“Questions of theology are far more interesting, in most cases,” she said dryly.
“Well, I come to you today with my own question that I hope you—or the god—can answer,” Gaaron said.
“You will be Archangel in eight months, and you want to ask the god who your angelica should be.”
He nodded. “If that would not be too much trouble.”
She took hold of the wheels of her chair and turned herself away from the table. “No trouble at all. Perhaps we should have attended to this matter sooner, but there has seemed to be no rush. With everything so peaceful in the realm, the choice of angelica has not seemed to be such a pressing concern.”
“It is a pressing concern to me, since I will marry her,” said Gaaron, rising and following her as she rolled over to the far side of the room. She came to a stop before a glowing blue plate set into the wall. It was surrounded with knobs and buttons, all offering to perform mysterious functions that only an oracle would understand. Gaaron stood back respectfully. Through this interface, as it was called, Mahalah would communicate with the god. She could ask the god any question and have an answer returned—though not always, so Gaaron had been led to believe, an answer that was easy to decipher.
Mahalah twisted a few of the knobs and then skimmed her fingers over some of the buttons in quick, decisive motions. “I should first ask you,” she said over her shoulder, “if there is someone for whom you have a preference. A Manadavvi girl, for instance, or one of the mortals living at Windy Point.”
“Not at the moment,” Gaaron admitted, casting his mind over the wellborn women of his acquaintance. No one of that group, in particular, whom he would choose as a lifemate—but none so dreadful that he would stand here and hope Jovah did not announce her name. “I have had little time for—for forming attachments since my father died. The responsibilities of running the hold and watching over Miriam have kept me pretty well occupied.”
Mahalah looked up at him with a sly grin, an unexpected expression on such a wise old face. “Still, that doesn’t mean some enterprising young woman wouldn’t have decided to make you her main occupation,” she said. “In fact, I’m surprised to learn there aren’t mobs of eligible girls throwing themselves at you. To be angelica to the Archangel! That’s a goal worth pursuing, even if the man himself isn’t exactly to your taste.”
“Thank you,” Gaaron said politely. “I will now look with suspicion upon any woman who seems to show the slightest interest in me.”
Mahalah laughed and fiddled with more of the controls. The colors on the iridescent plate flickered and changed, and strange characters began to scroll slowly down the screen. Not, apparently, words or sentences that Mahalah had any interest in, because she kept talking. “What about Zebedee Lesh’s daughter? She seemed awfully attentive to you last time I saw you both at Windy Point.”
“She’s very nice,” Gaaron said, a little surprised. “I didn’t notice that she was particularly attentive.”
“She came to the dinner all but naked to attract your attention,” Mahalah said. “But it appears she failed in that goal. Oh, and what’s her name? Stephen’s daughter, at Monteverde. She’s the daughter of an angel. She knows what life at a hold is all about.”
Gaaron dutifully summoned up an image of Neri’s niece, a dark, sleek girl with unfathomable eyes. “Chana,” he supplied. “Yes, she seems very likable. Quiet, I think. I haven’t talked to her all that much.”
“Not for her lack of trying, I’d guess,” Mahalah said. “So you can’t come up with any preferences on your own?”
Gaaron was watching the screen, where the scrolling letters had, for the moment, stopped. A tiny dark blue light in the corner of the screen flashed a constant quick signal, seeming to adjure the two of them to wait a moment while the god considered possibilities. It reminded Gaaron of someone tapping his finger while he paused in thought. “I didn’t think the god took into account the preferences of the parties involved,” Gaaron said. “I had always heard that Jovah chose angelicas and angelicos at his own discretion, and did not consult the Archangels as to where their hearts might be given.”
“That is generally true,” Mahalah acknowledged. “But in my experience, if the oracle informs Jovah—in a very neutral way, of course—that the Archangel already has emotional ties somewhere, Jovah might weigh that fact when he makes his selection.”
Gaaron smiled. “So then, when Adriel was named Archangel, you or one of the other oracles told the god that she was already attached to Moshe? And that is why Jovah declared him to be angelico?”
“That might have been how it worked,” Mahalah said. “It was more than twenty years ago. My memory is not so good.”
“Your memory is perfect,” Gaaron retorted.
“In general, however, you are right,” Mahalah pursued. “The god is less interested in the state of your heart than in the state of the realm. He chooses—or so they say—someone who is your exact opposite in many ways. If you are cold, she will be warmhearted. If you are arrogant, she will be humble. If you are a doubter, she will be a fanatic. He is interested in balance.”
“I am a pragmatic man,” Gaaron said. “Does that mean he will choose for me an irresponsible spendthrift? That does not sound so promising.”
Mahalah laughed. The blinking light had stopped, and now she was busily keying in more strange hieroglyphics. “Perhaps I didn’t say it just right,” she said. “Since you are a levelheaded and practical man, who does not even notice when women are throwing themselves at you, perhaps she will be a dazzling creature of so much loveliness you cannot look away. Or perhaps she will be hideously ugly but with such luminosity in her soul that she forces you to reevaluate your standards of beauty. There will be something about her that will change you fundamentally, but in a good way. That is what the god achieves when he chooses a spouse. He stirs you up. He brings you forth.” She hit a key, then waited expectantly. “That is the theory, anyway. We shall see what he offers you.”
A few words came up on the screen, a small scrawl in the middle of the gleaming glass. Even Gaaron could read the words, for they were just a handful of names.
“Susannah sia Tachita,” Gaaron said out loud. Then again, “Susannah sia Tachita . . .”
There was a long pause before Mahalah swung her chair around to face Gaaron. Even her wise face looked shocked. “She’s an Edori,” the oracle said.
Gaaron nodded. “So it would appear.”
“Do you even know any Edori?” Mahalah asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve met a few. Here and there, mostly in Luminaux. There have always been a few tribes at the Gloria, so I’ve talked to a few of them there. They’ve always been friendly. But—they don’t really seem to need much from the angels, or from anybody. Even the Jansai we trade with on a regular basis. But the Edori . . .” He shrugged. “They are strangers to me.”
Mahalah was watching him. “Perhaps that was why Jovah chose her, then,” she said. “So that you could bring them into the fold. Make them a bigger part of our lives. Help us understand them.”
He nodded again. He felt numb, a little unreal. He had expected to be surprised by the god’s choice, but this was more than surprising. This was catastrophic. Yet he was a servant of the god. He would not question and he would not defy. “Has she—but I suppose she must have been. I did not think—”
“What?” Mahalah said. “You’re making no sense.”
“Has she been dedicated to the god, then?” he said. “I did not think the Edori ever were.”
Involuntarily, his hand went to the acorn-sized crystal in his right arm, high up under his biceps. The Kiss of the god had been installed there shortly after he was born, as it was for all true believers and their progeny. It was by these Kisses that the god could track them, knew if they were well or ailing, could gauge the states of their hearts. Some of the more romantically minded said that when true lovers met for the first time, their Kisses would light with a frenzied fire, b
ut Gaaron had never known anyone who claimed such a thing had happened to them. Of course, perhaps no one he knew had ever found their true love.
“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.”
C hapter T hree
But 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.