The princess turned back towards him from the lower stairs. She held his gaze.
He continued, ‘...that the boy Christ Himself carved a cross when He was but a child and gave it as a gift to Aretas before returning from this monastery to Nazareth.’
‘Cartier has briefed you well. It seems you know all our legends.’
They continued descending until they reached the lower crypts, then stopped outside a solid steel door, barely four feet high. Two thickset monks, standing hidden in the shadowed corner, moved towards Nick. A third older monk raised his hand. They instantly returned to the shadows.
‘Thank you, Father Benedict. He is our guest.’
The monk bowed before the princess, entered a security code in the wall, then stepped back as the one-foot thick steel door slid away, revealing an ancient wooden crypt door.
Nick ran his hand over the doorway in wonder. ‘Cedar of Lebanon,’ he murmured.
Father Benedict nodded. ‘The ancient Fathers of the monastery imported it for the original monastery,’ he said.
Nick eased his lanky six-foot frame through the doorway into the tiny mausoleum. There in the centre of the chamber, under thick protective glass, lay his discovery – the Secret Angelic Annals. He gazed at the strange blue light that still flickered faintly from its pages, mesmerized. Then with great effort dragged his gaze away from the annals.
In the far left-hand corner of the chamber, resting against deep-blue velvet under a glass dome, lay a small cross no larger than a DVD, perfectly carved from acacia wood.
Nick moved nearer, then frowned. ‘It’s been mended...’ He examined it through the dome. ‘Crudely mended.’
The princess sighed. ‘Two thousand years ago, King Aretas had considered that the Christ child would grow up a warrior, a colossus, and overturn Rome. But Aretas’ warrior was not to be. After the Hebrew was crucified, it is said that in a moment of bitter passion and disillusionment, Aretas smashed the cross in a fit of rage.’
‘There were wild, unsubstantiated tales that as Aretas lay dying, Christ appeared to him,’ Nick said, staring at her curiously.
‘We are a wonderfully dramatic nation, Mr De Vere.’ The princess lowered her eyes. ‘The recounters of Scheherazade’s Thousand Nights and a Night. Our rich culture of poetry and prose has made our people the storytellers that we have been through the centuries.’ She shrugged. ‘That is why we have so many legends.’
The princess’s voice broke off as her Prada sunglasses slipped from her grasp and fell to the stone floor. She knelt to pick them up just as Nick did the same. He grasped them in his palm and held them out to her, then stared, fascinated, at the small, plain silver cross that slipped out from beneath her T-shirt.
‘Nonetheless, Princess, you believe,’ he whispered.
She stared at him, silent, frozen in her kneeling position.
‘My people respect and revere Christ as a teacher and a prophet, Mr De Vere. It is common knowledge, even among agnostics such as yourself,’ she snapped. The princess quickly regained her composure, snatched the sunglasses, and stood.
Nick continued relentlessly. ‘Yet your critics claim you choose to go a step further ... even as Aretas the Fourth’s daughter Jotapa.’
Safwat appeared out of the shadows in the doorway with Father Benedict.
‘Your helicopter is here, Your Majesty.’ Safwat’s voice was soft but insistent. ‘The Gulfstream refuels in Alexandria. We must leave for the palace in Aqaba before it is dusk, Princess.’
The princess nodded. ‘You are in good hands, Nick De Vere.’ She gestured to Father Benedict. ‘But I must remind you: all digital film is to be delivered to Father Benedict before your departure – no images leave these grounds, or I shall revoke your licence. Even a De Vere brother has to bow to the rules of the Hashemite Kingdom.’
She turned, but he heard her soft voice from the shadows. ‘She was my namesake – Jotapa.’ And then she was gone.
* * *
Later
It was nearing dusk when Nick opened the door of the Range Rover. His face was flushed with exhilaration.
The hooded monks watched him from the Observatory of the Monastery of Archangels.
‘He is very sick.’
‘He is dying,’ the elder monk whispered, ‘and yet his greatest sickness is of his soul.’
‘The identity of the Son of Perdition will be revealed to him?’ the younger questioned.
‘In not so many moons he will return. The revelations concerning his brother will begin.’ The old monk turned from the observatory window. ‘Then he will enter the dark night of his soul.’
The setting sun illuminated Jether’s ancient noble features as he drew his hood back from his face. Weary.
‘He has been chosen. May Yehovah grant him mercy.’
The younger monk watched as the Range Rover roared back across the desert plains. ‘He has no faith.’
‘And yet still he seeks for truth.’
Jether’s tone was gentle, filled with wonder. ‘Such is the marvel of the Race of Men, Gabriel.’ He turned back to stare through the telescope at the white apparition in the Egyptian skies. ‘Lucifer’s messiah is here.’
* * *
4 BC
Lucifer stood in the fading light of the twelve magenta moons of Perdition, playing his viol, his eyes closed in ecstasy.
The tall casement doors of his bedchamber were flung wide open and the exquisite melody echoed across the murky lava wastelands to the vaults of hell.
Lucifer’s face was raised to the heavens. His raven hair, loosed from its diamond braids, fell gleaming over his bare shoulders, and a rare serenity rested on his countenance.
He swept the carved horn bow with long, passionate strokes over the strings of his viol, his mouth moving softly to the exquisite refrain, his long, slim fingers moving dexterously across the fingerboard.
A soft knock echoed through his bedchamber, and Balberith, his attendant, entered.
Lucifer opened his eyes, sensing the presence. ‘I ordered that there be no disturbances,’ he glared at Balberith, then lowered the viol from his chin.
Balberith bowed, holding out a missive embossed with the Necromancers’ seal of the Warlock Kings of the West.
Lucifer tore it open with his free hand and scanned the letter, then carefully folded it closed, then nodded. Balberith walked back through the doors. Lucifer paced the room restlessly, viol still in hand.
A second courtier appeared, and unlocked the doors of the ornately carved music chamber housing Lucifer’s vast collection of lyres, psalteries, dulcimers, fifes, flageolets, pan pipes, lutes, serpents, cornets, and gleaming golden shofars. Lucifer handed him the viol.
Balberith re-entered followed by Charsoc, dressed in his flowing vermillion night-robes and with a canary yellow tasselled nightcap on his head. His black shaman vulture chick rested on his arm.
‘Your Majesty...’ He bowed deeply, a sinister smile on his blind face.
‘You may speak,’ Lucifer said, turning his back to Charsoc. Balberith laced Lucifer’s satin night-robes.
‘Your Majesty, I have received word from the caste of Black Murmurers who traverse the Arabian kingdom of Petra. They report a caravan of magi arrived last dusk. The magi seek the newborn king.’
Lucifer looked over his shoulder at Charsoc, as Balberith pulled a heavy white fur gown over his shoulders, his expression inscrutable. ‘Magi...? What do they want with this king?’
‘They are of the upper house of the Megistanes, Your Majesty – of an ancient priesthood. Their duties encompass the anointing of kings. They follow the star.’
‘Kingmakers!’
‘Your Majesty, there is one, a devout servant of ours, a king of earth – whose sorcerers consult with the Warlock Kings of the West. The magi would journey to him. They seek him out.’
‘And this king who seeks our cause?’ A faint smile glimmered on Lucifer’s lips. He stopped under the hundred blazing perfumed frankincense tap
ers, inhaling deeply. ‘His name is Herod.’ Charsoc replied. ‘He is greatly disturbed, Your Majesty. This new king threatens his power.’
Lucifer moved over to the enormous rubied windows. The nova had drawn much nearer to Earth. Lucifer watched its intensely burning light.
‘Dispatch Darsoc, my sinister princeling – and my Grey Magi, to follow the magi. Instruct your Black Court Grand Wizards to accompany him. Charge the Warlock Kings to instruct Herod that, on arrival, these magi must make careful search for the child, and when they find him, they must bring him word. His excuse shall be that he might worship the child.’ Lucifer turned from the windows.
‘Then bring me word...’ A slow, evil smile spread across his features. ‘...that I might worship the child also...’
Chapter Three
Brothers
Gabriel walked barefoot in silence, his feet sinking into the soft, glistening pearl sands on the celestial white beaches of the First Heaven that stretched for thousands of leagues in front of the splendid Palace of Archangels. His pale gold tresses were plaited with platinum and hung loose down his back over his shot silk oyster-coloured frock coat. His ethereal features were flawless: the perfectly carved cheekbones; the regal countenance. His clear grey eyes were gentle yet piercing.
Gabriel gazed at the reflection of the twelve palest-blue moons that glistened on the First Heaven’s horizon, watching the lilac hues shift to a deep majestic indigo. Towards the eastern horizon lay Eden, its magnificent, lush hanging gardens and amethyst waterfalls barely visible from the sea’s edge. Shooting stars and lightnings arced over the foaming silver waves of the Crystal Sea as clusters of luminescent diamonds the size of pomegranates washed up onto the white sands, emitting a soft luminous light.
He stared up at the soaring gold-columned palace that towered high above the western wall. This was where he and his two elder brothers had dwelt in harmony and kinship before the darkening shadows of insurrection had fallen over the realm of the First Heaven – before Lucifer, seraph, great archangel, light bearer, was banished.
Now only Michael’s and Gabriel’s grand wings of chambers were occupied. The majestic west wing of the son of the morning lay desolate, Lucifer’s magnificent mother-of-pearl chambers deserted, their towering golden doors engraved with the emblem of the Royal House barred since the dusk of his banishment, in worlds long since departed.
Michael strode towards him down the gilded steps, his emerald cloak flying behind him.
‘I am returned from earth,’ he announced, marching through rows of grand white columns, past the vast crystal orangeries of the eastern wing of the palace towards Gabriel across the pearl sands.
‘It is good to see you, esteemed Gabriel.’ Michael kissed him warmly on both cheeks, then removed his golden war gauntlets.
‘As it is you, beloved brother.’ Gabriel surveyed the tall, noble warrior. Michael’s gleaming, flaxen hair was tied back with emeralds and gold in two thick braids that framed the noble features, his intelligent green eyes lost in thought.
He has grown much in wisdom of late, Gabriel reflected. Since Lucifer’s banishment. Gone was any residue of the hot-headedness and intractability of his former years, and in its wake had grown a nobility and a graciousness that were unmistakable. This was his elder brother, Michael, his spirit clothed with honour, nobility, and valour, commander-in-chief of the First Heaven’s armies – Yehovah’s warrior.
Michael raised his head to the horizons and closed his eyes, a deep peace transforming his features. He breathed in the heady fragrance of myrrh that wafted across the shimmering beaches from the vast lush plains of great white poplars far beyond the eastern plains of Eden. He was silent a long moment, then followed Gabriel’s gaze up towards Lucifer’s chambers.
‘Lucifer’s magi have alerted him.’ His voice was soft. ‘It was just a matter of time.’
Gabriel nodded.
‘We knew it would be so.’ Gabriel walked to the very edge of the Crystal sea, staring out at the indigo shooting stars that blazed overhead on the horizon.
‘I can still see his raven hair blowing in the eastern breeze,’ he murmured. ‘It is strange – I remember Lucifer’s every word as though they were ingrained in my soul.’ He turned his face to Michael’s. ‘“Each and every dawn,”’ Gabriel whispered, ‘“we are tested as to whether we would serve our own will, our own desires, or would we serve Yehovah.” That is what he told me at this exact spot. “Choose wisely each day, Gabriel,” he told me...’ Gabriel lowered his clear grey eyes. ‘“...and you can never fail Him. The greatest gift you can grant Him is your free choice to serve Him in obedience, which, in turn, is your true love.”’
‘Yehovah, by His choice, endowed the angelic race with free will,’ said Michael. ‘Lucifer chose his path, as we have chosen ours.’
‘And as the Race of Men choose theirs,’ Gabriel said thoughtfully. He continued his pacing along the luminous sands. A long silence fell. Finally Gabriel spoke again.
‘Michael...’ He raised his face up to the abandoned west wing, his eyes filled with intense sorrow. ‘Do you think Lucifer has regret?’
‘No,’ a soft voice echoed.
Gabriel turned. Jether the Just, imperial angelic monarch and ruler of the twenty-four ancient kings of Yehovah, stood on the gilded steps above them, his silvered hair and beard blowing in the soft zephyrs off the sea. His wizened features were gentle, but underneath his bushy white eyebrows his pale watery grey blue eyes glittered like an eagle’s – intense, alert. Nothing escaped Jether’s vigilant gaze. He well knew that the tender Gabriel had suffered much of late. The dreamings that night after night haunted Gabriel were the cost of the gift he bore as Yehovah’s seer, the angelic revelator. He smiled compassionately at Gabriel.
‘If he has regret, Gabriel...’ Jether walked towards them across the sands, the pearls covering his lime green jewelled slippers as he walked. ‘...it is regret for himself, as he realizes the dire consequence of his choice ... of his fall. But true regret...’ Jether stared upwards north of the two trees of Eden, to the colossal golden ruby-encrusted door, ablaze with light that was embedded into the jacinth walls of the tower – the entrance to the throne room.
‘True regret is based on repentance – grieving for the sin, not the consequence of sin. The two are quite contradictory. Completely opposed.’ Jether’s pale blue eyes blazed with an uncharacteristic fervour. ‘And they must never be confused.’
He gazed up towards the towering west wing, with its grand pearl balconies that now lay abandoned. Derelict.
‘Perfect in beauty,’ he whispered. ‘Filled with wisdom – oh, how thou hast fallen, son of the morning.’
‘What is this Race of Men to Him that He is mindful of them?’ Gabriel murmured. Jether placed his hand gently on Gabriel’s shoulder.
‘The High Council assembles. The presence of Yehovah’s Chief Princes is requested.’
Michael bowed to Jether, ‘It shall be so, revered Jether.’ Jether smoothed his embroidered pale green satin robes. ‘We gather on the Eastern sands under the Great Willows. At dusk.’
Jether studied the brothers intently.
‘The old world has gone,’ he said softly. ‘It can never be revisited. This is a day of farewells.’ And then he vanished, transported to the Tower of Winds.
Through all the aeons that had elapsed since Lucifer’s banishment and our return from Perdition, there had never been a time that Michael and I had looked back to our previous world.
But somehow we both knew that this was to be a different day.
We stood – alone on the shimmering sands. In silence. Two brothers. Not Chief Princes. Not Warrior or Revelator. Just younger brothers. Remembering. All that had been. All that had transpired. Grieving.
For all that we sensed was yet to come, the memories of our triune brotherhood coursing uninvited through our souls like all-consuming, blistering waves. And I knew, that it was in that very moment, that we each said our final goodbyes.
For Jether was right. Our previous world could never be revisited.
The old world was gone.
Michael and I would never again look back...
...For a new world lay before us.
A world whose fate now hung by a thread.
A world with whose destiny the First Heaven was to be irreversibly entwined.
...The world of the Race of Men.
Chapter Four
The First Heaven
Jether paced with even strides through the winding corridors of the Tower of Winds in the First Heaven, his silken white hair and beard sweeping the sapphire floors as he walked. On his head rested a jacinth crown.
Obadiah, a youngling of an ancient angelic race that possessed the characteristics of eternal youth and a remarkable inquisitiveness, was Jether’s attendant. The youngling scurried behind, panting, hardly reaching up to Jether’s waist. His stocky little legs, almost in a trot to keep up, his tight orange curls flying, vainly attempted to hold Jether’s voluminous willow-green satin cloak off the polished sapphire floors. As they rounded a corner, Obadiah distractedly caught sight of Tirzah, another youngling, at target practice with what looked like an enormous iron cannonball.
The languishing Obadiah lost hold of the cloak just as Tirzah launched the iron ball, which arced high above their heads, plummeting down at high speed to land directly in the centre of Jether’s train. Jether stopped precisely as the offending spheroid landed.
He sighed deeply and turned to glare at Tirzah.
‘Now will you believe me that I have eyes in the back of my head, Obadiah?’ He glowered darkly at the youngling, his white eyebrows knitting together. ‘Take your tiffin!’
Obadiah scuttled away, Tirzah in tow. Jether chuckled softly to himself, then caught six tittering younglings hidden in the corridor, devouring their morning tea break of curds and junket. Catching sight of him, they dropped their tiffin, staring at him in awe. He scowled purposefully in their direction. They turned a furious beetroot red and scattered in four different directions. Jether hid a smile, then grasped his cloak with both hands and continued his striding. Grave.