The Prison of Angels

surprise, given his failure years ago in attempting to complete the same fool’s errand. But knowing they were out of provisions, exhausted, begging for aid? Now that was something she could use. It was an opportunity her husband musn’t squander.

“Turn away any petitioners,” she said to her guards as she stood. “I fear I will have far too busy of a day for any more.”

Bram was overseeing his army, as he had ever since the angels attacked in the night. Loreina had watched the battle from the window of her room, and still she had nightmares about it. The way the angels had dashed through their soldiers, slaughtering them as if they were children fighting against men…

She shook her head to clear away such thoughts. Fear was unbecoming of her. Lifting her skirt ever so slightly so she might increase her pace, she stepped out into the courtyard. Despite the hard work of many servants, there were still signs of battle everywhere. It seemed until the next year, when the grass regrew in spring, there would be the red blood staining the green. As for the cobblestones pathways, well, it’d taken three days of scrubbing to make them their original gray, and even then she saw missed spots here and there. Bram had told her the final tally. A hundred and twenty-nine men dead, and in return, they’d killed a paltry eleven angels.

Fear was unbecoming of her, and such failure was unbecoming of their soldiers. And so the men drilled, and plotted, and worked out ways to kill men who flew through the air on pearly wings. As she left the courtyard and entered the training grounds surrounding the barracks, the men halted what they were doing so they might pay their respects. Loreina smiled at them, knowing such small gestures did wonders for morale. In the middle of all the chaos was her husband, arguing with Sir Ian.

“I’m telling you, archers aren’t effective against the angels,” Ian insisted. “Either they dodge them on the way down or outrace them on the way up. It’s only if we can get them on the ground that they’d take the significant casualties necessary to justify the extra training.”

“Not if the volley is large enough that…”

Bram stopped, noticing her presence. Loreina dipped her head in respect, then kissed her husband’s lips.

“A letter,” she said, handing it to him as she pulled away.

“From who?” he asked. His eyes lit up as he saw the name at the bottom. “Oh really?”

Loreina waited as he read it, and was not surprised to see him immediately go over it a second time.

“How long ago did you receive this?” he asked, suddenly looking up.

“A few minutes ago. A messenger came riding in from the east, and our bridge guards escorted him here as fast as they could.”

Bram nodded, and his face hardened into a frown that she knew meant he was deep in thought.

“If we might speak alone?” she asked Ian, who promptly bowed.

“Of course,” he said. “Milord, fetch me if you need me.”

With Ian gone, they were alone despite the hundreds of men milling about, clanging swords. Their words would go unheard in such a din. Loreina slid beside her husband, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“This is it,” she said. “This is everything we’ve waited for.”

Disturbed, he looked her way, his frown deepening.

“How so?”

“Their numbers are weakened, and they are in no shape to fight. Meet them at the bridge. Show them you will not be taken advantage of.”

Bram glared, and he guided her toward the exit of the barracks. It seemed even with all the noise he would not speak of such things in public.

“Are you mad?” he asked as they stepped out. “You saw what thirty angels did to our forces. That was within our own castle, with Qurrah’s lover to aid us. Thousands fly above the skies of Mordan. Even if we crush Antonil, war will still come to our nation, and against that might we’ll be trampled.”

“When did I speak of war?” Loreina asked, letting a hard edge into her voice. Her husband should trust her better than that, and it annoyed her when he would not fully think her ideas through. “When did I speak of crushing that fool of a king? I only ask that you exercise the rights you possess.”

Bram shook his head.

“What you’re asking is dangerous, Loreina. If Ahaesarus meant what he said, we still might escape open warfare. I once thought we would stand a better chance, but that was before seeing what they could do. Their weapons make our chainmail look like butter.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she said. “I watched from my window as our men, good men with families, bled out and died because those fanatics were determined to get what they wanted. They came at night, without warning, into our very capital. What happens when they come for you? Or for me?”

She saw the anger in his eyes and knew she had him.

“All I ask is that you be the king I know you are,” she whispered, softly kissing him from his neck to his ear. “All I ask is that you let me sleep knowing I am safe. Can you do that?”

He nodded.

“We’ll have little time if we want to meet them at Ashhur’s Bridge,” he said. “Forgive me. I must give out the order.”

She smiled and let him go.

“Of course,” she said.

He hurried back into the barracks, and her heart swelled with pride. This was it. This was the first step toward their freedom.

Trying not to look in any particular hurry, she walked back to the castle. When her servants went to follow, she dismissed them, claiming she had a headache and desired solitude. It was only a half-lie. She climbed the winding stairs to the upper floors, then smiled at the man guarding her room. Slipping inside, she twisted the lock, then rushed to her private chest of things. Amid the various junk was a single scrap of paper, hardly larger than her palm. It was faded brown, and looked as if it’d been forgotten at the bottom of the chest for decades.

Taking the scrap, she went to her husband’s desk and opened his inkwell. Taking a quill, she wrote two simple words in its center. That done, she put the quill and ink away, then walked over to their window. She pushed it open, felt the breeze blow against her. Her heart aflutter, she lifted the paper to her lips then slowly breathed across it.

Immediately the paper snapped to life, folding over and over on itself, reshaping, becoming something else. Throwing it out the window, Loreina smiled as the paper bird took flight, rising higher and higher into the air, the words Antonil approaches safely folded into its very center. Loreina watched until it was gone, her hands clasped before her chest and her eyes alight.

King Antonil parted the rough fabric with his hands and looked inside.

“How does he fare?”

Tarlak lay on a pile of blankets, in one of the few wagons they’d manage to salvage after the ambush at Kinamn. His hat was beside him, exposing the wicked bruise just above his temple. A bit of his hair was missing, shaved off by the elderly surgeon overseeing him.

“He fares fine,” Tarlak said, lazily lifting an arm in greeting. “I dare say I’m sick to death of this bumpy wagon. I think walking would be better for my health, and my sanity.”

“You have my pity,” said Antonil.

“Thank you,” Tarlak replied.

“I meant the surgeon.”

“He sleeps more than he complains,” the surgeon said. “Though the herbal milk I give him is probably to blame. The infection is gone, praise Ashhur for that. In a week, maybe two, he’ll be back to his old flamboyant self.”

“Nonsense,” Tarlak said. “I’m my flamboyant self right now. See this smile? That’s the smile of a happy man.”

“The smile of a drugged man,” Antonil said, chuckling. “Cut down on the herbs. I think it’s time he regained a bit of his lucidity.”

“I might have to take some myself then,” said the surgeon. “You cannot imagine what this man is like when ill. I’ve known children who handled toothaches better.”