than he.
The portcullis remained up, but War knew well that it could be dropped in the blink of an eye, if necessary.
“Horseman,” the angel greeted him with a cold courtesy.
“Commander.”
“What business has a Rider of the Charred Council in the White City?”
“I’m to deliver a message.”
Silence, then. Clearly, the answer didn’t strike the angel as a likely one, not with War, yet he had no formal standing that would allow him to question the Horseman’s word.
“To whom?” he finally asked.
“Not your concern.”
Again, a moment of silence. The angel seemed at a loss. Heaven and the Council were not at war. The Rider had offereda legitimate purpose, and he wasn’t legally
required
to tell the gate guards who the recipient might be. So, no formal cause existed to deny him entrance. On the other hand, the presence of a Horseman rarely, if ever, boded well for either the inhabitants or even the property unfortunate enough to find themselves in his vicinity.
In the end, however, angels were creatures of law, and the law was clear. With an obvious reluctance that bordered on the offensive, he stepped aside and waved for his warriors to do the same.
“Welcome to the White City, then, Horseman. May your sojourn be fruitful and blessedly free of any unnecessary delay.”
War didn’t even need to flick the reins, as Ruin clearly recognized the meaning in the corridor that abruptly sprouted between the armored figures. Mount and Rider passed beneath the portcullis, heads held high, and it would have been difficult to say which of the two more effectively conveyed the impression that far more magnificent sights than these had, in the past, failed utterly to dazzle them.
It was, for all that, an act, performed for the sake of the watching angels. Not even War could gaze upon the White City and not find himself a
little
bit awed.
The city was constructed in layers, as high as the clouds and deeper than the eye could see. Some of those layers consisted of the floating isles War had noted on his approach. Others were wholly artificial: entire neighborhoods, structures and roadways, built atop ornate pillars and graceful arches. Bridges and winding stairs connected one to another, though a few had crumbled from disuse, leaving several of the older isles and buildings isolated from the rest.
Courtyards, paved in geometric patterns, were surrounded by statues as tall as those on the bridge outside. The buildings … By Oblivion, the buildings! Towers that stabbed the sky, greatcathedrals as broad and as tall as small mountains. All were made up of sharp angles or elegant archways, and all were of the same stone-and-gold construction as the outer wall. Only trees sprouting in the courtyards and the stained glass of the many windows provided any real color to the tableau.
Or rather, those—and the outfits of the angels who did
not
wander the White City in full armor.
Most of these were clad in flowing robes of deep reds and violets, though a handful wore green and a great many wore white—these last failing to stand out from the background as much as the others. Gold belts and ostentatious headdresses were common, as were slightly more subtle circlets.
War found it peculiar, contemplating non-warrior angels. Angel craftsmen? Angel couriers? Angel merchants? It was difficult to picture—but then, the race had the same needs as any other, did they not? The Horseman briefly found himself wondering what they used as currency, before deciding he didn’t care enough to give it any real attention.
Even the
sounds
of the city were magnificent. Where the amalgamation of labors and voices in most communities formed an ugly, cacophonic drone, the conversations of the angels and the blare of distant trumpets produced an almost orchestral tenor.
Ruin marched along at a stately pace, War taking it all in, though he was careful never to be caught staring. The same could not be said of the angels. All those who
The portcullis remained up, but War knew well that it could be dropped in the blink of an eye, if necessary.
“Horseman,” the angel greeted him with a cold courtesy.
“Commander.”
“What business has a Rider of the Charred Council in the White City?”
“I’m to deliver a message.”
Silence, then. Clearly, the answer didn’t strike the angel as a likely one, not with War, yet he had no formal standing that would allow him to question the Horseman’s word.
“To whom?” he finally asked.
“Not your concern.”
Again, a moment of silence. The angel seemed at a loss. Heaven and the Council were not at war. The Rider had offereda legitimate purpose, and he wasn’t legally
required
to tell the gate guards who the recipient might be. So, no formal cause existed to deny him entrance. On the other hand, the presence of a Horseman rarely, if ever, boded well for either the inhabitants or even the property unfortunate enough to find themselves in his vicinity.
In the end, however, angels were creatures of law, and the law was clear. With an obvious reluctance that bordered on the offensive, he stepped aside and waved for his warriors to do the same.
“Welcome to the White City, then, Horseman. May your sojourn be fruitful and blessedly free of any unnecessary delay.”
War didn’t even need to flick the reins, as Ruin clearly recognized the meaning in the corridor that abruptly sprouted between the armored figures. Mount and Rider passed beneath the portcullis, heads held high, and it would have been difficult to say which of the two more effectively conveyed the impression that far more magnificent sights than these had, in the past, failed utterly to dazzle them.
It was, for all that, an act, performed for the sake of the watching angels. Not even War could gaze upon the White City and not find himself a
little
bit awed.
The city was constructed in layers, as high as the clouds and deeper than the eye could see. Some of those layers consisted of the floating isles War had noted on his approach. Others were wholly artificial: entire neighborhoods, structures and roadways, built atop ornate pillars and graceful arches. Bridges and winding stairs connected one to another, though a few had crumbled from disuse, leaving several of the older isles and buildings isolated from the rest.
Courtyards, paved in geometric patterns, were surrounded by statues as tall as those on the bridge outside. The buildings … By Oblivion, the buildings! Towers that stabbed the sky, greatcathedrals as broad and as tall as small mountains. All were made up of sharp angles or elegant archways, and all were of the same stone-and-gold construction as the outer wall. Only trees sprouting in the courtyards and the stained glass of the many windows provided any real color to the tableau.
Or rather, those—and the outfits of the angels who did
not
wander the White City in full armor.
Most of these were clad in flowing robes of deep reds and violets, though a handful wore green and a great many wore white—these last failing to stand out from the background as much as the others. Gold belts and ostentatious headdresses were common, as were slightly more subtle circlets.
War found it peculiar, contemplating non-warrior angels. Angel craftsmen? Angel couriers? Angel merchants? It was difficult to picture—but then, the race had the same needs as any other, did they not? The Horseman briefly found himself wondering what they used as currency, before deciding he didn’t care enough to give it any real attention.
Even the
sounds
of the city were magnificent. Where the amalgamation of labors and voices in most communities formed an ugly, cacophonic drone, the conversations of the angels and the blare of distant trumpets produced an almost orchestral tenor.
Ruin marched along at a stately pace, War taking it all in, though he was careful never to be caught staring. The same could not be said of the angels. All those who
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