated.

Only witches were forbidden because of what the union might birth—the draconic race called Sinn.

Fierce predators that had killed thousands before they were driven into the far reaches of the empire.

Gavriel’s dark brows knit together. “What does that have to do with your crime?”

“I only ask that you consider the circumstances,” Alluin said. “I would die for her. Perhaps that means nothing to the law, but you are a man. You must have passions and desires.”

The Morningstar’s face turned even grimmer. Alluin knew he had crossed a line, but there was little to lose now.

“Why are we sent into the world if we are forbidden to love whom we choose? We are all children of the Trinity. So my child is a cypher. She will grow up to serve the empire, as we do. She will become a shield and use her power for good. Where is the harm?”

Gavriel regarded him for a long moment. “Your arguments are irrelevant to this inquiry.” He could not keep the scorn from his voice.

“You knew what would come of the liaison. You knew the inevitable consequence. Yet you pursued it regardless, and for many years. If your daughter ever lies with an angel, her child is certain to wreak death and destruction unless it is killed at birth. Even if she does not, you have condemned her to the life of a cypher, to be feared and ostracized. Your selfishness knows no bounds.”

Alluin’s hopes withered.

“By the authority of Valoriel, the Summerlord,” Gavriel said with the formal cadence of judgment, “I sentence you to two hundred years on the Plain of Contemplation.”

Alluin had some idea that even if he never spoke to them again, he could watch from afar. Could reassure himself that they were well. But in two centuries, both Hysto and his daughter would be long dead, their bones ground to dust, their fates unknown.

“Why don’t you save the trouble and kill me now?” he said bitterly.

Sarcasm seemed lost on the archangel. “Execution is not the proscribed punishment for witch-angel unions,” Gavriel replied evenly. “The penalty is to be cast down for a term commensurate with the severity of the trespass. As it stands, you will have adequate time to consider your actions.”

“You could show mercy, my lord,” Alluin pleaded, rebellion draining away. “You are regent. You have the authority.”

Gavriel frowned. “How is mercy merited here? You are a shepherd turned wolf, and for that you deserve no lenience.”

“Wolf?” Alluin protested. “I am no wolf. She loves me!”

“You are deluded.” Gavriel sounded weary of the entire proceeding. “If our father were standing in judgment, the sentence would be even longer. Count yourself fortunate he is away.”

One of the seraphim officers handed Gavriel an oblong box of twisted wood.

The archangel opened it and withdrew a black cylinder.

He winced as it touched his skin, as if the contact caused him pain.

Alluin felt a twist of dread. Even his guards looked uneasy, yet at Gavriel’s nod, they dragged Alluin to the wall at the far edge of the platform.

Lord Morningstar followed, gripping the black rod in his left hand.

“What is that?” Alluin asked hoarsely.

“The Rod of Penance,” Gavriel replied. “It opens the way.”

As if responding to its name, the thing flickered with ley power.

But it held no life; this ley was a dull hue Alluin had never seen before.

Lines of black light traced the great doors as they slowly swung wide to reveal a sheer drop.

The clouds banked below the peak began to churn, lightning forking in their depths.

A wave of terror crashed over him. This was no mere banishment—this was something else entirely.

He struggled against the chains binding his wings.

“Alluin Westwind,” Gavriel intoned, “I hereby judge you guilty of disobedience and treason, and banish you to . . .”

The rest was a buzz in Alluin’s ears. An image of his daughter’s face flashed before his eyes. Her fair hair belonged to him, but she had her mother’s full lips and delicate brows. Cathrynne would be a great beauty someday—and a powerful witch, like all of her maternal line.

Was she weeping now? Alone and frightened after being torn from her family? He would give anything to hold her in his arms again. To smooth away her tears with kisses. To tell her how sorry he was.

“Wait!” he cried. “Please, Lord Morningstar, I beg you?—”

Gavriel turned away, his mouth set in harsh lines. He gestured curtly. The guards heaved, and then there was nothing beneath Alluin but swirling snow. The last thing he saw before the clouds engulfed him was Gavriel’s silhouette, the Rod of Penance extended over the void.

Then there was only grey mist, thunder rolling all around, and the certainty that wherever he was going, it was not a place from which he would ever return.