Chain of Iron

Lilith curled her lip. “So what has prevented you from seizing your grandson and forcing him to your will? Cortana. You fear Cortana like you fear nothing and no one else. It bears within it a feather of the archangel Michael, who cast you down into the Pit. And the bearer of Cortana is the bride of your grandson. This world is rich in irony indeed.”

Belial spat. “Scorn me as you will, Lilith; you cannot touch me. You swore the oath, and Hell’s Oath binds you. You cannot harm a Prince of Hell.”

James and Cordelia exchanged quizzical looks. Cordelia could not help but recall what Lilith herself, disguised as Magnus, had said at the Shadow Market: that Princes of Hell were engaged in battles with angels themselves, crossing and crisscrossing the chessboard of the universe, obeying and breaking rules no mortal could hope to understand.

“Indeed, I cannot harm you,” said Lilith. “But my paladin can.”

“Paladin,” Belial breathed. He turned to look at Cordelia, his expression half fury, half amusement. “That explains it. You are Nephilim, not an archangel. I should have been able to defeat you.”

“Me?” Cordelia said. “No—I am not her paladin—”

“Foolish child,” said Lilith. “You are mine. And while Belial, in his new form, might have been able to defeat a bearer of Cortana, he cannot defeat one who is my paladin.”

“That is a lie. I swore fealty to Wayland the Smith—”

“You swore fealty to me,” said Lilith. Shadow passed across her, and she changed: a tall man, burly, with close-cropped hair, now stood on the frozen grass where Lilith had been. He wore a bronze torque, and blue fire burned in its center.

Cordelia’s mind raced. A bronze torque with a blue jewel. A blue necklace. Sapphire earrings. A ring with a blue stone. The same jewels. The same—

Wayland smiled. “Do you not remember the oath you swore me?” Though Cordelia knew it was Lilith, had always been Lilith, the sound of his voice still moved her. “‘Whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I do it in your name.’ It was as if you cried out to me, my paladin of the golden blade and the shining scabbard. All that power, bound to my name.”

“No,” Cordelia whispered. It couldn’t be true; she wouldn’t allow it to be true. She couldn’t look at James, even as the shadow passed again and Lilith was herself once more, the blue stones burning softly at her throat. She turned her serpent gaze on Cordelia.

“I am the Queen of Demons,” she said. “In the shape of a Nephilim woman, I touched the hilt of your sword, causing it to burn you from that moment on. As a faerie, I came to you at the Hell Ruelle to tell you of the smith who might mend it. As Wayland himself, I took your oath as my own, made you my paladin, and removed my curse from your blade. As Magnus Bane, I brought you close to Edom. As myself, I sent the Hauras and Naga demons to entice you into battle, to show you what a paladin could do. I choreographed each decision you made, each step you took.” There was pity in her voice. “Do not blame yourself. You are but mortals. You could never have known.”

But Cordelia was beyond hearing her. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, every pulse seeming to snap an accusation: stupid, foolish, reckless, arrogant. How could she have believed she would have been chosen as Wayland the Smith’s paladin? That he would have offered such a gift so quickly, with so little consideration, simply because he liked the look of her? She had wanted to be a hero so badly it had blinded her, and now she was here, crushed and shamed, gazing into the dark.

Lilith said, “I cannot harm you directly, Belial, it is true. I am not an oath breaker. But as a woman I am well accustomed to using methods other than brute force. With a paladin and Cortana at my disposal, the oath cannot stop me. When I learned that you’d recruited your stupidest brother to invade this world, I knew you must be desperate, and that your confrontation with my paladin would happen soon. And here we are.”

She spread her hands out, smiling a sideways catlike smile.

“What do you want, Lilith?” Belial demanded.

“Edom,” said Lilith. “Return my realm to me and I will remove my protection and power from Cordelia. You can slay her and end this business as you see fit. I wish only my kingdom back.”

“You would try to force me?” Belial demanded. His eyes were green fire. “You would try to make demands of me, you who never learned obedience? Who were cast out because of it?”

“I may have been cast out,” said Lilith. “But I did not fall.”

“You will never best me.” Belial raised his blade, and for a moment, he seemed to be Jesse—a young Nephilim warrior with a shining sword, gleaming in the sunlight. “Send your paladin against me. I shall give her back to you in pieces, and your realm in ruins!”

Cordelia felt James catch at her wrist; she thought he was trying to pull her away, perhaps to safety. She barely knew. There was no safety for her, would be none as long as she was the paladin of Lilith. There was only rage and emptiness.

“Cordelia,” Lilith said, her voice a low flame. “Take up your sword. Kill Belial.”

“No.” Cordelia forced herself to break away from James. She ought to look at him, she thought, try to show him she realized he was trying to help, that she appreciated it even as she knew it was hopeless. But her body had already begun to move on its own; it was as if puppet strings were bound to her arms and legs, jerking them into motion. She watched her own hand lift Cortana into the ready position, unable to stop herself, even as she bit her lip savagely until she tasted blood.

The vow that she had made to Wayland the Smith came back to her, repeating itself tauntingly in her mind.

I swear my courage. I swear neither to falter nor to fail in battle. Whenever I draw my sword, whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I shall do it in your name.

Something silver flashed past Cordelia; James had hurled a throwing knife, with his usual unerring accuracy; it shot toward Lilith, who raised a slim white hand and caught the knife by the blade.

James swore. Cordelia could not look to see Lilith’s reaction: she was walking toward Belial, who stood smirking, his blade gripped in his hand. It was as if she were in a dream; she could not stop herself. She raised Cortana and, for the first time in her life, took no pleasure in the golden arc of the blade as it passed across the sun.

“Kill him,” Lilith hissed.

Cordelia flung herself at Belial.

Blade slammed against blade, metal grinding; Cordelia felt the same burning in her bones, the clang and crash in her heart that echoed the sounds of battle. But there was no joy in it now, not even that she could swing faster, leap higher, duck and parry and blow with the silent speed of a dream. Not even the dark joy of battling a Prince of Hell.

She raised her eyes and met the icy depths of Belial’s gaze. Was this how it was to be an angel who fell? Cordelia thought. To have once served what was good, and radiantly beautiful, and to find instead that every gesture was turned toward the service of evil and the Pit? Was there a screaming hollow place in Belial’s soul, the way there was now in hers?

Belial hissed, as if sensing her thoughts; the Blackthorn sword swept in from the right, slicing across her shoulder as she turned to duck it; she heard Lilith scream in rage, and suddenly she was spinning back, heedless of the danger, her sword whirling in her grasp—