Omen of Light Read online

  “Ah,” Michael said, calmly. “Well, I doubt anything will come of that.”

  “Oh?” Gavriel asked suspiciously.

  Michael absently twirled a finger around one of the leather straps tied to the hilt of his sword. “When Joseph went to the census booth in Bethlehem, he noticed the records of anyone claiming lineage to Davead, through his son Sholomon, were put in a separate pile, so at the last minute he claimed Miryam’s lineage as his own.”

  Gavriel stared agape. “He did what?”

  “He claimed Miryam’s father, Heli, as his father, thereby tracing his genealogy back to David’s son Nathan, instead of the royal line.”

  Gavriel leaned forward, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Do you understand the consequences of this?”

  Michael rolled his eyes; he was used to Gavriel’s fretting over trivial matters. “Ay, it means the Captain is safe to grow up without being murdered, and can one day fulfill the prophecy and break the curse of death.”

  “It means that people will be arguing for centuries, if not millennia, over the contradiction of his genealogy,” Gavriel snapped. “The Eagles hold the official records. Anyone who copies them will have the wrong lineage. This could have dire ramifications.”

  Michael shrugged.

  Gavriel’s expression darkened. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Michael held up his hands innocently. “Me?”

  3

  Thousands of leagues from Shailem, atop one of the numinous vine bridges that crisscrossed the Oriental city of Ataperistan, Mithras, the Shaityrim warlord of Persia, inhaled a deep breath of the Mauveth-rich air wafting from the temple below. Below, two priests of Ahura Mazda attended the sacrifice, a lamb slain to their spirit-lord’s most beloved creation, an ethereal being who—not coincidently—shared the Persian warlord’s name.

  From the astrological observatory atop the roof of the temple, a priest Mithras knew as Caspar waved frantically to his two comrades beside the altar. “Balthazar! Melchior! Come quick!”

  Glancing up at the sky, Mithras scowled at the ominous lights that foretold the sealing of Shaityrim fate.

  “That is not a conjunction you see every day,” Caspar said when the two priests joined him.

  “No, indeed,” the one named Melchior said as he stared into the western sky through one of the instruments.

  “We must investigate this further,” Caspar said.

  With clenched fists, Mithras followed the three mages to the royal library. For centuries, the Shaityrim warlord had struggled to keep his mortals from equating Ahura Mazda with King Elyon, ever since the priest, Zoroaster, declared that as creator of Mortal-earth, Ahura Mazda was SpiritMaster, making him alone worthy of homage. As Zoroaster’s message spread, more and more Goyim forsook veneration to the Sheolite spirit-lords of Persia. To make matters worse, Elyon himself called Cyrus, the great mortal-king of Persia, his own anointed servant. As if this were not enough to provoke the dark lord’s ire, a subsequent Persian king, devoutly loyal to Ahura Mazda as SpiritMaster, personally financed the rebuilding of King Elyon’s temple in Shailem, and even requested sacrifices be made on behalf of him and his family.

  Needless to say, this had put Mithras and his lieutenant, Dyeus—the overlord of the Orient—in the dark lord’s ill grace. Thus, Mithras had spent centuries corrupting the Zoroastrian rite. And with the aid of Heka, the Shaityr guardian of sorcerers from Ǽgyptus, Mithras was no longer known as a puny spirit-lord of oaths and contracts, but as the favored creation of Ahura Mazda, beloved by his mortals as the guardian of cattle, and in more recent developments, the Judge of Time.

  But now, due to Elyon’s cursed sign in the night sky, these three priests threatened to undo all Mithras had accomplished. He had no desire to report to Dyeus that Ahura Mazda was once more in danger of being associated with Elyon.

  “Here it is,” shouted Caspar, pulling a dusty scroll from the shelves. He laid it reverently on a table and unrolled it. “The prophecy of Balaam, sorcerer of Babylon: ‘In the distant future, a star shall rise from the House of Jacov; a scepter from amongst the sacred people.’”

  “The House of Jacov,” Melchior muttered. “The star foretells a king of Amanah?”

  “Indeed,” Caspar said. “And by my calculations that is precisely where the star has risen from.”

  “There was a Jacovite seer named Daniel who served as a mage in Babylon,” Balthazar said as he moved down the rows of shelves reading the labels affixed to the scrolls. “He had a great many visions. I read his book when I was just an acolyte.”

  “No! Not Daniel,” Mithras hissed, his anxiety rising. “Curse Elyon and his blasted seers.”

  But despite Mithras’ best attempts to subliminally encourage the priests to forsake further research, and indulge in supper or seek respite, the mortals continued scouring the library for any scrolls related to astrological signs.

  “Here it is,” Balthazar said.

  The three hunched over the scroll and read several passages while Mithras paced.

  “Behold, one who looked like a mortal, coming on the clouds of Shamayim, stood before the Ancient of Days, who gave him eternal dominion over all peoples.”

  “What does it mean?” Caspar asked.

  Balthazar shrugged. “We must ask a Jacovite convocate magister.”

  “No!” Mithras said, heart pounding. “That is precisely what you must not do. Leave it be!”

  But the priests were impervious to his voice. Cursing, Mithras scribbled a message to the lieutenant, Dyeus. Hopefully the overlord of the Orient would have better fortune halting the priests’ truth-seeking.

  † † †

  Across the city, in the conference room of the outpost that hovered over one of the Jacovite communities in Persia, Lieutenant Sariel of the Malakim looked up from writing a report to Gavriel, and stared at the breathless imperiel who stood before him.

  “Three Sheolite priests have just sought council with a Jacovite magister,” the imperiel said. “Something to do with the Captain’s star.”

  “It’s not a star,” Sariel said wearily. “It’s a…oh, never mind.” Ever since he’d witnessed King Elyon create Time, Sariel had shared Gavriel’s love for all things pedantic, and the two often discussed how the underpinnings of the sub-natural world worked. But Sariel knew others did not find detailed elucidations as fascinating as they did. He and the acting commander had been discussing the implications of the Captain’s foretold astrological sign ever since it had appeared in the night sky, eagerly sending scrolls back and forth on its movements. “Did a Shaityr accompany them?”

  “Ay, Mithras himself,” the imperiel said. “And he doesn’t look pleased.”

  “I would think not,” Sariel said. “If the mortals of Persia equate the Jacovite Heir with the long-awaited Persian Restorer….”

  Sariel quickly strode across the city atop the vine bridges toward the convocate the imperiel said the priests were headed. Ever since the Persian takeover of Babylon, where the House of Jacov had resided in captivity, Jacovites and Persians had lived sided by side for generations. And the similarities between the Persian’s Zoroastrian rite and the Jacovite’s Moshaic rite went far beyond serving a lone SpiritMaster. The mortals of Persian also held the same understanding of Time: they knew that all Mortal-earth had once been perfect, and subsequently corrupted by evil, and that one day the SpiritMaster would defeat his enemies, for a Restorer would come, and return creation to its original state of perfection. They even understood that pardon was dependent on walking in light—as King Elyon had informed the House of Jacov through the oracles of the seer, Ezekiel.

  Reaching the Jacovite convocate, Sariel dropped from the vine bridge, and descended through the roof into the modest facility where those of Jacovite descent paid homage to King Elyon every Seventh Day. As it was during the week, a crowd of young Jacovite males were sitting at the feet of a Hasidim professor, reciting whole portions of the sacred text.

  In the foyer area, the Persian priests were engaged in discourse with the convocate magister, whose guard greeted Sariel with a salute. Mithras shuffled in the corner, and scowled when he saw the Malakim lieutenant.

  Caspar bowed in respect to the magister. “What can you tell us about the one Daniel says looks like a mortal?” he asked. “And what does it mean that he is ‘coming on the clouds’?”

  “Daniel speaks of the Heir,” the magister said. “And ‘coming on the clouds’ means one who comes with the authority to judge. In this instance, it means the judge.”

  “As in the Judge of Time?” Caspar asked. “As in the one who judges the dead?”

  The Jacovite nodded. “We have long awaited the Heir, for he will rid the world of evil and restore all things.”

  Caspar shook his head, confused. “But this Heir, is he not also the one spoken of by the sorcerer, Balaam?”

  The Jacovite nodded.

  “So the Restorer, er, Heir, he is king of Amanah?”

  Again the Jacovite nodded. “He shall rule from Amanah, but all Mortal-earth shall be his domain.”

  Casper’s perplexity increased. “But he also judges the dead?”

  Once more the Jacovite nodded.

  The three mages huddled together whispering excitedly. “How can this be? Mithras is the Judge of Time, and he is an ethereal being, the one most beloved of the SpiritMaster, whereas the Restorer is born of a holy maid.”

  Mithras cursed, but Sariel couldn’t hide a smirk. Despite Shaityrim corruption of the Zoroastrian rite, the Malakim stationed in Persia had not been without influence.

  Though the convocate magister had turned away from them, clucking to himself in evident disdain at their attempts to harmonize their sacred text with those inspired by the Shekinah, he suddenly jerked towards them once more. “You have a prophecy of one born of a maiden?”

  The three priests nodded in affirmation, and the magister rubbed his forehead in bewilderment. “One of our seers, Isaiah, spoke of such a one; his name means the SpiritMaster Amongst Us.”

  The priests stared dumbfounded, then thanked him profusely, bowed, and took their leave.

  Sariel followed them out, hoping to overhear their discussion. Mithras shuffled beside them, glancing nervously toward the eastern horizon. Sariel realized the Shaityr must have summoned the overlord, Dyeus.

  “What do you make of the old Jacovite’s words?” Balthazar asked his companions.

  “I know not,” Caspar said. “Nothing in our sacred text indicates that Mithras and the Restorer are the same being. Either we, or the Jacovites, have the SpiritMaster’s message wrong.”

  Mithras jumped at the chance to impede their progress. “They are not the same,” he hissed. “Mithras, guardian of cattle, of a thousand ears, and a thousand eyes, he is your spirit-lord!”

  Sariel was pleased to see the priests did not seem to hear him.

  “But the SpiritMaster revealed himself to Zoroaster,” Melchior said. “How can we have the wrong version?”

  “I concur,” Balthazar said. “Mithras is an ethereal being, the ambassador of Ahura Mazda, if you will. And as one of our sacred hymns states, ‘I created him,’ Ahura Mazda declares to Zoroaster, ‘to be as worthy of sacrifice and as worthy of supplication as myself’.”

  “Ay,” Mithras said, hope flooding his face. “The created Mithras, worthy of homage.”

  “But Zoroaster didn’t write that hymn,” Caspar said quietly. “It was written several centuries later.”

  The three priests reached the temple, just as Dyeus soared overhead on his Khimara.

  Sariel watched the priests enter the temple courtyard as the Shaityrim lieutenant reined in his winged mount beside them, unseen. “What is going on here?” he demanded, dismounting the lion-headed, serpent-tailed beast.

  “The priests noticed the sign,” Mithras said pointing towards the sky. “They just conferred with a Habiru convocate magister.”

  Dyeus studied the priests, evidently relieved at the sight of the grey smoke filling their souls. He shot Sariel a scowl of contempt. “Go back to your little outpost,” he said. “You cannot enter here without a defector.”

  Sariel moved to turn away, but the priests had not yet entered the temple. Melchior had paused in the courtyard, consternation etching his expression. “But how could an ethereal being, the very ambassador of the SpiritMaster himself, also be mortal, born of holy maid?”

  “The astrological sign is not above Persia,” Caspar said. “It’s above Amanah.”

  “So you are saying we have it wrong?” Melchior asked in disbelief.

  “Not wrong, as such,” Caspar said. “Just skewed. As though looking through a glass darkly. There is only one way to know for sure.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To travel to Amanah for ourselves.”

  Melchior and Balthazar gaped at him.

  “That is a long journey,” Melchior said. “Mountainous terrain, deserts, not to mention not knowing if we’ll even find the babe when we get there.”

  “The convocate magister said the Restorer’s name means the SpiritMaster Amongst Us,” Caspar said. “And the SpiritMaster states that homage can be paid to his ambassador. So, if the ambassador of the SpiritMaster and the Restorer are the same entity, and if, as the SpiritMaster’s beloved, his ambassador took on flesh to fulfill his role as the Restorer, and this astrological phenomenon shows that he has been born…then the one called ‘King of the Jacovites’ is worthy of homage. He is the one we’ve been waiting for.” Caspar took a deep breath and stared at the conjunction in the distant sky. “In my heart, I know this is true. And in my heart, I must go.”

  The grey smoke in Caspar’s soul turned white.

  Flashing the irate Dyeus a smile, Sariel took a deliberate step over the threshold of the temple courtyard. “And now I am here with a defector.”

  † † †

  Dyeus paced the conference room above the citadel hovering over the city. “The next time I run across that little freak, Heka, he will see the abyss,” the lieutenant raged. “I knew he didn’t corrupt the rite enough!”

  Mithras didn’t bother to retort. Thanks to Heka, sacrifices to Mithras brought in Mauveth—the ethereal anti-matter that fueled Shaityrim power. And Mithras was even known throughout the Rhòman Empire, albeit in a more legendary guise. For in the Rhòman version, he was the bull-slayer, venerated by those who were initiated into his secret rite. Thus, between his followers in Persia and the exclusive cult in Rhòme, Mithras brought in as much Mauveth as the warlords of Europa.

  In the dark lord’s eyes, Mithras had not failed. Blame would likely fall on Dyeus, as it usually did, and Mithras wanted to keep it that way. He also wished to ensure that any future corruption His Majesty demanded kept him in the center of the rite.

  “Perhaps Heka could further the distortion,” Mithras said. “As he did in the Rhòman version.”

  “Curse Heka!” Dyeus snapped, fear evident in his voice. “If these priests purify the Zoroastrian rite, the dark lord will not grant me the time to corrupt it once more!”

  All three mages were now defectors, for over the past several days, they had studied not only their own sacred texts, but every scroll they could find penned by Jacovite seers. And they had agreed to travel to Amanah.

  “I must go to Shailem and speak with Marduk,” Dyeus said, evidently trying to console himself with a plan. “While I am gone, ensure that those cursed priests take along Sheolite servants so you can accompany them.”

  4

  As acting commander, Gavriel found the citadel above Shailem remarkably serene in Michael’s absence. There was no incessant drumming of fingers on the conference room table, no endless stack of reports waiting to be signed, no unexplained diseases inflicted upon corrupt kings and priests…

  Gavriel hated to admit it, but he almost missed him.

  Almost.

  Nearly a year had passed since Michael had escorted the Heir into the temple for his dedication. In that time, Gavriel had heard little from the commander, save for a report indicating that Joseph had built a house in Beth Lehem, and the couple appeared to be feeling at home in the small village.

  A Malakim horn blare resounded over Shailem, and Gavriel recognized it as the signal that a high-ranking Shaityr had just entered the City of Peace. He stepped onto the terrace annexed to the conference room to see Dyeus rein in to the Shaityrim outpost above the Antonia Fortress.

  What need did the overlord of the Orient have of Marduk, the Shaityrim commander and second only to Shaitan himself?

  As if in answer to his question, a scroll bearing Sariel’s seal appeared beside him. He tore it open and read of the Persian mages’ coming. “Well, it’s about time someone noticed the phenomenon,” he muttered in amusement. “Not a single Jacovite seems to have paid it any heed.”

  Of course, the House of Jacov didn’t practice astrology like Sheolites, so that didn’t really surprise him. But he would have enjoyed seeing their excitement, and listening in on their scientific musings if they correlated it with Balaam’s prophecy, which their most beloved forefather, Moshes, had included in the sacred text.

  Fortunately, Shaitan had returned to Rhòme after realizing he had failed in his plan to use the census registration to inspire the mortal-king Hérod to annihilate the Jacovite royal line. As an Aravian, descended from the House of Eshau, Hérod was viewed by the House of Jacov as a usurper, for only one from the Jacovite line of Davead was viewed as the rightful king of Amanah. The discord between the sibling houses was longstanding, stemming back centuries to when Eshau sold his rights as the firstborn to his younger brother, Jacov.

  One wife and two sons had already fallen to the mad paranoiac. If Hérod were to discover the Heir had in fact been born….

  Raphael entered the conference room, and Gavriel waved the scroll at him. “Read this,” he said.

  The young lieutenant took the parchment, and as Gavriel expected, his eyes lit up with excitement. “Brilliant!”