Breath of Angel (5 page)

Melaia replaced the feather, then ran her finger around the rim of the wooden goblet. A pulse of heat shot up her arm. As she jerked away, a spider crept around the foot of the goblet and paused. She blinked at it, then realized it wasn’t a spider but the tendril of a vine.

She tingled with guilt. What had she done? She was intruding in a sacred chamber. Maybe Hanni was right. Angels were best left to themselves.

Trembling like a reluctant thief, Melaia crept to the far wall where the harp hung. It was slightly larger than her own, but she easily lifted it from its peg. She could feel the intricate runes carved in the soundboard. That, she expected. She didn’t expect the heat of the wood, like that of the cup. She shoved the harp back onto its peg and rubbed her palms together.

The room darkened, and Melaia glanced at the doorway. Yareth stood there in silhouette. “My father sent me to make sure you didn’t lose your way.”

“I know the way.” Melaia took down the harp and hugged it to her chest. It hummed with energy, its pulse matching her own heartbeat, which she feared was loud enough for Yareth to hear as she made her way to the door.

He didn’t step aside but crooned into her ear. “You could heal me.”

“For your ailment you don’t need a priestess.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Melaia slipped the vial from her pouch and shoved it into his hands as she sidled past him. “Try saffroot.”

Yareth snorted. She strode down the corridor, her skin prickling as he followed in his uneven gait.

When they returned to Lord Silas’s chambers, he and the kingsman were intent on a small bag that rattled as the kingsman shook it. In one smooth motion the kingsman upended the bag and swept it across the tabletop. Two stones clattered out.

“Mine out first!” crowed Lord Silas.

The kingsman laughed. “You’ve bested me twice now. Shall we play again?”

“No, mark the score. Our harper is here.”

Yareth strutted unevenly across the room and filled his goblet.

Melaia made her way to a stool, hoping the kingsman would not ask to hold this harp.

“Ah,” he said. “You spoke true, Lord Silas. I’ve never seen such rich, ruddy wood. Highly polished too. A worthy harp indeed.”

“I thought you’d find it interesting,” said Lord Silas. “Such workmanship is not often seen these days. Let us hear its tone, Chantress.”

Melaia cradled the harp in her lap, then noticed a leaf, green as spring, on a small stem at the base of the frame. Her stomach knotted. This harp was truly an angel’s treasure. She hoped Lord Silas would be content to hear one song and let her return the harp to Benasin’s room.

As she bent to the strings, the harp’s calm energy flowed through her. Hands curved, she rolled one chord and let it ring. The tones shimmered within her like light. She let herself ease into the music, then began springing notes to life. Her fingers hugged the strings, climbed up, and leapfrogged down as her hands danced, at one with the harp, at one with the music, which swirled within her like shimmering colors of light. When she had flung out the final chord, she bowed her head and leaned into the vibration of the wood. She had never played such music before.

As the last breath of the song lingered in the air, the kingsman tossed a pouch of coins onto the table. “The king’s gold. For a harp worthy of him.”

Melaia stiffened in alarm, and she sent a pleading look to the overlord. “Benasin should be consulted.”

“Why?” Yareth picked up the pouch and tested its weight in his palm. “With this much gold, Benasin could buy a dozen harps.”

Lord Silas eyed the kingsman and thumped his hands on his lap. “I assume you mean to have the harp for the king’s healing?”

“The royal physician believes music might aid the king’s recovery.” The kingsman sipped from his goblet.

“Then I shall send the chantress as well,” said Lord Silas.

Melaia’s mouth dropped open.

The kingsman coughed on his wine. “I would not deprive you of your chantress,” he said.

“I insist,” said Lord Silas. “The chantress has soothed me well. She will be Navia’s envoy to Redcliff, my gift to the king.”

“Might I suggest that the high priestess be part of this discussion?” said Melaia.

“What is there to discuss?” Yareth chuckled. “One harp, one chantress in exchange for a pouch of gold. Payment has been made. All that remains is for the goods to be delivered.”

Lord Silas scowled at Yareth. “Excuse my son. He could use a lesson in tact. The truth is, I grant a great gift to the king by sending him my chantress.”

“I’m sure the high priestess will be happy to take up the matter with you tomorrow,” said Melaia. “In the meantime I should return the harp to Benasin’s room.”

“If you wish,” said Lord Silas. “But you must come for it early on the morrow. I believe the envoy intends to leave for Redcliff by midday, is that not so?”

“No later,” said the kingsman.

“You’re not even angry!” Melaia had never yelled at the high priestess, but she was close to it now. She stomped down the corridor to the sleeping quarters with Hanni right behind her. The other girls scattered to their chores.

“I don’t deny that Lord Silas should have consulted me.” Hanni’s almond eyes were stern. “He also should have consulted Benasin. I’m appalled that he didn’t, and I shall certainly take up the matter with him.”

“In the meantime I’m donated like property?” Melaia dug through a chest and pulled out a journey bag, the one she had meant to help Iona pack.

“Try to see it as the other girls do.” Hanni folded her arms. “In essence, you’re simply taking a post at the temple in Redcliff.”

“Without my consent or yours.” Melaia stuffed her sleep shift into the pack. “And what about my duties here?”

“Iona can take over. I was already considering sending you out in her place.”

“But I thought—”

“I know. I chose you to take over my position because you alone, of all the girls I’ve trained, came to me under uncommon circumstances.”

“I was a foundling. Left on the temple doorstep. That’s nothing uncommon.”

“Mellie, sylvans brought you here.”

“The woodspeople. You told me that.” Melaia scooped up her comb and a pouch of anise seed.

Hanni sat on a stool and studied her hands. “I didn’t tell you that sylvans are earth-angels.”

“Earth-angels?” Melaia plopped down on her mat, gaping at Hanni.

“Minor guardians who never enter the heavens as other angels do.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I meant to. I would have.” Hanni paced to the window and stared out. “I lived for a time with the sylvans in the Durenwoods. They trained me in herbs and healing. But those woods shelter secrets, Mellie. It was there that I met a
dark angel, a malevolent. He was a hunter, and I became his quarry. I vowed I would never again have anything to do with sylvans or the Durenwoods or the games of angels.”

“But Benasin—”

“Is simply a friend. We’ve long had an unspoken agreement to keep the affairs of angels out of our friendship.”

Melaia drummed her fingers on the mat. Questions crowded her mind, but little time remained to find answers. “What about the sylvans who brought me here?”

“I turned them away. Refused to listen to them. But I couldn’t refuse the girl child they brought me. I couldn’t turn you away. I wanted to save you from the woods, from the angels. It’s no life for a human.” Hanni eased down to the mat beside Melaia. “A child found by angels is said to be gifted with wisdom and insight. I chose you as my successor because I assumed you would have an innate spiritual sensitivity that other girls would not have.”

Melaia’s shoulders drooped. “I disappointed you.”

“Never, Mellie.” Hanni stroked her cheek. “The Erielyon’s death made me rethink my decisions.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Mellie, going to Redcliff may be your escape.”

Melaia frowned. “From what?”

“I don’t know. I told you I refused to listen when the sylvans brought you to the temple. Now I can’t shake the fear that the Erielyon’s scroll was meant for me.”

“ ‘Now is payment due in full’? What does that have to do with you?”

“I was your age when I pledged to spend a number of years serving with the sylvans in the Durenwoods. After my experience with the dark angel, I broke that pledge and returned to Navia. Perhaps the sylvans want your service to pay for the years I owed them.”

“Then I’ll serve.” Melaia sat tall, undaunted, even eager. What better way to learn about angels?

“I’ll not allow it,” said Hanni. “I can’t condemn you to repeat my past. Angels can take care of themselves and their own affairs. The more you can distance yourself, the better.”

Melaia didn’t argue. She had no choice anyway. She was headed for Redcliff as the overlord’s gift.

G
ray clouds scudded across the sky as a wagon rattled north out of Navia, followed by the kingsman on his dappled horse. Seated snugly in the bed of the wagon, Benasin’s well-wrapped harp at her feet, Melaia fought the urge to look back. She feared the kingsman would think she was distressed over leaving Navia, which she was. Worse, he might think she was ogling him, as did every other girl they passed. Iona had practically swooned.

So Melaia gazed glumly ahead down the road. She should be rejoicing. Only the day before she had dreamed of traveling. But leaving town freely was one thing. Being sent unwillingly was another matter.

Her throat tightened at the memory of the girls gathered in the temple doorway, watching her leave: Iona standing tall as the eldest now, Nuri chattering advice to mask her own distress, Peron waving her doll furiously, and behind them Hanni, her hands clasped at her chin.

Melaia had finished packing with Hanni at her shoulder trying to press a year’s worth of instruction into one evening.

“Bide at the temple if you have a choice in the matter,” she had said. “I know the high priest there. Jarrod. He can counsel you.” Hanni had held up three fingers. “This is the sign of the Tree. You saw it on Dreia’s book. It’s a greeting between angels and their supporters. Avoid those who use it.”

Bumping along in the back of the wagon, Melaia could not recall all of Hanni’s advice. Nor could she see this journey as a promotion to a new position at Redcliff. Under the circumstances she felt too keenly that she was being shipped off like property. She blinked away tears and stared at the back of the driver, Gil, a big-eared, bush-bearded dwarf with close-set eyes, who had been commandeered by the kingsman to transport them to Omen Crossing.

As the wagon headed uphill, Melaia gave up her resolve and glanced back for one last look at Navia. The stolid, whitewashed dome of the temple curved like a rising moon above the flat rooftops. Only the tower of the overlord’s villa rose higher, its parapet set with strangely shaped stones that looked like hands beseeching the sky.

Two dark birds soared past the tower. As Melaia watched them circle the sky above the fields, the kingsman trotted up to the wagon. The red lining of his cloak rippled as he rode, leaving the hilt of his dagger in clear view at his side.

He nodded toward the birds. “Draks. Spy-birds.”

Melaia hadn’t intended to talk to him, but she found his half smile disarming. “They’re not hawks?” she asked.

“Not hawks, Chantress. Would you like to see one?” Without waiting for an answer, he held his gloved hand high and whistled. One drak circled closer. After two more whistles, the drak descended, hesitant, to his glove. The falcon-like bird was a dull black with ghostly gray eyes.

Its feet were taloned human hands.

Melaia recoiled in shock and disgust, staring at the stubby, hair-tufted fingers gripping the kingsman’s glove. “Most High, have mercy,” she muttered. Peron had been right.

“Success!” The kingsman laughed as he grasped the leather cords that dangled from the bird’s leg. Then he plucked a ruddy morsel from a pouch and fed it to the drak. “I work with the birds, but they don’t always come when I call.” He looked at Melaia, and his smile faded. “You’ve truly never seen draks.”

“Their feet …”

“Draks were once human souls. Didn’t you know?”

Melaia shook her head, wondering what else she didn’t know. “And the hands?”

“Belong to the person whose soul is within the bird.”

For a moment Melaia couldn’t speak, and when she did, her voice grated. “You said they’re spy-birds.”

He shrugged. “Some people skilled in the dark arts mix oil and water in a scrying glass, a clear jar. The pattern in the oil reveals what the drak sees.” The kingsman loosed the cords, and the bird flapped up to join its companion.

“Who watches through the eyes of that drak?”

The kingsman eyed her for so long that she wanted to look away, but she was determined not to back down. He didn’t appear angry, just pensive. At last he said, “As priestess, you may have been taught to speak your mind boldly, but you’ve asked a dangerous question. I suggest you keep such queries to yourself at Redcliff.”

“Mind my own affairs?”

“At court, my lady, that will be the only sure way to keep your beautiful head.” He nudged his horse and trotted ahead.