Page 15 of Each Their Own Devil (Our Lady of Fire #3)

11

THE THRESHOLD

“A secret unearthed often demands a price greater than it’s worth.” — The Book of Open Doors , Book VI: The Crossing of Worlds

“We have a problem,” the Messenger said from atop her elk as she approached Aleja.

This required the Messenger to break away from the head of her troops and make a wide arc around her remaining armies—fewer soldiers than Aleja had expected. She didn’t know whether she should feel grateful or horrified, but either way, Aleja did not trust having the Astraelis at her back.

“Another one? How boring,” Aleja said. Riding this stupid elk made her ache in a way she had never experienced with the Avisai or the Umbramares. She was sure her inner thighs were chafed from groin to knee.

“My commanding officers inform me that all of the Authorities have sided with the mutineers. Violet can still tap into their minds from a distance, but her ability to control them will be limited.”

Aleja knew Violet was somewhere up ahead, at the front of the convoy with Val and the cage containing the Third, but she hadn’t wanted to think about it. Pettiness aside, the figs in her backpack were occupying nearly as much of her mind as the impending apocalypse. What would it be like to eat one? Or two, for that matter?

She’d had her fair share of wine, but her experiences with drugs amounted to the rare times Violet had tempted her into taking a few puffs of weed—which had not mixed well with Aleja’s childhood trauma. Neither the Messenger nor the snake had explained what eating the figs would feel like, but that didn’t stop her from imagining the scenes from every weird psychedelic movie her Pacific Northwest college had shown at the community theater.

“Lady of Wrath, are you listening to me?” the Messenger asked.

“Yes, of course,” Aleja replied. “Authorities gone. This is a bad thing.”

The Messenger tutted, her lips parting beneath her mask. “The Authorities may not be the highest-ranking in our armies, but they are our greatest weapons. Fearsome nature aside, they consume the minds of those they swallow, remember? From this moment on, we need to keep the circle of information closed tight. You, me, and the Knowing One.”

“That’s not going to happen. We don’t keep things from the other Dark Saints,” Aleja half lied.

“When one of the Dark Saints gets eaten and we no longer have any secrets from our enemies, you’ll regret that.”

“If you want my advice, Messenger, don’t push for this too hard in front of the Dark Saints. Or speak of it out loud in the palace. The palace is temperamental toward me on the best of days. If you insult her, you’ll probably spend the next century lost in a labyrinth of halls and salons. And if she really dislikes you, the art will be bad.”

“That’s unlikely. I hear the Otherlander art collection is unrivaled,” the Messenger said.

Aleja was so annoyed by this statement that she didn’t answer, nor did the Messenger seem to expect her to. The Messenger tore off on her elk before Aleja could manage a disapproving tut. But it wasn’t much longer before the convoy in front of her slowed, signaling they had neared the wards.

She pressed her heels into the elk’s sides. It seemed to understand the command, surging forward to the top of the convoy. Despite their masks, she could feel the eyes of the Principalities on her as she made her way back to the Messenger’s side.

As the wards appeared ahead, Aleja tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Violet and Val. The Third’s cage had been covered with a linen tarp, yet something dark and oppressive radiated from it, even through the ring of heavily armed soldiers.

If the Messenger’s presence in the Hiding Place would be provocative, then Violet was even worse off—she was not just an enemy but a traitor.

The wards had already been opened slightly, creating a narrow gap just wide enough for two or three soldiers to pass through at a time. A choke point. If the Otherlanders decided to attack, the Astraelis would be forced to retreat—or die.

The convoy came to an impressively abrupt halt. Aleja’s elk paused in hesitation, dancing on its front hooves and scattering pebbles on the gravel trail below.

“Go,” Aleja urged, but the elk remained stubborn. When it refused to move, Aleja slid down its side, relieved that the motion was smooth despite the audience watching her.

It was useless to rehearse what she would say to the Dark Saints in the few yards it took to reach the gap in the wards. She’d had plenty of time to prepare excuses but had never managed more than clumsy explanations about how she trusted the Messenger. And no, she couldn’t say exactly why. She could only hope the Third might vouch for her.

Her eyes shot to Nicolas first as she crossed the wards. It was impossible not to—his presence lit the marriage bond with a high, clear vibration, beautiful despite the circumstances. Garm pushed past her in his excitement, his tail painfully smacking her shoulder as he darted toward Bonnie. But she did not look pleased. As soon as Aleja met her gaze, Bonnie turned away, her cheeks flushing.

To Bonnie’s left, Merit and Orla—gleaming in her golden armor—wore unreadable expressions. At least Amicia and Taddeas weren’t radiating with anger.

“Dark Saint of Wrath,” Nicolas rumbled, his voice steady and inscrutable. “I trust the Messenger and her armies are just beyond the wards.”

Nicolas was not saying it to be cruel; she didn’t need the rush of warmth that came through the marriage bond to know that. But it was what he would have questioned of any Dark Saint that had absconded from the Hiding Place after committing treason, whether or not that Dark Saint happened to be his wife.

Speak , she screamed at herself, trying to summon enough air from her lungs to make a sound—any sound. She had faced down Authorities single-handedly. She had stared down the Second. She had rushed onto a battlefield with little training and even less expertise than the soldiers around her. So why the hell couldn’t she speak ?

“Yes,” she finally managed. “She’ll lead her armies through as soon as I give the word. Do we—do you—have a plan to get them to the palace safely?”

“Yes,” Nicolas said. “How many troops has she brought?”

“Her support has diminished. There are about a hundred Principalities and two Thrones,” Aleja said, hoping that this news was enough to cheer up the Dark Saints. But, in response, Orla and Merit shared another incomprehensible look, and Taddeas shifted his weight. His teeth flashed briefly as he bit his lower lip, but he was growing more practiced at hiding his emotions.

“I still say we take advantage of this and kill her on the spot, Knowing One, but if you insist,” Orla finally said with a sigh. “The path to the palace is clear, so long as your Astraelis friends don’t make trouble. A camp has been set up for them on the grounds. It’ll be cramped but secure.”

“And there will be wards,” Nicolas continued. “The same Otherlander wards that guard our prisoners—inform them that their mages will not be able to break them. Should any of them try to pass through without being accompanied by either myself or one of the Dark Saints, their death will be excruciatingly painful. You will be granted access to the palace, Wrath, but I don’t recommend straying beyond the grounds. We’ve stationed guards at every possible route in and out.”

“I’ll tell them,” Aleja said softly. If it weren’t for the thrum of the marriage bond, it would have felt as though she herself had been thrown into a prison, trapped behind impenetrable wards that permanently separated her from everyone she cared about. “The Messenger requests a meeting with the Saints.”

“We’ll grant it to her,” Nicolas replied, earning himself a sharp look from Bonnie. Once again, Aleja felt like a stranger, shut out of a conversation carried in a foreign language.

“She will not be allowed into the war room, but we can hold the meeting in Amicia’s usual chambers,” Nicolas continued. “There is nothing the Messenger could hope to glean about our plans there. Accompany her at midnight. We’ll be ready to meet her.”

“Wait. Should I come with you?” Aleja asked.

The vibration of the bond—once high and bright—shifted to a minor key, like a melody turning sorrowful.

“No. Accompany the Messenger,” Nicolas said. “Our Avisai will remain in the air, leading your group to the camp. Should any of the Astraelis stray from the path, they will be killed immediately. Should Otherlanders attack for any reason, they are to lay down their weapons in surrender.”

“I understand,” Aleja said softly.

It was not a relief to see the palace, nor the rose garden that grew in the shade of Aleja’s fire, nor the vegetable patch that seemed especially abundant—full of yellow squash, cabbages as large as pumpkins, and pumpkins as large as boulders.

The Astraelis camp lay to the south of the building, tucked into the fields where she and Taddeas had trained before her Trials. It resembled the camp she had spent weeks in herself: semi-permanent tents on wooden structures, draped in linen covered with aging embroidery. Black dragons, gargoyles, and the monstrous animal hybrids were hidden in gardens woven from red and gold thread. All that was missing was the sound of Merit’s forge, the constant clang of iron against iron, and the good-natured murmur of soldiers during those rare moments when it was quiet enough to let their guard down.

The wards were the only reason the Third was hosted among the Astraelis; his cage stood at the camp’s center. From beneath the shawl, the cage was silent, but the Third’s tail had slipped out from under the tarp, flicking lazily against the ground, seemingly unconcerned by the change of scenery.

The Principalities kept their distance from the cage, except for Val, who sat cross-legged on the ground, making notes in a small leather journal.

“What have you come up with?” Aleja asked.

Val’s head snapped up, apparently so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed her approach. “Many interesting things. How many of them will be relevant, we have yet to see. And don’t give me that look, Lady of Wrath—I’ll explain when I can put it into words simple enough for a layperson to understand. If we have that long.”

Aleja glanced away from the cage. She knew she was welcome to enter the palace, but the peril of her own home seemed sharper and more dangerous than that of the Astraelis camp. Besides, the Principalities avoided speaking to her at all costs. “The other Dark Saints are going to come speak with the Third. I need you to let them. Even if they don’t believe me, they’re likely to believe him. Where is your mother keeping Violet?”

“I saw her wandering around the edge of the southern wards.”

“Hm,” Aleja muttered.

But as she finally made up her mind to brave the palace, she came across Violet and the Messenger first. The height difference between them was striking at a distance, until Aleja remembered that she was shorter than Violet and probably looked even more ridiculous at the Messenger’s side.

“Will you scurry away, Lady of Wrath, or brave walking by the woman who was once the Dark Saint of Pride in waiting?” the Messenger asked, turning her mask toward Aleja.

“Fuck you,” Aleja snapped. “We may be allies in this, but that doesn’t mean you know shit. I need to make my way to my chambers. I’d suggest neither of you try to follow.”

“Al, wait,” Violet said, as the Messenger walked away, giving Aleja a severe nod.

“I have information that the Otherlanders will want,” Violet continued.

“Lower your damn voice,” Aleja said, despite herself. The warning wasn’t necessary—none of the Astraelis seemed interested in getting anywhere near the palace’s entrance.

“Even with the distance, I can feel the Authorities’ minds. They’re excited for the Avaddon and have made their followers excited for it too,” Violet whispered.

“Then why not attack us here? By now, they must know we’re trying to stop it,” Aleja questioned, though she couldn’t deny the relief that flooded her. This conversation was infinitely easier than any other she could have hoped to have with Violet.

“If you believed you were about to die either way, would you do it in battle or from the comfort of your home? They don’t believe we can stop the Avaddon, but the Authorities know we’re going to try. They are gathering somewhere… They’ve mostly shut me out, but I can feel it. We need to move fast.”

“We? Who are you talking about, Violet? You’re not an Otherlander, and to be honest, it doesn’t seem like you’re entirely welcome among the Astraelis either.”

Violet’s eyes could barely blaze. She looked toward Aleja with a scowl stretched across her face. “I know I’ve fucked things up between us, but you didn’t see what I saw, Al, and I don’t care if you hate me, as long as you’re alive to do so. I’ve already told you all I wanted to. If I pick up something from them, I’ll send word with Val or the Messenger.”

“Fine. I’ll pass that along,” Aleja said. She was not quite petty enough to shove Violet out of the way as she passed. The woman who had once been her best friend swayed on her feet, while the fig that could cure her, grant her immortality, was tucked into Aleja’s bag. The wave of guilt that followed the thought was painful.

Aleja begged her legs to move—and this time, they did, retracing a path she had taken so many times, climbing back to the palace after gorging herself on wine, meat, cheese, and conversation at Bonnie’s cabin.

She had to find Nicolas before their meeting, so he could speak with the Third. Racing through the palace’s winding, art-filled halls, she was watched by the eternal eyes of saints, angels, and long-abandoned gods. The tether brought her to a familiar room, with its large painting of Orpheus glancing back at Eurydice—a moment of sorrow set against an ultramarine-blue sky.

Nicolas’s wings had been glamoured away; even though he still wore form-fitting leather armor, something about the sight of him like this was so human—the man Aleja only saw in private.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “For your reception at the borders. You know I couldn’t?—”

“Don’t. You did the right thing. We all got here alive, that’s what matters. Have you spoken to the others?”

Nicolas reached for her hand, entwining their fingers and pulling her close. He was so warm in the cold marble atmosphere of the room.

“Amicia will back you. Taddeas too. I spoke with Orla—there’s no point trying to convince Merit without her—and she is eager to speak with the Third herself. Bonnie has made herself scarce. She’s not in her cabin, nor has anyone seen her on the grounds, but I have no doubt she’ll show up to the meeting.”

“They’ll want to watch me eat the fig, won’t they?” Aleja asked. “I can’t stop wondering what it’ll be like.”

“In the ancient days, when the Otherlanders and the Astraelis were one, we consumed the tree’s figs. Nowadays, only the Messenger eats them to gain the blessing of the First.”

“Well, I’ve been inside the mind of an Authority, and I’m obviously perfectly psychologically sound now,” she said, forcing a breathy laugh that wasn’t entirely bitter. It did little to soften the concern in Nicolas’s eyes.

“Aleja, I know this isn’t the ideal time to bring this up, but you need to remember your bargain with the Second. Your time with the Messenger may have been a good thing. She was weakness, just like everything else in the universe. You have to look for something you can exploit.”

“I know,” Aleja whispered. Knowing she would still need to kill the Messenger brought a strange wave of emotion through her—not the kind of anger or despair that brought fire to her hands, but something too complex to name. She wasn’t sure how guilt and relief could exist so keenly at the same time, especially because every logical part of her knew that guilt was misplaced.

The Messenger had killed her friends. The Messenger was the reason for the last war. But the Messenger had also spared Aleja’s and Nicolas’s lives. The Messenger loved her son so dearly that she was willing to surrender her armies to the mutineers to keep him safe. The Messenger had made Aleja tea with lavender and honey.

“Don’t, dove,” Nicolas said. She was sure he hadn’t needed the marriage bond to understand her thoughts. “I know it’s hard without your memories, but the Messenger has brought this realm nothing but blood and pain?—”

“There’s another thing, Nic,” Aleja interrupted. She must have been in a sorry state if she would rather have this conversation now. “I took two figs from the First Tree. A violet one, which the serpent said would give me knowledge of the Avaddon, and a red one, that she said would restore my memories. All of them. From every life. The Messenger thinks it will help me fight the Avaddon.”

The emotion that came through the bond felt like a static tingle against the inside of her skin. If her thoughts about killing the Messenger were complicated, then this was a hopelessly tangled knot created over centuries. His silver eyes dimmed as he gave a slow blink to buy himself time before answering.

“I know I should eat it for the sake of the war, and I can’t understand why it scares me so much. If you want me to…” she began, needing to break even this brief silence.

“No. My desires matter nothing here. This war is being fought on different terms than the last; so far, your point of view—your ability to see things from a new angle—has only helped us. You might be gaining one advantage, but you’ll be losing another. And as for me… I will love you until we’re both dust, whether you know the secret name of every star in the sky or decide that you’d rather spend the rest of your life studying a single painting. This is a choice that only you can make. I won’t say anything else on the matter.”

“Nicolas—”

“I mean it. What you do with that fig is your choice, and whatever happens, I will be deliriously happy to watch you wander around a museum when the war is over and all of the bells in the world ring for us. Don’t ask me what I want, dove. Not for my sake, but for yours. I have nothing left to speak on the subject.”

When he pulled her closer, she let herself be drawn in. With her cheek pressed against his chest, Nicolas burned against her.