Archangel's Light (Guild Hunter #14)(39)

Illium had intended to walk all the way home, but he said, “Where do you want to go?”

When Aodhan just shrugged, Illium said, “I know where we can fly.” There was a place his mother had shown him—a mountain field with lots of flowers and butterflies. Aodhan loved butterflies, even though he liked to pretend he didn’t. Illium didn’t tease him about it; teasing was for stuff that wasn’t important. Butterflies were important to Aodhan in some way.

They took off soon after. Illium couldn’t do vertical takeoffs yet, but they were at a high point near the gorge. So he walked to the edge of the massive split in the earth, and took off from there, sweeping down on the air currents, then rising up into the clear blue of the sky. The two of them still didn’t have permission to gorge dive, but this—using the lift created by the air cradled in the gorge—was allowed.

Illium didn’t complain when Aodhan flew much higher. Aodhan liked doing that because he attracted too much attention when he flew closer to the ground. Littles their age weren’t usually allowed at such high elevations, but Aodhan had been given special permission after Illium’s mother went and talked to the other adults.

Now, Aodhan was a spark in the sky.

“He is a little sun,” Mama had said one day, her voice dreamy as she looked up at the sky where Aodhan flew. “So bright and open and full of an inner light that I worry will be bruised by the world.”

Her fingers in Illium’s hair. “I worry about both of you, my two bright sparks.”

Today, Aodhan followed Illium until they reached the field of flowers and butterflies. Then he came straight down to land on his feet. He wasn’t anywhere near as fast as Illium, but he was much faster than other children around their age.

A huge butterfly of jewel green settled immediately on his shoulder. It fluttered up when Aodhan slumped into a seated position on the field, then settled again. Other, smaller butterflies found spots on Aodhan’s wings, his hair, even his legs. Each time he moved, the air shimmered with color.

Illium’s mother had painted Aodhan covered with butterflies and even though Aodhan had gone a funny color at seeing it, he kept the painting in his bedroom. He wouldn’t even give it to his own mama, even though she’d pressed both hands to her cheeks and asked with shining eyes.

Sitting down beside his best friend, Illium pulled off his practice sword. It might be stubby and made of wood, but he loved it because Raphael had given it to him once he decided Illium was old enough for sword training. When it broke—because all practice swords broke after a while—Illium was going to save a piece and see if his mother’s friend who carved things could carve him a tiny sword out of it, for Illium to put in his box of keep-things.

He put down the sword with care, then fell back in the grass so he was looking up at the sky, with the flowers waving alongside him, and Aodhan’s bright presence to the left. Then he waited. Trying to make Aodhan talk when he didn’t want to talk was stupid. All it got anyone was a tired voice.

Aodhan’s mama and papa didn’t seem to understand that. They were nice, but they thought Aodhan was like his sister Imalia, who was already a grown-up. If they’d been his parents, Illium would’ve been mad at them for not knowing him, but Aodhan never got mad. He just said, “Eh-ma knows me. You know me. Teacher knows me. I don’t need a lot of people to know me.”

So because Illium knew him, he closed his eyes against the sunlight and began to talk about his training, including the new moves Raphael had taught him. “I’ll teach you,” he promised his friend. Aodhan was good at physical things, but he only did them because Illium did, so they could play battle games together.

Mostly, he liked making art.

“Thanks,” Aodhan said, speaking at last. “You were tired.”

“Raphael is a tough teacher.” Illium loved that the archangel didn’t baby him—he wasn’t dumb, he knew that Raphael didn’t treat him like a warrior. Because he wasn’t a warrior. You didn’t just decide you were one. You had to become one. Other warriors had to evaluate your skills and decide you were worth the title. “One day, I’m going to be in his seniorest squadron.”

“That’s not a word,” Aodhan said, but Illium could tell he was smiling. “Seniorest.”

“Who says?”

When Aodhan laughed, Illium opened his eyes—to see the butterflies take flight in tiny bursts of colors. Slumping back into the flowers and grasses with Illium, their fingers just touching, Aodhan sighed. “I was trying to show my art to this artist Eh-ma said I might like to talk to—she even gave me an introduction letter.”

“Was he horrible about your art?” He didn’t think his mother would’ve suggested a person like that, but her art friends could be strange. In their own worlds, but not like his mother. Different. And a few of them were plain odd or rude. They said things that weren’t polite and thought it was all right because they were great artists.

Illium spoke his final thought out loud to Aodhan. “You know that’s not right,” he added. “My mother is the greatest artist of all and she’s kind.” That wasn’t only Illium’s opinion, either—people across the Refuge, even archangels like Uram and Lijuan, they called her art a “gift to angelkind.” “Don’t pay attention to the ones who think they’re so important they can be mean.”