Heirs of Empire

Stomald’s heart leapt as she bestowed her name upon him, for it was a new name, unlike any he’d ever heard.

“As you command,” he murmured with a bow, and she frowned.

“I’m not here to command you, Stomald.” He flinched, afraid he’d angered her, and she shook her head as she saw his fear.

“Things have gone awry,” she told him. “It was no part of our purpose to embroil your people in holy war against the Church. It was ill-done of us to endanger your land and lives.”

Stomald bit down on a need to reject her self-accusation. She was God’s envoy; she could not do ill. Yet, he reminded himself, angels were but God’s servants, not gods themselves, and so, perhaps, they could err. The novel thought was disturbing, but her tone told him it was true.

“We did more ill than you,” he said humbly. “We wounded your fellow angel and laid impious, violent hands upon her. That God should send you to us once more to save us from His own Church when we have done such wrong is a greater mercy than any mortals can deserve, O Sandy.”

Sandy grimaced. She’d intended to leave angels entirely out of this if she could, but Pardalians, like Terrans, had more than one word for “angel.” Sha’hia, the most common, was derived from the Imperial Universal for “messenger,” just as the English word descended from the Greek for the same thing. Unfortunately, there was another, derived from the word for “visitor”—from, in fact, erathiu, the very word she’d just let herself use—and her slip hadn’t escaped Stomald. He had been using sha’hia; now he was using erathu, and if she corrected him, he would only assume he’d mispronounced it. Explaining what she meant by “visitor” would get into areas so far beyond his worldview that any attempt to discuss them was guaranteed to produce a crisis of conscience, and she bit her lip, then shrugged. Harry was right about the care they had to take, but Harry was just going to have to accept the best she could do.

“You did only what you thought was required,” she said carefully, “and neither I nor Harry herself hold it against you.”

“Then … then she lived?” Stomald’s face blossomed in relief, and Sandy reminded herself that Pardalian angels could be killed.

“She did. Yet what brings me here is the danger in which your people stand, Stomald. We have our own purpose to achieve, but in seeking to achieve it we put you in peril of your lives. If we could, we would undo what we’ve done, yet that lies beyond our power.”

Stomald nodded. Holy Writ said angels were powerful beings, but Man had free will. His actions could set even an angel’s purpose at naught, and he flushed in shame as he realized his flock had done just that. Yet the Angel Sandy wasn’t enraged; she’d saved them, and the genuine concern in her soft voice filled his heart with gratitude.

“Because we can’t undo it,” Sandy continued, “we must begin from what has happened. It may be we can combine our purpose with our responsibility to save your people from the consequences of our own errors, yet there are limits to what we may do. Last night, we had no choice but to intervene as we did, but we can’t do so again. Our purpose forbids it.”

Stomald swallowed. With Mother Church against them, how could they hope to survive without such aid? She saw his fear and smiled gently.

“I didn’t say we can’t intervene at all, Stomald—only that there are limits on how we may do so. We will aid you, but you must know that the I

“Because of that, fresh armies will soon move against you, and I tell you that our purpose is not to see you die. We seek no martyrs. Death comes to all men, but we believe the purpose of Man is to help his fellows, not to kill them in God’s name. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” Stomald whispered. That was all he’d ever asked to do, and to be told by an angel that it was God’s will—!

“Good,” the angel murmured, then straightened in her chair, and her mouth turned firmer, her eyes darker. “Yet when others attack you, you have every right to fight back, and in this we will help you, if you wish. The choice is yours. We won’t force you to accept our aid or our advice.”

“Please.” Stomald’s hands half-rose, and he fought an urge to throw himself back to his knees. “Please, aid my people, I beg you.”

“There is no need to beg.” The angel regarded him sternly. “What we can do, we will do, but as friends and allies, not dictators.”

“I—” Stomald swallowed again. “Forgive me, O Sandy. I am only a simple under-priest, unused to any of the things happening to me.” His lips quirked despite his tension, for it was hard not to smile when her eyes were so understanding. “I doubt even High Priest Vroxhan would know what to say or do when confronted by an angel in his tent!” he heard himself say, and quailed, but the angel only smiled. She had dimples, he noted, and his spirits rose before her humor.

“No, I doubt he would,” she agreed, a gurgle of laughter hovering in her soft voice, and then she shook herself.

“Very well, Stomald. Simply understand that we neither desire nor need your worship. Ask what you will of us, as you might ask any other man. If we can do it, we will; if we can’t, we’ll tell you so, and we won’t hold your asking against you. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” he agreed with greater confidence. It was hard to be frightened of one who so obviously meant him and his people well.

“Then let me tell you what we can do, since I’ve told you what we ca

“We do.” Stomald straightened. “We did no wrong, yet Mother Church came against us in Holy War. If such is her decision, we will defend ourselves against her as we must.”

“Even knowing both you and the I

“I am,” he said even more firmly. “A shepherd may die for his flock, but his duty is to preserve that flock, not slay it. Mother Church herself teaches that. If the I

“I think you are as wise as you are courageous, Stomald of Cragsend,” she said, “and since you will protect your people, I bring you those to help you fight.” She raised her hand, and Stomald gasped as the air shimmered once more and two more strangers appeared out of it.

One was scarcely taller than Stomald himself, square-shouldered and muscular in his night-black armor. His hair and eyes were as brown as the angel’s, though his skin was much darker, and his hair was even shorter. A high-combed helmet rode in his bent elbow, and a long, slender sword hung at his side. He looked tough and competent, yet he might have been any mortal man.

But the other! This was a giant, towering above Stomald and his own companion. He wore matching armor and carried the same slender sword, but his eyes were black as midnight and his hair was darker still. He was far from handsome—indeed, his prominent nose and ears were almost ugly—but he met the priest’s eyes with neither arrogance nor i

“Stomald, these are my champions,” the angel said quietly. “This—” she touched the shorter man’s shoulder “—is Tamman Tammanson, and this—” she touched the towering giant, and her eyes seemed to soften for a moment “—is Sean Colinson. Will you have them as war captains?”