Angelica (5 page)

“I have been meaning to come for the past few weeks,” he said, accepting the chair she indicated. She brought her chair closer, till only a small table separated them. “To inquire after your health, if nothing else. Are you as strong as ever?”

She smiled; it was something of a joke. “I will outlive you,” she promised. She turned to the young acolyte and requested food and drink to be brought to them. The girl bowed and departed.

“I have never seen any but young women serving you here,” Gaaron remarked. “Is that because you find young men too rowdy and high-spirited, or because you think they cannot be trusted to serve the god with the attention he requires?”

Mahalah smiled, then sighed. “No, it is because of a stupid decision made fifty years ago, and I would very much like to reverse it. It happened around the time I came to be oracle here and Isaac stepped into the post at Mount Sudan. Before then, all the oracles had accepted both boys and girls as acolytes, but there had been some trouble at Mount Sudan. Too much intermingling between the sexes, with the result that—well, there were some unwanted pregnancies and a few young people sent home in disgrace. I am not a prude,” she added quickly, “but two of those girls were barely fifteen. So Isaac decreed that he would only induct boys at Mount Sinai, to prevent such trouble in the future. And I immediately said that I would accept only girls here, just so the god did not perceive any favoritism among us. But I am a little sorry sometimes. I love my girls, but I miss the energy and chaos that boys can bring.”

Gaaron grinned. “Take it from me, girls can bring just as much chaos if they put their minds to it.”

She smiled back. “Which leads me to ask, how is your sister?”

Now he grimaced. “Miriam is . . . Miriam. She is not very happy with me these days. I interfere too much in her life.”

“It wouldn't matter if you didn't interfere in her life at
all. She would still be restless and turbulent. That is the nature of the woman who bears such a name.”

Before he could reply, the acolyte entered again with a tray of refreshments. She set it on the table between them, bowed, and left the room soundlessly.

Gaaron absently filled his plate; his mind was on the last thing Mahalah had said. “Her name has a meaning? I thought it was just one of the names from the Librera.”

“As is mine, and yours, and everybody's,” Mahalah replied. “But, yes, most of those names did at one time mean something. You, for instance. Gabriel Aaron. Your names mean ‘God is my strength' and ‘mountain of strength'—so you see, you were very well named. Mine isn't so clear in translation, some texts say it means ‘dancer' and some say ‘harpist.' And Miriam—well, the name means ‘rebellion.' Of all of us, perhaps, she was the most aptly called.”

“I thought the names were just . . .” Gaaron shrugged, then smiled. “A collection of pleasing syllables.”

“Yes, we have forgotten much in the centuries since we have been on Samaria,” Mahalah said in a regretful voice. “We came to this place knowing a great deal—about the world our people lived on before, about the way we arrived on this world, about the order of the stars and the planets above us. We've lost all that. We've lost our history.” She snorted. “We've even lost our language, to some extent. Can you read the Librera? Not one in five can. Maybe not one in ten. Our language has changed, and some of the words in the great book are lost to us. How much more will we lose as the centuries roll on? Two hundred years from now, what else will we have forgotten?”

Gaaron listened, frowning. “But what have we lost? We know that Jovah carried us away from the world where our fathers lived because there was such hatred and dissonance there that he feared we would all die in a fire of self-destruction. And that he brought us here to Samaria, and bid us live in harmony—as we have done. And because technology brought about the weapons that led to the ruin of our old world, we have chosen to do without technology on our new one. What else is there to know? What important parts have we forgotten?”

She leaned forward, her black eyes intense. “How did he bring us here? Through what method?”

Gaaron sat back, perplexed. “He carried us here in his hands. So the Librera says.”

“And can you read the Librera?” she shot back.

“I—a few words—not whole chapters,” he said.

“So you cannot translate the passage about how his hands wrapped about us and ferried us through the stars to this planet. But don't you wonder about that? Just a little? How his hands held us? There were hundreds in that first settlement. Whose hands are big enough to hold that many lives at once?”

Gaaron smiled a little. “Oracle, are you speaking blasphemy?”

She settled back in her wheeled chair and shook her head. “No, I am sighing over the ignorance of the world,” she said. “I am a devout woman, but I have always had a lot of questions. It amazes me that more people do not have the same questions.”

“Most people are too busy trying to organize their lives to trouble themselves with questions of theology,” he said.

“Questions of theology are far more interesting, in most cases,” she said dryly.

“Well, I come to you today with my own question that I hope you—or the god—can answer,” Gaaron said.

“You will be Archangel in eight months, and you want to ask the god who your angelica should be.”

He nodded. “If that would not be too much trouble.”

She took hold of the wheels of her chair and turned herself away from the table. “No trouble at all. Perhaps we should have attended to this matter sooner, but there has seemed to be no rush. With everything so peaceful in the realm, the choice of angelica has not seemed to be such a pressing concern.”

“It is a pressing concern to
me
, since I will marry her,” said Gaaron, rising and following her as she rolled over to the far side of the room. She came to a stop before a glowing blue plate set into the wall. It was surrounded with knobs and buttons, all offering to perform mysterious functions that only an oracle would understand. Gaaron stood back
respectfully. Through this interface, as it was called, Mahalah would communicate with the god. She could ask the god any question and have an answer returned—though not always, so Gaaron had been led to believe, an answer that was easy to decipher.

Mahalah twisted a few of the knobs and then skimmed her fingers over some of the buttons in quick, decisive motions. “I should first ask you,” she said over her shoulder, “if there is someone for whom you have a preference. A Manadavvi girl, for instance, or one of the mortals living at Windy Point.”

“Not at the moment,” Gaaron admitted, casting his mind over the wellborn women of his acquaintance. No one of that group, in particular, whom he would choose as a lifemate—but none so dreadful that he would stand here and hope Jovah did not announce her name. “I have had little time for—for forming attachments since my father died. The responsibilities of running the hold and watching over Miriam have kept me pretty well occupied.”

Mahalah looked up at him with a sly grin, an unexpected expression on such a wise old face. “Still, that doesn't mean some enterprising young woman wouldn't have decided to make you her main occupation,” she said. “In fact, I'm surprised to learn there aren't mobs of eligible girls throwing themselves at you. To be angelica to the Archangel! That's a goal worth pursuing, even if the man himself isn't exactly to your taste.”

“Thank you,” Gaaron said politely. “I will now look with suspicion upon any woman who seems to show the slightest interest in me.”

Mahalah laughed and fiddled with more of the controls. The colors on the iridescent plate flickered and changed, and strange characters began to scroll slowly down the screen. Not, apparently, words or sentences that Mahalah had any interest in, because she kept talking. “What about Zebedee Lesh's daughter? She seemed awfully attentive to you last time I saw you both at Windy Point.”

“She's very nice,” Gaaron said, a little surprised. “I didn't notice that she was particularly attentive.”

“She came to the dinner all but naked to attract your
attention,” Mahalah said. “But it appears she failed in that goal. Oh, and what's her name? Stephen's daughter, at Monteverde. She's the daughter of an angel. She knows what life at a hold is all about.”

Gaaron dutifully summoned up an image of Neri's niece, a dark, sleek girl with unfathomable eyes. “Chana,” he supplied. “Yes, she seems very likable. Quiet, I think. I haven't talked to her all that much.”

“Not for her lack of trying, I'd guess,” Mahalah said. “So you can't come up with any preferences on your own?”

Gaaron was watching the screen, where the scrolling letters had, for the moment, stopped. A tiny dark blue light in the corner of the screen flashed a constant quick signal, seeming to adjure the two of them to wait a moment while the god considered possibilities. It reminded Gaaron of someone tapping his finger while he paused in thought. “I didn't think the god took into account the preferences of the parties involved,” Gaaron said. “I had always heard that Jovah chose angelicas and angelicos at his own discretion, and did not consult the Archangels as to where their hearts might be given.”

“That is generally true,” Mahalah acknowledged. “But in my experience, if the oracle informs Jovah—in a very neutral way, of course—that the Archangel already has emotional ties somewhere, Jovah might weigh that fact when he makes his selection.”

Gaaron smiled. “So then, when Adriel was named Archangel, you or one of the other oracles told the god that she was already attached to Moshe? And that is why Jovah declared him to be angelico?”

“That might have been how it worked,” Mahalah said. “It was more than twenty years ago. My memory is not so good.”

“Your memory is perfect,” Gaaron retorted.

“In general, however, you are right,” Mahalah pursued. “The god is less interested in the state of your heart than in the state of the realm. He chooses—or so they say—someone who is your exact opposite in many ways. If you are cold, she will be warmhearted. If you are arrogant, she will be
humble. If you are a doubter, she will be a fanatic. He is interested in balance.”

“I am a pragmatic man,” Gaaron said. “Does that mean he will choose for me an irresponsible spendthrift? That does not sound so promising.”

Mahalah laughed. The blinking light had stopped, and now she was busily keying in more strange hieroglyphics. “Perhaps I didn't say it just right,” she said. “Since you are a levelheaded and practical man, who does not even notice when women are throwing themselves at you, perhaps she will be a dazzling creature of so much loveliness you cannot look away. Or perhaps she will be hideously ugly but with such luminosity in her soul that she forces you to reevaluate your standards of beauty. There will be something about her that will change you fundamentally, but in a good way. That is what the god achieves when he chooses a spouse. He stirs you up. He brings you forth.” She hit a key, then waited expectantly. “That is the theory, anyway. We shall see what he offers
you
.”

A few words came up on the screen, a small scrawl in the middle of the gleaming glass. Even Gaaron could read the words, for they were just a handful of names.

“Susannah sia Tachita,” Gaaron said out loud. Then again, “Susannah sia Tachita . . .”

There was a long pause before Mahalah swung her chair around to face Gaaron. Even her wise face looked shocked. “She's an Edori,” the oracle said.

Gaaron nodded. “So it would appear.”

“Do you even
know
any Edori?” Mahalah asked.

He shook his head. “I've met a few. Here and there, mostly in Luminaux. There have always been a few tribes at the Gloria, so I've talked to a few of them there. They've always been friendly. But—they don't really seem to need much from the angels, or from anybody. Even the Jansai we trade with on a regular basis. But the Edori . . .” He shrugged. “They are strangers to me.”

Mahalah was watching him. “Perhaps that was why Jovah chose her, then,” she said. “So that you could bring them into the fold. Make them a bigger part of our lives. Help us understand them.”

He nodded again. He felt numb, a little unreal. He had expected to be surprised by the god's choice, but this was more than surprising. This was catastrophic. Yet he was a servant of the god. He would not question and he would not defy. “Has she—but I suppose she must have been. I did not think—”

“What?” Mahalah said. “You're making no sense.”

“Has she been dedicated to the god, then?” he said. “I did not think the Edori ever were.”

Involuntarily, his hand went to the acorn-sized crystal in his right arm, high up under his biceps. The Kiss of the god had been installed there shortly after he was born, as it was for all true believers and their progeny. It was by these Kisses that the god could track them, knew if they were well or ailing, could gauge the states of their hearts. Some of the more romantically minded said that when true lovers met for the first time, their Kisses would light with a frenzied fire, but Gaaron had never known anyone who claimed such a thing had happened to them. Of course, perhaps no one he knew had ever found their true love.