Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(7)

She frowned. It might not be him. It might be an ordinary priest wearing a close-fitting dark blue hat. Yet there had been something about the figure’s walk that made her skin prickle. Nonsense. I never saw him even stand up at the Mountain Temple. How could I recognise his walk?

Behind her, she heard Grasch sigh. Suddenly aware of the room around her, every sound she made seemed crisper and louder than usual. She missed having a buzz of voices around her as she worked. Other kinds of weaving were solitary–only one weaver could operate a fabric loom at a time. Tapestry weaving allowed as many weavers to work as could fit, side by side at the loom. Sometimes they crowded in together when deadlines approached. The weavers with good voices would sing, the rest humming along.

But the workroom had grown steadily quieter as each day of the siege passed. Continuing with commissions had kept the weavers busy, but when they reached the point where a vital shade of yarn ran out and there was no more dye, they had no choice but to stop working on a tapestry. Now all the aum that provided the fleece had been killed and eaten. As talk of fuel supplies running out reached them, the weavers feared that people would come seeking the wood of the looms to burn, or that they would be forced to burn them themselves. All the more reason to finish her tapestry. They could sacrifice a poorly made loom rather than a good one.

At last the top of the figure’s head was done. She continued weaving towards the border, continuing the radiating black lines around the figure. They were black lines instead of the customary white. She suspected that this, more than her unconventional way of representing an Angel, was the most dangerous choice she had made. But she could not deny what her eyes and mind had sensed. She knew that the white lines in temple paintings were an illusion created by the black of the Stain radiating from an Angel when he drew in magic. But to suggest that an Angel created Stain when using magic might be considered blasphemous.

As the last thread was tucked into place, the last end cut and the last bobbin set down in the basket, an old weight lifted from her shoulders and a new one settled into place.

So here it is. My secret revealed. It’s just a question of how well I’ve done it. Slipping off her chair she turned away and walked over to Grasch’s chair. The old man was asleep and snoring softly, but he was a light sleeper and the sound of her footsteps roused him. She turned, lifted her eyes to the Angel staring back at her from the loom. Her heart lurched.

There he is. Maybe time has exaggerated what I remember, but the essence is there. Unearthly. Ageless. Kind.

“You’re done,” Grasch guessed. “Is it what you intended?”

Rielle drew in a deep breath. “Yes,” she said softly, exhaling.

“Who is it, then?”

“Valhan.”

He frowned, not recognising the name.

“The Angel of Storms.”

His eyebrows rose. “That is not the name we know him by.” He looked towards the tapestry. “I wish that I could see him.”

“I’m sorry. I waited too long.”

He smiled. “Do not be sorry. I understand that some things can’t be rushed.”

“Do you want me to describe him?”

“No.” He smiled as if he could see her surprise. “You will tell me about the vision in your mind. Others will tell me about the tapestry you’ve made. Unless you are not ready to show it?”

She quelled a flash of fear. “I am as ready as I will ever be.”

“Then call them in.”

Turning away, she walked to the doorway and pushed aside the tapestry covering it. Light from the open front door filled the hall and illuminated several people standing within.

“Rielle!” Betzi leapt around the group. “There you are! There’s someone here to–oh! You finished it!” She waved Rielle back into the workroom then stood in the doorway, holding the tapestry aside as she stared at the Angel’s image.

“I—” Rielle began.

“Sacred Angels of Mercy and Judgement,” a male voice exclaimed.

Rielle’s heart lurched as a figure gently pushed Betzi aside and stepped into the room. His Schpetan priest robes brushed against Rielle’s skin as he stepped around her. Another figure followed, and as the light from the window struck the deep blue of robes much more familiar to Rielle, and the scar that creased his face, her fear shifted to disbelief, then hope, and finally joy.

“Sa-Mica,” she said.

“It’s him!” the Schpetan priest said. From his footsteps she knew he was approaching the tapestry, and braced herself for censure. Instead the man sounded amazed. “It’s incredible. She really does know him!”

Sa-Mica’s gaze did not leave her face. “Thank the Angels you are alive and well, Rielle Lazuli,” he said in Fyrian. “We have come a long, long way to find you.”





CHAPTER 3





“You have,” Rielle replied. “I made that journey myself, remember.” She smiled. “How are you, Sa-Mica?”

“Well.” His expression was, for a moment, contradictory, and that made her instantly uneasy. Perhaps it was because she had rarely seen him smile, and only briefly. He had never spoken of his years growing up at the Mountain Temple, but she suspected he had many bad memories and terrible regrets. Yet the uncertainty in his regard of her was new. Perhaps it was her fear of what others would think on seeing her tapestry design that made her read him so. She turned to look at the local priest and her heart skipped. By the trim of his robe he was no ordinary priest, but one high in the hierarchy.