The Key

Wings bound against his back, Caspian exits the portal into a garden. The high walls of a hedge maze conceal him and the misting light of the gateway. As the mist dissipates, vanishing entirely into shadow, a distant clock tower begins to toll the hour. The bell rings a reassuring seven times, the same number of times it would toll in his own realm. He has five hours until the portal opens to let him back through, and he wastes a third of the first hour merely getting out of the maze on foot.   Breathing air thick with perfumes and human scents, he loses the rest of that hour standing in a line. He straightens his mask, ignoring the occasional uninvited touch on his wings. Around him, the costumes are colorful and only lightly embellished with spellwork, and his carefully motionless wings draw attention, even in such decorated company. He passes the wait gazing skyward, feigning admiration for the castle and not the darkening sky above it. As he waits, the magic inherent in his being adjusts his understanding of the language around him. Nonsense turns to clarity, but that is not what Caspian listens for. The toll of the clock tower is harder to hear in the press of the crowd, all eager to enter the castle from which music spills forth. His first hour gone before he even presents the once-crisp, now-battered embossed parchment.   “Guest in place of Seer Shurley,” he explains, holding it out to the nearest guard. She looks at it, looks at him, and returns it with a nod. She motions him forward and he crosses unimpeded over the warding set into the design of the stone floor. It’s a beautiful mosaic covering even deeper magic, but he keeps his eyes away from that distraction, as if he cannot sense the lines of power.   Leaving a margin for error, he has three hours left to investigate tonight, and one with which to leave. Five nights, with five hours each total. Effectively three hours each night, a full fifteen to accomplish his goal. If he can manage an efficient enough entry and exit, perhaps as many as twenty hours.   He knows the size of this castle. He sees the size of the crowds. He reassesses.   If the tablet is here, as the seer claims, he cannot count on retrieving it. The humans may not know what they possess; that is at once his best chance and greatest fear. He can more effectively aid in the measures that will prevent the demons from reaching it.   For both of these courses of action, he needs to observe the castle’s security.   Decision made, he patrols.   Though the outer sprawl of the compound is best described as a palace, this inner territory is truly a castle. This is a tower-topped stronghold, no matter how much dancing the great hall contains. There is dancing in the great hall, in the inner courtyard, in the throne room. There are at least three separate groups of musicians and more tables laden with foodstuffs than Caspian can be bothered to count. There are servants and guards, only some uniformed, and Caspian does count these.   While the martial prowess of the kingdom is celebrated through displays of armor and wall-mounted shields, metal and wooden alike, there is a conspicuous lack of actual weaponry mounted on the walls. The only arms within the castle are those the guards carry on their persons and those every mage carries within their hands.   He wanders past the areas designated for guests, and where he is stopped and redirected, he inquires after the architecture. The crowded hallways feel worse than they are with his wings tight against his back, but he endures the handicap on his balance. Worse still, with the wrists of each wing riding high and defensive over his shoulders, his vision is also limited. Worst of all, people keep touching him there, each curious human certain he can’t feel it. One woman tries to pluck a feather but stops when he glares, too flummoxed by her gall to respond verbally.   It occurs to him, shortly after a grand clock in the hallway chimes ten times, that he is surrounded entirely by another species. He is the only angel in this world.   He must be, because someone else would have corrected this tapestry by now.   He stares up at it, taken aback by the gruesome event woven into heavy cloth. Or perhaps embroidered. These things are not Caspian’s specialty.   Not for the first time this night, a human stops beside Caspian. The man angles his body toward him, a preliminary opening to conversation. Beyond offering his invitation and excuses for wandering, Caspian has not spoken tonight, but he speaks now.   “This is wrong,” he says.   The man beside him turns his head. The soft brown fabric of his mask peaks into two high metallic horns, each tipped in silver. This symbol of the royal stag is more blatant than the circlet the mask hangs from, but both gleam under candlelight and magelight equally. The mask covers his features from forehead to nose, leaving his full lips and jaw exposed. Embroidered into his black jacket are countless silver symbols, an endless series of interwoven devil’s traps.   “Your Highness,” Caspian amends. He bows his head, as if having misspoken before. The gamble is reasonable. He keeps the apology to that gesture alone, forcing the rest of his body still.   “What’s wrong with it?” the prince asks. His voice is rough but even, a coarse scrape born of use, not mood. He sips from the glass in his hand. The lip of the glass is lined with silver, and the properties of the metal give Caspian cause to wonder. Traditionally, the crown prince would be marked by gold, not silver, but in a world plagued by monsters, the values of those metals may have swapped, and their meanings as well. For all their best efforts, much of Caspian’s information is centuries out of date. It is not the humans that Uriel has been watching.   Putting these concerns aside for the moment, Caspian indicates the tapestry and asks, “This depicts the Severing of Lucifer, correct?”   This is rhetorical.   “If you mean him having his wings hacked off,” the prince allows. Whether the informality is meant to welcome or rebuff, Caspian cannot say. Devoid of wings himself, the human has very little recognizable body language.   “I do, Your Highness,” Caspian replies, a conversational retreat as more humans draw near. They form a polite circle, clearly more interested in following their prince than listening to Caspian. Despite the audience, he continues, “In the last battle of the angels upon this earth, Lucifer’s wings were severed by his three brothers, but he wasn’t kneeling when they cut him. He was face-down on the battlefield with his wings held down, not drawn back.”   The prince takes another slow sip, the motion careful. He can’t seem to tip his head back with that mask. “It’s more artistic like this,” he says. “You can see all of their faces this way. Not that screaming is much better than face down in the dirt, but it is more dramatic.”   “The artistry would be improved with the correct coloration,” Caspian says. “And the drama would be improved by depicting the mortal wounds Gabriel and Michael incurred. They’re on the wrong sides, as well.”   The prince tilts his head slightly, a nod to the side. Weighing, perhaps? It might be a gesture of curiosity. It would be on an angel. “Mortal wounds, you say.”   “Gabriel held the left wing, Michael the right. Despite his mastery of illusions, Gabriel was desperately wounded while pinning Lucifer. When Raphael sundered Lucifer’s right wing from his body, Lucifer was no longer pinned. He drove his sword through Michael’s stomach, and Raphael severed his left wing instead of healing Michael or Gabriel.”   Conscious of the change in realm, Caspian lowers his voice. Sound carries so easily here, with air to carry it.“It is unknown whether Raphael’s sacrifice of his brothers was unwitting, born of necessity, or a ploy to obtain undivided control of his brothers’ armies. Whether cold with grief or logic, he rules over the realm of angels to this day.”   The prince’s mouth makes a shape. “Nice story.”   Caspian holds his wings still, refusing to frown. “With respect, Your Highness, this is history.”   The prince looks at him, and Caspian is almost certain the prince is looking at him oddly. His mouth moves in a slightly different way before he asks, “You believe in angels?”   This is not a question Caspian was expecting.   “Believe,” he echoes. Behind him, someone titters. There are murmurs followed by another quiet laugh.   “They existed – maybe – about six hundred years ago,” the prince tells him. He gestures to the tapestry with his glass. “Right after this, no more sightings. Not a one.”   Caspian meets his gaze calmly, levelly, and thinks strongly of irony. He takes another gamble.   “There’s evidence they relocated to another realm of existence, similar to the manner of the fae.”   “Evidence, huh.” It might be a mocking comment. It might be a challenge. The prince doesn’t look at his small crowd of hangers-on, neither encouraging or dismissing them, and that isn’t much of a hint either.   “There are historical records of a series of tablets, infused with power and carved with incantations of banishment,” Caspian says truthfully. “Angels vanished from this world six hundred forty-eight years ago after the battle depicted here, and I believe this is because of the nature of those incantations. The number of demons inhabiting this world was immense, but that number was abruptly and vastly reduced at the same time. By banishing themselves, the angels banished an equal force of demons.”   The cloth of the prince’s mask shifts slightly with his facial expression, presumably something involving his eyebrows. “I will say, that’s not a theory I’ve heard before.”   They stand facing each other now, the small crowd clustered around them both, a semi-circle in front of the tapestry. The gemstones on his mask glittering, a man from the group steps forward to insinuate himself between them, but before he can interrupt, the prince smoothly hands him his empty glass.   “What if I say the reduction in demon numbers was clearly due to the Colt Reforms?” the prince asks, eyes on Caspian and Caspian alone.   “I would say the Colt Reforms focused primarily on identifying, containing and repelling demons, not killing them, Your Highness,” Caspian replies. He remembers being impressed at the time of the implementations. That the humans would find ways of defending themselves had been remarkable. “That much is evident in the walls around us: the salt channels in the windowsills, the devil’s traps in the stonework, the holes in the smaller stone doorways. It’s all containment. Except for the doorways, there isn’t a single measure that could be considered harmful, let alone aggressive.”   “What about the holes in the doorways?” the prince asks, his mouth moving in yet another new way. There are too many kinds of human expressions, Caspian decides.   “The holes in the tops of the doorways,” Caspian says. “For pouring down purified water, creating a curtain agonizing to pass through.”   The prince shows his teeth, so many of them. A threat? Is Caspian showing insufficient deference? “We haven’t used those in a couple hundred years,” the prince says, and his tone is a signal to relax, marginally. “Too messy, too redundant.” He shifts slightly closer, and his shoulder puts more of his hangers-on at his back, further separating himself and Caspian from the group. “You missed one, by the way.”   Concede or challenge? Based on the warmth in his voice, Caspian challenges.   “If you mean the chandeliers, they’re clearly a more modern addition.”   Around them, multiple people look up, evidently only now noticing the circles and runes held aloft above them.   “‘Clearly’?” the prince repeats. If anything, he shows yet more teeth. “Same style of metal work.”   Caspian shakes his head. “Then they were made to match well. I’m certain Your Highness is aware those runes are much too recent.” If Caspian doesn’t recognize them, they must be. “Also, the Colt Reforms were meant to be implemented universally, down to the last cottage, and chandeliers are hardly universal light sources. Any household could carve a trap in wood or weave it into a rug. Having a line to fill with salt is even simpler, and a bucket of water over a door is literal child’s play. A chandelier of enough size to trap a demon requires high ceilings and would go against both the spirit and practicality of those reforms.”   The prince shows his teeth and he keeps showing them. He reaches out to touch Caspian’s shoulder, his fingers brushing far too intimately against the underside of Caspian’s wing. Gently, he pulls, putting the rest of the hallway at their backs.   “You said they had the colors wrong,” the prince prompts, gesturing to the tapestry. He doesn’t remove his hand, and the small gathering behind them, cast into an excluded sphere, doesn’t seem to know what to do. “It’s an old tapestry. Could be faded.”   “They’re all doves here,” Caspian says, shaking his head. “I can understand the mistake for Lucifer: he was pearl.”   “They’re ‘doves’?” the prince asks, amusement clear in his voice. He finally puts away his teeth.   “Their wings are white,” Caspian clarifies. “From behind, Lucifer might appear to be a dove, but the under wing coverts were pearl.” When the prince looks at him without recognition, Caspian looks back with reciprocal confusion. Taking a guess, he adds, “The underside of the wings.”   At this, the prince nods. “And the rest?”   “Gabriel was bronze, Michael was goldenfeathered, and Raphael is a silverwing.”   “Not a bad color,” the prince says, tapping his circlet with his free hand. His other remains on Caspian, a constant touch and a constant barrier to everyone else. Behind them, some of the onlookers disperse. Several hesitate, clearly uncertain whether leaving unacknowledged would be more rude than remaining. “They get the hair color right?”   “On Gabriel and Raphael, although Raphael’s skin tone is a much darker brown. They’ve mixed up Lucifer and Michael, strangely.”   “The Demon Father was blond?” the prince asks. “Huh.”   “A sandy blond, but yes.”   “I’m guessing you do a lot of reading,” the prince says.   “A reasonable amount, Your Highness.”   “Where does it say angels weren’t all ‘doves’?”   “Are you looking for reading recommendations?” Caspian asks in turn.   The prince shows his teeth again, this time laughing. That sound, at least, is the same as among Caspian’s people. His hand squeezes on Caspian’s shoulder, fingertips dipping deeper between shoulder and wing.   Caspian does not react.   Caspian cannot react.   “So how about you?” the prince asks. He lifts his hand and. Touches. He. His palm. Over the wrist. Down the alula. Gentle, light, but. Touching. And somehow, Caspian does not twitch, not even as the prince strokes admiringly and asks, “Who has black wings? Or would that be ‘raven’?”   All the people behind them finally find something else to watch instead, and Caspian could not be more grateful. They pretend to give them distance, at least, and that is the best he’s going to get.   “Please don’t touch them,” Caspian rasps. He clears his throat, contains abrupt panic.   “They’re warm,” the prince says wonderingly. His hand hovers now, not withdrawing. His hand is also warm.   “A side effect of keeping them attached to my body.”   “Yeah, magic’ll do that,” the prince agrees. After a moment more, his hand returns to his side. “You’re going all out pretty early, gotta say.”   Caspian tilts his head, then has to readjust his mask. The band is a converted bootlace and doesn’t hold as well as Caspian would prefer. “How so?”   The prince gestures around them. “The first night is the opening bid for attention, yeah, good job there, but you have to leave room to escalate. Most people don’t bust out the magic until the third night, and that’s still on the early side.”   There’s sense in what he says. For the first time, Caspian considers his wings as a costume, rather than his costume as a disguise. As the prince seems to expect a response, Caspian answers, “I wasn’t going to leave my wings at home, Your Highness. I’ve put too much effort into them.”   The prince leans back and looks him over with admiration too strong for a species gap to mask. “I’m not criticizing. I’d be proud of those beauties too.”   Caspian has never been prone to vanity, but he feels himself flush all the same. He wills his feathers not to fluff and swallows hard. “Thank you.”   “Just a little confused, you know?” Caspian tilts his head again – this gesture seems to translate – and the prince adds, “You’re dressed to impress, but staying out on the edges. Shyest peacock I’ve ever seen.”   “I’m not here to socialize,” Caspian readily admits. “I came here to see.”   “What do you think? Tapestry aside.” Body still angled toward the object in question, the prince looks at him slantwise.   Caspian meets his gaze squarely. “I think I’d like to see more.”   Yet another kind of look, slow and sideways. “Not here to socialize, huh.”   Uncertain how to respond, Caspian doesn’t.   The prince looks down Caspian’s body, from the wrists of his hunched wings, down Caspian’s borrowed clothes, to his polished boots. He gestures to Caspian’s belt, the gleaming length of dark leather also borrowed from one of Caspian’s siblings. No, he gestures to the belt pouch, secured to Caspian’s hip and thigh.   “Your invitation in there?”   Caspian withdraws it and hands it over.   The prince reads it and laughs. “Chuck sent his plus-one over and stayed home?”   “I’m here in his place,” Caspian replies. “Seer Shurley was kind enough to afford me the opportunity.” In truth, the man had himself sought out one of their informants, handed over the invitation, and told them it would be the key to stopping the banished demons from flooding the world once more. Then he had scurried back to his apartments and his bottles.   “Well,” the prince says, handing the invitation back. “I’m glad he did. How is ol’ Chuck?”   “Drunk,” Caspian replies, because his reports are nothing if not accurate.   The prince laughs again, a pleasing and reassuringly angelic sound. This smile – is it a smile? – must indicate amusement, likely sincere. “That’s how Sam describes him too. He taught Sam a lot about controlling the visions, but I can’t say he teaches by example.”   Sam. The other prince is Prince Samuel, then, the Mage Prince and heir to the throne. Making this Prince Dan, Knight Prince, his brother’s protector. The silver-tipped horns suit the station after all.   “So you two teach at Carver University, is that it?” Prince Dan asks. He leans forward, horns lowering. “Or is your relationship more personal?”   “We’re collaborating on a project,” Caspian replies. The truth is always easier to remember and more convincing to tell, especially for a liar of his non-caliber. “His information has been crucial in my research, but I wouldn’t presume to call us intimate friends at this juncture.” Particularly as they have never met in person.   “He sees that far into the past these days?”   “His range is impressive,” Caspian replies, an answer vague enough not to be a lie. “Although many of his visions are so extremely specific as to render them almost useless.”   Prince Dan nods. “A lot of people don’t get that. I spend a lot of time explaining to people why Sam doesn’t send us out ahead of time to put out every single fire in the kingdom.”   “Scrying is a powerful but unwieldy gift. That His Royal Highness can focus on events in the immediate future is a great credit to him.”   “Yeah, he’s always been like that,” Prince Dan responds. Based on the prince’s tone, Caspian memorizes that expression as proud. “Even before he went off to mage school. Any chance you were there at the same time?”   None. He’s never visited. “Outside of my research, I keep largely to myself. I haven’t crossed paths with the majority of students still there.”   “Too busy being an angel expert,” Prince Dan says. “Did you seriously come to a masquerade to study?”   Caspian nods. “An invitation to Castle Winter is a rare thing, and few structures have survived the demon wars so well. Fewer still of those were built in response to those wars.”   This expression is some sort of amused. Or curious, possibly amused and curious both. “And you wanted an excuse to wear those wings, didn’t you.”   “Very much,” Caspian agrees. The masquerade is their only window of opportunity, perhaps for a long time. If recognized as a real angel, he has no doubt the humans will refuse him aid. His people had slaughtered too many humans in order to destroy the demons contained within them. No, angels will not be welcome back into this world.   Showing his teeth, Prince Dan leans in close. He stands at the proper distance for a comrade-in-arms, close enough to touch with ease. Standing relaxed, their wings would brush. “You never did answer my question.”   He’s avoided answering multiple questions. Most of them, arguably. “My apologies. What question was that?”   “Who has black wings?” He indicates Caspian’s, which is a mistake, though a reasonable one.   “I’m a cinderwing,” Caspian replies. “The undersides are gray.”   Prince Dan’s eyes flit to Caspian’s wings, looking at each folded wrist where it rises over his shoulders. He stops showing his teeth quite so much, though his lips remain pulled in the same direction. “You made undersides no one is ever going to see.”   “I pride myself on my thoroughness, Your Highness.”   “I can tell,” Prince Dan replies. “Most people would be calling me ‘Sir’ by this point instead. Or ‘Sir Dan,’ if they were feeling friendly. But you’re still not answering my question. Which angel had wings like these?”   Caspian makes a decision. “Seraph Caspian, the warrior who captured Archdemon Alistair and served under the banner of Archangel Michael.”   “An interesting choice,” Prince Dan says. He tilts his head forward, green eyes shadowed by his mask. With the false horns of the mask, the motion reads as combative, but that is an unnatural extension Caspian wills himself to ignore. Surely the play of the prince’s mouth is a more salient detail. “Why pick him?” Prince Dan asks.   “Because my name is Caspian, Your Highness,” he answers.   “Sir Dan,” the Knight Prince corrects.   “Sir Dan,” Caspian repeats, and Prince Dan shows his teeth again.   “And what are your thoughts on dancing, Caspian Cinderwings?” Prince Dan asks.   “Effectively nonexistent,” Caspian answers.   Prince Dan laughs before seeming to realize Caspian is serious. “You really came here to study architecture?”   “Among other things, yes.”   Prince Dan shakes his head and remarks, “Maybe Sam should have come out here instead.”   “As I understand it, that would be a needless distraction. The goal of this event is for His Royal Highness your brother to find his spouse, and I cannot further that goal.”   The shape of the prince’s mouth remains the same, but the form of it hardens somewhat. “Would that be because you’re married?”   “No.”   “Engaged?”   “No.”   “Courting?”   “No.”   With each question and denial, Prince Dan seems to relax.