Angel of Storms

by Trudi Canavan

  “You’re done,” Grasch guessed. “Is it what you intended?”

  Rielle drew in a deep breath. “Yes,” she said softly, exhaling.

  “Who is it, then?”

  “Valhan.”

  He frowned, not recognising the name.

  “The Angel of Storms.”

  His eyebrows rose. “That is not the name we know him by.” He looked towards the tapestry. “I wish that I could see him.”

  “I’m sorry. I waited too long.”

  He smiled. “Do not be sorry. I understand that some things can’t be rushed.”

  “Do you want me to describe him?”

  “No.” He smiled as if he could see her surprise. “You will tell me about the vision in your mind. Others will tell me about the tapestry you’ve made. Unless you are not ready to show it?”

  She quelled a flash of fear. “I am as ready as I will ever be.”

  “Then call them in.”

  Turning away, she walked to the doorway and pushed aside the tapestry covering it. Light from the open front door filled the hall and illuminated several people standing within.

  “Rielle!” Betzi leapt around the group. “There you are! There’s someone here to–oh! You finished it!” She waved Rielle back into the workroom then stood in the doorway, holding the tapestry aside as she stared at the Angel’s image.

  “I—” Rielle began.

  “Sacred Angels of Mercy and Judgement,” a male voice exclaimed.

  Rielle’s heart lurched as a figure gently pushed Betzi aside and stepped into the room. His Schpetan priest robes brushed against Rielle’s skin as he stepped around her. Another figure followed, and as the light from the window struck the deep blue of robes much more familiar to Rielle, and the scar that creased his face, her fear shifted to disbelief, then hope, and finally joy.

  “Sa-Mica,” she said.

  “It’s him!” the Schpetan priest said. From his footsteps she knew he was approaching the tapestry, and braced herself for censure. Instead the man sounded amazed. “It’s incredible. She really does know him!”

  Sa-Mica’s gaze did not leave her face. “Thank the Angels you are alive and well, Rielle Lazuli,” he said in Fyrian. “We have come a long, long way to find you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “You have,” Rielle replied. “I made that journey myself, remember.” She smiled. “How are you, Sa-Mica?”

  “Well.” His expression was, for a moment, contradictory, and that made her instantly uneasy. Perhaps it was because she had rarely seen him smile, and only briefly. He had never spoken of his years growing up at the Mountain Temple, but she suspected he had many bad memories and terrible regrets. Yet the uncertainty in his regard of her was new. Perhaps it was her fear of what others would think on seeing her tapestry design that made her read him so. She turned to look at the local priest and her heart skipped. By the trim of his robe he was no ordinary priest, but one high in the hierarchy.

  Sa-Mica can vouch for me, she told herself. He can tell them this is truly what the Angel looked like.

  Yet Sa-Mica had also been present when she’d promised not to speak of the Angel to anyone. Now, as he turned to see what the other priest was so excited about, his expression changed, and the realisation of the foolishness of what she had done crashed around her. How could she explain that she had been driven to finish this? That excuse seemed silly now.

  “I expected to find you in the artists’ workshop,” he said, with no trace of disapproval. “But I see you have found another medium worthy of your talents.”

  “Will the Angel be angry?” she asked, relieved that the Schpetan priest did not know Fyrian.

  “At this? I don’t see why. It’s a fair and flattering likeness.” Sa-Mica looked amused, then seeing her anxiety he frowned. “But it is something else that worries you.”

  “I promised not to speak of him,” she acknowledged weakly. When his eyebrows rose she spread her hands. “I wasn’t going to finish it, but today something… something compelled me.”

  He nodded. “Captain Kolz said you saw us coming.”

  She remembered Betzi then. The young woman was looking from local priest to Rielle to foreign priest to tapestry, her eyes wide and her mouth open in confusion and excitement.

  “I wasn’t sure it was you,” Rielle admitted to Sa-Mica. “And even so… that’s no excuse. I promised.”

  Sa-Mica dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. “It will not matter soon, I expect.” The troubled expression returned and he looked at the other priest and gestured toward the door. “We’d best get back.”

  The local priest’s expression showed no hint of understanding, and Rielle realised neither priest knew the other’s language. Yet the Schpetan priest nodded, recognising the tone and gesture despite not understanding the words. Extending a hand towards the door, he looked at Rielle expectantly. “The Angel has requested you meet him at the palace,” he said in Schpetan.

  The Angel. Valhan. Rielle felt as if her stomach had suddenly become weightless. He was here, and he wanted to see her again. She swallowed and looked at Sa-Mica.

  “You truly came here to find me?”

  “He truly did,” he replied.

  She gave Betzi a nervous smile as she passed, then glanced back at Sa-Mica. “Why?”

  Again, the troubled look. “I don’t know–but nothing he has said or done has given me cause to suspect he is angry with you.”

  His tone was apologetic. Perhaps this lack of knowledge was what troubled him. He must wonder if the Angel did not trust him, or the secret was dangerous. Her stomach shivered at that last possibility, but she had no time to dwell on it as she stepped out into the hall. It was full of curious weavers. During the short journey to the main door she replied “I don’t know” three times to their questions and then she was outside, surrounded by a small crowd of neighbouring crafters, come to see the foreign priest. Sa-Mica joined her, the Schpetan priest emerged and, with a respectful half-bow and wave, indicated they should follow him.

  To her surprise, night had arrived, though the quality of light suggested the sun still lingered close to the horizon somewhere behind the heavy clouds above. The priest created a small flame and sent it floating ahead of them to light the way. The walk to the palace was winding and mostly uphill. Rielle was used to it, and Sa-Mica was used to travelling, so it was the local priest who set the pace, panting and stopping to catch his breath. Clearly he was not in the habit of mingling with the people living in the lower part of his home city. Or perhaps they always came to him.

  When they joined the main road they found it lined with curious onlookers and were forced to walk along the centre, which sent a chill through Rielle as unpleasant memories returned of her expulsion from Fyre. They’re not hostile, she told herself as she found herself looking for rotting fruit and vegetables in their hands. But of course, all vegetables, rotten and wholesome, had been discarded or eaten some time ago.

  Rielle had visited the palace four times in the last year, but never before then. She’d accompanied Grasch as he had delivered tapestries to the king and other powerful Schpetans. He always brought some of the weavers who had worked on the piece with them, instructing them in the protocols governing how makers should deal with their rich customers.

  A courtyard opened before the elaborately carved façade of the building. It was the largest space within the castle walls, and today it was crowded. Soldiers and townsfolk were staring intently at a cart standing before the palace doors–or rather, at a group of men standing next to it. Some were shouting angrily, waving their arms as if to sweep the men away from the palace. Looking closer, Rielle noticed empty scabbards, and gashes in their coats where badges of rank might have once been stitched. The men were from the Usurper’s army.

  What are they doing here?

  A priest stood before the palace door, arms spread in a gesture of command and pacification. He and the soldiers were enough of a distraction to the crowd of onlookers
that only when Rielle and Sa-Mica had drawn close to the group did someone notice them. A shout went up from the crowd, and faces turned towards the strange priest in the blue robes. The clamour immediately dropped to a hushed murmur. Looking around to see what had effected the change, the soldiers stared at Sa-Mica, at first in wonder, then recognition.

  “We only wish to serve the Angel,” one of the enemy soldiers declared loudly, taking advantage of the sudden quiet.

  The priest at the palace door nodded. “As do we all. I have spoken to the Angel. He thanks you for your gift and bids you distribute your offering among the people of Doum. I will stay to maintain order.”

  The soldiers bowed and turned back to the cart. As Sa-Mica and Rielle passed they began to uncover it. Rielle glimpsed sacks of grain, barrels of wine and oil, and even boxes of fruit. All most likely plundered from the land around Doum anyway. The last she saw of the scene was the crowd, quick to forgive, hurrying forward and the priest striding to meet them.

  They entered a long corridor, empty but for guards standing at regular intervals.

  “The man you brought to the city,” Rielle said, looking at Sa-Mica. “Was that the Usurper?”

  Sa-Mica nodded.

  “And the Usurper’s army?”

  “Gone. Except those brave souls back there who sought to follow Valhan.” He sighed. “It happened everywhere we travelled. Valhan was always ordering them to return to their homes and lives. If he had not, I suspect we’d have arrived with an army of our own.”

  “Would that have been a bad thing?”

  He looked at her and grimaced. “An army needs feeding and organising. It attracts those who would profit from and exploit it.”

  “And it’s not like he needs protecting,” she added. So what had brought him here? Surely his sole reason was not to find her.

  I’ll find out soon enough. Unless he keeps me as mystified as he has kept Sa-Mica. As they neared the end of the corridor her stomach fluttered. She was more nervous than the first time she had met him, but she’d had no idea then who and what she was about to encounter. Was it like this for Sa-Mica every time he was in the Angel’s presence, or had he grown used to it?

  As they stepped out of the corridor, though an archway into a room many times the size of all the weavers’ quarters combined, a guard by the entrance struck a bell. The room was full of people: men and women, old and young, unified by the richness of their clothing. All faces turned towards the newcomers, eyes alight with curiosity. The sound of their voices dimmed and was joined by the soft patter of delicate shoes on polished wood as they stepped aside, creating a pathway to the king’s dais. Rielle’s heart pounded. She drew in a deep breath.

  But the dais was empty. Instead the king stood at the edge of the crowd. He walked down the aisle his subjects had created, arms open, and smiling.

  “Welcome, welcome!” he said, beckoning them forward so they met him partway. “So this is the young woman the Angel seeks?” Rielle began the elaborate duck and bow the locals made to royalty, but he gathered up her hands and prevented her. “Rielle Lazuli, I offer a belated welcome to my country. Why did you not come to me when you arrived? I am honoured to meet any friend of the Angels.”

  She managed a smile. “Thank you, your majesty. Would you have believed me, if I had told you?”

  He chuckled. “Most likely not, it is true. It is too incredible a story. Yet I am glad you chose my land to settle in. And now we all are part of your tale, rescued from certain defeat by the one who seeks you.”

  Rielle could not help glancing around the room.

  “He is not here, but will return later,” he told her. “A feast in your honour is being prepared. Come, I will take you to the dining hall.”

  A feast? Rielle thought of the cart outside, and of the starving townsfolk. Where can he have got food for a feast? Did the Usurper send supplies? Or are the rumours of a stockpile of food in the palace true? She said nothing and, feeling dazed and a little nauseous with anxiety, let the king lead her out of the room.

  The next stretch of time was like a dream. She dined beside the Schpetan monarch, was asked to relay messages to the Angel from people whose names she recognised but who she had never met before, and was questioned about her own past meeting with the Angel. Sa-Mica sat silently beside her until someone realised she could translate for him, and then questions shifted to his own association with the Angel. To her relief, he was as vague about his past as she had been about hers.

  I’m sure he’s as reluctant to reveal the sort of place the Mountain Temple was when he grew up there as I am to tell them I was exiled for using magic and am a murderer, she thought. But why isn’t the Angel here? Or… does he not eat?

  The food was simple fare made tastier and more appealing through flavouring and decoration. The only meat was a tough roasted aum, for which the king apologised, telling her it had been old but was the last one in the town. Her hunger was sated quickly since she was used to eating little and her stomach was more inclined to churn with anxiety than to digest her food. At one point Sa-Mica excused himself. When he returned his expression was taut and thoughtful.

  “He is sitting alone, looking out over the mountains,” he told her.

  “Why does he not join us?” she asked.

  “He does not like to be among so many people.” Sa-Mica shrugged. “He spent most days at the Mountain Temple this way.”

  “Did anything unusual happen before he decided to come here?” she prompted, hoping for a clue to the Angel’s purpose.

  Sa-Mica shook his head. “No, but we did not come here directly. We went north, to the furthest of the ice cities–and when we arrived…” He paused and shook his head.

  “What? What did he do?”

  The priest sighed. “I must tell you. I do not want to concern you, but what if you need to know? At the most northerly point he stripped away all magic then returned south. We didn’t leave the Stain behind until we passed Llura.”

  She stared at him. Llura had been unbearably hot. If it was as far from Llura to the ice cities in the north as it was to chilly Schpeta, the Stain was immense. “What did he do with it?”

  “Nothing, as far as I could tell.”

  “So he’s preparing for something.”

  The man’s shoulders rose and fell. His eyes spoke of many days storing up unspoken worries. She opened her mouth to ask what he feared, then closed it again. If he was prepared to speak of it, he would have done so. Why would an Angel strip half the world of magic? She thought of the armies that had clashed before the castle the day before. Though desperate, they had not broken the Angel’s law against using magic in conflict. But what if they had?

  How better to stop people from using magic than to remove it from the world? It would leave priests without magic, too, but people would still respect them for their knowledge of and connection to the Angels.

  But what has all that to do with me?

  She found she could not eat at all after that. The wine invited her to seek false courage, but she ignored it. Looking around the room, she saw people quickly avert their eyes. They must be wondering why this dark foreigner, who had met an Angel, had been living among them for so long–and why she deserved his special attention. Why indeed? Time moved slowly, yet propelled her to an unknown, impending future that she could not help fearing would be catastrophic in some way, even if ultimately beneficial to the world.

  When the priest who had come to the weaving workshop entered the room and hurried to approach the king, fear and hope rushed through her. Suddenly she was sick of waiting, and wanted it over. Whatever “it” was.

  “He–the Angel–awaits in the audience chamber, your majesty,” the man blurted out as the room fell silent. “He asked for Rielle Lazuli.”

  “Then we must not leave him waiting.” The king turned to smile at Rielle, then rose. He took her hand and guided her out of her chair.

  Rielle drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but it did no
t ease the churning of her stomach or slow her heartbeat. Perhaps I should have had the wine. Her legs were weak as she walked beside the king, out of the dining room and into the corridor leading to the audience chamber. The soft pad of hundreds of delicate shoes on parquetry whispered behind them as the rest of the diners followed.

  He was standing within the circular bench on the king’s dais, waiting. The flare of radiating lines–tiny threads of Stain–sprang from him then faded away, over and over. She averted her eyes, then remembered what Sa-Mica had told her, so many years before. He doesn’t like people to hide their gaze. Well… I’ll look up when we get there. This would not be the moment to trip on my skirts and fall on my face. The king’s warm hand under hers was strangely reassuring as he guided her forward. As he stopped before the dais she looked up.

  All she could think at first that the face in her tapestry was more accurate than she could have hoped for after all this time, though not exactly right. His lips were thinner, and his brow not so angular. Then she wondered whether he had read her thoughts, and her face heated. But her embarrassment evaporated as he met her gaze. His strange dark eyes reminded her too fiercely that he was not human. That he could, if he chose, tear her soul apart.

  And yet, she loved him. Not in the way she had loved Izare, with heart and body. She loved him with her soul.

  His expression softened almost imperceptibly. He lifted an arm, beckoning. She stepped up onto the dais, her legs no longer weak.

  “Rielle Lazuli. I gave you a second life,” he said in Schpetan, and a soft sound of many in-taken breaths filled the room. “You have done well with it. The magic you took has been replaced many times over.”

  Her heart lifted with relief and a little triumph. I did it! I made more magic creating tapestries than I stole when I killed Sa-Gest! And in only five years. She had expected it to take a lifetime, if she managed it at all.

  “You have made a life here, one you may regain once this city recovers from the war. But you could do and be much more. I am returning to my world. I invite you to come with me to join the artisans who live there, creating beauty and magic. Will you join me?”