Free Scorn of Angels by John Patrick Kennedy Page B

the tiger the high point of creation. She had rebelled not out of pride, but from a desire to be free of rules.
    So why did she claim to be a goddess and take Jerusalem? wondered Arcana . To deny it to the Christians and spite God’s will?
    There.
    The large, round building was now part of a mosque. Arcana willed herself to be unseen and landed in front of it. A thought changed her clothes to that of a devoted Muslim man, and another made her sudden appearance in the mosque’s courtyard unnoticed and unremarkable. Anyone there who was asked would just say she had walked in.
    Arcana took off her shoes at the entryway and stepped inside. The prayer hall was mostly empty, as it was between prayers. The carpets on the floor were soft and felt nice on her feet, and the air was clear of the incense that the Christians used in their places of worship. There were a few people praying in the main space, and Arcana walked behind them. She looked hard at the walls, trying to see which were parts of the original.
    “Women are not allowed in this part of the prayer room,” said a stuffy voice from behind her. “And they should not be dressed as men!”
    The man had a long, neatly kept beard and long, clean hair. Like her, he wore a loose robe and hat, and like her, his feet were bare. Surprisingly, he had seen through the glamour that fooled most others. His eyes were clear and seemed free of malice and anger. He was most certainly disapproving of her but was not angry or hurtful. His soul blazed brightly with righteousness.
    Interesting.
    “You are blond,” he said. “Not from here, then, though we have a few blonds. I do not know what the rules are in your mosque, but you come away from here, woman, before you distract the men.”
    “I am not a woman,” said Arcana.
    “You are not a man!” said the man. “That leaves only one other choice.”
    “No,” said Arcana. “It doesn’t.” She turned her attention back to the walls. “How much of the old temple is left?”
    “Temple?” the man practically spluttered on the word. “This is a mosque. It has always been a mosque!”
    Arcana smiled and walked toward the far wall. “No, it hasn’t.”
    The man spluttered again but followed her. “I am the imam of this mosque. The twenty-fifth imam and I tell you this has always been a mosque.”
    “There,” Arcana pointed. “That stonework is older than the rest.”
    “Where?” The imam peered at it. “How can you tell?”
    “Different way of putting the bricks together,” said Arcana. “Different materials.”
    The imam peered at the brick, which had been painted over in a geometric pattern, then back at Arcana. Again he asked, “How can you tell?”
    Arcana stepped back beside the man. “There’s something underneath it.” Her eyes narrowed, and her Angelic vision saw through the new to the old. The mural was worn down long before it had been painted over, but she could still make out images of men and women dancing, playing instruments, and lying in congress with one another. The inlay had been there, but it had been pried from the walls even before the painting had faded. Still, parts of the words remained. Arcana read of how Nyx was goddess of plenty, of fertility, of strength, and of vengeance, and was beloved of…
    Of course the writing ends there.
    “There is nothing beneath there,” said the imam. “You cannot see anything.”
    “All religions are built on the ruins of beliefs that came before,” said Arcana, putting her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Look again.”
    The man looked, and this time he saw the ancient faded mural that lay under the painted patterns. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wide at the graceful and vibrant artwork.
    “How… how did you…”
    He turned and realized he was standing alone.
    In the air over the Mediterranean, Arcana frowned to herself. Nyx as a goddess of plenty? And consort to Tribunal? By the name Tribunal, not Jesus? What was she playing at?
    And was she