Angelica (6 page)

“It is rare for an Edori to be dedicated,” Mahalah admitted. “But not unheard of. Particularly among Edori who intermarry with other mortals, more devout ones. They often dedicate their children.”

“And so this Susannah—she is a product of such an intermarriage?” Gaaron said. It was impossible to make it sound as though he was not speaking with an effort.

Mahalah tapped a few more knobs and scanned the text that appeared before her. “Not according to this,” she said. “She appears to come from a long line of pure-blooded Edori. Perhaps as far back as the founding of Samaria.” She glanced up at him, smiling. “Perhaps she is one of the original descendants of Amos Edor himself.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “One of the first colonists. Never mind. What matters now is that you find her fairly quickly and explain to her the honor in store for her. She might not be as thrilled as a Manadavvi girl would be to learn she is to become the wife of the Archangel.”

“And where do I find her? Does Jovah tell me that?”

“No. I do not think the Kiss imparts information that we might find helpful but for which the god has no particular use. He can only tell us her name and her lineage, not where she is right now.”

“Then I have a challenge before me.”

“I'm afraid you do. But you have time—to find her, anyway, if not to woo her. That may take even longer.”

“Sweet Jovah singing,” Gaaron said under his breath. “Well, let me set out then on my appointed task—to go about the wooing of my Edori bride.”

B
ut Gaaron did not immediately get an opportunity to set out looking for his bride. He did not return to the Eyrie until very late that night, for he stayed at Mount Sinai to have dinner with Mahalah and some of her more senior acolytes, and then he insisted on flying home instead of staying till morning. Even more than flying at high, risky altitudes, Gaaron liked to fly at night. The sky was a blackness before him, generously spread with sleet-sized drops of icy starlight. The earth was a blackness below him, lit at distant, irregular intervals by sharp points of light—the clustered candles of a small village, the few winking lamps of a lonely farmhouse, the bright warm circle of an Edori campfire. More than once he was tempted to swing down to that Edori camp and introduce himself, inquire after the women of the clan and ask if any of them could point him to the Tachitas. But it was late. And he was tired. And such a midnight visit would make him feel like a fool.

He would feel like a fool by daylight, too.

It was not far from dawn when he touched down on the Eyrie's broad plateau, pausing a moment to savor the blended harmonies of the singers taking this late shift. He could not positively identify either of the male voices, but the soprano
was definitely Miriam. And why wasn't she lying quietly in her bed, innocently sleeping? He was too tired to go and ask. He spared a moment to try to remember if he had signed up for any singing sessions tomorrow, particularly any morning ones, and was relieved to recall that he had not. He went straight to his room and directly to bed.

The morning was consumed by tasks he had eluded by leaving the premises the day before—a conference with Esther, the perusal of a note from Adriel, a meeting with one of the angels Neri had sent down from Monteverde with some trifling piece of news that could have waited for a month to be shared. He found a few minutes to look for Miriam, but she was still sleeping and he did not want to wake her.

He realized, in a moment of brief and somewhat helpless humor, that his life was bounded by women. The Archangel—the leader of the host at Monteverde—his steward—his sister—his oracle—all were women. And now that he must bring a wife into the hold, he would be adding one more female to the mix.

Lucky for him, he considered himself levelheaded enough to understand their logic, cut through their emotions, value their insights, and accept their gifts. Most days . . .

He had barely finished breakfast in the formal dining hall when Nicholas came bounding in, all dark glancing energy and slim, quivering wings. “Gaaron! You're back! You haven't gone to southern Bethel yet, have you? Not without me?”

Gaaron rose. “I wouldn't think of going without you. I had hoped to go this afternoon, but I'm afraid there is a tangle of things to cut through today. Would tomorrow morning suit you?”

“Yes, and Zibiah as well.” At Gaaron's look of surprise, Nicholas rushed on. “Well, I told her about it! And she said she would like to go and see this disappearing man for herself.”

“If he really has disappeared, I doubt any of us will see him, but she is welcome to come along,” Gaaron said. “Anyone else you would like to add to the party?”

“Not so far,” Nicholas said with a grin. “I'll ask around.”

Before Gaaron could answer, a small storm of boys burst into the dining room like thunderclouds exploding. Four of them appeared to be chasing two others, and the yelps and shouts and threats of violence were accompanied by the crashing of chairs and tables as they trampled through the furniture arrangements of the room. Esther, never far off when a crisis beckoned, darted into the room and began adding her own strident tirade to the noise, but the boys paid no attention. The four bigger ones had cornered the two smaller ones and Gaaron saw, to his dismay, that it appeared to be angels versus mortals, four to two.

“Give that back! You stole that from the storeroom yesterday, and I looked for it all day! Give that back and get out of here, you rotten children!”

Esther's voice had no effect at all, nor did Nicholas' easy admonition of “Quiet down, now, can't you see people are eating still?” One of the mortal boys let out a shrill shriek of apprehension.

Gaaron was on his feet and across the room before any of the young angels realized he was even in the room. “Jude. Zack. All of you. Stand back,” Gaaron said in a stern voice.

There was sudden and immediate silence in the room.

All six of the boys cowered back from the shape of the avenging angel so unexpectedly appearing before them. Jude and Zack, who were big and bulky for thirteen-year-olds, tried to show defiance, but a momentary spike of fear tightened both of their young faces. The mortal boys were only nine or ten, small-boned and delicate as so many of the full-blooded humans were. Gaaron felt even more huge next to them.

But he was, for one of the rare occasions in his life, deliberately using his size to his advantage, and he made no effort not to look imposing.

“What's going on here?” he said in a slow, ominous voice.

“Nothing,” Zack said sulkily.

“I said,” Gaaron repeated even more slowly, “what's going on?”

“They took something of ours,” Jude said.

“Did not!” one of the young boys burst out. “It wasn't yours! You stole it!”

“Yes, yesterday they were down—” Esther's voice started in, but Gaaron flung up a hand to stop her. She fell silent.

“Zack?” Gaaron asked, keeping the weight of his gaze on the black-haired boy, the biggest of the group, and the most consistent bully of the hold. “What happened?”

Zack hunched his shoulders. “We was down in the—”

“We were,” Gaaron interrupted.

“We
were
down in the storerooms yesterday, and we found some stuff, and it didn't look like nobody was using it—”

“It didn't look like anybody was using it,” Gaaron corrected. His voice was unshakably patient; he knew he sounded as if he was willing to stand there all day, hearing the stupid story, enforcing rules of grammar and manners as well as addressing larger ethical issues. In fact, he would have preferred to spend his time almost any other way—but this, too, was one of his duties, and he would perform it as painstakingly as the task required.

“So we took it,” Zack finished up.

“And what did you take?” Gaaron asked. “Show me.”

“Don't have it anymore,” Zack said. “Silas took it.”

“Tell me, then.”

Zack looked down, looked up, looked down again. “Flute,” he said.

Gaaron hid his surprise. He had been expecting something much more reprehensible. “Why?” he said.

“ 'Cause he's stupid, and he takes things just because he
can
,” Silas burst out.

Gaaron transferred his gaze to the mortal. He knew he shouldn't despise the small pale boy for his size and fairness, but he'd never liked Silas. Too whiny, too fragile. “I believe I asked Zack why he took it,” Gaaron said, and Silas fell to studying the scuff marks on the toes of his shoes.

“ 'Cause I wanted it,” Zack said. He tossed his dark head. He was half brother to Nicholas, though neither acknowledged the connection. His mother had been an angel-seeker, one of the women who frequented the hold hoping to catch the attention of an angel and, with any stroke of luck, bear
an angel child. Nicholas' mother, by contrast, had been a Manadavvi heiress who didn't believe in consorting with such inferior persons, and wouldn't allow her son to do so, either. Gaaron sometimes wasn't sure which of the three parents most disgusted him by their behavior.

“Wanted it to—?”

Zack shrugged. “To play it, maybe. Some people do.”

Gaaron nodded and turned back to Silas and his compatriot. “And why did the two of you want the flute?” he asked.

“We didn't want it! We were bringing it back!” Silas protested.

Gaaron tilted his head to one side. “And can you think of other ways you might have resolved this problem?”

“Huh?” Silas said.

Zack loosed a crack of laughter. “He means why didn't you snitch on me, you big baby, instead of stealing it yourself like the little thief you are.”

The pair of insults forced Silas to launch himself across the other three angels and go for Zack's throat. He was too quick for Gaaron; he connected and wrestled the bigger boy down with a pretty creditable show of fury and skill. He didn't have the upper hand for long, for Zack flipped him to his back and started pummeling him in the chest.

Gaaron glanced at Nicholas, who watched with a certain enjoyment, as if he'd have been willing to cheer the combatants on if there hadn't been more sober company watching. But catching Gaaron's gaze, Nicholas nodded, and they waded into the fray to separate the fighters. Gaaron hauled Zack to his feet with an almost effortless lift, and Nicholas caught the squirming Silas in his arms.

“It's his fault! He started it!” Silas was wailing.

“I don't care who started it,” Gaaron said calmly. “As far as I'm concerned, you're all equally guilty and you all deserve an equal punishment.”

“Hey! We didn't—”

“Be quiet,” Gaaron snapped, and they all shut up. “I know Esther has some boxes she needs hauled from the upper levels to the storerooms. You'll help her for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, if she needs you, and you won't complain about it once.”

“Oh, I've got lots of boxes,” Esther said.

“And if you give her any trouble,” Gaaron said, “I'll think of some additional chores that need to be done.”

“It's not fair,” Jude muttered. “Not my fault.”

“Well, it is your fault, and would you like me to explain it to you?” Gaaron asked pleasantly. “One, you chose to associate with companions who would rather steal than request permission to use something that they would happily be allowed to borrow. Two, you didn't inform any elder that a theft had taken place. Three, you joined in an unfair fight against opponents who are smaller than you, younger than you, and outnumbered by you and your friends. Frankly, I can't see that your behavior has been anything but abominable.”

“Well,
I
didn't do anything,” Silas said.

“You're a jerk,” Zack burst out.

“You chose to steal instead of informing an adult, and, if I guess correctly, you took the flute back
not
to return it to its place, but to annoy Zack. Not exactly a commendable motive. Sometimes we're judged by our intentions as well as our actions.”

“Yeah, but I—”

“One more word from
any
of the six of you and I'll add to your duties,” Gaaron said. “I know Enoch has some cleaning that he needs done down in the food pens. Would you like to help him?”

They all looked mutely up at him. Jude shook his head.

“Good,” Gaaron said briskly. “Then you all go with Esther. Except you, Zack,” he added, raising his voice slightly.

The other five turned away, Silas with a malicious and triumphant gleam in his eyes. Zack stayed behind, chin up, defiance in every line of his body.

“And you'll take on an extra task,” Gaaron said. “You'll go find Ahio, wherever he is, and tell him you need to learn a song.”

“A—song?” Zack said, clearly caught off balance.

Gaaron nodded. “On the flute. Tell him you'll need to be proficient enough to perform at least once piece in public in eight months.”

“But I—I can't play the flute,” Zack said.

“Well, no, I suppose you can't right now. But you will in eight months. You'll perform at the Gloria, after we've sung the mass.”

Zack looked pale. “I haven't—I can't—I don't—”

Gaaron smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You'll do just fine,” he said. “You have a long time to get ready. But not today. Or tomorrow. You've got boxes to move.”

So there was the morning gone; and the afternoon consisted of another bitter encounter with Miriam and the writing of a reply to Adriel. And then he had to make time to see some of the petitioners who had arrived yesterday, only to find him gone. Some required a simple adjudication of a dispute between themselves and a neighbor; others had more pressing concerns that took more time to consider and settle. The problems that involved weather imbalances were the easiest to correct. All Gaaron had to do was promise to send help and then hunt up a couple of angels to go sing the necessary prayers that would bring rain or sunshine. He felt a little envious as he watched the small cadre take off. He would have liked to have had nothing better to do than sing to Jovah and make the world right again.

He ate a late dinner that Esther put together for him after the formal meal was over and the kitchen was more or less closed. And he rounded off the day by climbing to the cupola high above the Eyrie to join in the harmonics. He hadn't signed up for this shift, but it had been almost two days since he had sung at all, and he felt the lack of music in his very blood and bones. Runners and other athletes described a sense of malaise if they missed a day or two of vigorous exercise; they explained that their muscles felt crampy and their moods grew black. Gaaron experienced the same symptoms, as well as something strange and constricting gathered around his chest. It was as if his lungs forgot to breathe, if they were not filled with air to be loosed in song. It was as if his ribs tightened up, shrank down, if they were not expanded by the glory of music.