And it came to pass that the Ancient One looked down and saw the sufferings of the First Children, and that the Angelic Ones had become Evil Ones in their betrayal. In great fury and righteousness, the Ancient One smote the Angelic Ones and sent them hurtling down to the surface of the Great Sphere. And then the Ancient One spoke to the Angelic Ones, who were now Evil Ones, saying unto them:
“From now on, you shall no longer be counted among my children and will be known as Icarals, the most despised of all creatures. You will wander the surface of my Great Sphere without a home. My True Children, My First Children, will join together to smite you and to break your wings.”
And thus it came to pass that the True Children once again joined together from all corners of the Great Sphere to smite the Evil Ones and to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.
So ends the first book of Creation.
I glance up at the stained-glass windows that shine between the columns as I remember the stories in the sacred text associated with each image, the normally vivid colors of the scenes strangely darkened by the stormy skies.
The first window depicts the Ancient One symbolized by a graceful, white bird, sending down rays of light to Erthia below. I take in a deep breath as the familiar, protective image fills me with warmth.
The images continue, all around: the reluctant prophetess, Galliana, astride a giant fire raven, leading our people from slavery, White Wand in hand; the First Children receiving the deep blue Ironflowers as a symbol of the Ancient One’s promise to keep them free from oppression, the flowers offering magical protection from demon fire.
I briefly glance down at the familiar Ironflower trim worked into the hem of my sleeve, comforted by the flowers’ symbolic promise of safety.
Next comes images of terrible battles: First Children slaying winged Icaral demons as the demons shoot fire from their palms; First Children soldiers combating bloodthirsty shapeshifters—wolf-shifters, fox-shifters and even a wyvern-shifter with slits for eyes and a forked tongue hanging from its mouth.
Above all these images, the Ancient One’s light shines down.
As I ponder the religious teachings of my youth, movement near the stained-glass wyvern-shifter catches my eye.
Just above its reptilian head is a clear portion of glass, and I can make out two small eyes watching me through it. The eyes flick up and out of view, revealing a strong silver beak and then...nothing.
A Watcher.
Curious, I get up, walk toward the back of the church and exit through the mammoth front doors.
As the doors swing shut behind me, I’m instantly aware of a strange current in the air. I stare down over the empty plaza, searching everywhere for the bird.
There, in the plaza’s center, stands the huge stone statue of my grandmother. The plaza is eerily quiet, the normally raucous seagulls absent. The odd colors of the sky shift slightly, and I hear another small, far-off murmur of thunder. I look up to see dark clouds slowly lumbering toward the church.
Halfway down the cathedral stairs, I see it. The white bird. It flies across the wide plaza and lands just behind my grandmother’s statue.
I reach the statue of my grandmother and circle slowly around it, searching for the bird. Soon the huge marble monument completely blocks the cathedral from view. I pause in its shadow, riveted by it.
The soft rumbling of thunder jostles the silence like a faint drumroll.
My grandmother stands, larger than life, my identical features finely wrought by a master’s chisel, every fold of her billowing robes perfectly rendered, so lifelike it seems as if I could reach up and move the fabric. Her left arm is raised in a graceful arc above her head, her wand arm pointing straight down at an Icaral that lies prostrate at her feet, his face a contorted mask of agony.
At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.
The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.
You could never be me.
The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.
Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.
My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.
“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”
I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.
The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.
I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.
A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.
But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.
It used to have wings.
It’s an Icaral demon. My screams turn to sobs of terror as I catch a glimpse of a dagger in its hand.
I raise my palms in supplication, a silent, desperate plea for mercy as I begin to grow faint.
The demon scuttles forward with surprising quickness and agility and grabs my wrist so hard, its long fingernails dig into my skin, piercing my flesh. I let out a muffled cry.
It holds tight onto me, its soulless eyes widening in shock. “It is She! It truly is the Black Witch!”
“Then do not hesitate!” snarls the creature restraining me. “Kill it, Vestus! Kill it before it can become like Her!”
My knees buckle as the creature called Vestus pulls his dagger back and raises it above his head. Thunder smashes against the sky.
“History will now be rewritten, Black Witch!” Vestus shrieks. “The Prophecy will be shattered, and the Icaral will live! You will die, and we will rise!”
Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The creature’s hand jerks backward to ready his attack, but then a longer blade bursts through the creature’s chest. A fountain of blood spurts out, covering me, and I’m falling, falling, the creature behind me also falling away, freeing me. I slam into the cold, hard ground, aware of the overwhelming, ferrous smell of blood.
And then a soldier is before me.
Lukas!
He pulls his sword out of the Icaral and pushes the creature forward, dead, its head slamming onto the stone tile inches from me with a sickening crack.
I whirl around just in time to see one of my aunt’s guards dragging off the second Icaral, this one taller and more muscular than the other, but bloodied and unconscious. Thunder cracks loudly as the wind strengthens and pushes my blood-soaked clothing flat against my skin.
A movement beyond my aunt’s guard catches my eye—just a small glimpse in a dark alley beyond the plaza, beyond the road.
Another Icaral looks at me for a split second, then disappears from sight.
A strong hand grabs my arm. I jump in fright and whirl around to see Lukas shouting something at me. I close my eyes tight and jerk my head from side to side, desperate to pull myself together, to focus. I open my eyes as all the sound around me rushes back in with a roar, like a dam opened.