Breath of Angel (4 page)

“Of course,” said Hanni. “And you’ll take the Erielyon’s body? Tomorrow?”

Benasin eased himself onto the bench by the brazier. “I’ll think on it.”

Hanni bolted the front door. “You may retire now, Mellie.”

“I thought I would keep vigil.” Melaia retrieved her lap harp from the bench. “I’d not be able to sleep anyway. I’ve seen two angels today.”

“Three.” Hanni headed to the corridor. “Only an angel can kill an angel.”

As Hanni’s footfalls faded, Melaia frowned at Benasin. He looked up. “The man who killed the Erielyon …,” she said. “He claimed to be the firstborn son of legend. So he wouldn’t be an angel, would he?”

“You listened well.”

“But Hanni said—”

“Hanamel hears what she wants to hear. She’d like to stuff the dangerous, unkempt world into a pouch and pull the drawstring closed. To keep life tidy. Safe. In her control. Today the drawstring was cut and the bag opened.”

Melaia hugged her harp. She had never thought of Hanni in that way.

“Hanamel was wrong on at least two counts,” said Benasin. “For one, as you surmised, an angel can also be killed by an immortal.”

“The Firstborn is truly immortal, then?” asked Melaia.

“As well as his daughter and his brother, the Second-born.”

“And Dreia was truly the guardian of the Tree?”

“She was.” Benasin closed the book and patted the bench beside him.

Melaia sat with her harp in her lap, basking in Benasin’s presence. She had often thought that if she could choose a father, she would choose him. He was
generous with his money and his encouragement, firm as well as kind, not easily ruffled, and so wise that even Hanni went to him for advice. Besides that, he always smelled of cedar, warm and woodsy.

“You asked about angels’ ranks,” he said. “The highest rank are celestial beings but not truly angels. Dreia is of the Archae, who are in the second rank. The Archae guard the elements of the world: wind, fire, water, earth, plant life.”

“But I thought Dreia guarded the Wisdom Tree.”

“She did. She called it her temple. But her guardianship extended to all plants of the world.” He stared into the embers in the brazier. “Tragic was the day the Second-born asked for the fruit of the Tree; tragic the day Dreia gave it to him.”

Melaia stirred the coals. “Now the brothers are immortal.”

“As is their feud.”

“Perhaps they will kill each other.”

Benasin snorted. “Don’t think they haven’t tried. Dreia’s only hope is to restore the Tree and its stairway.”

“And if she fails?”

“Then your world, and the angels trapped in it, will continue to descend into the ever-deepening savagery of the immortals’ feud.”

Melaia squatted at his feet with a new notion. “Would you teach me about the spirit world?”

He chuckled. “And what would Hanamel say to that?”

Melaia shrugged. “I’m to be high priestess after her. I should know about the histories. Didn’t you say so yourself? I want to know what Hanni can’t tell me.”

“Or won’t.” Benasin patted her head. “First let me take care of the Erielyon’s body for Hanamel. Then we’ll see.”

“You said Hanni was wrong on two counts. What was the second?”

Benasin glanced at the corridor. “That, for the moment, is better left unsaid.”

M
elaia scanned the sky as she led Iona and Nuri into the stubbled field outside Navia to gather wild herbs. Iona was pensive, Nuri talkative—each in her own way reflecting the unease they had all felt since the visit of the cloaked man. Seven days had passed since he had vanished in smoke. Six days had gone by since Benasin had left to take the Erielyon’s body, book, and scroll north, where he intended to find Dreia and some answers.

In that time, no one had seen the hawk or the gold-eyed stranger. Still, Melaia shrank from every shadowed corner in the temple, and outdoors she continually eyed the sky. Today two dark birds circled high above, but their flight appeared choppier, their wings more pointed than a hawk’s. It was little comfort. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.

“I spy plumwort!” Nuri crowed, her dimpled face beaming. She headed toward a patch of purple green leaves. “I’ll fill my basket first!”

Melaia glanced at Iona, wondering if she would take up the challenge, but Iona clearly thought Nuri’s ways childish. She sidled up to Melaia. “Hanni told me I’ll soon be a full-fledged priestess like you. Has she mentioned where she’ll send me?”

“No, but with your strong gift of mercy and skill in herbs, you’ll be honored wherever you go.” Melaia fought a pang of envy. The temple at Navia trained priestesses for service in outlying towns, but as the next high priestess, she herself would stay in Navia, although she felt ill prepared since discovering Hanni had neglected the entire subject of angels and the unseen world. Melaia was eager for Benasin to return so she could press him to school her.

“Perhaps I’ll be sent south.” Iona knelt to pick orange-berried dreamweed. “I’ve heard stories of the great sea. I’d like to see ocean waves.”

“So would I.” Melaia gazed north at the hills on the horizon. Navia was said to be the navel of the kingdom of Camrithia, an equal distance from every border. But it could have been on the moon for all she knew. Only travelers’ tales had told her about the rest of the world. The Southern Sea, the hills of Aubendahl, the Davernon River. Winding highways and jovial inns, rugged fortresses and royal palaces. As she watched a cart trace the north road and disappear over a hill tinted with autumn gold, she remembered how she, too, used to dream of where she might be sent as a priestess.

Melaia tugged up a clump of pungent golden-berried saffroot, chiding herself for indulging in childish musings. The fields always made her feel this way. Dreams of journeying stirred and stretched and resisted being sent back to bed. She wondered if Hanni ever felt the desire to leave Navia. How did a high priestess conquer such yearnings?

“Look what I found!” Nuri ran toward them, waving a long black feather that glinted an iridescent blue in the sunlight.

Iona turned to Melaia. “From your hawk?”

“My hawk?”

“You know,” said Iona. “The hawk that attacked the angel.”

Nuri handed over the feather and ran back to her basket. Melaia shivered as she ran her finger along the edge of the plume. It was as long as her forearm. She eyed the two dark birds circling overhead and slipped the feather under her waist sash like a sword.

Peron danced up to Melaia the moment she returned to the temple with the older girls and their full herb baskets. “Hanni wants you at once, Mellie,” sang Peron, twirling her cloth doll.

“I found a treasure for you,” said Nuri. “Melaia has it.”

As Nuri followed Iona to the storeroom, Melaia slid the feather out from under her sash.

Peron shrank back, her eyes wide. “Did you see them too?”

“Who?” Melaia set the feather on a bench.

“The hand-birds. I saw them today, but Hanni said not to talk about it.”

Melaia took Peron’s hand and walked her down the corridor. “Tonight I’ll help you with your bird story. We’ll put it to song.”

“But it’s not made-up.”

“The birds seemed real, didn’t they?”

“They flew down when I was feeding the chee-dees.” Peron wrinkled her nose. “They don’t have bird feet. They have hands. People hands.”

“Of course they do.” Melaia thought of the two birds circling the field. No doubt Peron had seen them and invented a story to tame her fears. As Hanni had done with angels. Keep them imaginary and keep them safe. “The next time you see these birds, call me,” said Melaia. “I want to see them too.”

“Then you can chase them away.” Peron skipped ahead to the door at the end of the hall.

“Maybe that’s my new gifting,” Melaia muttered.

Peron tiptoed into the stillroom, where spicy sweet herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling. Melaia entered clearing her throat, knowing Hanni didn’t like to be taken by surprise.

Hanni glanced up, swirling a fragrant potion at a table cluttered with flasks, bowls, and pouches. She nodded at Peron, who began crushing dried herbs in her own small mortar.

“The overlord requests your presence,” Hanni told Melaia. “Right away.” She poured the golden potion into a small vial and handed it to Melaia.

“Is he ill?” Melaia swirled the vial.

“Probably his stomach again. Take him that saffroot potion. But it’s your music he’s requested. You know how it soothes him.”

Melaia nodded. Music seemed to be an antidote to the cares that racked the overlord. He was one of her favorite patients. Not so his son, Yareth. The
arrogant, moon-pale young man made her skin crawl. She hoped Yareth, feigning illness, hadn’t asked his father to call for the chantress.

“Quick now.” Hanni waved her out. “Go and wash. Wear your blue cloak.”

Melaia lost no time cleaning up. With the vial of saffroot tucked into her waist pouch and her harp slung across her back under her priestly cloak, she crossed the flat rooftops that connected the city all the way to the town square. There she descended to the road and made her way to the overlord’s villa.

A stern-faced servant led Melaia up two flights of stairs and along one of the upper porches. When he stopped at an arched doorway, she peered over his shoulder. Lord Silas, the overlord, a pale, shrunken man, sat staring at his folded hands, which thumped a shaky beat on his lap as if he were measuring his thoughts. Across from him sat a sun-browned, noble-looking young man, clean-shaven, with chestnut hair and the king’s emblem of a white lion on his dove gray cloak.

Yareth, sly eyed and pale as ever, saluted Melaia with his goblet from where he lolled against the sill of a latticed window. She quickly returned her attention to the kingsman, deeming him to be about the same age as Yareth, who at twenty-one should have already stopped leeching off his father and begun pursuing his fortune in the world, as the kingsman obviously had.

“The chantress, my lord,” the servant announced. Without looking up, Lord Silas motioned for her to enter.

As Melaia stepped into the room, the kingsman glanced at her. His dark, alert eyes held hers for only a moment, but she hardly breathed, as if in that one glimpse he had read her soul. When he turned back to the overlord, she let out her breath. Priestesses were free to accept a suitor’s interest, but Hanni had never done so, and Melaia reminded herself that she intended to follow the high priestess’s path.

“And if King Laetham does not revive, what then?” the kingsman asked the overlord. “If you agree to support Lord Rejius, he can offer your son a high position at Redcliff.”

“A position at court, Father,” said Yareth. “Of course we’ll support Lord Rejius.”

Lord Silas thumped his folded hands on his lap. “I shall give the offer serious consideration. I’ll send Yareth to Lord Rejius if my answer is yes.”

“Very well,” said the kingsman. “But know that the time is short. Dregmoorian raiders have already made forays into Camrithia.”

“I know, I know,” Lord Silas droned. “We need a king who can defend us, yet with King Laetham ill and no heir to the throne, we must face the possibility that the king may no longer be able to lead. And so on and so on. Do I have it right?”

The kingsman sat back in his chair. “That you do, sir.”

“In that case—” The overlord turned his rheumy gaze to Melaia. “Welcome, Chantress.”

Melaia bowed. “Lord Silas.”

“Our guest is an envoy from Redcliff,” said the overlord. “I told him about the harp that hangs in Benasin’s quarters. I want you to play it for us. You know the harp I mean?”

“I do, but.” She saw the harp every time she accompanied Hanni to visit Benasin. She had even asked to play it, but he had never allowed her to so much as touch it. “Without Benasin’s permission—”

“Benasin is away at the moment,” said Lord Silas.

“I brought my own harp.” Melaia shed her cloak and slipped the harp from her back. “Might it do just as well?”

“May I see it?” asked the kingsman.

Melaia handed him the harp. He plucked two strings with his right hand, which, she noticed, was missing its small finger. Then he ran his hand over the frame. “It’s certainly sturdy.” He gave it back to her. “I’m sure it suits your purposes. But I had hoped to see something fit for a king. Lord Silas says this other harp is quite regal.”

“I said it appears so,” said Lord Silas. “Mind you, I myself have never heard
it. But our chantress can remedy that.” He waved Melaia out. “Fetch the other harp.”

With no choice but to obey, Melaia trudged to Benasin’s quarters one floor down, off a columned corridor. A warm cedarwood scent welcomed her into the dim room, its only light drifting in from the open door. As her eyes adjusted, she looked around with new curiosity, knowing an angel lived there.

She stepped to a small writing desk, cleared of all but a jar of ink, a wooden goblet, and a mottled feather. Brown, black, and iridescent blue, the feather’s colors shifted as she held it to the soft light. Its quill had been sharpened and was stained with ink. “Benasin writes with a feather instead of a reed,” she mused. No doubt he, like Nuri, had found the feather in the field.