Beleth, the terrible King Beleth, is satisfied.
Here before him kneels—yes, kneels—haughty Naberius, head bowed and neck exposed as if for the ax-man's blade. The Marquis' eyes remain properly downcast, and he observes the ancient rite of the silver ring: his raised hand presses the metal firmly to his brow, suggesting both the posture of a man brought low by toiling in dust, and the prayerful attitude of a penitent.
His obeisance is plainly false, but the visiting noble has demonstrated, at least, flawless decorum. Beleth is pleased, and inclined to grant an audience. Lounging in his seat, he raises his wasted hand. The skin stretching across knuckles and finger bones glows like that of an old man, papery and translucent when the light catches it just so. Ancient and formidable, graying but mighty. What matter, that his hair falls pale and dull about his shoulders, and that his antediluvian brow has grown heavy and bristled?
“Music,” he commands, and is answered. The air stirs richly with the sounds of harpsichords, mandolins. Marvelous. About the broad dais, the forms of musicians stand or sit reclined: both vassal devils and those Children of Man within his thrall that the King deems skilled enough, sensitive enough to ply string or horn or drum with a grace like Yaweh's beloved David. They are lithe, lovely.
Here, there is beauty and wisdom—and power in great measure.
Several legions stand at attention within the vast crumbling spaces of his hall, which seems to—and may indeed—stretch for miles. And Naberius, with all his vitality and impertinence, has come to Beleth. A Marquis courting the favor of a King, because the Morning Star had seen in Beleth's ferocity and wisdom the mark of a ruler. Nor is Naberius the only supplicant within these walls: nay, many of the infernal peerage are lately gathered, and Orias, Naberius' equal in rank, stands with visible impatience flanking the great throne. Beleth has granted him permission to stay, to shortly continue the conversation Naberius interrupted with his arrival.
“Rise, Naberius, and be welcome.”
The Marquis complies gracefully: lowering his hand, sheathed in his wings and ornamented only by the burnished ring weighing his pale finger. Lifting his knee from the granite flagstones provokes motes of dust to dance and whirl in the shafts of illumination that fall through each window like sunlight. They open all along the great hall, broad and airy, with an expansive view of the underworld's sky; but this glow washes through them ruddy and fitful—the flames of bonfires, Naberius thinks, lighting this place in a false summer dusk. Hot, oppressively heavy, but thick with the promise of the night ahead.
The sepia tone that this light grants the hall, with its impossible ceilings and diffuse crowd of aristocrats murmuring amongst themselves, hides its lack of repair. Delicate hairline fissures cracking the walls. A film of dust wherever you touch, so that the Princes and the Dukes tread through it and come away with dirty soles, parts of them becoming gray as the King himself.
Beleth peers at Naberius, who wears a flitting smile. It is only now that the Marquis raises his eyes, and the ones that breathe from the impossibly black shadows of his wings gaze into those watching from Beleth's own.
“Hail, O King. Hail, Beleth,” Naberius murmurs, taking a step forward, drawing the circle of their conversation intimately closer. The King does not detect mockery as the lesser noble addresses him: only the bare farce of another devil's tongue, which envies even as it honors, because any of them would wrest his title and his power from Beleth if they could. This is commonly understood.
Naberius' attention flickers briefly to Orias, who smiles back. Sharp. Disdainful.
Contempt for the Marquis exiled by choice from his own country. Who entrusts its affairs to a mere Daughter of Man. Who arrives at the sprawling palace of the King alone, lacking any retinue, with all the prestige of a stray dog. A stray with head held high, skin luminous and beautiful, those narcotic eyes glowing with assurance: as if he has a right to be here, displacing Orias behind the throne, making him wait for whatever trivial nonsense——
“Orias,” Naberius greets him, and Beleth watches the tension slither through the other's frame and lodge in his jaw.
“Naberius,” he answers with thin, livid composure. His lips are drawn taut. “Lord Beleth and I were in the midst of—”
“—important conversation, I'm sure,” Naberius finishes effortlessly, and the smile on his mouth grows sharp-edged and mocking now, in the way it had not for Beleth. Orias snaps his jaw open sharply, but Naberius continues before a retort can form on the other's tongue: “This will take but a moment, Lord Beleth. I've come to propose an exchange. If the terms meet your satisfaction.”
Beleth has only a passing interest in their forming squabble, which does not concern him beyond his role as its focal point. He understands that pride seeks out contention. If not Beleth, then these two would lock wills over any convenient prize.
An exchange is another matter, and Naberius' words snare Beleth's attention immediately. The King tightens his hand on the arm of his throne, leaning forward several degrees with appropriately reserved interest. The absent rustle of his wings spills frankincense perfume. Several of the courtiers scattered about the hall have likewise turned their attention toward the lavish dais—draped in heavy velvet, carved with graceful culs-de-lampe that support figures of devils both fanciful and noble—in order to observe.
Beleth exudes patience. “What do you propose?”
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