“She has lived only a few years in the world,” the seraph said. “And yet her life has been used up. If she had spent it here in Faery, the Holy One would have said little. A pity, perhaps, but at least partly through her own choosing. A few years in Faery can be of great joy to mortal men, teaching them dreams. But among you was one who turned to the darkness of pain, not as a spur to knowledge, but as an end in itself. Among you was one who made a god of horror. Among you was one who turned his imaginings inward, an immortal who lusted after death, who set himself up as a god of death, which had only paltry gods until he came. He has let men come to him, those with similar desires. Together they have built a hell. We do not charge you with the deaths of those men, for they went to him of their own will.
“But you have bowed to him, and given him his teind, and begged him to hold the Holy One at bay. And so long as it was only yourselves you sacrificed, the Holy One, Blessed be He, did not call the Covenant in question, not though you were craven, not though you had fallen far from the glory you were given.”
The seraph’s voice grew gentle. “What did you think to gain?”
Oberon stared at the distant hills and said nothing. So proud. He would not beg for mercy. Behind me, Israfel was silent. All that host was silent.
“Had he told you lies?”
Still silence.
“Had he made you promises?”
No answer.
The seraph made a sound, or we apprehended a sound, or a feeling, a sound of infinite regret, like a harp string plucked and broken. “Too large a part of this woman’s life has been consumed in your kinsman’s labyrinth, and that was not of her choosing. She is mortal and has been used to her lasting harm, Oberon. Not only for this reason, for there are other reasons, but with this as the cause, the Covenant is broken.”
Israfel’s hands came up once more. The glamour came back. My strength came back as the seraph turned and went away. Too late to defend them now. The seraph went into the tent and the light went out. The tent stood empty. The trees surrounding it began to blacken. Within moments they had fallen to dust and the dust had blown away on its own little wind. This was the copse Oberon had tried so hard to destroy, and now it was gone. Seemingly he could not take his eyes from the place it had been.
When I looked back at the assembly, all were weeping and moving away. Only Mama came to me and put her arms around me, saying, “I didn’t know. Oberon sent me away, Beauty. He fogged the palace to drive the Bogles away so they couldn’t warn you. He didn’t tell me. He just took you.…”
I patted her shoulder, hugged her close, crying, “I don’t understand how Faery could make cause with the Dark Lord. I don’t understand how they could.”
She wept, and shrugged, looking in that moment like any grieved old washerwoman I’d ever seen at Westfaire, crying over a lost child, a lost man, a lost life. “I don’t know,” she cried. “He wooed us. He whispered to us. He told us we had enemies. He told us he would defend us against them. He told us of plots against us, and said he had confounded them. He pointed to the religions of men that were sucking our magic away, religions which pretended to worship the Holy One, and he told us the Holy One allowed the worship and had thus betrayed us. He told us he could lead us to victory against the angels, who would soon declare war upon us. Oberon believed him, perhaps, a little. Enough to give him the teind. A small price, we thought.”
Simple paranoia, then? A fairy sociopath, crouched in his labyrinth, spewing lies?
I had been there. I knew there was more to it than that. A monstrous ambition. A death-loving ecstasy. A worship of pain. What dwelt in the Dark One’s halls was not only of faery, but also of man, a dreadful alliance. Could it possibly be that there was some dark angel there as well? A hideous triumvirate, brooding destruction?
I looked at Israfel over her bent back and asked, “What’s going to happen now?”
“The Covenant is broken. We had our immortality through the Covenant. I suppose we don’t have it anymore. That’s why Oberon is weeping. When he is through weeping, we will see.”
“Baskarone,” I faltered.
“Baskarone,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how long it will last. The seraph didn’t say.” I noticed for the first time that Israfel looked … not older. No. Worn, somehow. As though … as though he had spent himself protecting me. None of us had come out of hell unscathed.
“Before it … if it … can I see it?” I asked him.
He turned to look at the others. Michael nodded first, then Gabriel. Then the others. Israfel took me by the hand.
“Will you come back?” Mama cried, stepping away from me.
“If there’s time,” I said. “If I have any time left.”
“Israfel,” she begged, “I was never part of any of this.”
He looked at her without expression. His face was calm but unforgiving. “When man stood up beside his fire and the Holy One asked us to help him, there were only thirteen voices who assented. Ours, and old Carabosse. Yours was not among them, Elladine. When Oberon laughed and walked away, you were at his side.”
She bowed her head and wept.
Israfel said, “I’ll bring her back if there’s time.”
What shall I write of Baskarone?
Everything
