Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(34)

As the Angel had, to her world.

She turned onto her side. He must think Valhan is the Raen now. He believed Angels were ordinary sorcerers. Or an extraordinary sorcerer. Then she remembered Baluka’s explanation: “In some worlds he is worshipped as a benevolent god.”

She turned over onto her back. That’s why he closed his mind to me. He didn’t want to offend or frighten me.

Baluka, and perhaps Lejikh and Ankari, might now be wondering what to do about her. They might be worried that this powerful sorcerer would expect them to deliver her to him. They might fear that Inekera would punish them for saving someone she might have tried to kill.

But Valhan was no sorcerer. He looked like the angels painted on the spirituals and in the temples of her world. Paintings that were hundreds of years old. And why would a powerful, dangerous sorcerer pay her the slightest attention, anyway? Surely there were more skilled and talented artisans to be found, among all the worlds. Why go to the extra effort of taking her with him?

She sat up. She ought to reassure Baluka and his parents, but she had no idea where they were, and could not easily ask the servants where to find them. And would they even believe her? They did not know what Angels were and were unwilling to consider they might exist. It would not matter soon anyway, though she would feel better knowing she had not given them cause for anxiety. She lay back down and stared at the underside of the bed’s canopy.

Some time later she gave up on falling asleep. She rose and examined everything in the room. Heavy drapes concealed tall windows and she tugged one aside. To her shock and amazement, the building was even bigger than she had realised, with a large, square inner courtyard surrounded on all sides by walls and windows.

A flicker drew her attention upwards and she gasped. She had glimpsed the sky on the way to the dining room earlier, noting that while the misty atmosphere above had darkened, night here was far from fully dark. But now, under the misty spread of cloud, huge coloured lights moved. Muted by the atmosphere, they ranged from blue to green, brightening almost to yellow from time to time.

I’m definitely not going to sleep now.

Moving to the chair she’d tossed her clothing onto, she changed quickly. As she had hoped, one of the windows was a door that opened to the courtyard. Pushing through, she walked outside, head tilted to admire the sky. Whatever happens, and despite everything, I’m glad I got to see this.

Eventually footsteps drew her attention away. Two men were walking towards her. One she recognised immediately as Lord Felomar. The other was a servant. As they reached her the lord smiled and spoke, then pointed at the old man’s forehead. The old man spoke, then stopped and waited, regarding her expectantly. She looked from one to the other. The lord repeated his gesture, and the meaning dawned on her. They were inviting her to read the servant’s mind.

Tentatively she extended her senses. At once she saw that her guess was right. The lord had chosen the old man, Pel, to be their translator. Felomar spoke again.

“The Shadow is putting on a good show tonight,” the old man translated. She understood that this was the god his people worshipped.

Is it an Angel? she wondered, looking up. From Pel’s thoughts she learned the god was a different sort of entity.

“Have you ever seen him?” she asked.

“No, he has no physical form,” Felomar replied.

What a strange religion, she thought. Though I suppose I believed in Angels long before I met one, and most people in my world have never met one.

“You could not sleep?” Felomar asked. She shook her head. “Neither could I. Would you like to see more of my home?”

“I’d love to.” Baluka had spoken of a library full of treasures, she recalled.

Felomar led her back into the house. They strolled along a corridor that ran the length of one of the vast wings, visiting several rooms. Some were meant for formal gatherings, others for entertainment. All were embellished with lavish decoration and furniture. She asked questions haltingly, drawing the words she needed from Pel’s mind. The old man was full of memories–of people filling the enormous dance hall that could have housed Fyre’s main temple, of Lord Felomar as a child playing in a room filled with games, of important visitors including the Emperor, and of the various duties of the men and women in the lord’s employ.

They reached two huge doors to what Pel knew was Felomar’s favourite room of the house. It housed a collection of paintings gathered over many generations and from many worlds. Rielle’s pulse quickened, and as she followed him into the room she caught her breath. It was almost as big as the dance hall, though the ceiling was not so high. Some of the paintings were as large as the front wall of her family’s dyeworks. Statues populated the floor. Pel moved to one side and turned a dial on a panel. At once lanterns spaced between the paintings flickered into life, bathing the room in a soft light and revealing the contents of the artworks.

Felomar began to explain the origins and age of each piece, leading her down one wall at an unhurried pace. Sometimes he also told her about the artist, or workshop, that had produced the artwork. She saw landscapes more strange and spectacular than anything she had glimpsed in Baluka’s mind. The variety of beasts and plants, people and clothing depicted seemed endlessly varied.

But it was the mediums used in the artworks she was most fascinated by. Simple paintings made up of a few swipes of a brush hung beside works so fine she could not make out a single stroke. Paint had been applied thickly, or was translucent, or applied in layers. To her disappointment and amusement, Izare’s invention of oily paint was a common discovery in most worlds. She had to concede that her own world was far behind in artistic invention compared to most.