CHAPTER 11: No Trust In His Servants

Shall mortal man be more just than God?
shall a man be more pure than his maker?
Behold, he put no trust in his servants;
and his angels he charged with folly.
Job 4:17-18

“Demon,” Dietrich gasped, his pale face flushed as he struggled for another deep breath. “Not enough to get Mother and Father out of the way … want me gone … just like Alfons.”

“You be ill,” Araciel said softly, reaching to Basti for the potion.

“You threw the poison into the flame,” the young noble choked, reaching up to grab Araciel’s doublet. His fingers clawed into the velvet. “Did you kill my brother too, or was that just luck?”

“Dietrich,” Albrecht said nervously, “you’re hallucinating.” He glanced at Araciel. “It’s the poison.”

“I know.” The apprentice closed his eyes a moment. Basti awkwardly touched his shoulder, trying to reassure him while the lord’s son drew another breath.

“Go on, kill me,” Dietrich rasped. “Then you can marry Caterina and have the keep. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He gagged, stiffening. Araciel leaned forward, and the aristocrat grabbed his arm, holding him. After a moment he began to pant, staring at Araciel. “You can’t stay away from her, can you?”

“Dietrich!” Albrecht gasped, shocked.

“…True,” he said, still clutching Araciel. “Isn’t it?”

“I be not behind these misfortunes,” Araciel murmured, lifting Dietrich’s hands from his sleeve and doublet. Dietrich tried to resist, but Araciel brushed him away as though he were a child. “Nor do I desire your title or keep.”

“Just my sister,” Dietrich grated, struggling as Araciel pushed him back against the headboard.

“Think you I would dare?” Araciel breathed, almost too softly to hear. He looked up. “Basti, would thee give him the drink while I hold him here? I fear he will struggle.”

“Fin –” Dietrich gasped, chest heaving. “Finishing the job?”

“It’s an antidote,” Basti said, frightened by the noble’s accusations. Albrecht moved forward to help him hold Dietrich’s head still, and together they managed to pour most of the drink down his throat. Minutes later, Dietrich doubled over and vomited nearly all of it back into the basin beside his bed.

“There be more water on the brazier,” Araciel said, dropping back on his heels. “Basti, would thee please prepare the potion again?”

Basti nodded, hurrying back to the sickroom as soon as he could hold the jar in his hands. Araciel resolutely poured the mixture down Dietrich’s throat again, and again Dietrich was unable to keep it down. A third time they tried, and this time the noble’s stomach didn’t rebel. Instead, he slid into unconsciousness, still fighting to breathe.

“Araciel?” Basti returned with the fourth dose, and pushed it into his friend’s hands. “You’d better drink this.”

The apprentice summoned a smile, crouched beside the bed.

“I think it would not affect me,” he said, sounding weary. “I be – I be hardly as ill as Dietrich, and all I may do is wait for my body to fight the toxin on its own.”

“Which you’ll do better by going to sleep,” Albrecht suggested, reaching down and pulling Araciel to his feet. “I’ll send Basti up to get you when dinner’s ready.”

“Mayhaps,” Araciel sighed, “thou hath the truth of the matter.” He turned and walked back to his own room, still holding the jar Basti had handed him. Basti watched him go, then glanced up at Albrecht.

“Go downstairs. Naich will be up here in a few minutes to take my place, so I can get dinner ready,” the cook sighed. “I’m sure all the food’s burnt by now, anyway.”

Several hours later, everyone but Araciel, Dietrich and Naich gathered in the kitchen, huddling close to the roaring fire as if to warm themselves against the chill of death. Caterina silently fought to keep herself from worrying, mechanically helping Albrecht chop greens for the meal. Alrune perched on a high stool, his feet swinging as he sharpened a old carving knife. The rhythmic, methodical rasping grated on Basti’s nerves, but one look at the dwarf’s baleful expression quelled his complaint.

“Do you think Araciel will be all right?” Basti asked at last. Danti, staring into the flames, sighed. The whetstone grated against iron.

“The poison hardly affected him. A little dizziness, that’s all. But he’s taking this hard.”

“He believes he failed his duty to Johannes,” Albrecht guessed, checking a pan.

“They freed him years ago!” Danti exclaimed. “When will he realize that?”

Basti glanced up from the fireplace poker he was turning in his hands, looking curiously from sculptor to cook. Had Araciel been a slave?

“He doesn’t want them to think he’s ungrateful….” the cook ventured. “And Dietrich’s accusations don’t help matters. Those two have never gotten along.”

“I know,” Danti muttered. “But brooding won’t help matters. Right now we need him to help us fight the damned Erl King, not sulk in his room.”

“Dark foes make dark allies,” Alrune observed, holding up the knife to inspect its edge. Iron gleamed in the firelight.

“Oh, stop it!” Danti growled. “I trust Araciel more than I trust you.”

“What are you talking about?” Caterina asked, looking up. Her face was pale and drawn. “I wish you would all stop keeping secrets and say what’s on your minds.”

“What do you mean?” Danti asked, stalling. Caterina sank her chopping knife into the butcher block with a dull thud, expression drawn.

“Why was Araciel in servitude to my father?”

Danti looked away, glancing at Albrecht for help. The cook busied himself with the pans, avoiding the sculptor’s eyes.

“He took an oath to serve them faithfully and well as long as they keep him out of Hell.” Alrune laughed, dark eyes gleaming in the flickering light. “Your pretty Araciel’s a devil, child.”

Basti turned, angered by the scholar’s effrontery, but before he could object, Caterina lifted her chin and spoke.

“What do you mean, a devil?” She turned to Danti. The sculptor shrugged, avoiding her eyes.

“That’s what I was told, too,” he admitted at last. “By your parents. It took me a few years to add together all the discrepancies — his language, which was even more antiquated then than it is now; the fact he never seemed to age. A few stray comments made me suspicious, and I finally pulled your parents aside and queried them. I thought he was some sort of familiar spirit, which was close enough to the truth for them to decide to confess to me. They asked me not to mention it to anyone else. Especially you.”

“Oh, come on, Danti!” Basti protested, tossing the poker back into its rack with a clatter. His face was flushed with anger. “Are you crazy? Araciel’s not a devil!”

“Have you forgotten that all devils were angels once?” Alrune asked scathingly. “‘Judge not according to the appearance.’ Araciel may look like a gentleman, but his soul is black and twisted by hellfire.”

“Was.” Danti broke in, voice firm. Running his fingers through his dark hair, the sculptor turned to Caterina and Basti. “Look. I’ll tell you what I know.

“According to Johannes, Araciel fell from grace at the beginning of time, and in Hell he learned to regret his error. He would like to regain his place in the Ninth Choir of Heaven, but Satan is always working to undermine his efforts. Johannes and Elisabeth summoned him from Hell with an offer — in exchange for teaching them, they would let him to dwell here, in the mortal world, where he can try to redeem his soul. He’s been both their instructor and their apprentice for over thirty years.”

“Has it worked?” Caterina asked, gravely. Basti shook his head, amazed that she could take this fantasy seriously.

“Well, we don’t know,” the sculptor said, slowly. “How could we tell? Have him exorcised? What would we do if it worked, and he was thrust back into Satan’s grasp?”

“Listen,” Basti interrupted, “if Araciel was a devil, he wouldn’t — couldn’t — be religious, right? A devil would be a blasphemer, not a worshipper!”

“You forget, he once stood before the throne of God,” Danti said. “Araciel knows the truth of heaven far better than you or I ever will.”

Basti opened his mouth to reply, then leaned back in his chair with a scowl, his arms folded over his chest. Religious debate was exactly the kind of discussion he preferred to avoid. He hated talk of a God who was supposed to be all-powerful, but still let evil into the world.

Still … for a second he thought of the Erl King’s hesitation to enter Araciel’s room. Had the Erl King been prevented from entering by the crucifix? Or by Araciel’s faith in it?

If you’re going to believe in evil, a nagging thought asked, why don’t you want to believe in good?

But that would mean that the Church’s claims had some validity. Which meant that its usury and bloodshed, its political corruption and prejudices, also had validity.

“Why didn’t they tell me?” Caterina asked. Danti shrugged.

“To protect him, I guess. The more people who know what he is, the more danger he’s in. I don’t know how Albrecht found out, but….”

“A man who never goes to church and asks someone else to hang his crucifix for him?” The cook snorted. “You weren’t the only one to take his suspicions to Signore Johannes. I was closer to the mark than you, Danti. Took a while for the lord and lady to convince me they weren’t dabbling in black magic. Even so, alchemy…..” He looked skeptical.

“What about you, Alrune?” Caterina asked, looking at him. The dwarf smirked.

“If Araciel wants to hide from a scholar, he had better change his name. One’s name is a powerful thing.”

“A lot of people don’t believe a devil can repent,” Danti mused. “They’d say Araciel’s master is the Father of Lies, and that his repentance is only pretence. But I have more faith in God’s mercy than that.”

“Do you know what he did?” Caterina asked, in a small voice. “To be thrown out?”

“No,” the sculptor admitted. “I didn’t think it was my place to ask.”

Caterina turned back to the cutting block, pulling the knife from the wood with a pensive frown. Basti looked away from her, into the fire.

A devil. As insane as it seemed, it would answer all his questions about Araciel’s past, except the same one Caterina had asked — the crime that made him Fall.

It must have had something to do with women. He felt certain of that.

He ran his hands through his hair, still not sure what to believe.

The kitchen door slammed open and Naich strode across the room. As Danti looked up, startled, Naich grabbed him by his unornamented doublet and lifted him from the chair, eyes burning.

“What — what is it?” Danti gasped, grabbing Naich’s arms as the flautist half-dragged him across the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

The mute shook his head, refusing to take the time to sign his message. Danti grimaced and stopped resisting. Basti leaped up to follow, filled with trepidation. Even Alrune slid off his stool, tucking the carving knife into his belt.

“We’ll take care of this,” the scholar said, bowing to the cook and noble’s daughter as he followed the others out of the kitchen. Albrecht and Caterina glanced at each other. A burning log in the fireplace began to hiss.

Naich dragged Danti through the halls to the foot of the northwest stairwell.

“Good God,” Danti swore suddenly, eyes widening. “Is it Dietrich?”

Naich shook his head.

“Araciel?”

Naich nodded, and Danti shoved past him to race up the stairs. Basti ran after him.

Danti swung into Araciel’s room, took one look at the empty bed, and turned, nearly colliding with Basti. Behind them, Naich and Alrune were stepping out of the stair tower. Naich pointed at the lab.

Danti took a deep breath and threw open the door. He let his breath out with a gasp when he saw Araciel.

Basti tremulously peered around his master’s shoulder.

The apprentice — devil? — stood in the center of the lab wearing a spotless white albe. On the floor around him was drawn a circle the likes of which Basti had never seen before, filled with multicolored lines and words that, to his untrained eye, looked Arabic. In one of his hands was a wooden wand; in the other, a sword.

His voice was firm; his eyes, haunted.

“… ordine mittas, qui me informat et doceat quo illum interrogavero….”

Shadows capered around the room, and the hair on the back of Basti’s neck rose. The shadows’ movement didn’t match the lamp’s flickering. He gasped as one shadow seemed to turn a bestial head to look at him.

“Araciel!” the sculptor thundered, expression hardening. “Stop!”

The golden-haired youth looked up, startled. The incantation faltered on his lips.

“Araciel!” Basti said, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” He’d only understood a few words of Araciel’s rapid Latin, but he’d understood enough to guess the apprentice was calling upon something for information. Something that wasn’t human.

“I….” Araciel stopped in dismay, staring at them. After a silent moment, he lowered his sword and swept it sideways. “In the Name of Adonai, the Eternal and Everlasting One, let each of you return unto his place; be there peace between us and you, and be ye ready to come when ye are called.”

The flame in the lamp leaped as the shadows receded.

“You damn fool.” Danti strode into the room and grabbed the apprentice’s arm. “What were you planning to do?”

Basti edged into the room, eyeing the circle with caution.

“Well?” Danti demanded. Araciel lifted his head, looking around. The burly sculptor stood in front of him, Basti to his right, and the doorway on his left was blocked by a grim-faced Naich and amused Alrune.

“What I could,” Araciel said simply, eyes returning to Danti. “I hoped to summon us aid.”

“Or challenge His power,” Alrune remarked, his dark eyes rising from the circle on the floor to the apprentice’s pale face. “That’s Solomon’s circle, Araciel.”

Araciel flushed. Danti scowled over his shoulder at the scholar.

“Solomon’s circle,” Alrune explained. “To summon the spirits of the dead, among sundry other unpleasant things.”

Basti regarded his friend with horror. He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew that necromancy was one of the blackest of rites. If there was a God, and if there was a hell, then surely necromancy would be a damnable offense.

Danti turned on the apprentice again.

“You….” Danti bit back his words, his expression plainly revealing his disgust. He glared, then dropped Araciel’s arm and shook his head. “Dammit, I thought you had more sense. Maybe I was wrong about you.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Alrune murmured. Naich shook his head, as if for silence.

“Wait!” Araciel laid a hand on the sculptor’s arm, his fingers curling over Danti’s roughly mended sleeve. “I would not disturb the eternal rest of the peaceful dead, Danti. I sought the restless spirits that dwell here, to ask of them advice and gain from them a warning of what might yet be to come. These be evil times, and I fear the tales I have heard of the last time the Erl King did walk these halls. Please.” The apprentice captured Danti’s eyes, pleading. “You know I would not work to evil ends.”

Danti’s expression slowly softened.

“You weren’t going to summon Alfons’ shade? Or some kind of devil?”

“Ne’er, I give you my word on’t.”

Danti narrowed his eyes, staring at the apprentice. The youth met his gaze. Finally, with a sigh, Danti placed his calloused hand over Araciel’s.

“All right,” he said. “I believe you.” Araciel sagged in relief.

“But don’t do it,” the sculptor continued. “Necromancy’s too dangerous — especially for you, and especially here. For all we know, the Erl King has power over the dead here, or a pact with even darker powers. Powers that would like to have you back.”

Araciel bit his lip.

“But what avenue be left us, Danti? We can no longer merely bide our while and wait for the Hunter to run us to the ground one by one. Thy lives be mine to guard, now my lord and lady be departed. I have already failed once. I dare not fail again.”

“Oh, jubilante Deo.” Alrune rolled his eyes. “Now I feel safe.”

Naich placed stilling fingers on the scholar’s shoulder.

“Let us worry about our own lives,” Danti brushed off the apprentice’s concerns. “You can’t keep an eye on all of us, and nobody’s asked you to. Just protect Caterina.”

“The storm must soon stop; and then I will go to Gestern to fetch us back Father Völker. I would have him on hand to protect us from the Hunter … or in case Dietrich should have need of him.”

“That makes sense,” Danti agreed. “But until then, we should stay together for protection. This blizzard could continue on and off for another week, and even when it’s over, the trails will be hidden. I don’t want you rushing off in some false lull and ending up caught halfway down the mountain in a storm, or breaking your neck trying to find the trail.”

“But — Dietrich –“

“You can’t go down there by yourself, Araciel.”

“Perhaps not,” Araciel said, resigned.

“All right, then. Get changed,” Danti ordered, turning. “We’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.”

Alrune and Naich let Danti pass.

“You seem plagued by your poor choices,” Alrune commented, as he turned to follow the sculptor. “Do you want to lament before Hell’s gates so badly?” His hard laughter echoed in the empty hall as he walked off. Araciel stared down the hall after him, and after a long moment listlessly spoke.

“‘… that caitiff choir of the angels, who were not rebels, nor were faithful to God, but were for themselves. The heavens chased them out in order to be not less beautiful, nor does the deep Hell receive them, for the damned would have some boast of them.’”

“What’s that?” Basti asked, turning. The words sounded familiar.

“A reminder,” Araciel said sadly, looking away. “The Mandragora would style himself my conscience.”

Basti leaned against a heavy wooden table. He didn’t say anything as Araciel pulled off the white linen robe and ran a hand over it, brushing away wrinkles and dust. Beneath it the apprentice wore the same clothes he’d passed out in, without only his giaquetta, gown and belt.

He didn’t look inhuman, with his brightly slashed and embroidered doublet in disarray. He didn’t look like someone who’d committed a sin against God so dire that it had condemned him to Hell.

Basti remembered Araciel shouting at him and was shamed to realize he felt uneasy. A dark bruise circled his wrist, where Araciel had held him fast just that afternoon. Dietrich had accused him of murder. If Araciel turned on him now, while they were alone….

Araciel glanced up.

“Has Danti then made you my watchdog?” he gently inquired. Basti flushed, shaking his head.

“No. I just…” he shrugged, unable to say what he wanted to. Araciel straightened, placing the robe near others on a shelf.

“Forgive me. I meant no offense to you, Sebastiano.”

“Araciel!” Basti stood up, frustrated by the tension between them. “What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“I, mad at you?” Araciel asked, turning. “’Tis you who must be anger’d, for we have kept secrets from you, and myself most of all. I be a poor friend, unworthy of your trust.”

“No, I — it’s just…” Basti faltered, then tried again. “Every time I think I’ve finally learned what’s real and what’s not, I find out I’m wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Danti told us what you are.”

“I feared he might.” Araciel turned, opening a rosewood case and methodically storing the wand and sword, wrapping each first in a length of linen. The silence between them grew. Outside, the wind howled.

“Well? Is it true?” demanded Basti. “Are you a devil?”

Araciel laid the sword in its case.

“Yes,” Araciel admitted, a curtain of hair hiding his features as he folded the cloth over iron. “I erred and forgot me both station and duty, and so I was damned and cast from His presence.”

“With Satan?” Basti felt numb, suspended between belief and skepticism. Could the pain in his friend’s voice be faked?

If he served the Father of Lies, could it be faked?

“No,” Araciel said quietly, back still turned but hands motionless on the pale cloth. “My sin came after that First Fall. But I did not Fall alone. A full two hundred did Fall with me, ill-fated all. We did not choose to serve Satan, but we were given to him regardless, to be tested and to be punished.”

“But…” Basti brushed the hair from his eyes. He hated to grill his friend — if Araciel still thought of him as a friend — but for his own peace of mind, he had to know the truth. “You’re not in Hell. You’re here now. Do you still serve Satan?”

“I have never served him.” Araciel bowed his head. “Though neither have I served God. Now I seek only to serve His most beloved creations, in the hope that it will be enough to win me His forgiveness.”

Basti ventured closer and touched the apprentice’s wide-cut sleeve. Araciel didn’t move, refusing to turn toward him.

“Then there’s hope.”

“Unless I err; and then the Prince of the Damned shall reclaim his own.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dare I believe otherwise?” Araciel finally turned, revealing the tears that ran freely down his face. “An’ if I be returned not to Hell, then what? Alrune’s words be sharp to the point. God hath no love for one who would turn his back on Heaven. Thus far have I flouted my own damnation to seek after grace, but the greater damnation will be to hope, and fail.”

“I don’t think you’re evil,” Basti said, stricken by his friend’s grief. “I don’t think you’re damned.”

“Despite what you know?”

“Of course,” Basti swore. He was Neapolitan. He was loyal to his friends. “I don’t care what anyone else says.”

Araciel summoned a painful smile past the tears that still stood in his eyes, and clasped Basti’s hand.

“Thy friendship doth make it easier to face Master Dietrich’s loathing.” Araciel faltered. “Only in the last few decades have I known kindness; and now I feel I have failed those who trusted in me….”

“Don’t be stupid,” Basti interrupted, squeezing his friend’s hand and releasing it. “And Caterina still trusts you, too.” Because she loves you, he thought, but didn’t dare say aloud. Or at least, she did before she knew what you really were.

He thought about Dietrich’s accusations and bit his lip. Was Caterina in danger? No. He shoved the thought away. Impossible.

“I did not think she….” Araciel began, a look of concern on his face. Basti gave him a half-smile, and the fallen angel let his voice trail off. “Then I must not fail her.” He turned and latched the cases and placed them near the folded albs. When he turned again, he’d regained a tenuous grip on his composure, adjusting his doublet and sleeves. Basti handed him his giaquetta, lifting it and Araciel’s belt from the back of the chair upon which it had been hung.

“I be determined still to stop the Hunter, if not with the advice of the spirits, then on my own.” Araciel said at last, as he fastened his belt around his waist and looked up, once again the picture of the perfect courtier. Basti handed him his fur-lined auburn gown. “There be blood between that fiend and I now; and I shall see him defeated.”

“Okay,” Basti said, opening the lab door. He kept his tone light, even though he knew he was bound by his oath of friendship to Araciel’s vendetta. “You’re the only one here who’s got the magic and the sword, so it’s going to have to be you. But if you want my opinion, I think the best thing you could do is just keep Caterina safe. I think that would please the lord and lady most.”