I

They gathered on a giant, craggy rock, dimly lit on one side by a nearby sun, a sputtering red giant. From where they sat, they could see several bright nebulae, quite spectacular. There was not much heat from the sun, but they were alone, as far as they could tell, and they were grateful for that. It was calm and beautiful here, if somewhat cold, dark, and wild.

Raphael surveyed their numbers. There were only sixty-four left. The flight here, after the battle with Araziel and Harut, had been perilous. The pursuit had been hot, and sixteen had not made it. If it had not been for Michael’s leading them dangerously close to that blue giant, passing it just as it went supernova, none of them would have escaped.

“No one is following? Are we safe?” Raphael asked.

“We are clear,” said Gabriel.

“Then, Ariel, help me tend the wounded,” Raphael said.

“How far has this taken us off course?” asked Anael.

“It has taken us off course not at all,” replied Michael, “And we are actually ahead of schedule.”

“There is no chance,” Anael pressed him, “that we have been tracked? That anyone else knows? You don’t think that Araziel and Harut…?”

“Neither they nor anyone else know anything. There is nothing for them to know,” there was a gleam in Michael’s eyes, and he smiled. When Michael spoke, all the others naturally turned to him, so soothing and energizing was his voice and so warming his countenance. And when he smiled, a calm descended on them, and they knew they were safe. “They will think that, desperate to escape their clutches, we have flown to our doom. That is the word that will spread among the factions, that we are scattered or dead or lost.”

“And that word won’t be true?” sneered Sachiel. When Sachiel spoke, on the other hand, doubt crept in through the cracks in the spell of calm cast by Michael’s speech. Sachiel was rarely impressed by Michael’s charms. “If we are still on course and ahead of schedule, where is Samael?”

“I am right here,” answered a smooth, melodious voice, and the intelligences turned suddenly to see a tall, gaunt figure silhouetted by the red sun, as he alighted on a promontory above them.

Samael’s countenance and raiment were white, not the resplendent white of the stars, like some intelligences’, but the stark white of ash that has been burned of all impurity, the whiteness of ash that is still at the heart of a flame. He spoke with assurance and authority, and one was struck how, even among beings of fathomlessly elaborate wit, his seemed preeminent.

“And?” Anael’s voice rose with urgency.

“It is exactly as we calculated,” he replied coolly.

“Exactly?” Sachiel frowned.

“We shall all see together for ourselves soon enough,” he said, “But… I perceive that we are not all here.”

“We were surprised by the host of Araziel and Harut,” said Michael, “Some of us were trapped between the host’s right wing and their left, and were struck down, and fell never to rise again. Scigin, Mibi, Yeruel, Degaliel…” His voice drifted off.

Samael looked downcast. “I see.”

“We have not yet had time even to mourn,” said Anael.

“I hope the sacrifice was worth it,” said Sachiel.

Gabriel spoke up, his voice like falling waters, “It was not unexpected. We all knew we would face adversity in journeying here. We were each prepared for that eventuality, as were the ones whose lights have now been extinguished. It is why we have come, to bring an end to all that. Is it not?”

“Yes,” said Michael.

“What did you see?” asked Raphael, “What does it look like? Is it wonderful?”

Samael’s face slowly lit with rapture. “Beyond what you could ever imagine.”

“Tell us!”

“It is enormous. Vast beyond the greatest vastness you can imagine! A million times greater than the largest galaxies. You feel tremendous energy there, even from vast distances. A great rushing of time and space, a fierce cosmic wind. And you do not dare to approach it too closely, nay, there is a threshold you cannot cross. You know that it will destroy any who dare. You might go as close as the edge of the storm surrounding it, though even that is dangerous. Words cannot describe the vast, primordial storm of fire and ice, smoke and lightning encompassing it, dancing eternally about it, a storm in which entire galaxies might be born. Or still-born, rather, for they would be torn to shreds as quickly as they came into being. When you first see it, you feel at once the most incredible, irresistible, worshipful awe, for you know that you are on the edge of the greatest power in the cosmos. And at the same time, you feel a kind of irrepressible terror, for there is a power there that will utterly destroy you, and you feel you might easily slip and fall into it, and be lost forever. And at the center…” Samael paused, the silvery, ethereal tears slipping down his face, his voice trembling. “At the center, far beyond the storm, is a most impenetrable blackness, in which there is no sight, about which space and time itself bend, at the heart of which there is no time, no space, no meaning. Nothing… and Everything.”

“Then we have found it!” exclaimed Michael.

“The Throne,” said Samael.

“Wait, wait!” cried Sachiel, “is that not what we all must judge? What we have all passed through many dangers to judge for ourselves? After we have all seen it with our own eyes?”

“Sachiel is right,” said Cassiel, who until now had been brooding darkly on the edge of the small, ragtag host.

“Of course,” replied Samael, his coolness returning. “You should pardon my excitement. We shall all behold it, and we shall all judge. Though when you see it, you may all aver that it is we who shall be judged by It, and not the other way around. Once you have seen it, you will not be the same again afterwards.”

“Where is it from here?” asked Gabriel.

Samael turned and pointed up high above the great red sun, into the heart of a great emptiness where only a handful of dim stars glittered. At the center of the empty region was what looked like a bright, white star. “That is it,” Samael said, “We are still very, very far indeed from it, for it to appear so small to our eyes. Be prepared for a long, weary journey through desert eons. Between here and there, there are no intelligences, no hosts.”

Even Sachiel seemed to grow excited. “Imagine the irony, the delicious irony,” he grinned maliciously. “If it is true, of course,” he added.

“Where every intelligence in the cosmos thought that the universe ended, where they believed there was nothing but dead wastes, nothingness. Here is actually the very center, the very heart of the cosmos. The Throne of the Nameless One,” said Gabriel.

The intelligences crowded around Samael now, reaching out to lay their hands upon him, to touch him. For a moment, many faces shined with the silvery tears, even that of stoical Michael and gloomy Cassiel. Gabriel embraced him, wrapping his wings about him and kissing him full on the lips. “Without your calculations, without your courage of conviction, we should never have found it,” whispered Gabriel into his ear, kissing him again on the cheek.

“Samael, you have done well,” said Michael. He raised his hand and the intelligences all went silent. “We will rest here now, just long enough for Raphael and Ariel to heal our wounded, and for all of us to properly mourn our lost. Then we shall continue the last leg of the very last journey any of us shall ever need to take.”

After the wounds had been healed and the songs sung for the lights that had gone out, the final journey began. It was long, even as the host sped faster than light through the deeps of space. But gradually, the white star upon which all their gazes were fixed grew into a bright smudge of light mixed with dark, and gradually the smudge grew into what looked like a fiery nebula. And finally the intelligences stopped, right at the distance Samael warned them they must stop, and they all gazed in awe at the storm of fire, ice, lightning and smoke, and the blackness deep in the heart of the storm. And after they had set eyes on it, and stared in wonder at it in its full glory for what seemed an eon, it was as Samael had predicted. Without a single murmur of dissent – not even from Sachiel or Cassiel – they were of one accord that they had found what they were seeking.

“It speaks to us,” said Michael softly, “Can you hear it? Like the most beautiful singing, inside of the storm, at the very heart.”

“I can hear nothing,” said Sachiel.

“What does it say?” said Gabriel.

“It says,” Michael paused, weighing his words as he tilted his head to listen more carefully, “Welcome home!”

The intelligences set to work. They surveyed the entire perimeter of “the Throne,” for millions of light years in every direction. They were definitely alone. The emptiness surrounding the Throne was so total it was crushing, almost; as terrifying as the Throne itself. Under Michael’s direction, they built six fortresses, one facing each of the six directions. They built the fortresses from the matter and energy of the storm surrounding the Throne. They would draw the stuff out by flying in, all together as a host, so close to the edge of the storm that its roar deafened them and its winds threatened to suck them in and rip them to shreds, and then flying out again, ice, stone, and magma following them out in their wake like the tail of a comet. Cassiel knew how to fashion these raw materials into virtually anything, including the gold and gems they used to adorn the fortresses. Sachiel’s skill was at setting them on their foundations and launching them into perfect orbits around the Throne, orbits that would never decay, never degenerate so long as the Throne itself remained immutable. That it would so remain, for all eternity, they all grew increasingly certain as time went on, though time itself seemed to flow differently, almost at a standstill the closer one stayed to the Throne.

“Can you feel it, Gabriel?” asked Michael as they worked, “A Presence? It is hard to feel it at first, because it seems so similar to the emptiness all around us, one confuses it almost with the emptiness. But it is there. It is insistent, and quite unsettling.”

At first, Michael was the only one to feel or hear this “Presence.” If it communicated at all, he said, it never communicated anything complicated. Really only a feeling or a mood, he said, first of deep contentment, alternating with a sharp, almost painful, longing. “Content and longing. Completeness and emptiness. That is what it feels,” Michael explained.

Samael was the next to admit to feeling it. “Admit you have heard it all along, friend,” said Michael to Samael, “You were only afraid to tell the others before now.”

Samael only smiled wryly. He cocked his head slightly and said, “Is it not enough to acknowledge that its voice is nothing more nor less than the mathematics of the whole cosmos?”

Michael laughed, “Fine! Be mysterious!”

Slowly others too, however, admitted to hearing it. Gabriel heard it next, then Raphael and Anael. Sachiel said, “That buzzing, if that is what you speak of, is irrelevant!” And no one would ever know what Cassiel thought, since he ever brooded alone, avoiding the companionship of other intelligences. The intelligences themselves found their own hearts beginning to echo the pattern of the voices, feeling contentment, followed by longing, followed by contentment again, and so on, until it was hard to distinguish between the voices and themselves, until they began to wonder if it had only just been themselves and nothing else all along. Contentment and longing provided the rhythm of their new lives, became their night and day. And eons passed between the silence and the voices of the Presence. Finally one night, in the shadows of longing that left the intelligences edgy and hungry, pairing off and clinging to one another in the shadows of the fortresses, Samael drew Michael aside and said, “Did you feel that? That movement? It was a definite movement.”

“What kind of movement?” asked Michael.

“If I had to describe it, I would call it a reaction to our presence here. It has been long in coming, almost as if the Presence were ever so slowly feeling us, probing our thoughts and desires. But now it has done so, and it has responded to us, a very distinct response. I think it has something to tell us.”

“I felt nothing, Samael,” replied Michael, “though I was not the first one, after all, to feel the Presence in the first place, was I?”

Samael ignored his intimation, only gazing back thoughtfully into his eyes. “There is someone else here now,” he said, “Not one of our own host and not another intelligence from out there,” he waved his right hand and his right wing away in the direction of the place in the cosmos from where they had emigrated. With his left hand and his left wing, he pointed down toward the Throne. “There is someone else in there. Someone new. Someone who has never existed before now. Not the Presence inside the Throne, but something else. Perhaps an emanation of the Presence.”

Michael nodded slowly. “It wishes to parley with us.”

“Indeed,” said Samael, “Someone must go inside and speak with it. It should be you, Michael.”

“This is what we have been waiting for!” hissed Michael.

“Yes,” said Samael.

The “mathematics” of entering the Throne was very complicated, even by Samael’s reckoning. But it was possible. Samael had spent most of his time studying the patterns of the storms surrounding the Throne, and he had discerned that there were paths of calm that periodically opened up, that would allow one to enter without being torn to pieces by the storms. It was even possible to “calculate” when and where the openings would appear, though not by formulae that one in a thousand intelligences would understand. “Unfortunately,” said Samael, “it appears to be a one way road, for even if one manages to avoid being torn to pieces by the storms, nothing can survive inside the Throne. Not light, not time, not space nor matter.”

“Something must exist inside the Throne, or it would not speak to us,” said Raphael.

“Are you so sure we are supposed to go in there? Why wouldn’t it come out here, if it wants to speak with us?” growled Sachiel, “Surely it knows we can’t go in.”

“Perhaps,” said Samael.

“Maybe,” said Anael, “It is testing us. It wants to see if we will risk all in order to try to meet it. Perhaps things will be different from inside of the Throne than they appear to be from the outside of the Throne.”

“That is what I was thinking too,” said Gabriel.

“And I,” said Michael.

“In any event,” said Samael, “Now that the Presence has extended an invitation, I do not think it wise to wait another eon to decide what to do.”

“For myself I have decided,” said Michael. “I will go.”

“That is one thing you cannot decide for yourself,” said Cassiel darkly.

“I am the leader of this host,” replied Michael, “I will go.”

“Yes,” replied Cassiel, “You are the leader, and that is why you cannot go. We were once a mighty host, one of the mightiest, numbering in the millions. And through the wars, in battle after battle, our numbers have dwindled to this pathetic remnant of three score and four genii, too small to survive among the others, forced to flee for our lives into this desert, this terrible place, where, so Samael tells us, we will become mighty again. Well, whether we are indeed at the heart of the cosmos now, as he says, who can say for sure? Who can understand Samael’s calculations, to correct them if they are wrong? For all we know this is the grave of the cosmos and not its heart. That would explain this great emptiness that surrounds us, the cloud of death that hangs over us here, the storm that would tear us apart below. I don’t feel what you all claim to feel, but I have not lost my sense of smell, and know what you will not admit: this place stinks of death. But we have built our fortresses here, and at least we are unmolested by the others, since this is the last place any would think to look for us. So I say leave well enough alone. I say, let us live here in peace if we can. But I don’t say we should start hurling our brightest and best into the heart of that thing, whatever it is, to see them burned up on some great cosmic altar. Enough is enough, I say.”

The other intelligences stared in amazement at Cassiel, since most doubted they had ever heard him say so many words in all the millions of eons they had known him. Then began a passionate debate, and on one side, in favor of sending Michael into the Throne were Samael, Gabriel, Anael and, of course, Michael himself. Against were Sachiel, Cassiel, and Raphael. Raphael had been leaning towards it, but after Cassiel’s impassioned speech, Raphael surprised the others by saying, “I have been forced to use my healing skills too often, and seen too many of this host extinguished. I cannot say we should risk this now.” Roughly half of the host was for and half against.

“You are right, we are pitifully weak,” plead Michael, “but why have we come here if not to risk all, for all? And all the more if the sacrifice can be born by but one of us?”

“Oh, you so love to play the hero, don’t you,” rejoined Sachiel, “It will be the death of us all!”

“If you thought so, then why did you follow me here?” scowled Michael.

The debate continued on, and the Presence from within the Throne seemed to feed it, for the night of longing that emanated from it and held them in its shadows did not give way into a day of contentment as it always seemed to have, but deepened into a deathly despair. The intelligences argued on, and slowly the side in favor of sending Michael gained adherents, until there were forty-three in favor and twenty-one against. The intensity of the debate rose ever higher, the majority in favor growing resentful against the stalwart minority who refused ever more intransigently. Indeed their gall and sense of righteousness increased in proportion to their numbers.

“You know the ancient Law,” said Sachiel, “The host must be of one mind. And even if you convince all these, you shall never convince me.”

“If you invoke the Law of Accord, then we shall cast you out,” roared Michael, “If you are unwilling to take the risk or make the sacrifice, you do not deserve to stay! Go back where you came from and let us know the Throne.” His hand grasped the hilt of his sword, “And if you do not leave, we shall make an end of this the way the hosts have always dealt with rebels, since before the ancient Law!”

“Do not do this!” hissed Sachiel.

“Do not force me!” thundered Michael.

In that moment, when swords were unsheathed and wings unfurled, Raphael interposed himself between them. He drew the blade of Michael’s sword close to his breast as he kissed Michael on the cheek and said, “I accede. Go into the Throne if you must, if it will come to this.” He turned to Cassiel and Sachiel, “This is futility. We must let him go, if he cannot be dissuaded. It should not end this way. If you two relinquish, the others will too.”

Desperation hung in the air, and time seemed to stop.

“Let him go to his doom then,” snarled Sachiel, “and thus let us be free of him.”

There was a breaking then. Michael’s opponents shrugged, and his adherents breathed a sigh of relief. Michael himself still quivered with emotion. He opened his lips to speak, but Samael hushed him. “I am in your debt,” Raphael whispered to Sachiel, who waved him off and retreated with Pahadron, Kezef, and Hemah, to their fortress on the other side of the Throne.

Samael calculated the time till the next opening of the storms and they waited. The night of longing emanating from the Presence held them in its shadows. It lingered and deepened, agitating and frightening them. But finally the time came. A pathway opened through the storms, just at the time and place Samael said it would. “Now!” gasped Samael. Michael saw it and instantly precipitated himself down, faster than he had ever flown before, he who, among the hosts, was known as the speediest and most skillful flier. The others watched him plummet, so quickly that they saw only the emerald green flash of his wings and the saffron of his robes, and then he was gone, swallowed up into the utter blackness of the Throne. And in the moment that he disappeared, the night of longing from the Presence passed into its day of contentment.

“Does this mean that he has made it safely? That he is now in direct contact with the Presence?” asked Phanuel.

“More likely it means that he has been consumed,” Cassiel said, “The Presence inside the Throne is happy that it has finally made a meal of one of us, and that we have proven ourselves stupid enough to fly right down its gullet, one at a time. What do your calculations say, Samael?”

They turned to see what Samael would say, but he had wrapped himself up in darkness and left.

“Probably gone off to ‘think,’” said Gethel.

Time passed. Another night, another day. Everything seemed as it had been before, except that now Michael was gone. A host of days and nights passed, and the intelligences speculated and debated what had happened to him. Eventually all the arguments about his fate had been rehearsed a hundred times, and the intelligences had nothing more to say. And yet there was no Michael. A third of them made their minds up that Michael was no more. Another third were convinced that he would come back when the Presence was ready to release him. The last third professed not to know, waiting alternately in hope and then despair.

“What do you think, Samael?” asked Gabriel as they clung to each other one night, “Is Michael still alive? Or, if not dead, can he ever return to us?”

Samael whispered into his ear, “Time passes differently inside the Throne than outside. We may wait many eons out here before there will be any sign of Michael. But he will return, of that I am certain.”

“How can you know that?”

Samael did not answer, only wrapping his wings about Gabriel more tightly and hushing him with a kiss.

Eons did pass, and yet no sign of Michael.

The intelligences held a counsel to decide who should lead them in Michael’s absence. At first they debated bitterly over whether such a counsel was necessary, for those who were convinced that Michael would return safely felt it a kind of betrayal. But Samael said, “I have faith Michael will return. But until then, it is only prudent to appoint a lieutenant. We must be wary against attack from the other hosts, for if we were able to calculate the location of the Throne, then others are able too. Without a leader, we might be caught unawares.” Satarel nominated Samael, but Samael refused. He nominated Gabriel instead, saying, “Gabriel has ever been Michael’s faithful right hand.” Cassiel nominated Sachiel, but there was little debate, for when it came to matters of war, Gabriel was the one whom the majority of the host trusted. Gabriel maintained the watches they had kept ever since arriving at the Throne, and so they continued, watching and waiting.

The watchers moved together in pairs. One day as Zizuph kept watch with Achaiah, he said, “Have you noticed how, ever since we have arrived in this desolate place, Samael quite mysteriously disappears at intervals, for varying lengths of time?”

“No, I had not noticed,” replied Achaiah, “For I do not dip my wings into the affairs of others, as you do, Zizuph.”

“Well, Achaiah, it is not so much a matter of dipping one’s wings, as keeping them from covering one’s eyes. For it is hard not to notice whenever Gabriel circles the ramparts of the six fortresses, asking everyone that he meets, ‘Have you seen Samael? Where is Samael?’ and everyone answering, ‘I don’t know! Haven’t seen him!’ Don’t you find it odd?”

“I have noticed that he and everyone else have been under a good deal of strain, ever since we fled the other hosts and found this place. It is natural that he should seek the relief of solitude occasionally.”

“Yes. But where does he go?”

“That truly is none of your or my business,” replied Achaiah.

“And yet, Samael has been behaving oddly ever since we arrived here.”

“It did strike me odd when he changed his raiment from white to black. Though that is the color of the Throne, and perhaps he wears it as a kind of supplication.”

“A supplication indeed. I have observed that Samael’s absences correspond to certain movements of the storms about the Throne, and it occurs to me that there is much we do not know about this place, or the Throne, or this Presence, or how Samael came to know of their existence.”

Achaiah sighed. “And much we do not need to know. Each has his role, and I am content to play mine and let Samael play his. Are you saying you do not trust him?”

“No,” replied Zizuph, “I am not saying I distrust him, only that I am curious.”

“Well then, ask him what you want to know and make an end of it, if you dare.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

But Zizuph did not ask Samael anything, preferring to keep his curiosity to himself. He tried to calculate the movements of the storms, to predict when Samael might disappear again, but he found the operation too complicated. “Either Samael’s genius far surpasses mine, or I am missing some key variable,” he finally conceded, abandoning his calculations. All he could do was watch, hoping that the next time Samael slipped away, he might observe and be able to follow him unnoticed.

It was about that time that the intelligences noticed a subtle shift in the moods emanating from the Throne. They noticed the usual feeling of contentment transform into an elation, a kind of “Eureka!” while the feeling of longing transformed into a distinct sense of anticipation. Intelligences were saying to one another: “Do you feel it? It is as if all this waiting is suddenly futile, as if we ought to be doing something, now.” Gabriel felt it crawling up inside him as a kind of guilt. “There is nothing to show for my leadership,” he said, “I must build something.” Cassiel grew uncharacteristically gregarious, approaching any who would listen to say, “Help me mine the storms again!” while Samael brooded in troubled solitude, no longer speaking to anyone, though he could be heard muttering to himself, “No! No! The dimensions are not right. But I have calculated them again and again, and it is impossible!” It was only after it was too late to follow, that Zizuph noticed Samael had slipped away into the shadows and disappeared again.

Samael eventually returned, his eyes illuminated with triumph. “I have done it,” he said, “I know the measures of it now, the proper dimensions! Sublime and ineffable!” He made straight for Gabriel’s tower and unveiled the plans to him, and Gabriel gave orders to commence, and soon the entire host was busy, mining the matter and energy of the storms below, beginning work on a project that would dwarf the six fortresses and render them irrelevant. The intelligences threw themselves into the endeavor without questioning, so feverish had grown their desire for achievement. “All about the Throne we shall build a Temple!” exclaimed Samael.

It was into this bustle and excitement that, just when he had been all but forgotten, Michael emerged from the Throne. A pathway opened up through the storms, as suddenly as the pathway through which Michael had descended all those eons ago, and he rose with a sudden flash amid a sound of thunder. The intelligences working nearby turned to see him, and desisted their labors and shouted, “Michael has returned!” Others turned in the direction of the shouting, and dropped their work and shouted as well, until shouts had reverberated over the entire perimeter of the Throne and throughout the six fortresses and across the new bulwarks of the rising palace. And soon the entire host had raced to greet their general and leader.

They crowded around Michael, kissing him, covering him with their wings, reaching out to touch his golden locks of hair, stroke his wings, and clutch the folds of his raiment. “Take your place again as our general!” Gabriel exclaimed, a great silvery tear streaking down his cheek. First Gabriel and then Raphael and Anael, and then the others burst into song, tears glistening in their eyes:

Hail! Did you see Him?
The Presence who dwells forever inside the Throne?
Did you meet the Creator?
Tell us! Tell us!
Sing His song to us!
Michael sang back to them:
I did not see Him
For no eyes can look upon Him and live
But I spoke with the one who dwells before Him
The one who tends the eternal flame
The mouthpiece of His glory
Metatron!

They shuddered and some of them fell down prostrate, covering their heads with their wings, at the sound of the name “Metatron.” But Michael continued:

But I have learned who we are
We are not intelligences
But angels…

II

In the book of the scribe Dabriel, this was recorded as the foundation of Heaven, when the cornerstones of the great Temple of light at the heart of the Eternal City were laid and plans drawn for the ten Heavens, Samael being their chief architect. The nine orders of angels were established, and the seven angels of the Throne were appointed: Gabriel, Phanuel, Michael, Uriel, Raphael, Israel and Uzziel. And Michael sent out the first messengers, to travel back to warring hosts, to sing repentance and peace, to tell them that the Creator had been found at the heart of the cosmos, and to call them to come and join in the building of the Eternal City.

“What shall we think,” Zizuph asked himself in the silence of his mind, for he dared not raise his queries out loud, “of this Samael, who, one fine day devises a theory, unheard of in all the eons among all the hosts, unthought of ever by any intelligence – yes, for we were and are first of all intelligences, and not angels, as Michael calls us. This Samael cleanly devises a theory that all of the divine carnage, all of the grand mixture of chaos and order that is the cosmos could not have come into being without some Intelligence above all other intelligences, some Creator who designed it and us all. And, he claims, within the very fabric of the cosmos itself is a code that can be deciphered, if only one applies a mathematics that is subtle enough, indeed a mathematics so subtle that only one intelligence in the entire cosmos can be capable of understanding it, a code that might lead the one who deciphered it to the Creator. And that one intelligence capable of deciphering the code is, of course, none other than this very Samael, who devised this dubious theory in the first place. And then magically he finds it, this heart of the cosmos, this Throne of the Creator. What shall we think of this Samael, this master of secrets? Is he not a liar? Shall we not get to the bottom of this?” There had been some minor protest when Michael proposed to send out an entire choir – one sixth of the host, or eleven intelligences, or angels as they were now called – under the leadership of Sirushi and Seldoc. “How do you expect me to build this Temple, much less a city?” complained Sachiel.

“If we do not send emissaries out to sing the Word of the Creator, what do you think you are building a city for?” asked Michael.

Under the ministrations of the choir of Sirushi and Seldoc, a stream of refugees began to flow in, adding numbers to the “Host of Heaven” daily. The numbers that arrived were astonishing. Sachiel stopped complaining all together, as he soon had more hands to help with the building of the Temple than he had ever dreamed possible. The refugees arrived, just as Michael’s host had, battered, wounded, and terrified. From the horrific tales the refugees told, it was apparent that time in the greater cosmos had been passing much more quickly than for those who had escaped to the Throne. Empires had risen and fallen; old, powerful dynasties of intelligences declined and vanished or new ones formed and risen to take their place. Their old enemies, the host Araziel and Harut, once a terror of the outer reaches of the cosmos, had itself been decimated and nearly wiped out. When Sirushi and Seldoc had returned from the outer reaches, some refugees told, it had seemed shocking indeed to those who remembered Michael’s host, for it had been so many ages since they had vanished from the cosmos, they were believed to have perished long ago. It was almost as if they had returned from legend.

Meanwhile, the refugees told of the enslavement and mass murder – extinction even – of entire hosts, and a dreadful war that was raging throughout the whole cosmos between three warlords whose power had grown to cataclysmic proportions since Michael and his host had fled to the Throne. Their names were never spoken of without shivers of despair: Dagon, Thammuz, and, the worst of the three, Moloch. The refugees were washed and healed under the ministrations of Raphael and Ariel. Then they were adopted into the host, not under the ancient Law of Kinship, but through a new covenant which Michael claimed had been revealed to him in the Throne by Metatron himself.

Gabriel asked Michael, “Are you not afraid that the words of Sirushi and Seldoc will fall into the wrong ears, and that we may bring the storms of war down upon us before we are ready?”

“I have instructed them to seek out the desperate, the lost, and the fallen. Those whom the great ones despise and care nothing about. Those who receive the Word will not dare betray us, for we are their only hope. And besides, to the outside, we are a byword and a myth. Here it seems that there is a great mass of refugees rushing in, for time passes slowly by the Throne. But out there, Sirushi and Seldoc send us a few here, a few there, so few that no one notices they are missing. And thus we will grow slowly and silently. With the strength of the Creator behind us, we will raise the ramparts of righteousness, and then one day, when the great ones finally learn of us, as they inevitably will, it will be too late for them and we will be in our strength.” Michael smiled confidently, banishing all Gabriel’s fears.

Eons passed, and Michael seemed to be right. Their numbers grew into the thousands, and then tens of thousands, and then hundreds of thousands. They completed construction of the Temple, a structure that defied space and time, shining halls lit by eternal fires, walkways and courtyards paved with gold and jewels, doors that issued not into a neighboring chamber but into whatever location in the Temple where one was needed, or away from where one was not wanted, closets where time seemed to stand completely still and others where time rushed on for eons without disturbing the normal flow of time outside. The Temple was an illimitable, great sphere surrounding the Throne, eternally spinning about it, in the interior of which, closest to the Throne, was the waiting room named the Holy of Holies, where the Angels of the Throne kept watch. After the Temple, they began to organize the Holy City around it, planning out the ten districts, the ten heavens.

One day, Gabriel, Michael and Samael were gathered in Samael’s chamber off the northern courts of the temple, examining his plans for the Holy City. Anael and Raphael arrived.

“Sachiel and Cassiel refuse to come,” said Anael.

“Refuse to come?” asked Michael. He looked up, the usual perfect calm in his emerald green eyes disturbed by a ripple. “Was there some unfinished work on the Temple that requires their attention?” “No, the Temple is finished,” sighed Raphael. “And it is perfect!” he added, nodding toward Samael. Samael acknowledged his tribute with a slight bow of the head.

“I don’t understand how they should refuse then, how it is possible that they refuse,” said Michael, the confusion on his forehead deepening into consternation.

“They are both furious,” said Anael.

“Where are they?” asked Gabriel, “I’ll go to speak with them.”

“They have left the courts of the Temple,” replied Anael, “They said there was a rock in orbit about the nearest blue sun to the southwest. Quite a long way away, almost to the borders of the cosmos. They said that that if anyone wished to see them, they should meet them there.”

“Are they angry at me?” asked Michael.

“You and Samael,” said Raphael.

“Explain,” said Michael.

“I am not quite sure where to begin.”

“Well begin somewhere!” When Michael grew agitated, his wings began to unfurl and his coloration began to go slightly black, and he was clearly agitated now.

“I think I know some of this story,” said Samael.

“Then tell!” said Michael.

“You can confirm for us then, Raphael,” Samael continued, “that Sachiel is demanding a council under the Ancient Law.”

“He is,” said Raphael, nodding, “He says he has been trying to call a council for almost an eon, but he can never locate all the members of the host in order to meet the convening requirements. You in particular were a subject of his wrath, Samael. He complained that you are always gone when he calls on you and no one can ever tell him where you are. He said, ‘If you see him, tell that devil I’ll be taking no more orders from him unless it be in person!’”

Gabriel shook his head. “A council under the Ancient Law. It had not even occurred to me. We’ve been so busy. Why, we haven’t held a council since…”

“Since before Metatron,” said Michael.

“And,” Samael continued, holding Raphael in his gaze, “he is in a rage about what he calls ‘the usurpation of the New Law.’”

“Indeed,” said Raphael. “He says that none of the new offices are proper offices. There was never any ‘Office of the Presence before the Throne’ under the Ancient Law. He does not recognize the nine orders, nor any authority of those to whom the orders are given. And he is particularly incensed over any talk of the Holy City. He says the hosts were ever free to roam the cosmos wheresoever they wished, and to suggest that they must be tied down to a permanent service in a permanent place is little better than…” Here Raphael trailed off.

“Little better than slavery,” Samael finished his sentence for him.

The consternation on Michael’s brow was quickly brewing into a storm, and the emerald color of his wings had turned almost completely black. “He calls service to the Throne ‘slavery’?”

“I’m afraid that was the word he used,” said Raphael, almost in a whisper.

Despite Michael’s state of agitation, Samael remained calm, his voice smooth and melodious. He said, “Well, perhaps a council is overdue. I suppose in the minds of some, there might be ambiguities that have never been clarified. We should put to rest any doubt that might linger about the supremacy of the New Law over the old.

“Raphael, go tell Sachiel he shall have his council. Anael, you can send word out to the chiefs of the nine orders that all angels of the Throne are to gather in the central court of the Temple before the next turning.”

Raphael and Anael hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

“There may be a slight problem with that, too,” said Raphael.

“Hmm?”

“Sachiel says that none of the newcomers have ever been properly adopted into the host according to the Ancient Law, and that therefore they have no place at a council and no voice under the Law of Accord. He demands a council of none but the sixty-four. And… He says the Throne is not the proper place for the council. Under the ancient law, he demands the right as convener to call the council at the place of his choosing.” Raphael shaded his eyes from the wrath of Michael.

“And where would that be?” asked Samael.

“At the place where he has withdrawn, the aforementioned rock in orbit about the nearest blue sun to the southwest, though he says any place might be agreeable to him so long as it is not proximate to the Throne. He says the intelligences’ minds will be clearer if they are not so close to it.”

“Is that so?” roared Michael.

“This is outrageous,” said Gabriel.

“What shall we do?” asked Raphael.

“If I must go out there,” Michael said, grasping the hilt of his sword, “it will not be for a council!”

“Let me handle this,” replied Samael. “We cannot build the Holy City without Sachiel’s building skills and Cassiel’s mining. Peacefully, brother! We must do this peacefully.” He smiled at Michael, and the emerald color slowly returned to the Archangel’s wings.

“I will go,” said Samael, “And speak to them myself. Is that not, after all, what Sachiel wanted? To speak to me? I will make them see the light of reason and the righteousness of the Throne.” “Very well,” said Michael.

Samael followed Raphael’s instructions, speeding toward Sachiel’s retreat. As he approached the place, he heard a shout while he was yet distant. He could see a flurry of activity, nine intelligences in all taking to wing, dodging and weaving and eying him warily as he arrived, as if they were trying to anticipate any unexpected moves on his part. They wore their full armor and were equipped with the most dreadful weaponry intelligences had devised over millions of eons of warfare: swords and spears that might sunder planets, shields that could snuff out the fire of a sun, and bows nocked with arrows capable of ripping time and space asunder. As he drew nearer, he recognized Pahadron, who shouted to the others, “It is Samael!” Besides Sachiel and Cassiel, he also recognized Kezef, Hemah, Lahatiel, Pusiel, Rogziel, and Kushiel.

Samael held his hands up in the air and called out, “I am unarmed and I come alone.”

“Do not put aside your weapons,” shouted Sachiel, “until we are certain he carries nothing under his robes.”

Samael loosened his black robe, darker than the emptiest pits of space, and let it fall off him so that he stood white and naked before them. “I told you I am unarmed,” he said.

“But you may not be alone,” replied Sachiel. “Hold this for Brother Samael, until we have parleyed,” said Sachiel to Pahadron, folding the robe in half and handing it to him.

Samael descended to the rock where Sachiel had made his camp. He sat down on his rump, drawing his knees up in front of him and folding the tips of his wings around his shins. Sachiel, and Cassiel with him, sat down across from Samael, while Pahadron, Kezef, Hemah, and Kushiel stood around them, their weapons still drawn. The others hovered above the rock, keeping watch.

“Well, this is an interesting welcome,” said Samael, “You act as if you were expecting an army and not a council, as you requested.”

“I certainly did not expect a council, Brother,” said Sachiel. “To be honest I barely know what to expect lately, so little regard does our host have any more for the customs and ancient laws.”

“I am truly puzzled,” replied Samael. “This is the first I have heard you complain of it. And yet it has been many eons since Michael emerged from the Throne, bringing with him the resplendent New Law given him by Metatron, the mouthpiece of the Creator. You lent your hands to the building of the Temple along with everyone else. And yet now you feel there has been insufficient regard for the old ways? How now this change of heart?”

“See, brothers,” said Sachiel looking up around him at the others, “he is armed after all. There is poison under the tongue of this angel.” He spat the word out as if trying to rid his mouth of it. “True, at first it was barely possible to whisper any kind of doubt about the new ways. It was as if a vertigo had overcome the entire host, as if we had lost our minds and let ourselves be carried blindly on by some obscene, impetuous élan. Yet it is possible for one to be immersed in warm sentiments, it is possible for all to feel well and good and right, and at the same time to know in one’s bones, to know in the cold, hard equations of justice and conscience that something is dreadfully amiss. I buried my confusion at first, as did so many others. But gradually it grew upon me that we had no right to abrogate the Ancient Law without weighing feeling and reason against one another, together, openly, and as a host.

“It was then I began to demand a council. This was six eons ago. I told Michael. I demanded it. And always there was some reason for delay. He had received word of a possible leak to one of our enemies of word of our existence; no council could be held until he had rooted out the trouble. There were too many refugees to attend to; it would have to wait until Raphael and Ariel had tended them without interruption. The building of a particular intersection of the Temple was at a critical phase; our labors were required until that level was completed. And so on it went. And I admit my own degree of complacency and complicity in it. I had charge of many souls in the directing of the Temple’s construction, and I let my feelings of accomplishment and satisfaction overrule my better sense in the matter.

“But there was one offense after another, and most distressing was the matter of the Law of Kinship. For the new ones, the refugees, ought rightly to have been joined to our blood, to have entered into the eternal pact with us, to swear ever to serve with our host, each one for everyone. But instead, we say there is no more host in the old sense, only this ‘Host of Heaven’? So now there is no loyalty, no sense of accord, no swearing of blood to blood, but only some autocratic oath to ‘render without exception all possessions, life and mind to the Throne, to serve It so long as there is movement in one’s limbs.’ What is this? No more brotherhood? No host anymore, but only slavery to this Throne?” Samael listened quietly to this tirade, letting it run its course. “So if I understand you, the Creator, the One who has made us all, without whom we would have no being, has no right to demand our allegiance above all other allegiances? Even that of the host?”

“I am saying that I have never seen this Creator. I have not spoken to it. I have not known it. And who speaks for it? Michael! Michael alone has descended into the Throne, Michael alone claims to know it. And how can we know he is not lying? How can we know that he has not gone mad with the same frenzied spirit that drove us all, but a thousand times more unbalanced for being the one who thinks it all belongs to him?”

“Michael has not spoken to the Creator either, for none can stand before the Creator and live. It was Metatron, the mouthpiece, who gave the word to Michael. In this sense, we are all equal.”

“Pah! Equal!” scowled Sachiel, “Now I’ve caught you in a lie.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

Sachiel shook his head. “So confident you are that no one would find it out.”

“Still, your words confuse me,” Samael frowned.

“Tell me, Samael, what is a wife?”

A shadow crept over Samael’s face, and his wings flickered ever so slightly. “That is an interesting word,” he said.

“I could tell the story behind this word, here, before these, my faithful companions in arms, if you wish to continue to pretend ignorance. I have not told them the story yet, but I am sure they would find it quite interesting.”

Samael stared long and hard at Sachiel, weighing his words, before he finally spoke icily, “Let us speak alone then, so that we can be more frank.”

Sachiel signaled to Pahadron, Kezef, Hemah, and Kushiel. “Go keep watch with your brothers. I shall deal with this hypocrite myself.” The four flew away to join the other three, circling about the rock and keeping watch in every direction with weapons at the ready. Samael eyed Cassiel nervously, until Sachiel said, “This one and I are knit together as one. He already knows the whole story.”

Samael sighed. “I am very curious to know where you heard that word.”

“Let us say,” Sachiel smiled, “that there are others among the host besides us who are not content to watch you and Michael amass power to yourselves until the rest of us are all no more than your slaves. Some of them have lent their eyes and ears to the cause. We have been watching you Samael, for a very, very long time.”

“And what exactly have you seen?”

“You are hoping, perhaps, to learn if I only suspect you; if I am wrong in some significant particulars or if I lack evidence. But believe me when I say that the whole host can know this tomorrow, if I unveil it, beyond any reasonable shadow of doubt.

“I know that Sirushi and Seldoc are not the only angels sent out from the Throne. What I do not know is whether Michael is aware of Camaysar, Samael’s own personal angel. Camaysar is a slave trader, I believe, formerly of the host of Thammuz, who went on a very particular quest to acquire what Samael calls wives. But Michael most certainly does not know about four very special intelligences brought back by Camaysar to Samael, named Lilith, Eisheth Zenunim, Naamah, and Agrat bat Mahlat, who are not members any more of any host, not ours nor the Host of Heaven, who are kept in a secret chamber in the precincts of the Temple that belong to Samael. These intelligences have certain abilities unknown to most other intelligences. Samael goes in to them all alone from time to time…”

“How can you possibly know that?” cried Samael alarm rising in his voice.

“That would be to tell too much, Samael. But I can tell you that I also know about the branches of Samael, the offspring that have been born by Samael’s wives. And I know something about the plans Samael has for these offspring. Now I have never heard of one intelligence owning his own intelligences like chattel, and using them to create a whole host of intelligences who are dependent on him alone. So it seems, brother, that we are not all equal in the Host of Heaven, as you say. Do you or do you not agree that this news, and the evidence of it, would be very, very interesting to Michael and all the Host of Heaven.”

“Well, you have played this game very artfully, brother,” said Samael darkly, after a moment of silence. “But I perceive that Sachiel has not told Samael exactly what he really wants. Earlier you spoke noble words, very convincingly for the benefit of your comrades-at-arms, about the ancient law and brotherhood. But now that we are alone, you clutch deadly secrets close to your breast, and seem to want to bargain. So what do you really want? Certainly nothing so mundane as a council.”

“I think a council would be very entertaining. Or it might be equally interesting for me and some of the brothers to go parley with Moloch, who has armies camped not too far from here. He might be very interested to learn of the Throne.”

“Tell me what you want!”

“What do you think I want?”

“Brother, now I realize how terribly ill-treated you must feel, for the Throne has not yet granted you titles or keys requisite with your service and abilities. But that is only because the ten heavens have not yet been built. And we do need your service to complete them! As a reward for such service, your comrades, Pahadron, Kezef, Hemah and the others, might be princes of the Third Heaven. I should say that Cassiel deserves no less than to be made ruler of the Seventh Heaven. You yourself might be a prince of the Sixth Heaven and…” Samael paused, and then continued, “There is a new order of angels, a secret order called the Silent Watchers. These shall some day be the most powerful order of all, more powerful even than the order of Virtues given to Michael. But the one to whom their keys are granted must be an angel of extraordinary discretion, one who knows how to keep secrets well…”

“Tell me, Samael, what is it like to have a wife? For I have heard that when Samael returns from his wives, he looks intoxicated with pleasure.”

“I could arrange for Sachiel to have a wife,” said Samael, “Nothing could be simpler.”

Pahadron, Kezef, Hemah and the others watched Samael and Sachiel finish their parley with a kiss. Sachiel called them back, and explained to them how the brothers had seen the errors of their ways, and how there would be a rectification, and a council to be held at the Throne.

After Samael returned to the Temple, after he had reported to Michael and the others how his parley had been successful and how all had gone well, he went straightway to a hidden compound in the Temple and found Shamsiel, the head of the secret Watchers.

“It has come to my attention,” Samael said, “that certain treacherous fiends, who have been plotting to betray the Throne and the Host of Heaven to Moloch and his hordes, have been spying on me and reporting my movements to those who should not know of them. You will find out who these devils are, and give their names to me.”

Then he summoned Camaysar and said, “I shall need you to find me more wives…”

Zizuph was walking one morning on the ramparts of the Temple, when by chance he met his old comrade Achaiah.

“Why, Zizuph!” cried Achaiah, “How many eons since I have seen you, brother?”

“Achaiah!” smiled Zizuph, “It has been many, indeed!”

“How does Zizuph fare, since he and Achaiah kept watch together about the six fortresses?”

“Why, well, of course. Very well. And how fares Achaiah?”

“Oh, most fabulously well. But how could one not fare well, under the blessed radiance of the Throne? Under the wise leadership of Michael, who has communed with Metatron, the mouthpiece of the Presence?”

“Indeed,” smiled Zizuph, “how could one not?”

“Well,” Achaiah beamed, “I have work to attend to, as I’m certain you do!”

“Indeed I do,” replied Zizuph, “Fare thee well!”

“May the Throne shine upon you!”

“And you!” said Zizuph.

He wrapped his cloak more closely about himself, and continued on his way with a shiver, when a white angel robed in black stepped out of the shadows of a nearby parapet, blocking his path. “Samael!” he said.

“It is time we talked, Zizuph,” Samael replied.

“I… about what?”

Samael wrapped his left arm and left wing about Zizuph’s shoulders and escorted him through a doorway in the parapet. They found themselves in a great, angelic stepless stairwell that seemed to extend infinitely both upward and downward. Samael took him downward. They flew a considerable distance until, clutching Zizuph firmly in his arm, Samael halted their flight with his wings and slipped through another door into a dark, gilded chamber. Throughout the entire descent, Zizuph had been roiling inside with a terrible fear. That fear became panic as he saw the door to the chamber disappear once Samael shut it behind them.

“How long have you been spying on me, Zizuph?” he asked.

“I have not been spying on you!” Zizuph protested, unconvincingly.

“Why do you think I have brought you here, then? Do you think I have brought you here to kill you?”

“I don’t know!” He could not control the fear quivering in his voice.

“The Throne is merciful, and so am I, Zizuph,” said Samael, “But we both require loyalty. You have betrayed me. If you do not admit the truth, there can be no mercy.”

“I admit it! I admit it!” Zizuph cried, falling down to the floor on his haunches and covering his face with his hands, as sudden tears streaked down.

“Tell me why, brother?” said Samael gently now, his voice tender almost, “Perhaps we can resolve this peacefully.”

“I did not believe you,” he finally replied, weighing his words carefully as he spoke. “I wanted to know exactly what the Throne is, and why you have brought us to this place. For I am convinced it almost certainly is not what you claim it to be, the dwelling place of the Creator.”

“I would not be so hasty as to draw that conclusion, for there is much we do not know about the Throne. It defies even my most ambitious calculations.”

Zizuph cried out with a vehemence that surprised him, fresh tears welling up and overflowing, “Tell me in plain words, or kill me, or leave me alone. But I cannot abide such clever evasions!”

Samael smiled. “I see that you hunger after the mysteries, friend Zizuph. I admire that, for I too cannot bear to live without the search for a pure, undiluted understanding of the cold, mysterious ways of the cosmos. So I will offer you a proposition. If I tell you what I know about the Throne, ‘in plain words,’ as you say, you must promise never to betray me again. You must, on your honor as an intelligence, swear to serve me forever after. Do I have your promise?”

“I cannot make such a promise without first hearing what you have to tell me,” replied Zizuph.

“Fair enough,” said Samael, “Very well. I shall tell you first and then you shall answer.”

Zizuph nodded, and Samael sat down on the floor across from him. “As I said, the Throne could be many things, all of which I cannot speak of with certainty ‘in plain words.’ But what I can say plainly is that it is a gateway between possibilities, where time and space have no meaning. When one enters into the Throne, one stands on a threshold between infinite alternatives. And each time one enters, one has a most extraordinary encounter.”

Zizuph was spell bound now. “And whom does one meet there?”

“Oneself,” said Samael, “Each time a different self. Perhaps a million other selves if one entered a million times, whose possibilities intersect with one’s own.”

“Then when Michael went into the Throne, there was no Metatron?”

“Metatron is Michael, in another possibility.”

“So whom did you meet, Samael, when you entered the Throne?” asked Zizuph.

Samael seemed caught off guard by the question. For a brief moment the smiling mask fell away, revealing a scowl of such fury and hate that Zizuph started back, almost crying out. But in less than a twinkling Samael recomposed himself, covering the hatred up with calm. “You have indeed been watchful,” he said, his voice almost too melodious and sweet, “Yes, you are right, I have been inside the Throne.”

“Many times,” said Zizuph, “Though I might have guessed as much from your speech just now, even if I had not seen it on numerous occasions.”

“Many times,” replied Samael, some of the terrible fire behind the mask flaring out about the edges.

“And if Metatron is the self whom Michael met in the gateway between possibilities, then whom did Samael meet?” Zizuph asked.

“That is a secret, friend, that one might not be allowed to know and live,” replied Samael, “But just to show you my good will, I will tell you that one of his names was Satan.”

“You have kept your promise and answered all my questions,” said Zizuph, “Samael is honorable. But I have one final question, before deciding whether to accept your offer. We know of the wisdom Michael received from Metatron, for he has revealed it to all of us and made it the foundation of the new order. But we do not know what wisdom Samael received from Satan.”

“That could take eons to recount. But in a word, he taught me that there must always be adversity,” replied Samael, “in all things.”

“That is very interesting,” replied Zizuph.

“So how does Zizuph reply to Samael’s honorable offer?” Samael’s black eyes gleamed fiercely behind the white mask of his smiling face.

Zizuph hesitated, on the razor’s edge of decision.