—In truth, the Crest of the King began bleeding down the side of Messah’s neck. His nightmare transformed: before his eyes stood Ba’al in the Devil’s place, a shard clutched between thumb and forefinger, a shard that never belonged to Adam. The pastor’s son watched on from afar, as one can do only in dreams, the bishop slice his nightmare-self’s eye and slip inside the false feelings of guilt. Revelation struck like a bolt of lightning. It was Ba’al who sold him out to the aberrant smuggler, who put the brand on his neck that brought the nightmares. It was Ba’al who made him doubt his virtue, who convinced him he was guilty of crimes he would never commit. And it was him who made me swear it, the oath of devotion to the Xanthos King, a bit of the bishop’s trickery to secure Adam’s soul.
Then it truly is too late for me, the thought arrested his heart but only for a moment before the fear passed over him, receded into the forest, left him alone with the blind, guide-horse. But it’s not too late for Mags and Father. He climbed onto the mare, hugged his thighs against her sides as she galloped for the forest center. Like wind, they moved among the roots and trees, hooves silent. The cinders of will-o’-the-wisped memories grew thicker the deeper they ventured into the wood until they reached the heart tree where the silver lights had burnt out long ago.
Adam’s guide stopped here at the entrance to the Vaults. The demons had carved it into the shape of a mouth in the bark of the heart tree. From inside glowed a silver light, too bright for the Messah to see inside after adjusting to the dark of the deep of the forest, but he swung off his horse onto the cinder floor regardless. He did not have time to waste.
Night-blind and wading knee-deep through cinders, he came into the heart tree where precious memories were stored. The demons kept them locked in little bronze boxes stacked atop one another over every inch of the walls. No matter where the Messah looked, the Vaults shimmered green with patina and pin-pricked by the shadows of thousands of keyholes. Above burned a silver-white glow. Below, a staircase sized to fit a demon spiraled down through the center of the chamber floor. From there, a voice called.
“You,” it said, softly, almost cooing, “you finally arrived. You took your time traversing Andras’s woods, though I suppose that’s only natural when he’s taken his wolf to court.”
“Kimaris?” asked Adam, trying to recall what the crow had told him.
“You’re too late,” the demon cooed, “to see the treasurer. I’ve already hailed him on for his appearance at court.”
“But Naberius told me—” and the Messah cut himself off, unsure who he could trust with the Kennel Master’s information.
“Naberius?” the demon repeated, clicking and clinking with every lurching step of its ascent. Its head appeared first, like that of a macaw, then its arms like wings feathered gold and red and orange and yellow, gilded shackles at its wrists, hands clutching a single burning candle. It would have been beautiful but for the human parts: fatty thighs and torso fit for a Messah child. And its legs were scaled and taloned as a bird’s. It spake almost screeching, “What muckery did that up-jumped loyalist fill between your ears? Is that why you’re late? He led you astray then blamed it on Astaroth’s apprentice didn’t he? Woo, woo!” he cooed, “yes, Phenex is clever to figure it out with only a name. That’s why I am apprentice of the Archives and he works the lowly duty of watching dogs! ‘Lord,’ he is in title only. No one respects him but for that idiot Paimon. Can you believe that he—”
“Phenex?” Adam interjected, hoping to steer the conversation. “Did I hear your name right?”
The demon turned side-face to better see the pastor’s son with a pale, pupiled eye. “Yes, yes I am Phenex. Phenex of the Fifth Choir, apprentice of the Archives under the most wise Lord Aamon—but I am wise, too! Wiser than the Master of Hounds.”
“You can help me, then.”
“Help?” the macaw blinked stupidly, then jumped with a start, “Woo, woo! You have questions for me! I can see it on your face—do not lie, my eyes will see through it.”
The Messah mulled the thought in his mind. Time was dying. He needed this fool to lead him to the Refinery, to Asmodeus. What was it Naberius said? For once, Adam wished that Ba’al was there to talk his way through. Then he understood. Pointing to the demon’s candle, he said, “‘Light amidst the darkness.’ That must mean you, right?”
Phenex glanced at his shackled hands, to the Messah and his hands again. “A light? Why, why yes! Of course! I am the light amidst darkness. It is I, after all, and I alone who shall reclaim his seat in the end. The others have all forgotten, but not I! Not me. I—”
“Oh,” replied Adam, lacing his tone thick with disappointment, “If that is true then I don’t think you can help me. Lord Naberius said to ask Kimaris because ‘The Light Amidst Darkness’ couldn’t possibly find his way to the Refinery.”
“He said, what?”
“He said if I asked you that I was certain to be lost.”
Plumage puffed about the demon macaw’s neck. “How dare he! That lordship has absolutely bloated his head! Well, I will not stand for lies from a lowly Kennel Master.” Phenex spun and started quickly down the stairs. “Come! Come! I’ll not stand for these slanders—as if the Charred Angel and I weren’t neighbors in Heaven and Hell!”
Clink, clink, clink, rang the gilded chains round Phenex’s wrist to the sounds of talons scratching at each
