Damien nodded as he drained his coffee cup. “Almost. I’ve managed to be granted audience with Konrad—whom my brother-in-law works for—and Kibwe. But both are already traditionalists in favor of restoring the Irina council. I need to speak with Anurak and Rafael. They’re the swing votes. Currently, there are three elders who are openly in favor of compulsion.”
The whole concept irritated Malachi. “Do they actually think they can force the Irina into retreats again? They don’t have any control over them.”
“No, but they have control over their mates. Other than a few deserters, the Irina in hiding are mated to active scribes who owe their own allegiance to the council. For the past two hundred years, the council has asked no questions when a scribe has left his post for a time—even if it’s for years—”
“Somebody has to raise children if our race is going to survive. I can count on one hand the number of scribes I’ve known who’ve had children in the past two hundred years.”
“Exactly. They’ve ignored it when a scribe has left his post when his mate was with child. Asked no questions. But what will happen to those mates if compulsion becomes law? They can make an issue of scribes leaving their posts if they want to. If the Irina they’re mated to is not in a retreat.”
“It’s madness.”
“It’s control wearing the mantle of security. And some on the council are obsessed with it.”
Malachi walked in silence, entering the maze of the palace complex along with myriad other workers and suited men as they made their way into the tangled streets and the network of passageways that made up the Hofburg Palace.
Massive buildings of every design—Gothic, Baroque, and Classical—surrounded them as he and Damien moved among the working population of the palace. Over five thousand humans worked in the Hofburg complex, janitors and tour guides, clerks and government officials. It was the perfect hiding place for the Irin Library, and some version of the council had resided here for over five hundred years after having made a secret pact with the Hapsburgs. The empire had been lost, but the Irin had remained hidden with the help of their gold, influence, and magic.
Malachi knew that many of the suited men making their way into the government buildings wore talesm under their dress shirts. As a center of commerce, culture, and international intelligence, Vienna was the perfect seat of Irin power.
Damien knocked on an intricately carved wooden door hidden in the corner of a small courtyard. A buzzing sound followed and they pushed it open, only to be met by two scribes who were obviously part of the Library Guard. They wore suits and earpieces Rhys would be jealous of. They nodded to Damien with familiarity but still searched both their bags. Malachi turned in the pair of silver daggers he carried and received a receipt to retrieve them at the end of his business.
Damien was smiling when Malachi finally joined him.
“What?”
“You have caught the Guard’s attention. They don’t often see scribes carrying weapons here.”
The Library Guard was one of the most prestigious postings a warrior could have, but it was also one of the least dangerous.
Malachi grunted. “Then they are complacent.”
“Don’t underestimate them.”
The ground floor housed the cleansing rooms. Malachi breathed deeply of the steam and smoke when they stepped through the door. His heart swelled with longing. It had been too long since he’d been able to truly pray. While the political maneuvering was not how he would wish to spend his day, the ritual of the bath was welcome.
Stripping off his street clothes, he entered the chamber.
The bath’s marble walls were carved with centuries of protective spells. Words dark with age. He could hear low prayers chanted from the far room as scribes who had already cleansed their bodies cleared their minds of earthly cares.
Malachi walked into the pool and took a deep breath before he immersed himself. Warmth, light, and love. Held in the water’s embrace, he felt another door open in his mind.
“Like this?”
“Evet, oğul. Just like that, Malachi.”
Water sluiced over his small body as his father hummed a song his mother had taught him.
“You have taken your first marks. Every year, we will do this now. To give thanks.”
“Every year?”
“It is tradition. Tradition is important.”
Whispers drifted in the water, and there came a flash of light behind closed eyes.
Malachi floated.
Songs in the air.
A vivid sky cut with beams of gold light. Crystal waters and presence.
Holy and wholly.
His body feels no pain. His soul, no struggle. Body and soul are one. Complete joy. Complete peace.
Love surrounds him. Perfect love.
He cries with joy because he is home.
“Son.”
He is there. He is eternal.
This is what they long for.
Who would not long for this?
He is surrounded by love. Complete. Replete.
He needs nothing.
“She calls you,” a familiar voice whispers.
He hears.
Longing.
Need.
He chooses.
And like the angels before him, he falls.
Malachi rose with a gasp and lifted his eyes to see the carved marble and stone encasing him.
His body ached, his flesh a prison he’d never felt before.
In the space of a single breath, in the thin line between the present and eternity, Malachi remembered heaven.
He had danced in the presence of the angels. Welcomed as a beloved son.