Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(8)
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 fa?ade 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.