“Only when you lay down your burden, Salathiel,” the angel Sycorax replied. “It is not worthy of you. It is not worthy of the Host.”
“The worlds have been severed,” another of the Nephilim said, “through no fault of ours. The connection is broken, and none living know how to repair it. We should save what we can, and leave the rest to the mercy of the Word.”
“There is a way,” a slight voice said. “There is a way to save this world, without abandoning it.”
It was one of the stars who had spoken—a slender, nervous being with golden hair that flowed upward like living flame and matched his glowing eyes.
Before he could speak again, another star, larger, older, stepped in front of him. “That is not going to happen, Sol. I will never permit it.”
The star Sol stood defiantly in the face of his elder. “We must,” he said, voice trembling with emotion. “We must ascend, Rao. It is the only way to save this world. Both worlds.”
“I will not,” Rao answered. “The planet of my own system is flawed, and I would not ascend to save that, so why would I possibly agree to save this little world by doing so? In any event,” he continued, “it is not necessary. I have made a pact with the Little Things—”
“You mean the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve, don’t you, Rao?” Sycorax asked.
The star frowned, but continued speaking. “I have made a pact that will ensure prosperity for this world, if the empress will support the Watchers’ proposal.”
To confirm this was so, he raised a hand to the Jade Empress, who nodded once. Again, the room was filled with murmurings and whisperings among the assembly.
“So,” Rao said, “as the eldest star, I formally endorse the Watchers’ proposal, as do the majority of the principalities. I would like to call for a vote of sustainment.”
“Pardon me,” a voice, quiet but firm, rang out into the great hall, “but I think this is a mistake.”
Every angel’s voice could be heard with equal clarity at the summit, so any angel who spoke could be heard. The shock and surprise that the words evoked was not because they were spoken, but because of who spoke them.
“It is a mistake,” Samaranth said, “and not according to the plan. It should be reconsidered.”
Chapter TWELVE
The Tears of Heaven
It took Kipling only a few minutes more to loosen up the ropes that bound both his arms, and fortunately for him, Hermes Trismegistus was too sufficiently wrapped up in his work to pay any attention to John Dee’s captive. In a few moments more, he had loosed the ropes around his feet as well and swung around, leaping to his feet and hefting the chair to use as a bludgeon in one fluid motion.
Hermes simply continued to work, completely ignoring him.
After a moment, Kipling lowered the chair, realizing that his odd companion really did care as little as he seemed to.
“If you’ve finished freeing yourself,” Hermes said without looking up, “would you mind setting the chair out of the way so I don’t trip over it? There’s a good fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Kipling rolled his eyes and headed for the door. “You’re lucky no one was witness to this, Kipling,” he muttered to himself, “or they might take away your spy card.”
“Kipling?” Hermes exclaimed, dropping a tablet, which hit the floor with a loud clatter. “Did you say your name was Kipling?”
“Yes,” the Caretaker replied, hesitant to confirm much of anything. “Why?”
The Watcher Salathiel lifted a huge, curved golden trumpet . . .
“This,” Hermes said, actually focusing on Kipling in full for the first time, “is for you.” He stood and handed the Caretaker a small, cream-colored envelope. It bore his name, and nothing else.
“Oh, my hell,” Kipling said. He started at the envelope for a moment, then tore it open and read the note inside. He glanced up at Hermes, who was still showing a marked interest, especially compared to his earlier detachment.
“A god who wore the armor of a star gave that to me,” Hermes said, wringing his hands with curiosity, “and warned me to save it for Kipling, that you would come for it someday. What does it say?”
“It says that it’s the end of the world,” Kipling answered, “which happens more often than you’d believe.”
Before Hermes could ask anything further, Kipling spun on his heel and rushed out the door. He didn’t look back.
♦ ♦ ♦
No rings had been dispatched to cover the Cherubim, because no one had expected any of them to speak, so Samaranth spoke in the twilight glow that emanated from the walls.