Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(9)

“We only wish to serve the Angel,” one of the enemy soldiers declared loudly, taking advantage of the sudden quiet.

The priest at the palace door nodded. “As do we all. I have spoken to the Angel. He thanks you for your gift and bids you distribute your offering among the people of Doum. I will stay to maintain order.”

The soldiers bowed and turned back to the cart. As Sa-Mica and Rielle passed they began to uncover it. Rielle glimpsed sacks of grain, barrels of wine and oil, and even boxes of fruit. All most likely plundered from the land around Doum anyway. The last she saw of the scene was the crowd, quick to forgive, hurrying forward and the priest striding to meet them.

They entered a long corridor, empty but for guards standing at regular intervals.

“The man you brought to the city,” Rielle said, looking at Sa-Mica. “Was that the Usurper?”

Sa-Mica nodded.

“And the Usurper’s army?”

“Gone. Except those brave souls back there who sought to follow Valhan.” He sighed. “It happened everywhere we travelled. Valhan was always ordering them to return to their homes and lives. If he had not, I suspect we’d have arrived with an army of our own.”

“Would that have been a bad thing?”

He looked at her and grimaced. “An army needs feeding and organising. It attracts those who would profit from and exploit it.”

“And it’s not like he needs protecting,” she added. So what had brought him here? Surely his sole reason was not to find her.

I’ll find out soon enough. Unless he keeps me as mystified as he has kept Sa-Mica. As they neared the end of the corridor her stomach fluttered. She was more nervous than the first time she had met him, but she’d had no idea then who and what she was about to encounter. Was it like this for Sa-Mica every time he was in the Angel’s presence, or had he grown used to it?

As they stepped out of the corridor, though an archway into a room many times the size of all the weavers’ quarters combined, a guard by the entrance struck a bell. The room was full of people: men and women, old and young, unified by the richness of their clothing. All faces turned towards the newcomers, eyes alight with curiosity. The sound of their voices dimmed and was joined by the soft patter of delicate shoes on polished wood as they stepped aside, creating a pathway to the king’s dais. Rielle’s heart pounded. She drew in a deep breath.

But the dais was empty. Instead the king stood at the edge of the crowd. He walked down the aisle his subjects had created, arms open, and smiling.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, beckoning them forward so they met him partway. “So this is the young woman the Angel seeks?” Rielle began the elaborate duck and bow the locals made to royalty, but he gathered up her hands and prevented her. “Rielle Lazuli, I offer a belated welcome to my country. Why did you not come to me when you arrived? I am honoured to meet any friend of the Angels.”

She managed a smile. “Thank you, your majesty. Would you have believed me, if I had told you?”

He chuckled. “Most likely not, it is true. It is too incredible a story. Yet I am glad you chose my land to settle in. And now we all are part of your tale, rescued from certain defeat by the one who seeks you.”

Rielle could not help glancing around the room.

“He is not here, but will return later,” he told her. “A feast in your honour is being prepared. Come, I will take you to the dining hall.”

A feast? Rielle thought of the cart outside, and of the starving townsfolk. Where can he have got food for a feast? Did the Usurper send supplies? Or are the rumours of a stockpile of food in the palace true? She said nothing and, feeling dazed and a little nauseous with anxiety, let the king lead her out of the room.

The next stretch of time was like a dream. She dined beside the Schpetan monarch, was asked to relay messages to the Angel from people whose names she recognised but who she had never met before, and was questioned about her own past meeting with the Angel. Sa-Mica sat silently beside her until someone realised she could translate for him, and then questions shifted to his own association with the Angel. To her relief, he was as vague about his past as she had been about hers.

I’m sure he’s as reluctant to reveal the sort of place the Mountain Temple was when he grew up there as I am to tell them I was exiled for using magic and am a murderer, she thought. But why isn’t the Angel here? Or… does he not eat?

The food was simple fare made tastier and more appealing through flavouring and decoration. The only meat was a tough roasted aum, for which the king apologised, telling her it had been old but was the last one in the town. Her hunger was sated quickly since she was used to eating little and her stomach was more inclined to churn with anxiety than to digest her food. At one point Sa-Mica excused himself. When he returned his expression was taut and thoughtful.

“He is sitting alone, looking out over the mountains,” he told her.

“Why does he not join us?” she asked.

“He does not like to be among so many people.” Sa-Mica shrugged. “He spent most days at the Mountain Temple this way.”

“Did anything unusual happen before he decided to come here?” she prompted, hoping for a clue to the Angel’s purpose.

Sa-Mica shook his head. “No, but we did not come here directly. We went north, to the furthest of the ice cities–and when we arrived…” He paused and shook his head.