Archangel Page 16

  “I’ve been busy—you’ve been busy—that’s not the point,” Nathan said impatiently. “The point is, you’re afraid that if I’m so close to Monteverde, I would see Maga every day—”

  “And wouldn’t you?” Gabriel was goaded to say. “You can stand there and tell me, with temptation three hours away, that you would keep to the schoolrooms of the Manadavvi and never think about Magdalena once? That you would not meet with her, scheme to be with her alone, away from my eyes or Ariel’s or even Abel Vashir’s—”

  “It’s none of your business!” Nathan cried.

  “Oh, yes, it is entirely my business! It would be my business if I just led the host here—if you weren’t my brother and if I wasn’t to be Archangel. As it is, I have triple the responsibility for seeing that divine law is not transgressed. And I have the power to do it. I have tried to be fair. I have tried to be understanding. I have not forbidden you to see her, which I could have done—which Ariel could have done. Nathan, the laws were laid down by Jovah himself—”

  “Then why did he break them?” Nathan asked fiercely. He ripped open the front of his silk dress shirt to show the amber Kiss still faintly illuminated, fading testimony to Magdalena’s effect on him. “I was taught—we were all taught—that this is Jovah’s signal, that it calls one lover to another. Jovah makes the Kiss light, not me! I cannot control it! Answer that for me, and then tell me I am contemplating a sin.”

  “I can’t,” Gabriel said, suddenly weary. His own Kiss had betrayed him; he did not have any moral superiorities to fall back on here. “I don’t understand it. The ways of Jovah are not always clear to me. Take it up with Josiah. Perhaps he can answer you. But for now, let it go. Magdalena will be at the Eyrie for some time. If you choose to return here while she is visiting, do so. But—be very, very careful.”

  Once more Gabriel turned his steps toward the upper quarters; once more he made no headway. This time it was Hannah who stopped him, telling him that the merchants were leaving; he must make formal farewells. And so he lost more time in pointless, insincere rituals before he finally made good his escape and climbed the two stories to Rachel’s chamber.

  All the interruptions had served one good purpose: They had dissipated his anger and left behind a weary puzzlement. Clearly he would never understand his bride. But this time he would ask her to explain herself.

  There was such a long pause between the ring of the door chime and the invitation to enter that he thought she had not, after all, taken refuge in her room. But she was there. He opened the door, stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  She stood across the room, as far away from him as possible, close to the wall, but not backed up against it; no cowering for this girl. On her face was the expression he had come to know best—a mixture of rebelliousness and stubbornness. She did not look sorry.

  “I thought,” he said in a voice much milder than he had thought, an hour ago, he would be able to manage, “that I would give you a chance to explain why you rejected my wedding gift so forcefully.”

  Some of the fight went out of her at this reasonable opening. Obviously she had expected fury and was braced for it. She hunched one shoulder. “I was not anticipating something like that,” she said.

  He came a few steps farther into the room. “A gift?” he said, almost pleasantly. “Or that particular type of gift?”

  “Both. Either,” she said. “I—you should have warned me.”

  “Warned you?” he repeated. “I thought it would give you pleasure.”

  “Well, it didn’t!”

  “That was plain to everyone in the room.”

  She was silent.

  He strolled forward again. She held her ground, although he could tell she wanted to move away by as many steps as he advanced. “So tell me,” he invited, “is this an Edori prohibition? No jewelry? No bracelets? Is it the gold you dislike, or the sapphire pattern—or the fact that it comes from me?” The last few words were spoken sharply. She winced very slightly.

  “No, I— Thank you, I suppose, for the gift, the idea of the gift. I’m sure it was very thoughtful, but I—you see, I don’t care for bracelets.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. If it’s important that I wear something with this— crest on it, or what have you—then maybe a hair comb, or a necklace or something …”

  Her speech had grown increasingly disjointed the closer he came, and now he stood just inches away. He had to give her credit; she didn’t break and run for it, much as he knew she wanted to.

  “Why not a bracelet?”

  “Because I—”

  “Why not a bracelet?”

  “Gabriel, don’t,” she said, suddenly so serious that it pulled him up short. “Please. Let it go.”

  He took her hand, which surprised her. She fought to free it, which surprised him. He held on. “You have too many secrets,” he said, his voice gentle. “How will I ever know what you like and what you don’t like and why, if you won’t tell me? Because it seems that a simple bracelet—”

  “A simple bracelet!” Abruptly, again, she was roused to fury. With her free hand, she stripped the buttons from the other cuff of her blouse and jerked the sleeve up toward her elbow. “I wore simple bracelets every day of my life for five years, and I cannot bear the touch of anything on my wrists now—”

  She would have wrenched away on the words, but he automatically tightened his hold. He felt sick to his stomach. The bare wrist bore a ring of thick and reddened scar tissue four or five inches wide, from the heel of the hand partway up the forearm. Over the knobby bones of her wrist, the tissue was ridged in places, thicker than the rest, rubbed more often by the heavy metal of the shackle. Her arm was so thin that the back of her hand was also scarred, although not as deeply, by the iron falling forward on her arm.

  He held out his free hand. “Let me see the other one.”

  Again she tried to twist away. Her voice sounded unexpectedly shy. “It looks like this one. Gabriel, let me go.”

  Even under these circumstances, it gave him an odd pleasure to hear her speak his name, something she rarely did. He shook his head. “I want to see it.”

  She hesitated, then surrendered her hand. He undid the buttons and gently pulled the fabric away. Again, the deep band of scar tissue, mostly an ugly, shiny pink, broken in places by tough white lines. He turned it front to back to see it from all sides. This time, when she squirmed to get free, he released her.

  Finally he raised his eyes to her face. His own expression, he knew, must be painfully somber. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea.”

  She gave the ghost of a laugh and busied herself with rebuttoning the sleeves. “Why would you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She glanced at him, started to speak, and looked away. She shrugged—not to signify that she didn’t know, but that it was impossible to explain.

  “What other scars do you bear?”

  “None like those,” she said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Gabriel, what does it matter? You hate to be reminded that I was a slave—oh, don’t bother denying it, you can’t hide how much you hate it—well, I hate to think of it, too. I hate it. That part of my life is over. I don’t want to talk about it now. I’m sorry about the bracelets. But I—I really can’t wear them.”

  “No, of course not,” he responded absently. She had taken the opportunity, in the exchange of hands and the refastening of her cuffs, to move away from him. She straightened her blouse and took another small step. He turned to mark her progress. “But this isn’t about the bracelets anymore. I should have known before this. I should have known a lot of things about you that I don’t know. There are too many secrets in your life.”

  “How can you say that? You know where I have spent every year of my existence.” But she did not look at him when she spoke. She had stopped before a small gilt mirror on the wall, to make minute adjustments to her collar.

  “I
don’t know what happened to your village when you were—what, seven? I don’t know what destroyed it.”

  Now she inspected her reflection for signs of damage to her coiffure. “I was so young,” she said. “I have very few memories of the time before I lived with the Edori.”

  “My mother died when I was five,” he said slowly, “and I remember that very clearly. I think you recall what happened to your village.”

  She met his eyes in the mirror. Her own were very dark. “I remember—people shrieking. I remember fire. I remember noises, for things I couldn’t even put a name to. Like rocks falling, trees falling. Now I think it must have been the houses themselves collapsing. Who knows what caused all that? Maybe I’ve chosen not to remember.”

  It was a partial answer, but he did not think she would tell him more. “And the Edori found you—how?”

  She moved away from the glass, restless, circling the room slowly. “I was alone on a road. I don’t remember where. Away from the village. I don’t know how many days I had traveled. I don’t remember what I ate or drank. I know I had been running. Crying. Having nightmares. The Edori found me one day when I was half-starved, half-dead, and they took me in. At first I was afraid of them. And then I grew to love them.”

  “And when the Jansai came?”

  She took a quick, deep breath. “Why must I recount for you all the horrors of my life?” she demanded. “You can imagine that one for yourself. If you think these are secrets, you have a poor idea of what secrets are. These are just bad memories, and I do not wish to discuss them.”

  “All right,” he said. “But I think this one does qualify as a secret. You hate Raphael. Tell me why.”

  He had surprised her, but like a hunted animal, she had protective coloration. In her case, it was disdain. “Hate him,” she said. “I never spoke to him in my life until yesterday.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said sharply.

  “If I chose to,” she said icily, “I would lie to you every time I opened my mouth. As it happens, I have always told you the truth.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted in an angry tone. “You are clever enough to word things into half-truths. So maybe it’s true that you never spoke to Raphael until yesterday. But you hate him. I want to know why.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of any angel,” she said. “And I suppose you can’t figure that out on your own?”

  He held onto his temper; she was being deliberately provoking. “You don’t trust me,” he said. “You think all angels believe the same, act the same. But—”

  “But if I choose to dislike Raphael, that is my business,” she interrupted. “I grew up in the Caitanas, and spent most of my life wandering through Jordana. None of this gave me a high opinion of the Archangel. You don’t have to try and pry reasons out of me. You’re none too crazy about him yourself, but I don’t see you announcing that fact from the mountaintop.”

  As a defense, the sudden attack was very effective. He stiffened, remembering the conversation he’d just had with the leader of Windy Point. “You’re right—I have had my share of differences with Raphael,” he said. “Sometimes I think …” He let the words trail off.

  “Think what?”

  He shook his head. “That I should be more wary of him. That he is—a dangerous man, maybe. I don’t know. But that makes it all the more important,” he added, suddenly rounding on her again, “that you should tell me anything you know to his discredit.”

  “He’s cruel to his wife,” she said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  She shrugged. “Because it’s true.”

  “You were unexpectedly friendly to the angelica.”

  “I felt sorry for her. Someone who has had a worse life than I have.”

  He smiled faintly; few people would have come to that conclusion. “Why is it,” he said, “you are always drawn to the powerless? You are positively kind to the servants and the downtrodden and to mistreated wives, although in general you are a fractious and contrary woman.”

  “I’m drawn to the powerless because I have an innate distaste for the powerful,” was the immediate response. “Fellow feeling, I suppose.”

  Now he gave a soft laugh. “You,” he said, “in your worst moment, were never powerless or downtrodden.”

  She dropped him a quick curtsey. “Thank you, angelo. I take that as a compliment.”

  “And so it was meant.” He hesitated; he had not felt so in charity with his bride since the hour they met. “You lump me in with the hated ruling classes, I know,” he said slowly, “but still, we could deal better together than we do. My fault, I know, for things that happened, at least at the beginning—”

  “Actually, if it’s any comfort to you, I think you’re the best of the lot,” she said. Her voice held its customary mocking edge, but he thought she might be sincere. “You don’t abuse your power, at any rate. You actually seem to have some desire to do good in the world, though you’d rather dp it from a distance, I think. And of course you have other faults—”

  “Arrogance,” he said with a faint smile.

  “No, I don’t think that’s it,” she said thoughtfully. “I think it’s impatience. A sort of broad irritation that not everybody else thinks exactly the way you do—when your way is clearly right.”

  He was irrationally pleased—and, at the same time, unnerved—that someone who knew him so little could so perfectly describe him. In return he gave her a playful bow. “Thank you for the kind words,” he said. “I am greatly moved.”

  She actually laughed. “Consider it your wedding gift,” she said. “I didn’t think to prepare anything else.”

  He felt the smile come back to his own face. “I have two more gifts for you,” he said. “One of which you will like, and one which you might not.”

  She was instantly on guard. “What are they?” she asked.

  “First the one you might dislike. Actually, it is not so much a gift to you as a problem for me.” He glanced over at her; her face was completely impassive. “I know you disagree with the sentiment behind it, but try to understand. Nathan and Magdalena—”

  “If you’re expecting me to find a husband for Magdalena—”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that Nathan has contracted to spend a month in a Manadavvi compound very close to Monteverde. Ariel wished to send Maga here to keep her away from Nathan. I agreed, and we presented the idea to Maga as a— well, as a chance to do me a favor, do you a favor, telling her that you hadn’t made many friends among the angels here, and perhaps she could win you over. And in fact,” he added, “I really do think you would like her. She’s very sweet-tempered. Eager to please. Thoughtful, kind—all the things you admire.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t realize,” Rachel said evenly, “that I’m much more likely to abet her in meeting Nathan secretly than to try to convince her that she should give him up.”

  “I realized it,” he said. “But my options were limited.”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then spread her hands helplessly. “What is it you want me to do with her?”

  “Just be nice to her. If it’ll make it easier, consider her one of the poor unfortunates that you’re so fond of. Teach her how to weave. Practice songs together.” He couldn’t believe he said it; hastily he added, “Visit Velora for fun.”

  “I can’t get to Velora,” she replied.

  He had turned toward the door and, as she spoke, was halfway across the room. He stopped with his hand on the knob, and smiled at her. “Oh yes, you Can,” he said. “That’s my last wedding present to you. A way off the mountain.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two weeks later, Rachel sat with Magdalena in a sunny Velora pastry shop and thought that life was really very good.

  True, it was nearly the heart of winter now, and even at sea level, the air was too chilly to travel without a cloak, but she had survived cold weather before. Everything else was marvelous. After a solid week of miserable, rai
ny weather, the sun had broken free of the clinging clouds and blazed down upon them with a sort of lunatic delight. Magdalena had proved to be the most agreeable person she’d met in the past five years, impossible to dislike, touched with a tentative charm that instantly breached Rachel’s outer defenses. And she was off the mountain.

  Gabriel’s last wedding present had been, by far, his best. He had made her wait until every last guest had left the Eyrie, then taken her to Matthew’s work chamber to collect the Edori leather worker. Together, the three of them had wound through the lower tunnels of the compound, toward the farthermost storage chambers, where nobody ever went.

  “The first week you were here, I remembered this,” Gabriel had said over his shoulder to Rachel. “Or remembered hearing about it. I don’t think anybody’s used it for a hundred years. Since Isaiah led the host here at the Eyrie, and his daughter had the same problem you have.”

  “Height-sickness,” Matthew murmured.

  “Whatever. So he had this built. Chipped out of the rock in the most laborious fashion. It took more than a year, so the histories say. Personally, I find the whole thing a little creepy. I can’t stand to be in places that are so closed in.”

  What Isaiah had built for his daughter was a small wooden cage that used a complex system of weights and pulleys to travel up and down a narrow shaft cut into the mountain itself. A door at the base of the mountain (long ago grown over with vines and shrubbery) allowed the descending passenger to exit; a similar door opened onto the bottom tier of the Eyrie tunnels. The shaft had been cunningly designed with ventilation holes to provide adequate fresh air. An emergency bell-cord had been installed in the car, attached to a chime at the upper level, in case the car became stuck in transit.

  Many of the ropes and wires which had hoisted the car through its vertical tunnel had rotted or worn away in a century of disuse, but Matthew had painstakingly replaced or repaired them all. The leather craftsman, it seemed, had the usual Edori tinkering skills as well as a fascination with anything that moved. The angel and the Edori had repeatedly tested the resurrected lift before allowing Rachel to ride in it.