Page 137 of The Simurgh

Silas blinked raindrops and turned away. This was not a time for old fears to rise.

He resettled his grip on his sword, glancing at the gashes upon the backs of his hands, the marks of solace-starved beaks. Already healing. ‘Stay back, I warn you.’ Silas wavered on his feet. This was too soon for him to fight again, but what choice was there? Lucifer had come for Pitch.

Scarlet darted in, weaving an unpredictable path, absolutely glorious with the way the rain reflected off their spectrum of colours. They chittered at him, waggling a glass-like finger.

‘Silas, will you listen to me? Just stop.’ Pitch placed himself between ankou and king. ‘Put the scythe down. You are barely on your feet and you’re bleeding still. Please…stop.’

Silas dragged his focus from Lucifer, who was regarding him with the strangest of looks. He lowered the scythe, letting the tip clang against the rock. Scarlet was theatrical with their sigh, their dropping back of their head to wipe at their brow. The prince was far more staid, but his relief no less palpable.

‘Were you not just warning him off? What did he do to you?’

‘It’s what he wanted to do to you. He thought to play doctor, and I did not like the idea.’ Pitch stepped up close, touching his fingers to Silas’s face. It was no easy task for both of them to keep their eyes open much past a squint with the torrential onslaught. ‘But it was Lucifer that just pulled us both from the caves, when I thought for certain I’d lose you.’ The prince ran his tongue over saturated, glistening lips. ‘And he has the wildness with him.’

The downpour ceased, replaced by the familiar hiss of steam and soft white clouds. Reluctantly Silas drew his gaze from Pitch. Lucifer had drawn forth enormous fire wings, greater even than Pitch had revealed at Goodrich Castle. Beneath their almighty span, all but the outer reaches of their island was sheltered from the deluge.

As much as Silas despised the creature, there was no denying his majesty.

That majesty was ruined a little though, when Lucifer wrinkled his nose. ‘This is not how I saw this day turning out, having to watch a pair of shirtless fops fawn over one another. You are sickening, truly.’ His features smoothed, his gaze finding Silas. ‘You are different, ankou, from last we met.’

Silas edged himself in front of Pitch, his insides knotting with distrust. ‘Then you would know I am no pushover. What game do you play here, daemon?’

‘Game?’ Lucifer grunted. ‘I suppose you are right, this is a game, is it not?’ His line of focus shifted, over to their right. ‘But I am a mere player, just as you both are.’

Silas glanced to where the king seemed intent. A bundle of cloth lay to one side of the great pile of black stone. The cloth was blush-pink, the very same shade as the cloak Old Bess had given to Silas. One had been given to Lucifer too, if he recalled.

‘A mere player, you?’ Pitch was scornful. ‘I doubt that very much. What are your orders here, Lucifer? Are you here to kill me, or not?’

The king folded his arms, his gaze moving between the prince, and the bundled cloak.

‘I am not sure of either things, anymore.’

Pitch and Silas exchanged a glance, Scarlet made a show of scratching their rounded head.

‘This act is not convincing,’ Pitch said. ‘You’ve been certain of yourself since the lord lit you into being.’

Lucifer chuckled, a mirthless sound. ‘True, but I’ve not been troubled by freewill before now.’ He drew himself up. ‘Lord Enoch’s Wrath holds this land, the cockaigne is dying.’ He moved over to where the bundle lay, and at his approach light shone through the fabric: a hue reminiscent of a winter morning sky, pale pinks and oranges with a hint of lavender. ‘The flood will consume everything in its path. You will die if you stay here.’

He removed the shelter of his wing, shrinking the span of his wings so that only he and the cloak remained protected. The rain was colder than Silas recalled, or perhaps he was just more returned to his senses. Either way his teeth chattered and his cuts protested another dousing.

Pitch threw up his own wings, bringing back the warmth. Silas sighed, the violent chattering of his teeth ceasing.

‘I’m not sure if you have noticed, dear Papa, but Silas is already dead, and quite capable of surviving a flood.’

‘But you would not be. Capable of surviving, I mean.’ Lucifer was blunt. ‘Which would make you dead. And the ankou will likely spend eternity fawning over his corpse.’ He knelt beside the bundle. ‘I hardly care what becomes of you, but don’t say I did not warn you.’

Scarlet zipped over to the king, where the pretty candy colours emanating from the cloak were more pronounced now. Beneath the crackle of Pitch’s flame Silas heard the wisp croon. Little chirrups of soothing, of comfort.

Movement stirred beneath the folds, and a slender head lifted from the soggy fur ruff. A golden beak, a neck of a swan, eyes of astonishing deep gold. Silas drew in a breath.

‘That’s the simurgh,’ he whispered, and was vaguely aware of Pitch nodding. Silas reached for him, touching his hand to the small of the daemon’s back. Pitch was tense beneath Silas’s hand.

The wildness…the simurgh, shrugged off its coverings, its wings lifting unevenly. Scarlet fluttered about the creature’s head, still cooing and encouraging, brushing turquoise hands through a delicate fan of feathers that crowned the simurgh’s head. The creature was barely the size of a swan. The beast, such a burden upon the prince for so long, did not look so fearsome, nor wild as the namesake the daemon had bestowed on it. But pretty illusions hid dark secrets.

‘Leave it be,’ Lucifer growled, warning in every word. Which Scarlet responded to with a tilt of their chin, and, if Silas was not mistaken, the show of a tiny green tongue.

‘Do you feel it still?’ He brushed his fingers over the subtle rises of Pitch’s spine, where the tattoo laid no more.

‘I do, I feel its absence.’ As he spoke the simurgh rose onto its feet. One foot was a splendour of talons, pink and glistening as diamonds, whilst the other was blackened, the claws curled in on themselves. The injured foot didn’t seem to bother the creature though. With an elegant hop the bird landed itself upon the tumble of rocks nearby. The simurgh stretched its wings wide. A stunning display with the hues of purple ever-changing, every shade in that spectrum flitting through the ribbon-like drape of feathers. There was one notable absence of colour upon the right wing, a strip of dull grey feathering, and another smaller portion on its neck. Strange mars to its beauty.