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  Dedication

  THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

  Alexandre Dumas

  AND TO

  Richard Lester (director) and

  George MacDonald Fraser (screenwriter)

  and the entire cast and crew of the films

  The Three Musketeers (1973) and The Four Musketeers (1974)

  AND, AS ALWAYS, TO

  Anna, Thomas, and Edward and to all my family and friends.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Hierarchy of Angels

  Maps

  Prologue

  Part I: Liliath

  One

  Two

  Three

  Part II: The Four

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Part III: The Pit

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Part IV: The Diamond Icons

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Part V: The Expedition to Ystara

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Garth Nix

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Hierarchy of Angels

  SERAPHIM

  CHERUBIM

  THRONES

  DOMINIONS

  VIRTUES

  POWERS

  PRINCIPALITIES

  ARCHANGELS

  Maps

  Prologue

  “THERE ARE ONLY ELEVEN OF US LEFT, EMINENCE,” SAID the young guard. She was obviously very weary, leaning on her sword, which was smeared from hilt to tip in caked gray ash. “I don’t think we can hold even this tower for much longer.”

  “Eleven?” asked old Cardinal Alsysheron, who looked far more ancient than her seventy years. She sat on the ledge of the great arched south window, because there was nowhere else to sit in the belfry atop the tower, most of the space being taken up by the great bell of Saint Desiderus. A massive bronze presence, it was silent now. There was no point ringing out any alarms, and, besides, the bell ringers were dead.

  Alsysheron had folded up the long tail of her scarlet robe to make something of a cushion against the cold stone. She wore only one slipper, and her close-shaven head was bare, lacking cap or miter for the first time in many years, the faint white fuzz stark against her deep black skin. The Cardinal had fled very hurriedly from her makeshift bed in the great hall when the creatures had unexpectedly managed to find a way in via the cellars and crypt.

  “I did not hear another assault. . . .”

  “The Ash Blood took Omarten,” answered the guard, giving the plague its newfound name. She wasn’t even one of the Cardinal’s household. Up until two days before, she had been a very new recruit in the Royal Guard. But when the palace fell to the monsters, she had gone with the survivors along the river, to the cathedral, which had once been a fortress and seemed to offer some slim hope of survival. “We put his body out.”

  “That was unnecessary,” said the Cardinal. “As we have seen, the transformation does not take place after death.”

  “We didn’t want to take a chance,” whispered the guard. She leaned forward, deep brown eyes suddenly wide-open, more intense, the weariness banished. She looked very young to the Cardinal, too young to be caparisoned in steel morion and cuirass, with pistols through her once-blue sash, now stained gray with the ash blood of the creatures. “Eminence . . . is it not time?”

  “Time for what, my child?”

  “To call upon Palleniel!”

  Her voice was urgent; she no longer leaned upon her sword but lifted it high. “Surely he can put everything to rights!”

  The Cardinal slowly shook her head and looked out over the city of Cadenz, or what she could see of it under the massive, lowering cloud of thick black smoke. There were many fires burning now, kindled when bakers and cooks died from the Ash Blood and no longer banked their fires, fires soon out of control with no one living to fight them. The monsters certainly didn’t try. Indeed, at least one of the biggest fires had been started by someone—probably a desperate officer of the City Watch—hoping to keep the monsters on the northern bank of the river, unaware the creatures were not invaders but transformed people—and were thus springing up everywhere.

  “Magister Thorran made a report before she died,” said the Cardinal. “It is angelic magic that makes the victims become monsters while they still live. Too many mages and priests called upon their angels for healing when the plague first started, or in attempts to defend themselves—I saw it happen myself, as I am sure you did too . . . I am sorry, but I have forgotten your name.”

  “Ilgran, Eminence. But surely, where the lesser angels fail, Palleniel—”

  The Archbishop shook her head more stridently.

  “I have been slow to penetrate the nature of this, Ilgran,” she said. “Perhaps you will be swifter than I when you hear these three things.”

  She held up her hand, counting on her thin, ancient fingers. Each digit bore a heavy weight of icon rings, some fingers two or three, each icon representing an angel the Cardinal could call upon, though none of these were as powerful as the one depicted on the heavy, gold-chased icon that hung around her neck on a collar of silver-gilt esses.

  “First, Esperaviel has flown at my behest to Barrona and Tarille and to the beginning of the land bridge: she confirms the Ash Blood plague does not extend beyond the borders of Ystara, not one yard beyond. Furthermore she could not pass the borders herself—”

  “I am not much of a mage, Eminence,” said Ilgran, with a faint blush. She had gained her place in the Royal Guard by virtue of her aunt’s being a lieutenant, not by the brilliance of her swordplay or expertise with magic. “I do not know Esperaviel. Of what order—”

  “A Principality, under Palleniel, her scope the sky of Ystara,” continued the Cardinal. “She told me the borders were blocked by the neighboring Archangels, by the power of Ashalael of Sarance in the north and Turikishan of Menorco in the south.”

  “Gathered to attack us? But why, it doesn’t—”

  “No, it is not an attack, not from without. They have simply closed the borders to all heavenly beings. All our borders. Listen! The second matter is that Esperaviel reported seeing the Maid of Ellanda, with many followers, crossing the border into Sarance, and third . . .”

  The old cleric paused and sighed heavily. She let her hand fall to her lap and then raised it again, reaching to take Ilgran’s left hand in her bony grasp, levering herself up to stand somewhat shakily.

  “And third, I called upon Palleniel on the first day, when the King began to bleed ash. Palleniel answered but would not do my bidding. Another commanded him now, he said.”

  “What! But . . . that is . . . how? You are the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ystara! You hold the icon!”

  “And Palleniel is the Archangel of Ystara. But my icon—the ancient icon of Saint Desiderus—is dull and lifeless now. Did you not notice it? The icon of Xerreniel you bear upon your helmet would jangle and tremble were mine still puissant, to stand
so close. I felt its virtue fade as Palleniel retreated. It was then I asked myself, What power could inflict this Ash Blood plague upon our poor people? What power could cause all lesser angels’ interventions to go astray, to create monsters rather than the healing or defenses that were sought? Who could do this in Ystara?”

  “The other Archangels—”

  “No,” said the Cardinal. “Here in Ystara, Palleniel is paramount. I think the neighboring Archangels have acted to limit the Ash Blood and the creatures it brings, as best they can, in the earthly realms they protect. I sense they are trying to do more, that there is further struggle in the heavens, directed against Palleniel. Because this plague, the monsters . . . it must be Palleniel’s work. But as always, no angel may come to our world, or act, save at mortal call and direction. And so the pieces come together, for who has the art and power to have made a new icon to summon Palleniel himself? And having made it, who would have the arrogance and strength to summon him and set him to such work?”

  Ilgran shook her head and frowned, and her mouth quirked in disbelief.

  “I suppose it can only be the Maid of Ellanda . . . but why would she want . . . this? It is the death of the kingdom! The death of us all!”

  “I do not think she did want this,” said the Cardinal. “But as always with angels, one must be very careful. The greater the power, the greater the possibility of unintended harm. We should have seen the logical consequence of her talent to make icons and summon angels. Do I say talent? I mean genius, of course. But she was . . . she is too young. Nineteen is far too young to be made a magister, or bishop, to be given the teaching and allowed the greater orders. Though clearly she has needed neither teaching nor permission. . . .”

  “I saw her once. From afar. She had a light in her eyes, a madness,” said Ilgran slowly. She was not looking at the Cardinal but out across the burning city. “When she came with her followers to see the King, wanting a charter for her temple. For Palleniel Exalted, whatever that means. . . .”

  Ilgran spoke absently, her mind elsewhere, digesting what the Cardinal had just told her. It meant there would be no rescue; she would likely not live to see past another dawn, perhaps not even that long. There were many monsters below, and the cathedral had not been a fortress for a century, at the least. The bell tower had no water, no stored food, and, besides, the gate below was weak. Even without a ram, the bigger monsters would smash it down when they made a determined effort to do so.

  “Perhaps we should have allowed her that charter,” mused the Cardinal. “But I do not think she is mad. Ferociously single-minded, I grant you. I pity her.”

  “You pity Liliath, Eminence? If it is as you suspect, she has somehow corrupted Palleniel, she is responsible . . . she has brought the Ash Blood plague upon us; she has slain my parents and turned my brother and sister into monsters. If she were here I would kill her and be glad, if sword or pistol would do what is needed against whatever she has become!”

  “Oh, I think cold steel or a bullet would finish her, albeit with difficulty, just as with the monsters,” said the Cardinal. “Though you might not get the chance to use sword or pistol, if she does indeed hold Palleniel in her service. She must command other angels, too, more than we ever suspected. But I do pity her, for as I said, this cannot be what she intended. So young, so impossibly gifted, and yet so unwise, all bound up together. I wonder what she actually did intend, perhaps—”

  Whatever she was about to say was lost, as the first of the monsters who had climbed the ancient, cracked, and open-veined stones of the bell tower launched itself over the battlements and onto her back, cutting the old prelate’s throat with its talons as it bore her to the ground.

  Ilgran killed one with a sword thrust that left the weapon embedded in the creature’s mouth, before she fell. Literally, for as she ducked under the rim of the great bell to throw herself down the open shaft, one of the creatures closed upon her, jaws ravening and horrible, hooked fingers reaching. A pistol remained unused in Ilgran’s belt, not fired at the last because the monster looked at her with Janeth’s eyes. Her little sister’s lively green eyes.

  The guard jumped, making no attempt to grab the bell rope. Falling to her death, Ilgran focused every part of her mind on the slightest of hopes those eyes had raised.

  There had to be some chance that a monster could become human again.

  Part I

  Liliath

  One

  THE YOUNG WOMAN WOKE IN TOTAL DARKNESS WITH COLD stone under her, and her questing hands felt stone above and to the sides. But the moment of panic that came with this realization ebbed as she remembered why this was so and disappeared completely when she heard the voice.

  The voice of power and strength that made her feel complete, made her feel alive. With it came a sudden, intense sensation of being enfolded, held close and safe. Not by mere human arms, but within great wings of light and power.

  “As you commanded long ago, that which you waited for has occurred, and so I awake you.”

  “How . . . ?”

  Her voice croaked and failed. She swallowed, saliva moving in her mouth and throat for the first time in . . . who knew how long.

  She had been stopped for a long time just short of being dead, she knew. She would have seemed dead if anyone could have looked inside the tomb, though the remarkable preservation of her flesh would have given pause to any observers. But the chance of any onlookers had been greatly reduced by her choice of resting place. The great stone coffin, topped with a massive slab of marble, all sealed with lead.

  It would have been natural for her to ask how long she had been in the coffin. But that was not her first question. She thought only of what was needful, for her all-consuming plan.

  “How many suitable candidates are ready?”

  There was a long silence. Long enough for her to think the presence gone. But then the voice came again.

  “Four.”

  “Four! But there should be hundreds—”

  “Four,” repeated the voice.

  For a moment, fury coursed through her, extreme anger that her plans—her destiny—should once again go awry. But she fought the anger down. Though she had hoped for many more possible candidates, to allow for error or mischance, four should be enough. Even one might suffice. . . .

  “Where are they?”

  “In four places in Sarance, but they will come together. Soon.”

  “And the Order? It continues? You have shown them the signs of my awakening?”

  “I have shown the signs. I know not if any survive to see them, or if they have been acted upon. As you know, I am not entire, and mightily resisted . . . only your will anchors me to your world. Almost I wish to fully disassociate—”

  “You will do as I commanded!”

  She spoke urgently, her voice imbued with all her natural power and intense, concentrated will.

  “I obey. I am yours entire. I can speak no longer, my—”

  The voice stopped. This time the silence was complete. She knew there would be no further speech, no warmth, no sensation of utter security and love. Not now. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, but she fiercely blinked them away. She had no time for tears. Ever.

  “I love you,” whispered the young woman. She felt better saying the words, coming back to herself, to what she had been. Her voice grew stronger, echoing inside the stone coffin. “I will always love you. We will be together. We will be together!”

  She felt her hands. Her skin still had the soft, velvet smoothness of youth. More important, the rings were all there. She touched them, one by one, letting the power within begin to rise, just a little, before she settled on the least of the nine. The ring on her left thumb. Made from ancient electrum, the band held an oval of ivory, carved to show fine, feathery wings almost obscuring a human face, painted or perhaps enameled, the eyes tiny rubies. The halo above the almost hidden face was a line of gold no wider than a hair.

  “Mazrathiel,” whi
spered the woman in the coffin. “Mazrathiel, Mazrathiel, come to my need.”

  Light shone from the ring, cold like moonlight, though brighter. She shut her eyes against the sudden illumination and felt the lesser presence appear. It came with a sensation of warmth, but this was no more than the welcome heat of a kitchen fire on a cold day, nothing so remarkable as the feeling that had encompassed her whole being before, when she had spoken to him. Similarly, she felt the rush of air as if from the folding of wings, and the faint, clear tone of a single harp string, plucked far away.

  “Mazrathiel is here,” said a faint whisper only she could hear. “What is your will? If it lies within my scope, it shall be done.”

  The woman whispered, and Mazrathiel did her bidding.

  Brother Delfon had always liked the cool quiet of the Saint’s Tomb in the lowest crypt beneath the temple. It was very cold in winter, but he had not been sent to a vigil here in winter, not since his sixtieth year. That was more than a decade behind him now, and like all practitioners of angelic magic, he was older than his years. The more fragile followers of Saint Marguerite only stood vigil in high summer, and in truth Delfon would have been spared the task, save that he insisted. He did acquiesce with the suggestion of his superiors that he bring a cushion and a blanket, and sit upon the wooden bench in the corner that served to rest weary pilgrims on the high holy days when they were allowed to visit.

  He slumped now, no more than half awake. So it took him some several seconds to notice that he was no longer alone. A sister stood above him, looking at him with a quizzical expression as if uncertain what to make of the elderly monk.

  A young sister. She wore a similar habit to his own, the black and white of the followers of the Archangel Ashalael, but there were variations in the width of the white cuffs at the sleeves and in the hem of the robe, and even the blackness of the cloth looked a little different in the light of Delfon’s lantern. Slowly he realized it was perhaps a very dark blue, not black at all, and the badge on the breast, picked out in gold, showed a pair of seven-pinioned wings, Archangel’s wings. But Ashalael’s wings were always shown in silver, and besides, these were surmounted by a strange, nine-tined crown with a halo above, not by the miter of the Cardinal. . . .