Breath of Angel (10 page)

Melaia carried the palm-sized clay lamp to the torch flame and lit it. In the small circle of lamplight, she padded back into the room, feeling completely
alone. It was too quiet here. A scratching noise on the outside wall would be welcome tonight. How comforting it would be to see the shutter opening and Trevin climbing in.

She set the lamp on the table and peered through the lattice. To the right a portion of the palace was visible, some of its windows flickering with light. To the left loomed a black shadow, which she assumed to be the city wall, for above it stretched the star-strewn heavens and a half moon.

Lifting her face toward the sky, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the savory smells that hung in the air. She wished she had let Trevin select a room for her, somewhere with a brazier and a hot supper, which he was probably enjoying right now, no doubt with a bevy of young ladies vying to keep him warm tonight.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at the moon. Across it glided the silhouette of a hawk.

A
fter a cold, fitful night on a thin mat, Melaia was relieved to see the slant of morning sun streaming through the lattice, creating shadows in lacy patterns on the opposite wall. She opened the shutter and gazed at the palace but could summon no more than a sense of foreboding.

She chided herself. Any priestess would count it an honor to be assigned a post at Redcliff. Besides, she had longed to see the world outside Navia. But that was when she sat safely at home, dreaming of travel and adventure. Now that she was actually in Redcliff, staring at the unknown, she felt like a child again nervously preparing to sing for the overlord for the first time.

She leaned out the window and studied the square towers. Above the tallest hung the king’s flag—a white lion on a dove gray field—snapping in the wind. A drak flapped out of the highest window of the east front tower, followed closely by a second.

“The aerie,” murmured Melaia.

She stared at it for a moment, hoping Trevin would lean out and look her way. When no one showed, she withdrew and went to the courtyard to find the privy and make her ablutions. Then she went to the sanctuary for prayers and knelt before the altar, trying to ignore the stifling incense.

“Chantress!” the priest snapped.

Melaia rose and faced his scowl. She had heard there was sometimes rivalry between male priests and their counterparts. She wondered if her presence somehow threatened him.

“Word has come from the palace.” He folded his arms, drummed his jeweled fingers, and stared down his nose at her. “An escort will come for you late this afternoon. You’re to play for the king before he retires tonight.”

“I’ll be ready.” Melaia tried to appear serene and composed as her stomach roiled. This was not Navia, and the audience would not be an aging overlord.

She returned to her room, mentally scrolling through the songs that seemed to soothe Lord Silas, hoping they would do the same for the king. It seemed too much to hope that the harp’s music would heal him completely. Then again, there was no predicting what effect such a harp might have.

When she stepped into the room, she was surprised to find a breakfast of bread and fruited wine on her table. And a dried apricot.

She looked at the lattice. It was open, but she had left it that way. He may have simply delivered her breakfast to the priest while she was in the back courtyard. She smiled as she bit into the tart, leathery fruit. Another guilt offering? For what? Maybe he would tolerate that one question.

After eating, Melaia unwrapped the harp. The pulsing energy of the wood brought back memories of Benasin’s dim room, the clink of Trevin’s coin purse on the overlord’s table, Yareth’s sneer, her jolt when the overlord announced he would send her to Redcliff with the harp. Now here she sat, preparing to play for the king. The king! She ran her hand over the runes carved in the thrumming soundboard.
Dedroumakei
. “Awaken!” Perhaps Caepio was right. An angel’s harp might be exactly what the king needed to shake off his melancholy forever.

She squinted at the harp’s base. Where one living leaf had been, now three had sprouted. Never had she seen leaves on the harp when it hung on Benasin’s wall. She wondered if he trimmed them when they appeared. She dared not try to snap them off herself. It was enough to hold stolen property. She didn’t want to add to her guilt by damaging the harp.

She sighed, rolled a chord, and began to play a simple tune. Halfway through, a thump sounded at the window. She looked up, her heart pumping eagerly.

Then she recoiled. A drak sat on the sill, its hands spread in a human grip, its ghostly gray eyes ogling her. It occurred to her that Trevin might be watching through the spy-bird’s eyes, but the creature was hideous.

She plucked a dissonant chord and said, “Begone!”

The drak sidestepped across the window ledge, bobbing its head. A gust of wind ruffled its dark feathers.

Melaia set the harp aside and shooed the bird. “Out! Begone!”

The drak leaped into the air with a screech, and she closed and latched the shutter.

Midafternoon, Melaia went to the back courtyard to wash. She returned to her room, braiding her hair, but stopped short just inside the doorway. Benasin’s harp was in the hands of a cloaked, broad-shouldered woman whose dusky hair was twisted and pinned loosely at the back of her neck.

The woman looked up, then held three fingers over her heart. “Greetings,” she said. “Are you Melaia, chantress from Navia?”

“I am.” Melaia released her half-plaited braid and cautiously stepped into the room. “Are you an angel?”

The woman placed a finger to her lips and said softly, “Not everyone should know.”

“The priest let you in?”

“I told him I’m a friend of yours. I hope that’s not too far off the mark.” She tilted her head and studied Melaia. “I’m here as a friend.”

Melaia studied her as well. The woman had a noble nose, a high brow, and long fingers.

“I’m Livia,” she said. “I knew the Erielyon who died at the temple in Navia.”

“Did you send him?”

“I didn’t even know he had gone to Navia. Nor did I know he had died.” She looked down and cleared her throat. “Not until Benasin returned the body.”

Melaia went back to braiding her hair. If this angel was a friend of Benasin, she was probably trustworthy.

“My friend Pymbric traveled with Benasin back to Navia. I followed soon after. Of course, in Navia, Benasin discovered that Lord Silas had sent you to Redcliff with a possession Benasin highly values.” Livia patted the harp. “This is it, is it not?”

“I tried to dissuade Lord Silas—”

“But gold had the louder voice. So I heard.”

“You were in Navia?” asked Melaia. “All was well? No raiders?”

“I saw no sign of raiders.”

Melaia breathed easier. “And Benasin. Is he here?”

“He and Pymbric are on their way. I’m here to get you and the harp safely out of the city.”

“And return to Navia?”

“To the Durenwoods.”

Melaia dropped her braid, and the end unraveled. “It’s the harp, isn’t it?”

Livia frowned.

“ ‘Now is payment due in full.’ The harp is the payment for a debt, isn’t it?”

“If only it were that simple.” Livia smiled sadly.

Melaia stepped to the window and fingered the latticework. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. It was angel business. Which she was supposed to avoid. She sighed. She had no claim to the harp. Yet there was no reason to remain in Redcliff without it. She placed her hand on the form of Trevin’s wagering stone tucked in the fold of her sash. She would have to give it back, say good-bye. Her throat felt pinched just thinking about it.

She turned to Livia. “I can’t leave Redcliff just yet. I’m to play for the king this evening. An escort is already scheduled to come for me late this afternoon.”

“A good reason to leave now.” Livia wrapped the harp.

“Before the escort comes?”

“You’d be foolish to stay behind and try to explain why the harp is gone.”

“But the king is ill with melancholy, mourning for Queen Tahn. My music
always soothed Lord Silas when he was in a low mood. With Benasin’s harp I might revive the king. Wouldn’t that be worth the wait?”

Livia patted the stool. “Let me finish your braid.”

Melaia hesitated, then sat.

Livia combed through her hair with her long fingers, the way Iona had always done. “The king’s melancholy is no mood,” she said. “It’s guilt, pure and simple.”

“For what?” Melaia picked at the crumbs left from breakfast.

“For banishing his previous queen under false accusations.”

“What was she accused of?”

“Infidelity.” Livia began rebraiding. “It happened many years ago. The queen hated court life and took extended trips to the countryside. When the king got her with child, he thought the father to be some lowborn countryman. I’m told that he only recently discovered the truth, and it cut him to the core. It was far too late to make amends. By that time he had been married to Tahn for several years.”

“And then she died in a fire.” Melaia gasped. “Do you think the king arranged it?”

“Not in my estimation. Queen Tahn was with child. His only heir. He would hardly destroy his heir.”

“Unless he meant to bring back his previous queen,” suggested Melaia.

“She’s dead now,” said Livia. “Perhaps her son as well. So you see, King Laetham’s melancholy is of his own making.”

“So you’re saying I should leave him to his illness because he deserves it? What about Camrithia? We need our king whole, don’t we?”

“Hold still.” Livia smoothed a strand of hair. “I’m simply saying kingdom affairs can—and will—roll on without you or the harp. The king has a physician.”

“But music often cheers the ill,” said Melaia. “And this harp seems to have strong power. The runes say ‘Awaken.’ It truly might help the king. Surely when Benasin arrives, he’ll agree.”

“I don’t intend for Benasin to know I’m here. I must keep a certain distance, or he will sense me.”

“Why don’t you want him to sense you?”

“Because I don’t trust him. He’s neither malevolent nor Angelaeon. We traced him to the Dregmoors. An informant there claims he’s the Second son of legend.” Livia tied off the braid.

“Second-born!” Melaia thought of Benasin prowling the temple on the trail of the Firstborn. Recognizing Dreia’s book. Claiming Hanni had been wrong on two counts, first about who could kill an angel. And second? Of course: thinking Benasin was an angel.

“If he’s the Second-born,” said Livia, “he was involved in destroying the Wisdom Tree and our stairway to heaven. Surely you can understand my caution.”

Melaia looked askance at Livia. “The Second-born didn’t destroy the Tree. The Firstborn did.”

Livia shrugged. “There are many versions of the tale.”

“You can believe this one,” said Melaia, although she doubted the wisdom of revealing she had heard it from the Firstborn’s own mouth.

“Whatever the tale, the harp is not Benasin’s,” said Livia. “It belonged to Dreia.”

Melaia gaped at her. “Why did Benasin have it?”

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Melaia and Livia fell silent.

Ordius appeared at the door. “An escort awaits the chantress downstairs.”

“She wasn’t expecting anyone until later,” said Livia.

“Shall I send him away?” asked Ordius.

Melaia pictured Trevin leaning against the archway, his dark, alert eyes watching for her to appear. “Ask him to wait,” she said.

As the priest’s footsteps faded, Livia said, “I suggest you tell the escort you’re ill.”

“Would he believe that? Do I look ill?” Melaia snatched up the wrapped harp. “I feel like a game piece on a playing board. Have I no choice in this matter?”

“Unfortunately, you have every choice. As a rule we angels avoid interfering with human will, so I’ll not tell you what to do. But I warn you, malevolents have no such compulsion. And there
are
malevolents here, Chantress.”

Melaia hesitated. Last night the path ahead had seemed simple. Now it held all sorts of uncertain twists and turns. The only simple, certain thing she knew was the task she was sent to accomplish. And Trevin was waiting. “I’ll decide what to do when I return,” she said. “Until then, I’ll mind my own affairs and play for the king. Then at least my duty here will be done.”

Before Livia could protest, Melaia strode out. As she descended the stairs, she wondered why Trevin had come so early. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought that he might want to spend time with her.

But when she reached the columned porch, her shoulders drooped. A beardless youth about Iona’s age, black curls falling rakishly across his forehead, waited for her. She chided herself for thinking Trevin would have the time or inclination for such a menial chore as escorting her.

“You’re the chantress?” the youth asked.

“I am.” Melaia drew her blue cloak around her.

“I’m here for the harp,” he said.

Melaia frowned. “I thought I was to bring the harp myself.”

“I’m to take it to the chamber where you’ll be playing.”