White Heart of Justice (7 page)

“I won't work with Peter,” I said quickly. Best to get that on the table and deal with it now. It was a showstopper, as they say. I'd rather take my chances up in Rockthorn Gorge with the demon who was failing at building the dam before I'd work with Peter again.

“Who said anything about working with Peter?” Valda said.

Peter leapt out of his chair, livid, and obviously eager to respond. He turned toward Friedrich, who also looked surprised. Apparently Friedrich also thought the reparations deal included me working with Peter.

“Valda . . .” Friedrich said, his voice holding a warning tone. Under ordinary circumstances I might have enjoyed watching a power struggle between Valda Sinclair and Friedrich Vanderlin. (I wondered if Friedrich had any tricks up his sleeve like Valda's silencing spell.) But all this talk of Peter and the White Heart was beside the point. I'd come here tonight for two, albeit related, purposes: to determine how to make amends for destroying the Joshua School's statue of Justica and to secure Friedrich's acquiescence that I be allowed to have a Guardian for the Laurel Crown Race. And, come demons or death, that Guardian was going to be Raphael Sinclair, not Peter Aster.

Up on the altar, Peter had been given his voice back and he was loudly proclaiming his right to search for the White Heart. Peter was nothing if not consistent. He loved searching for ancient spells and artifacts more than
anything
else.

Behind me, the Angel audience started murmuring among themselves. I knew the Angels weren't finished with me, and that the night was far from over, but I wanted it to be. I already knew my decision.

“I'll do it,” I called out. Valda turned around to face me and, suddenly, all eyes were on me again. The room grew quiet.

“I'll search for the White Heart,” I continued in a lower voice. “I'll follow whatever clues Peter Aster thinks are important. But I get to choose my own Guardian.”

Valda and Friedrich exchanged a look. They then glanced at Karanos, who was staring at me. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, as usual. After a moment, during which Karanos could have frowned slightly, he gave an almost imperceptible nod. After that, Peter slumped in his chair, looking defeated.

“Done,” said Valda, smiling. “Tell her where she's headed, Peter,” she commanded.

“Tartarus,” he said in a dead voice.

I wanted to say something witty in return. Something like
only fools searched for something halfway between Hell and back
but I couldn't. Jokes like that became tougher with each assignment. If I accepted this one, and agreed to go after the White Heart as my target for the Laurel Crown Race, it might be the last assignment I ever accepted, the last contest I ever entered.

A trip to Tartarus would make last semester's trip to the Shallows look like a luxury cruise.

Chapter 6

T
artarus?” My voice echoed throughout Empyr. “I don't think so.”

“But you've already agreed,” Valda said. “You can't renege on your promise.”

“It's not reneging if the other side omits a material term from the offering. I said I'd search for the White Heart. But if it's located in Tartarus, even if I found it, I'd never make it back alive. So you wouldn't get the sword anyway.”

A thousand years ago, Tartarus had been Halja's southernmost outpost. In Metatron's time, Halja's southern Verge was populated with half a dozen or more outposts, all of them mining and blast furnace towns. Tartarus was located on the northern face of Halja's tallest southern mountain, Mount Iron. Its lord had been Orcus, Patron Demon of the Verge, a berserker who'd ruled his lands with a fist as hard as the metal he'd mined. At the height of its productivity, the Verge had been home to almost ten thousand Hyrkes. But that was before the permafrost crept north and the iron ore ran out. That was before the Old Justice Circuit was abolished and the people left and Orcus—thank Luck—died.

But the fact that the Verge's former patron was now dead didn't mean the trip to Tartarus would be any easier. The Verge was now infested with
rogares
. The land was much more inhospitable than the eastern Lethe (or even Rockthorn Gorge up north) could ever hope to be. And Tartarus itself had a reputation as an impenetrable fortress, an abysmal pit from which escape would be damn near impossible.

“The assignment
is
dangerous,” Valda said. “We're not going to argue about that. But I think you underestimate your own abilities. We didn't choose the White Heart as your ‘suitable reparations' on a whim. We've been watching you and we think you're the one who can do it.
You
can bring the White Heart back to New Babylon.”

Flattering as Valda's words were, I didn't believe them. No one had ever come back from Tartarus.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “What you're asking me to do goes well beyond ‘suitable reparations' for a destroyed statue, even an irreplaceable one.”

Valda's expression darkened.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but, upon further reflection and after having considered terms you failed to mention previously, I'm declining.”

The situation wasn't ideal. Even if the Demon Council assigned me a different target for my Laurel Crown Race, there was no guarantee it wouldn't be located somewhere just as perilous as Tartarus. And the likelihood that I could finish the race, let alone win it, without the aid of a Guardian was as likely as the snow demons from the Festival of Frivolity surviving until summer without the aid of great and powerful magic.

“Nouiomo,” my father said quietly, instantly causing my attention to shift to him. “You did destroy the statue.”

That's all he said. But it was enough. His words were a warning. I could tell Karanos thought I was making a mistake.

“And I regret that destruction,” I said. “But killing myself won't bring the statue back. And, as reparations go, suicide seems excessive for a sin involving destruction of property.”

After a long moment, Karanos simply sat back in his chair. I had no idea if he agreed with what I'd said or not.

“Before you reject our offer completely,” Friedrich said, “you should hear the rest of the ‘material terms' of our deal. I've spoken to the St. Lucifer's faculty and to the executive here. If you'd rather not search for the White Heart, then as punishment for your sin of destroying Metatron's Justica you will be stripped of your ranking and have no further right to a Guardian.
All
Angels will be forbidden to work with you.”

Suddenly, I felt like I'd been gut punched. Friedrich's alternative was almost as bad as his initial offer. No one in their right mind would want to go to Tartarus. But to know I would never again, no matter the circumstances, be able to work with another Angel . . . well, it was a lot to consider. I couldn't imagine
never
working with Rafe again. Or being strictly forbidden to work with Fara, Friedrich's daughter (who was one of my closest friends despite my prickly relationship with her father).

Friedrich sensed my indecision and made his final offer.

“On the other hand,” he said, “if you agree to pursue the White Heart as your Laurel Crown Race target, you'll finish your third semester at St. Lucifer's with your
Primoris
ranking still intact and you'll be allowed to choose your own Guardian for your fourth semester residency position,
even if you don't become the Laureate
.”

Ah, the Angels.
I should have known. I might have been one of the top-ranked students at St. Luck's, but I was still a student. My arguing and debating skills might have improved dramatically since I'd first enrolled here, but I was still a babe in the woods compared to the Angels. What hope had I ever had of convincing them to let me make reparations on my own terms? How naive I'd been to think that a fancy looking bustier, a pretty looking skirt, some diamonds, and a missing tooth would somehow bolster my negotiating power. I might just as well have come to them dressed in my leather battle gear or the canvas pants and tunics I wore to class for all the difference my dress had made. Tonight's outcome had been a foregone conclusion.
I
was the only one who hadn't realized it.

But instead of sighing or deflating, I kept my head held high (Glashia would have been proud) and asked, “Is there anything else you haven't told me?”

“The details,” Valda said, as if the many ways I might perish while in pursuit of a near-mythological sword in an inhospitable land were mere trifles. “So, do we have a deal?”

“And I can choose my own Guardian?” I asked Friedrich. After a moment, he nodded.

Valda smiled brightly at me, baring
all
of her teeth. “Then let's proceed with the oaths. You'll be taking the Bounty Hunter's Oath and your Guardian will be taking the Guardian's Oath.”

“The Bounty Hunter's Oath?”

“It's not that we don't trust you, Noon. But an oath will assure us of your loyalty. After all, we don't want you changing your mind halfway through the trip.”

“Halfway through the trip I'll be in Tartarus,” I grumbled. (Glashia would not have been proud of my mumbling, but if a miracle happened and I survived, I'd be all too happy to take extra elocution lessons from him upon my return.)

“So Nouiomo Onyx, who will accompany you to Tartarus as Guardian?” Valda asked.

I cleared my throat, wondering what Valda would think of my choosing her son as Guardian. She knew Rafe had accompanied me to the Shallows last semester, but did she know we were still friends? I suffered a brief pang of regret for getting Rafe into this, but then reminded myself that he didn't have to accept.

“Raphael Sinclair,” I said, my voice easily carrying throughout Empyr. There were some murmurs in the crowd and Peter groaned. Friedrich looked resigned and Valda looked . . . pleased. As if she'd planned this outcome all along. She walked over to one of the Angels in the front row and whispered to her. The Angel left and came back a few minutes later with Rafe in tow.

I almost laughed. He'd either not expected to be summoned to attend a formal oath ceremony or he was intentionally rebelling against it through his clothing choices. Then again, knowing Rafe, he could have been put on notice and simply decided dressing for the occasion was too much effort. His outfit—ripped cargo pants paired with a ratty, threadbare pullover—could not have contrasted more sharply with mine. I knew then that Rafe was still playing the part of academic slacker and all-around unenthusiastic Angel.

No matter. I didn't care what Rafe looked like. I only cared about whether he wanted to work with me. Formally. Temporarily. For a short jaunt to Hell and back.

The Angel who had escorted Rafe into Empyr's main dining room took her seat again and Rafe walked over to where I was standing. He didn't give the crowd or anyone else on stage—including Valda—a second glance. How could he when his gaze never left mine?

He stopped about a foot or so from where I stood and said:

“You sure do like dramatic clothing, Noon.”

I blinked.

And then he grinned. And I grinned back.

“Let me guess,” he said in a mock whisper. “You're getting a Guardian after all.”

I nodded.

“So who'd you choose?”

“Raphael Sinclair.” I paused then, suddenly nervous. “Do you think he wants the job?”

Rafe's grin turned into a simple smile. It was
much
more reassuring than Valda's smiles had been.

“Do you really have to ask?”

“Don't you want to know where we're going?”

He shrugged. “Not really, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Tartarus,” I said.

He barked out a laugh and then shook his head. “That's one of my favorite things about you, Noon. You don't do things by halves.”

Later that night, standing on the Angel's altar amid hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles, with me dressed in silver and satin and diamonds and Rafe dressed in clothes that were one step away from the rag pile, we took our vows. I solemnly, sincerely, and truthfully swore and affirmed that I would use best efforts to find, retrieve, and deliver the White Heart into the hands of its rightful owner and Rafe solemnly, sincerely, and truthfully swore and affirmed that he would do whatever was necessary to preserve and protect the life of his ward, Nouiomo Onyx, daughter of Karanos Onyx, the current executive of the Demon Council, and Aurelia Onyx nee Ferrum of the Hawthorn Tribe. I caused a slight stir when I added a codicil to Rafe's oath swearing and affirming to do the same for him.

Afterward, Rafe walked me back to my dorm room. I was more than capable of taking care of myself around campus, but I let him. Neither of us spoke about the race. I think we both sensed this would be our last night (possibly ever) to act like regular students. What had I said to myself not twelve hours ago?
At least the bailiff and bounty hunter cases were less grisly than the execution and murder cases had been.
Well, we'd see about that.

Vicious must have knocked more than my tooth out. Obviously, he'd knocked my sense out as well.