The Dreamwalker's Path

4/ Temple of the Lost, Sanctuary

The occupants of the temple had begun to stir, and their restlessness woke Lyriel from a light sleep.

He woke slowly, first becoming aware of the disquiet of the gods in the chamber above the Archives, and then of a growing pressure as the arm of the chair pressed into his side.

Reluctantly, he shifted his weight, and then made a sound of surprise when the heavy volume laying on his lap slipped to the floor, its impact accompanied by a dull thud.

The agitation of the gods was momentarily pushed aside as the angel bent to retrieve the book. Carefully, he set it on the small table in front of his chair and ran his hands over the pages. The ink had long ago begun to fade, and the angel wondered how long he could put off copying the words onto new pages. Not long, he’d wager. Another couple decades and the book would be blank, as so many of the books that lined the shelves of the archives were blank. Blank and waiting for new events that they could record.

Something scuttled on the floor above Lyriel’s head, causing the angel to pause. He cast a glance upward and frowned slightly. No matter how restless the temple’s occupants were, nothing should be moving around up there.

Slowly, Lyriel closed the book and, gaze still locked on the ceiling, pushed himself to his feet. When the angel reached the doorway to his office and the Archives, he paused and listened intently to the noises of the temple.

As he listened for any more suspicious noises, he shrugged into the white robes that he wore outside of the Archives and padded down the carpet lined hallway in his bare feet.

He had not been a particularly powerful angel, even before he had come to Sanctuary, and now, like the ink in his books, what little power he had was beginning to fade. Still, each time he walked passed one of the electric lights down the hall, he brought it to life with a light touch of his fingertips.

The scuttling was closer now and a little more frantic.

Lengthening his stride, the angel rounded the first corner of the hallway in time to see the shadowed figure of something disappear around the second.

It had been small and, if Lyriel had to guess by its frantic fumbling farther down the hall, frightened. Not, he mused, something he would equate with any of the gods who had been retired to the temple.

Whatever it was, its presence when it reached the main

chamber of the temple brought forth a flurry of activity from those gods who were strong enough to be aware of their surroundings.

Their sudden movement caused the entire temple to shift slightly, and a wave of nausea rolled over the angel; even that wasn’t enough to bury his surprise at their sudden, vehement activity. He staggered, leaned against the wall. Whatever the creature was, the gods had taken an interest in it in a way that he had never felt them take an interest in something before. It was not the mild curiosity of the very old and very bored; it was malign. Angry. Desperate to lash out.

The angel took a deep breath to regain his composure and then broke out into a run. He reached the end of the hall just as the figure disappeared from view again.

“Wait!” The carpet of the hallway was always a comfort for its ability to muffle his footsteps each evening, but now it seemed almost as though the wooden walls and the plush rug were absorbing his voice, purposefully, keeping it from reaching the figure. He broke passed the small arch of the hallway and into the main chamber, shouting again, “Wait!”

But the small figure, still half hidden in shadows, bounded through the archway and out of sight.

“Damn.” His voice reverberated in the empty chamber, and the gods of the temple shrank back and became still again at the sound of it. For a brief moment, Lyriel allowed himself to hope that the sudden quiet that had settled over the temple would draw whoever had gone through the arch back to him, but when several heartbeats passed and no one returned, he relinquished the notion all together.

“Oh...damn,” he repeated, the smaller pair of his wings drooping. “I hope that wasn’t important.” Then, still feeling mildly vexed, he cast a glance at a deity with a cow’s head. “There was no reason to be rude; you wonder why no one visits you, and I tell you that’s it. You never have a kind thing to say to anyone.”

The figure melted farther into the wall and disappeared from view.

Well then, good riddance, Lyriel thought, straightening his robes. And I hope that you think about that, too.

Taking one deep breath to realign his focus, Lyriel let his eyes wander the chamber. Judging from the way the moonlight lit the temple, one of the early Hours must still be wandering nearby.

Lyriel suspected that the deep ache he felt throughout his body was a subtle protest from his bones themselves at the rush of activity after Time only knew how long he’d been sifting through the pages of the archives; but Lyriel was awake now, and the gods were still restless, so the angel sent a small burst of energy through the temple, causing the lights to flicker on. Only the electric lights responded to the little burst of energy; the candles, where most of the temple’s light came from during the evening hours, remained untouched, and as such, much of the temple remained cast in shadow.

“Well, I had better make sure everyone is where they should be,” he told the wall nearest him. Rubbing his long fingered hands over his face to bring a little bit of focus back to his eyes, he resolved to make a short circuit around the temple and then return to the Archives.

So the angel walked among gods who were not his, listing them off by name and making sure that each was as he had left them last. Those gods that were aware enough to do so looked on their guardian with silent discontent as he came by. He was not their captor, just a creature created by the thing that usurped them.

With silent, bare feet, Lyriel moved from one end of the temple to the other, hoping that none of the usual visitors noticed that the lights, however dim, were on. Occasionally, the stained glass stolen from a medieval church now long turned to dust cast spattered light on the ground when one of the modern spotlights from the outside world swept across the window panes.

Lyriel sighed softly. Annoyed as he was that he had been rousted so early. And yet, he decided that this life, for as unassuming as it was in comparison to the life he’d had eons ago, was not a bad one to inhabit.

And the gods, though restless, seemed somewhat contented with his meager attention. At least for the time being.

Good.

He had just one more in particular that he wanted to see before he returned to the Archives, and she was just by the doorway of his hall.

The sight of the child-goddess brought a smile to Lyriel’s

lips, and the angel raised a hand in greeting.

Inside the ivory wall, Persephone stirred and managed a smile.

Persephone was one of the most aware of the occupants in the Temple, and Lyriel was never sure if it was because she, as a child, was used to being overlooked, or if it was because she had always been a point of particular interest for himself. Or, perhaps, it was because her husband, Hades, was one of those gods who still survived, if only just barely, outside of the Temple.

Lyriel pressed a hand against the thin barrier that separated Persephone from the outside world. “Hello, beautiful girl.”

He felt the soft flicker of her awareness, a sleepy recognition. It was passed her bedtime, it said. She must sleep and save her energy for another day.

Lyriel may have retreated out of politeness, then, or perhaps stayed with a hand pressed to the wall to let her know that she was cared for and regarded with affection. He might have done something entirely different, but the opportunity was lost when a gnarled hand burst from the wall from somewhere behind the child-goddess, and wrapped around the slender wrist of the angel.

One of the other tenants of the Temple screeched loudly enough that its voice seemed to shake the walls, and Lyriel’s eardrums rattled from one side of his head to the other.

Lyriel pulled back with all the strength he had, but the hand that had grabbed him was stronger and had the whole foundation of the building to support it.

His fingertips disappeared into the wall. His palm. His wrist...

Panic rose from the pit of his stomach to clog his throat as his forearm and elbow disappeared into the ivory as well.

“Lyriel!”

A body collided with his—not one of the cold, petrified

bodies of the divine, but a warm, living citizen of Sanctuary.

The hand that had grabbed him slipped, and both Lyriel

and the interfering third party tumbled to the floor.

For a breathless moment, Lyriel lay sprawled, dumbfounded, his sight clouded by a mass of blond curls, body trapped between the floor and the person who’d saved him.

The mass shifted, retreated, and revealed itself to be the porcelain doll faced witch who had belonged to the Eastlings not long ago.

“What in chimes’ name was that?” she gasped, fixing the dusty lavender overcoat she wore, and the mass of curls that spilled around her shoulders. “What have you been feeding these guys?”

Lyriel found himself shaking his head. “Feeding? I don’t...I can’t even...I have no idea what’s got into them,” he managed, sitting up and pushing his own hair out of his face. He gaped at the wall and then looked back at the witch. “Caitell, you have positively the most wonderful timing of anyone in the entire world. I’m not sure if I should consider you blessed, or myself!”

The angel laughed weakly and climbed to his feet, offering the witch a hand up which she took graciously.

“I have to admit, angel, I wasn’t even on my way here when I started.” She sniffed and looked back at the wall with great suspicion. “Do they often try to turn you into one of the happily oblivious?”

Lyriel shook his head. “I have no idea,” he repeated his words from early. “Just no idea what happened. I just... well, goodness, look at me! I’m completely aflutter!”

He fanned himself and smiled weakly. “Ah, since you’re here, Caitell, is there something I can do for you?” His gratitude was evident even to his own ears, and he added in a rush, “Let me make you some tea.”

“Oh, no, Lyriel, I shouldn’t—I mean, I don’t want to impose; I was just out walking.”

“Yes,” there was an earnest nod before Lyriel pressed on, “but you found yourself here at a most opportune time. I think that heroism deserves tea, at least. And then, perhaps, we can discover why your wanderings lead you somewhere that you didn’t realize you were going.”

Caitell looked unsure, but she heard the plead not to be left alone under the strained politeness. “All right,” she agreed. “Sure, a cup of tea would be nice—and here, I found this on the steps leading into the temple.” She offered a small child’s toy to him. It looked as though, at one time, it had been in the shape of a kitty, but now it was a little deflated and perhaps a little worse for wear.

“Ah, yes, thank you.” He took the toy and tucked it in the crook of his other arm. “We had a visitor this morning; I’m sure that if this belongs to whoever our visitor was, he or she will want it back.”

Caitell nodded in agreement, though what she was agreeing with she wasn’t entirely certain, and went about the task of brushing herself off and looking around the temple for any more signs of angry deities.

The angel cleared his throat to call her attention back to him. He offered her his free arm, and the witch took it graciously. Neither spoke until they were out of the main temple and in the plush red corridor that lead to Lyriel’s library office.

“So how are you and the other Eastlings fairing, darling?” he inquired with a genuine sort of interest. “The time since the riot must be very hard for you and the others.”

She shrugged, pulling her arm away from the angel, and looking at the dim lights on the ceiling. “I guess it has? If I were a better person, I’d say that the Hours were far too easy on us, and that we should all have our own clock towers. Civil service...I mean what did they really do, other than set each of us up with productive jobs? Sure, we have to work for no pay for a while, but...” she shrugged again. “I’m not a better person, though. I’m mad that we were punished when what we did wasn’t entirely our own fault.”

“Ah yes,” Lyriel opened the door to the library and allowed the witch to enter first. “The devil that made you do it.”

When he said it like that, Caitell felt that it was probably no excuse after all. She frowned a little, helped herself to a large, squishy seat and, twiddled her thumbs, becoming the picture of petulance. “Well, the Alchemist was behind it all, wasn’t he? It started out as a game and then he turned everyone against each other.”

Lyriel shrugged, gliding passed the small sitting area to a tiny alcove that had a small counter, complete with a small sink and dozens of canisters of tea in an assortment of flavors. Without hesitation, the angel went about the process of boiling water for tea with a small electronic kettle.

“It’s not like we don’t have proof that he did, you know,”

Caitell replied darkly.

Lyriel said nothing as he picked out small packets of tea and placing one in each of the cups that he had taken out.

When the water had boiled, Lyriel poured the water over the tea bags. He then carried the cups to the sitting area and passed one of them to Caitell. “No sugar or milk, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically. “No one ever comes by to deliver any these days.”

Caitell nearly asked Lyriel where the tea came from if no one delivered him supplies anymore, but he was speaking again:

“I had heard...” he delivered the words slowly, “about Jackal and the other three.”

Caitell found herself responding hollowly, “Tami, Devaline, and William.”

“Mm. All possessed by the Alchemist,” the angel removed the tea bag from his cup, squeezed it between his fingertips, and set it aside. “And all recently passed.”

Caitell sniffed. “Their hearts burst. All of them, no warning at all,” she gave a hard gulp and another sniff. “No doubt something that the Alchemist planted in them when he possessed them.”

“Yes,” Lyriel sipped his tea and regarded Caitell empathetically. “The loss of a brother is always difficult, Caitell; I can’t imagine how hurt you must be at his death.”

“He wasn’t my brother,” she muttered, looking down at her tea cup and heaving a small sigh. “We’re getting on, though, the rest of us, I mean. And everyone seems willing to work together to put everything behind us.”

“That’s good. Moving on is a healthy part of living.”

“And growing up.” She gave a tiny, bitter chuckle We’re all so ashamed...”

“I can imagine.” He did not add that imagine was all that he could do, as he felt that would rather deplete what he was offering the witch. “How is the boy taking it?”

“Chapel?” Another bitter laugh. “He’s angry. He’s lost everyone that he ever loved, grew up believing that the other gangs were evil and needed to be put down. He’s angry and confused and hurt, and a lot less ashamed than the rest of us.”

“As a child, he wouldn’t be. Shame is something that only adults who have the power to choose right from wrong can experience. A child like Chapel, raised with a different definition of what is right and what isn’t, would not feel shame. I doubt that the Alchemist ever needed to put a veil over little Chapel’s eyes. In fact, a few more years, a few more children like Chapel, and I imagine the Alchemist would have been able to step back and watch you all destroy each other without any hand from him.”

Caitell tried to drink her tea, but her stomach gave a weak protest. “He blames the Hours.”

“Yes, I would too, were I him.” Lyriel set his tea aside. “Why don’t you bring Chapel with you the next time you come for a visit? Perhaps the boy will find some peace while visiting some of the occupants of the temple.”

Caitell nodded. “I’ll think about it. We’ll see how he feels.”

The silence stretched. Caitell placed her tea on the side table. She kept her eyes on the books that surrounded them, and as far away from the angel as she could manage. When she couldn’t think of anything more to say, she stood up and thanked Lyriel for the tea.

“Should I see you out, Caitell?”

“No, thank you. I can manage.”

She left without so much as a proper good bye.

Lyriel sat back in his chair and reached for his tea again, but hesitated when he noticed the dark smudge that circled his wrist. It took a moment for him to realize that the smudge was a bruise, and he pulled his sleeve back to study the dark ring that marked his pale skin.

An angel’s body was considerably tougher than a human’s. Bruising would take an extreme amount of force—a force that a only another angel could command.

Another angel, or a god at its full strength.