Angelica (11 page)

“Have you been playing with your nephews? I saw you holding one a few moments ago. I know you miss them.”

“Yes, very much,” she said.

He squeezed her shoulder. “You could have a baby of your own, you know,” he said. “Then you would not miss them so deeply.”

“Or I could live with the Tachitas again, and then I would not have to miss them at all.”

“No, no, I would not like that,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “It would be much better for you to stay with the Lohoras and bear your children for my clan.”

She came to an abrupt halt, and he stumbled and dropped his arm and came around to face her. “But not with you, Dathan,” she said clearly. “I would not choose to have your children until I was sure that you would be prepared to be a good father to them, and a faithful lover to me, and I do not think that day will ever come—when I am sure of you.”

“Don't say such a thing, Susannah,” he said. “You can be sure of me. There is no one and nothing I love as much as I love you.”

“Dathan, you spent last night in the arms of another girl!”

“That's not true!” he said swiftly.

“You did not sleep in your own tent.”

“And neither did you!” he shot back.

“Oh, yes! I slept in the tent of my brother's providing. Four others can testify to that. But your sister cannot tell me where you spent the night—and I don't think you have the nerve to.”

“I didn't want to tell you because I knew you would be angry! But we were drinking—I was, and some of the Tachitas, and a few Lohoras, but not very many. And the hour grew late, and we were embarrassed to crawl back to our tents, smelling of wine, so we slept under the stars and had rocks under our ribs and woke in the morning feeling very sorry for ourselves. And it is not a very responsible thing to
have done, but it is not as bad as what you believe of me!”

She stared at him a long time, trying to read his face, trying to gauge how much of the story was true. No doubt his evening had ended under the stars in the company of the revelers, but how had it begun? Where had he gone once the singing stopped and everyone left the communal fire?

“Cozbi is a good girl, and a truthful one,” she said slowly. “If I ask her something, she will tell me. Shall I find her right now, and ask her where she spent her evening? Are you at all afraid of the answer she might give me?”

Dathan flung himself away from her and began following the rest of the caravan, now a good twenty yards beyond them. “I don't care! Ask what you like! But you shame me and yourself by proving to everyone that you don't trust me.”

She followed him more slowly. Was that a bluff? Did he really think she would not ask? Or was he truly innocent, this time, truly willing to have her know every detail of his evening?

And even if he was telling the truth, this time, could she bear to spend the rest of her life questioning his activities every time he was out of her sight? Was that any way to live, suspicious and hard-hearted and angry? But was it possible to live without him?

She strode on alone for a few moments in a state of blind despair. She had not gone very far when Dathan fell in step beside her, having waited for her after all. She glanced up at him, giving him a small, unhappy smile. Neither of them said anything, but neither of them pulled away.

That night, to soothe everyone's frayed nerves, Susannah's two families set up their tents side by side and shared a common campfire. Bartholomew joined them just for the company. Anna and Tirza insisted that Ruth sit still and tend her baby while they made the meal for both tents, and Keren was unexpectedly charming as she entertained the two-year-old. The men built up the fire, and Susannah's father and Eleazar held a grave discussion about the proper way to strike a tent in the middle of a rainstorm. Susannah thought, as she looked over the whole busy group, that she wished they could travel together forever, all the people she loved
in one small caravan. That would truly be the god's paradise on earth.

They had just settled themselves down to eat dinner, all of them laughing as they crowded close around the fire, when they heard a ripple of wonder run through the whole mingled campsite. It was low and instantly silenced, for the Edori did not believe in showing much astonishment, but the attention of the whole camp was soon directed upward. The adults tilted their heads casually toward the sky, and a few children pointed, but they were determined not to be amazed at the apparition forming overhead.

And rapidly descending.

It was an angel, a man, oddly dressed in scanty leather flying gear and appearing, from this angle, twice the size of any ordinary human. His wings, spread to their widest to cushion his landing, looked big enough to wrap twice around a standing tent. The sun was behind him, so it was hard to see more of him than his graceful, gorgeous shape, like something out of a legend or a ballad. “And then an angel of the god appeared and said, ‘Do not be afraid . . .' ”

And Susannah was not afraid, not exactly, but a little thrill of apprehension ran along her veins. Never in her life had she seen a sight so imposing and so magnificent as this: an angel landing beside her campfire at sunset and stepping forward, out of the mystery of his own shadow, to resolve into a grave and earnest man.

T
he little Jansai girl had told them nothing. That whole slow, weary flight back to the Eyrie, she had slept in Zibiah's arms, waking once in a while to utter a few whimpering cries, and then sleeping again when the angel offered her a soothing lullaby.

It was past midnight when they landed on the Eyrie's plateau and Zibiah, exhausted, laid her burden on the stone itself. Gaaron said to Nicholas, “Get Esther.”

“She'll be asleep,” Nicholas said.

“Wake her.”

Esther, when she arrived, looked even more sharp-featured and irritable than when she hadn't been woken from a pleasant dream, but she quickly took charge of the situation. “We'll take her to that little room down the hall from Miriam. No one's using it now, and I know the linens are clean. I'll bring her some food and water and stay beside her tonight.”

“Zibiah, you stay as well.”

Zibiah turned to him with her eyes wide and smoky with fatigue. “If you want,” she said.

Gaaron put a hand on her shoulder as if to offer her some of his own strength. “She trusts you,” he said gently. “At
least a little bit. You can sleep while she sleeps. Just—stay with her for now.”

Zibiah nodded mutely and stumbled down the hall after Esther.

Gaaron went to his room and composed a note to Adriel, describing what they'd found and why they'd gone to southern Bethel in the first place. The Archangel might have better theories than he had—or more information about similar bizarre occurrences in other parts of Samaria.

Next he headed up to the cupola, where four voices were performing a quiet cantata, and waited till the current song ended. Then he motioned to Ahio, the only angel in the group, and drew him a few feet away so as not to disturb the other three singers, who stared after them in frank curiosity.

“Are you rested enough to start out for Windy Point tonight?” Gaaron asked. “Or have you been up all day and night, as usual?”

Ahio grinned. He was a relaxed and easygoing young man who seemed to get along effortlessly with everyone in the hold, male and female, angel and mortal. A little lazy, Gaaron had always thought him, though he never appeared to be shirking his duties or shifting his responsibilities to others. Perhaps it was his casual approach to everything that gave the appearance of indolence.

“I've slept well and deeply in the past day, thank you very much for your concern,” Ahio replied. “I can easily start off for Windy Point. Do you need to await a reply from Adriel?”

“Yes, I'm sure she'll want to send one.”

Ahio cocked his head to one side. He was fair-haired, dark-eyed, and strongly built. Gaaron had always thought he looked like an angel straight out of the Librera, except for the cheerfulness of his face. Librera angels always came across as stern and wrathful, meting out the justice of the god.

“It must be something fairly important to send me off to Jordana in the middle of the night,” Ahio said. Not asking outright, but making it clear he would like to know the story.

Gaaron hesitated, then shrugged. Not a chance that
Nicholas and Zibiah would not spread this story to everyone in the hold within the half hour. “We went to southern Bethel today—yesterday, I guess—to find some farmers that Nicholas said had seen a strange man appearing and disappearing.”

Ahio nodded. “Seemed like an unlikely tale.”

Gaaron snorted. “I agree, but the farmers held to their story, and I have to say, if it was true, it's an alarming one. Because there's nowhere in those fields where someone could hide.”

“And this is what you want to tell Adriel?”

Gaaron shook his head. “No. Well, that's part of it. As we flew back, we came across a campsite that had been . . .” Gaaron spread his hands, unequal to finding the right word. “Annihilated. Burned beyond recognition. Men, horses, wagons, everything. I cannot imagine what kind of fire caused that kind of destruction. And then, not far from the campsite, we found a Jansai girl, maybe ten years old. Zibiah carried her back here. I'm assuming she was a little distance from the camp when it was destroyed, and maybe she can tell us what happened. But—at least so far—she won't speak to us. Maybe in the morning, when she's calmer. But I'm not so sure. In any case, Adriel needs to know.”

Ahio nodded. “Let me pack some food, and I'll leave within the hour.”

“Thank you,” Gaaron said gravely.

Ahio flashed that easy smile. “I am happy to be of service to the Archangel-elect.”

And that sort of flippancy,
Gaaron thought as he made his way down to his own quarters,
is exactly the sort of thing that makes me doubtful of Ahio.
But perhaps he had meant it. Perhaps, like Nicholas, he was proud to be a member of the hold that could boast the next Archangel of Samaria. And perhaps he also admired the angel who would lead all the hosts and guard the entire realm for the next twenty years. Gaaron had admired his own father, in the moments he hadn't hated him. Admired him for his decisiveness, his strength of purpose, his unswervable will.

Hated him for almost everything else.

Gaaron pushed open the door to his room, half expecting
some other crisis to be perched in one of his chairs, awaiting his arrival. But no, the room was blessedly empty, mercifully quiet. Gaaron stripped off his flying leathers, gave his face and upper body a cursory wash in the water room, and fell into bed. He did not have another thought till morning.

He woke to find Miriam curled up in the big armchair under his window, reading a book. The sunlight fell in through the open shutter as if it had tripped over the sill in astonishment at the sight of her pretty face. It lit her blond hair like a restless wick and made a moving flame of her head as she glanced from side to side.

When she saw Gaaron's eyes were open, she jumped up and went to sit on the edge of his bed. She looked very young and extremely pleased.

“Gaaron! When I told you to come back from the southern farms with an interesting story, I did not really think you would succeed so dramatically,” she said.

He smiled, and lifted a hand, briefly, to touch that blond hair. Once she moved out of direct sunlight it was not quite as lambent but still full of its own self-important luster. “So you've heard the news,” he said. “How is the little Jansai girl this morning?”

Miriam grew instantly serious. “Not so good. She's refusing to eat and she won't let anyone but Zibiah near her. Poor Zib is just exhausted, but the girl won't stop clinging to her, and, of course, Zibiah won't leave her side.”

“Good for Zibiah,” Gaaron said, sitting up in bed and reaching for a glass of water. Sweet Jovah singing, he was tired. “What about Esther? Isn't she helping out?”

“The Jansai girl hates her,” Miriam said with a certain smugness. “Screams every time Esther comes in the room.”

Gaaron could not help but grin at that. “And you? Have you tried to take a turn?”

Miriam nodded. “Yes, and she let me stay in the room, at least. She actually slept a little bit when Zibiah and I sang a couple of lullabies. And she drank some water. But she won't eat. And she won't talk. Gaaron, what happened to her?”

Gaaron told his version of the story, though he was pretty
sure she had gotten accounts from both Nicholas and Zibiah already. “And if she were just any ordinary girl, no doubt she would be traumatized and unable to speak for a day or two, but a Jansai . . .” He shrugged. “I doubt we'll ever get her to tell us what happened.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He yawned mightily, unable to stop himself. If he was this tired, he could only imagine how Zibiah must feel. “As soon as Ahio comes back from Windy Point, I'm going to fly out to Breven and see if I can convince one of the Jansai to come back here,” he said. “Surely she'll talk to one of her own people. Maybe we'll learn something then.”

Miriam smiled. “That's what I told Zibiah,” she said.

“You told her that I would fly out to Breven?”

“No, I told her that you would know what to do.”

Gaaron regarded his sister helplessly for a moment. She looked completely sincere. So many souls relying on him—Nicholas, Ahio, Miriam, Esther, everyone in the hold—so many truly believing that he knew, he always knew, exactly what to do all of the time. He felt that familiar weight settle onto his back, and he straightened up in bed to help him catch his balance.

“Well, all I want to do right now is get up and put on some clothes,” Gaaron said. “So out you go. I'll check in with you later.”

She scooted out the door, and he slowly rose and dressed. It was a day in which not much could be accomplished; certainly he could not expect a reply from Adriel before tomorrow. It would take Ahio eighteen hours or more to fly to Windy Point, and he would have to rest both on the way and before he attempted the flight back.

It occurred to Gaaron only after breakfast that he did not have to await the Archangel's reply before he set off for Breven to make his own inquiries.

He paused in his eating to consider this. Adriel might have similar tales to tell him, of random fires on the Jordana plains or strange men flickering in and out of view right on the edge of the Caitana Mountains, but he could not imagine that, even if she did, she had interpreted these events any more definitively than he had. And he needed to get to Breven as
soon as he could, to inform the Jansai that one of their own was even now recuperating in the Eyrie hold. Adriel's reply could wait upon his own return; he need not waste any more time.

Therefore, as soon as he finished his meal, he called to Esther and asked her to fix him a pouch of traveling rations. She looked disapproving, for she never liked it when he was gone from the hold overnight, but all she said was, “How many days will you be gone?”

Two days to fly to Breven—a few hours there—a night of rest—two days to fly back. “At least two days' worth. I'll get food for the return journey there,” he said. “I'll leave within the hour.”

Then he had to seek out Miriam, to tell her where he was going, and inform the other angels that he would be gone a few days; they must take turns greeting the petitioners who arrived, looking for mediation. It was a matter of a few minutes to pack several changes of clothes, for he required no formal wear to visit with the Jansai. He slung a pack over his shoulder, carefully fitting the strap between the joints of his wings and cinching it around his waist so that it did not inconvenience him while he was flying. He flexed his shoulders. The fit was perfect.

Once he had picked up his food, he was off. The morning was clean and as sweet-scented as freshly washed laundry, and the air felt as soft against his skin as well-worn cotton. He was traveling alone; he could fly as high and as fast as he liked, which, today, was very high and very fast. His skin prickled with the cold of the upper atmosphere, but the sensation invigorated him. Most of his life, he was too warm. Like all angels, he had hot blood designed to withstand the frigid air at high altitudes—and he, with his big body and bulky muscles, had an even higher temperature than most. It was always a relief to him to plunge upward, into the icy reaches of the heavens, and it was even better when the unfriendly color of night enhanced the illusion of chill. He preferred the winter feel of starlight on his skin.

He flew on for hours without stopping, crossing the Galilee River before he even considered touching down for a rest. A quick break for food, then he was aloft again, winging
on toward the coast, just south of the Caitanas and a little east of the mountain range that turned this edge of Jordana into a desert. He was feeling strong and relaxed, well into his easy rhythm of downbeat and upswing, and thought perhaps he could fly straight through to Breven without stopping for the night. But that was stupid. He would arrive dull and tired and incoherent, and a man always needed his wits about him when dealing with the Jansai.

So he dropped down to cruising altitude and began to scan the ground below him for a pattern of lights that would indicate a town big enough to boast an inn. He found one about an hour later, though it wasn't much of a town or, in fact, much of an inn. The proprietor, a thin and balding older man, wore a calculating expression that just now was overlaid with awe at the angel's arrival.

“My best room—that you'll have—my very best room,” the man chattered, scrawling something down in his desktop ledger.

In lieu of payment, Gaaron flashed his bracelets, universal currency for angels on the road. They were thick gold bands set with a triangular pattern of sapphires—the blue gems to represent the Eyrie, the pattern to signify Gaaron's lineage. The Eyrie would accordingly be charged for Gaaron's stay. “I would prefer that no one wake me in the morning,” Gaaron said. “But you may not see me anyway, since I will be on my way early.”

“Very good. As the angelo wishes. This way, please.”

The room was small, the bed lumpy, and the heat high. Gaaron cleaned himself up and then lay down gingerly, seeking an easy place to rest his spine so that his wing joints did not dig into the mattress. There appeared to be no comfortable spot on this bed. He groaned, turned to his side, and prepared to spend a miserable night.