“Repeat her mother’s mistake?” Gavriel interrupted. “Let us hope she has more sense.” He studied the symbol carved into the rock, his face growing contemplative. “Do you understand how the empire works, Northwind?”
“Yes,” Alluin replied hoarsely.
“Explain it to me.”
He swallowed with a dry throat. “The circle is Sion. It stands for unity among the children of the Divine Trinity. Valoriel created the angels. Minerva, the witches. Travian made the mortals. We are all cousins.” His shackles clinked softly as he gestured. “It is represented by the triangle. Three together.”
“And?” Gavriel stared at him with a touch of impatience.
“I . . . ” He trailed off, uncertain what his inquisitor wanted.
“We are the base of the triangle,” Gavriel said sternly. “The foundation. All rests upon our virtue and wisdom. If we falter, if we question the will of our father, then the ley, the lifeblood of this world, of magic, will be corrupted. Our cousins will sink into anarchy. Perhaps even into evil. Do you not grasp this?”
“I do, my lord,” Alluin replied. “But I love this witch with all my soul. With every breath and thought and deed. Have you never loved someone thus?”
Angels were not expected to be celibate. They married each other or took human lovers. The first was encouraged, the second tolerated. Only witches were forbidden because of what the union might birth—the draconic race called Sinn. Fierce predators that had killed thousands before they were driven into the far reaches of the empire.
Gavriel’s dark brows knit together. “What does that have to do with your crime?”
“I only ask that you consider the circumstances,” Alluin said. “I would die for her. Perhaps that means nothing to the law, but you are a man. You must have passions and desires.”
The Morningstar’s face turned even grimmer. Alluin knew he had crossed a line, but there was little to lose now.
“Why are we sent into the world if we are forbidden to love whom we choose? We are all children of the Trinity. So my child is a cypher. She will grow up to serve the empire, as we do. She will become a shield and use her power for good. Where is the harm?”
Gavriel regarded him for a long moment. “Your arguments are irrelevant to this inquiry.” He could not keep the scorn from his voice. “You knew what would come of the liaison. You knew the inevitable consequence. Yet you pursued it regardless, and for many years. If your daughter ever lies with an angel, her child is certain to wreak death and destruction unless it is killed at birth. Even if she does not, you have condemned her to the life of a cypher, to be feared and ostracized. Your selfishness knows no bounds.”
Alluin’s hopes withered.
“By the authority of Valoriel, the Summerlord,” Gavriel said with the formal cadence of judgment, “I sentence you to two hundred years on the Plain of Contemplation.”
Alluin had some idea that even if he never spoke to them again, he could watch from afar. Could reassure himself that they were well. But in two centuries, both Hysto and his daughter would be long dead, their bones ground to dust, their fates unknown.
“Why don’t you save the trouble and kill me now?” he said bitterly.
Sarcasm seemed lost on the archangel. “Execution is not the proscribed punishment for witch-angel unions,” Gavriel replied evenly. “The penalty is to be cast down for a term commensurate with the severity of the trespass. As it stands, you will have adequate time to consider your actions.”
“You could show mercy, my lord,” Alluin pleaded, rebellion draining away. “You are regent. You have the authority.”
Gavriel frowned. “How is mercy merited here? You are a shepherd turned wolf, and for that you deserve no lenience.”
“Wolf?” Alluin protested. “I am no wolf. She loves me!”
“You are deluded.” Gavriel sounded weary of the entire proceeding. “If our father were standing in judgment, the sentence would be even longer. Count yourself fortunate he is away.”
One of the seraphim officers handed Gavriel an oblong box of twisted wood. The archangel opened it and withdrew a black cylinder. He winced as it touched his skin, as if the contact caused him pain. Alluin felt a twist of dread. Even his guards looked uneasy, yet at Gavriel’s nod, they dragged Alluin to the wall at the far edge of the platform. Lord Morningstar followed, gripping the black rod in his left hand.
“What is that?” Alluin asked hoarsely.
“The Rod of Penance,” Gavriel replied. “It opens the way.”
As if responding to its name, the thing flickered with ley power. But it held no life; this ley was a dull hue Alluin had never seen before. Lines of black light traced the great doors as they slowly swung wide to reveal a sheer drop. The clouds banked below the peak began to churn, lightning forking in their depths. A wave of terror crashed over him. This was no mere banishment—this was something else entirely. He struggled against the chains binding his wings.
“Alluin Westwind,” Gavriel intoned, “I hereby judge you guilty of disobedience and treason, and banish you to . . .”
The rest was a buzz in Alluin’s ears. An image of his daughter’s face flashed before his eyes. Her fair hair belonged to him, but she had her mother’s full lips and delicate brows. Cathrynne would be a great beauty someday—and a powerful witch, like all of her maternal line.
Was she weeping now? Alone and frightened after being torn from her family? He would give anything to hold her in his arms again. To smooth away her tears with kisses. To tell her how sorry he was.
