Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(118)
He shook his head. “It was abandoned before I was born. There are paintings of it in the galleries and on other worlds.”
She shivered, wondering how thick the ice was now. Somewhere above was the frozen surface of the world, bathed in sunlight that burned skin despite its lack of heat.
Yet down here it was warm enough for people to live comfortably. Dahli did not know how the subterranean city was heated, or how the air remained fresh. He’d told her of natural caverns beyond the edges of the city filled with strange plants growing in the light filtering down through cracks, and of areas sealed off deliberately, words carved into the walls warning about poisonous fumes.
The city hadn’t been fully occupied for half a millennium at least. When Dahli had first arrived, fewer than a thousand people remained, and that number had continued to diminish during his lifetime until, before Valhan had disappeared, only a few hundred lived in the palace. Only a few dozen had returned or been hired since the Raen’s reappearance.
It was not the glorious realm she had imagined, where thousands of artisans created ever more beautiful objects for the Angel, or even a grand palace worthy of the ruler of worlds. Other than her and Dahli, the people occupying the palace were servants of one kind or other, the seamstress and cook the closest to an artisan among them. It would take a lot of work to restore the palace to a shade of its former glory. She doubted the Raen would do it himself. More likely he’d bring people in, but not for a while. After a twenty-cycle absence, re-establishing his authority as the ruler of all worlds took priority.
What that involved she did not like to ponder, though some “nights” she had no choice, as she lay awake and questioned her decision to come here. During the “day” she was kept too busy learning magic to think about much else. Time in the city was dictated by the steady count and hourly chime of a huge timepiece at one end of the Arrival Hall of the palace. It was the only way residents knew when to wake, sleep and eat.
“Shall we make our way back to warmer, brighter parts of the city?” Dahli asked.
“Yes. If we walked slowly enough, would I miss today’s classes?”
He chuckled. “Not at all. I can walk and teach at the same time.”
She groaned. “Don’t you ever have a day off?”
“Not unless the Raen orders me to,” he replied, in a sudden tone of absolute seriousness.
As she examined him he looked away, extending a hand in the direction of the palace and waiting for her to begin walking. She did, but could not help glancing at him again, looking for a now familiar fleeting mix of intensity and sadness in his expression.
He referred to himself as Valhan’s “most loyal”. Most loyal what? she had wondered since. Friend? His manner was too servile. Servant? Not that servile. Ally? He did not like the term, and had pointed out the first and only time she’d used it that no agreement existed between him and Valhan.
Perhaps he has served Valhan for so long they have the understanding of old friends, despite their roles as ruler and follower.
Perhaps there was something more. She itched to read his mind, but respected him too much to ignore his request for privacy. His loyalty seemed genuine and unwavering, though, and she found that reassuring, reasoning that no man who was a true monster could surely have earned and kept it for this long.
She shook the dust off her scarf as best she could and draped it over her head again. Hopefully the servants would be able to rescue it and her clothing. Though simple in cut, the fabric of her dress was finer than the best fabric her parents had ever dyed. It had no sleeves, and fitted snugly around her waist and chest. Beneath it she wore a fitted long-sleeved garment made from a soft, stretchy cloth of a construction she’d never seen before.
Her mother would have thought it all terribly immodest. My mother would have been ashamed of a great deal of what I’ve done since I left Fyre. Which wasn’t the reason she had begun wearing a scarf again. The triangle head covering made her feel she was dressed with the dignity expected for a palace. And it kept her neck and ears warm.
“As I have said before,” Dahli began in the tone he used when teaching, “three factors decide how powerful a sorcerer is: their location, their reach and their natural talent. Your reach is extraordinary, but you have little natural aptitude for magic. Whether this is because you are a Maker or due to you never being allowed to practise magic freely until recently, I cannot say.”
“The Travellers thought it was the latter.”
“However,” he continued, “skill can make up for the lack of natural talent to some extent. Skill and knowledge. I am giving you the knowledge faster than you might normally gain the skill, because I may not always be available to teach you, but you can still practise. That is why I set exercises for you to do when I am absent.”
She sighed. “And when am I supposed to sleep?”
He paused. “Ah. I do tend to forget that you have not yet learned to pattern-shift.”
They had reached the end of the long corridor that had led to the crops room. A stone stairwell missing what must have once been a wooden railing descended from there. Dahli led the way down, keeping to the wall side.
“You’ve done well so far, Rielle. You’ve absorbed what a child learns over many cycles in under a quarter of one.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“It won’t.” He chuckled. “You have no others around to compare your progress to.” He took several steps before speaking again. “Some people have more talent for one kind of magic over the others. You may still find one that suits you.”