Read White Heart of Justice for Free Online Page B

this side of Metatron’s history before. All I knew was the history that everyone knew: Metatron, a medieval Angel scribe, had supposedly fallen in love with Justica. He’d spent the better part of his life traveling around Halja in a rickety old oxcart bringing news from outpost to outpost and adjudicating small disputes along the way. That his judgment was illegal and highly unenforceable is often glossed over in the histories because Metatron had been such an extraordinary Angel. The Host viewed him as an inscrutable inventor, whose magical devices had varying degrees of success. His most famous creations were supposedly made for Justica. He made numerous sets of ensorcelled Sanguine Scales (which he no doubt sold for exorbitant sums of money to outposts desperate for an “easy” way to dispense justice; their judgment was rumored to be less fair than a coin toss and their punishment to be cruel and extreme). He is also said to have made at least one sword for Justica, which Metatron claimed was his
magnum opus
. He was nothing if not a consummate showman and salesman. I knew some Angels viewed his legacy with a gimlet eye, but I hadn’t realized an entire order had sprung up to fight against it.
    â€œThe Amanita believe that Metatron’s work defied everything an Angel stood for, because he practiced perennial magic more than faith magic.”
    I nodded. That made sense. The Angels’ identities and magic was tied with their faith.
If Metatron hadn’t put his faith first, could he even be called an Angel?
But Rafe scoffed when he saw my nod.
    â€œThe Amanita practice perennial magic though. When they are infrequently asked to justify their hypocritical practices they respond with platitudes like
similia similibus curantur
.”
    â€œFight fire with fire,” I murmured.
    Rafe grunted. “An Angel would probably say
like cures like
.”
    â€œAnd what do you say?”
    â€œValda has her own vision of how the world should work and that vision isn’t always in sync with the more mainstream Divinity’s vision. Or mine. All Angels have faith. But each of us practices it in a different way.”
    I knew then that Rafe would say no more, but it was enough. The fact that Valda Sinclair was one of the Amanita went a long way in explaining the chilliness I’d sensed from her this morning and in the memory that I now had of Rafe’s brother’s funeral. I squeezed his arm in sympathy as a thought suddenly occurred to me.
    â€œRemember how we destroyed Justica last semester?”
    â€œWe?”
Rafe cocked a brow at me.
    â€œWell, I mean
I
did. But then you recast her . . .”
    â€œIn your image,” he said, laughing now. “How could I forget?”
    â€œWant a chance to make amends?”
    â€œAbsolutely not,” he said.
    â€œCome on,” I said, dragging him to his feet. Now that my injuries were healed I was full of energy. “I’m not talking about carving anything from stone or casting anything with magic. Let’s make her out of snow. No one has yet.”
    â€œWhat will we win?”
    I shrugged. “A rusty ax? A paper ice pick? Who cares? The fun is carving them, right?”
    Two hours later we’d recast Justica out of snow. Our snow carving was three times as big as anyone else’s and we’d added something that no one else had—an Angel. There, in the center of St. Luck’s and the Joshua School, we’d carved Justica and Metatron in a wintery clinch. Justica had Metatron bent back over her arm. Her snow white hair seemed to writhe in the wind as she lowered her face to his. In our frozen tableau, her love for him was irrefutable.
    We would either win the Festival of Frivolity’s snow carving contest or we’d both be kicked out of school.
    *   *   *
    T ired as I was later that night, I forced myself to read the two residency offers that Karanos had handed