by M. D. Grimm
Even as his heart grew heavy with longing to see his sister, loud hoots and hollers brought him back to the present. He grinned as he quickly shimmered his wings insubstantial to prevent them from being abused by rambunctious boys. He knelt and nearly toppled over as Gavreel and Cassiel dove into his arms.
They proceeded to ramble on about several things at once and Roland merely nodded and made noncommittal noises as the boys each vied for his attention.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Gabryl said with an exaggerated sigh. “No love for your father’s brother.”
Cassiel, the younger one and future healer, quickly pushed away from Roland before latching his arms around Gabryl’s waist. With an amused smile, Gabryl ruffled Cassiel’s blond head.
“Thank you, lad.”
“Boys, you seem to forget that not everyone wants to be clobbered the moment they step inside.”
Roland looked up as Mykial strode down the hallway separating the entryway from the living room. Never one to look frazzled, he was as perfectly coiffed in his home as in public and gave Roland and Gabryl polite nods as he gripped his sons’ collars and tugged them back.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Gabryl said. “I invited Roland to join us.”
“I would never mind. He’s always welcome.” Mykial graced him with a friendly smile and a glimmer of warmth in his amber eyes. Such things were rare on his stern face. He was a soldier to the core and not one prone to foolishness. Roland smiled back and nodded.
“Thank you. Dina’s cooking is not something I would ever pass up.”
A delighted twinkle entered Mykial’s eyes as he led them into the dining room. “Why do you think I was so eager to marry her?”
“I can think of another reason.” Gabryl elbowed his brother in the ribs.
Mykial scowled and made sure his sons were seated. As soon as their father arrived, they grew silent and watchful. Not fearful, Roland was glad to see, but alert and ready to follow orders. With parents as strict as theirs, he wasn’t surprised they were taught obedience first and foremost. It was the best quality an angel could have, after all.
When Dina stepped in with a large bowl of salad, Mykial instantly walked over to grab it from her. Roland and Gabryl followed suit and took the bowls of fruit and goblets of wine to the table. After they were all seated, the boys continued to be silent as the adults talked.
“Roland, I hope your projects are going well,” Dina said, her blue eyes intent on his face as she took a sip of her wine.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “They’ve never been smoother.”
He noticed her instant relief only because he’d known her for years in intimate settings like this. Anyone else would think her aloof and untouched by anything—the perfect commander’s wife.
“Have you seen Anpiel?” Roland asked.
Mykial smiled slightly. “Yes. She does your family proud. We will have many good years ahead with her in the lead.”
Roland sat straighter in his chair. Mykial didn’t give praise to just anyone. Gabryl and Mykial carried most of the conversation while Roland and Dina exchanged a few looks when the brothers fell to bickering.
Evening passed rapidly into night, and Roland was soon saying farewell. Mykial led him to the door while Gabryl stayed behind with Dina, talking about a book or something. Dina also worked in the library and they could go on for hours about something they’d read or wanted to read.
“I meant what I said before,” Mykial said. “You are always welcome here.”
“Thank you. You have a beautiful home. It’s a nice change of pace from my solitary studio. Sometimes I forget to look up from a canvas and see the world.”
Mykial snorted. “The price you pay as an artist.”
Roland laughed. “I suppose it is. Have a good night.”
“Roland.”
He turned back. Mykial’s face was a mask once more and his posture was rigid and formal. The sudden change put Roland on alert.
“I think it may be time to consider your future.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I would be honored to have you part of my family.”
“Oh. I’m the one who’d be honored, truly, but Gabryl and I—”
“Are old enough to understand that you have duties and responsibilities to your people. There are several recently orphaned children in need of parents, and I think you and Gabryl would be a good fit for a few of them.”
Roland swallowed hard, trying not to panic. Mykial had influence, sure, but he couldn’t force Roland or Gabryl to do anything they didn’t want to. He’d known Mykial long enough to understand his words came from a place of love and concern despite his overbearing demeanor.
“I would have to talk to Gabryl first,” Roland said, forcing his tone to stay light. “There are a lot of things to consider. You know that.”
“You’ve had time to consider them. Neither of you are lads anymore.”
“No, we’re not. I understand what you’re saying. I do. Now I need you to take a step back.”
Mykial’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.
Roland offered a smile before turning and leaving, his heart thudding. He flew through the dark night, the spires offering faint light for him to see. Once he was closed off in his studio, he could breathe easier again. He didn’t appreciate Mykial’s meddling or insistence, but he also couldn’t deny his friend had a point.
Now he desperately needed to go on his hunt for paint supplies if for nothing else than to clear his head.
Chapter Two
THE FIVE students stood in a circle with their easels, brushes, and paint. Roland slowly walked around behind them, observing their varying skills. About a year ago, he’d volunteered his time to mentor burgeoning artists, those more inclined to paint and charcoal versus those better with clay and stone. His students were young, just graduated from their primary schooling and now venturing out for the first time into their chosen professions.
Most of the time, he enjoyed working with them… but sometimes not so much.
Roland stopped walking and swallowed a sigh. “You’re not just replicating the vase. Don’t worry so much about perfectly duplicating the shape or colors. Use the vase as a model, a single stone in the foundation, then build on it. Give your vase personality, make it special. Play with colors, lighting, and shading. You can make your vase arrogant or shy or angry. Whatever strikes your fancy. Don’t be afraid to push limits.”
Soroth and Tagas stared at him, fraternal twins with equal expressions of incredulity.
He simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “The seer labeled all of you artists. Prove to me that you are. Convince me. Show me art, show me life, show me who you are through each stroke of your brushes.”
The students bent to the task, and he started to nod, smiling at the different colors, the slightly modified shape of the vase in each painting. He found the hardest part of mentoring artists was the need to push them beyond the rigid adherence to rules and structure that had been bludgeoned into them their entire lives. For their chosen profession, they had to break free of such thoughts and restrictions. Art had no limits.
A crash behind him caused Roland to whip around in surprise. Then he let out a slow breath to calm himself and ease his tense muscles.
Omael bowed her fair head and stood rigid, waiting and fearing punishment for her clumsiness. The unchosen girl had been assigned to him that day, and he had her organizing supplies in the studio. Not his personal studio, as the students weren’t allowed in there, but the airy general studio that had large windows granting the most natural light an indoor facility could give.
“The unchosen klutz strikes again,” Karael said, getting snickers from the other four.
Roland shot him a look that could have burned through stone. Karael instantly ducked his head and hunched his shoulders.
“What have I told you?” Roland said, his voice deadly.
Karael audibly swallowed. “Never make jo
kes at the expense of another angel, even an unchosen.”
“Exactly. As long as you are in this studio and under my mentorship, you will treat every single angel you encounter with respect that you yourself would expect. Art is not cruel. It can be dark and twisted but still beautiful, conveying something beyond what words can describe. As artists I expect you to appreciate all forms of life and see majesty where others might see ugliness or deformity. If you prove incapable of that, then you have no place in my studio, and I will have you transferred out. Do all of you understand?”
After they each looked him in the eye and nodded, he finally softened his tone. “You have a little time left before our session ends. Please clean up your stations, quietly, and cover your canvases.”
They did as they were told, and once they left, Roland turned to Omael, who had stood silent and watchful during the entire exchange.
“Did you bump into the stack of canvases?” he asked gently.
She pressed her lips together in a thin line before she gave a meek nod. Her small black wings drooped and fluttered in submission and anxiety. She was a cute young woman with plain looks and shifty gray eyes. He didn’t want to imagine the treatment she’d received from the other mentors. Whenever an unchosen was assigned to him, he always treated them with patience and kindness. But no matter what he did or said, they would watch him like wary prey, waiting for the predator to strike.
It broke his heart.
“No damage done,” he said with a small smile. “Perhaps I should move them so they’re not sticking out like that. Could you clean up the paint that those messy children dripped on the floor?”
She nodded and quickly dampened a cloth before dropping to her hands and knees to scrub like the stone had insulted her mother. He didn’t bother to sigh. He straightened the few dislodged canvases and jars of paint that the jostling had disturbed.
In a world where a seer determined one’s life, profession, and destiny at birth, the unchosen were seen as abominations. They were shame personified, a blemish upon the perfection of angelic society. There were usually about five to ten unchosens born in a generation, and they were all kept together in Emphoria, monitored and given basic education. Then, when they reached adulthood, they were put to work doing menial, degrading tasks far away from the sight of most angels. They were forbidden from pairing and producing offspring, as if that might curtail the production of unchosens. Not even the seers understood how or why unchosens came to be.
They proved the angels’ rigid structures weren’t perfect. Roland always suspected other angels were scared of unchosens because they were living, breathing evidence angels didn’t know as much as they arrogantly thought.
Roland also suspected it was his artistic nature that gave him a different perspective on the matter. He didn’t see imperfection or abominations. He simply saw quiet, downtrodden angels who, by no crime of their own, were shunned by their peers. So he did his best to be kind and patient, even knowing it made little difference.
Once Omael finished up, he handed her a small bag with a mini canvas, plus a few brushes and small jars of paint. She stared at it before finally lifting her head and scrutinizing his face.
“You did a good job today,” he said. “It would please me if you would take this and perhaps find some enjoyment yourself at painting. Create anything you like. If you ever want to show me, I would be honored.”
She swallowed hard, and her eyes glistened before she clutched the bag to her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the first words she’d ever spoken to him.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice evening, Omael.”
She nodded tightly before turning and dashing out of the studio. He made such bags for all the unchosens assigned to him. Two had even shown him their paintings, and they weren’t half-bad. He would love to mentor them, to refine their untrained talents, but that was forbidden.
He clenched his hands into fists and kicked one of the legs of a table. Anger wanted to surge up and make him scream, and he had to resist. He took several deep breaths, but they didn’t help. Fine, then. He needed paint supplies, and despite Gabryl’s worries, Roland grabbed his blue supply bag and left the studio, a storm in his mind and an ache in his heart.
The sun was bright and cheerful, the rays bouncing off the spires and blinding him. His rich blue robe fluttered around his legs, and he knew the color set off his violet eyes, black hair, and dark wings nicely. Even if he was going for a jaunt outside the city, he enjoyed looking his best.
He clutched the bag slung over his shoulder and made sure to keep a lookout for anything strange. He had to go far this time since the particular blues and pinks on his list could only be mixed with moisture from certain clouds farther north. Gabryl’s warnings echoed in his mind, making him wince. He couldn’t wait an unknowable time to replenish his paints, especially if he wanted to finish Dina’s painting in the near future. She wasn’t known for her patience. Yes, he could have asked for an escort, but wouldn’t he offer more of an undesirable target as a lone angel? He wasn’t even a soldier, just a measly artist. No dragon or demon in their right mind would see him as a challenge or threat. His insignificance could well be his protection.
Beyond any of that, however, was the deep need to have some solitude to work out his future. Mykial’s words still echoed in his mind. Should he sacrifice the chance at passion for a guarantee of contentment with Gabryl? What did Gabryl want?
“Roland!”
He jerked in surprise and swung around. A wide grin stretched his face as he waited for an angel he hadn’t seen in weeks to join him. Her entourage was close behind.
Anpiel, his sister, dove at him, and as he caught her, the impact sent them spinning in circles in the air. His laughter joined hers as their wings brushed against each other, her white feathers contrasting starkly with his black.
While they’d certainly seen each other in passing, long enough to exchange hellos, Anpiel’s official duties took up much of her time, negating anything akin to a social life.
“Hello there, stranger,” he said.
She pulled away enough to see his face before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “The high chancellor has been working me to the bone. I finally managed to convince her to give me a break. Where are you off to?”
“I’m off for supplies,” he said, stroking her long black hair. “And at times like this, I give furtive thanks the seer chose you for the high chancellor’s heir and not me.”
Anpiel grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “I love it, Ro. All of it, even when I hate it. I can’t wait to rule all my feathered minions.”
Roland snorted a laugh and finally let her go when her escort of soldiers reached them. Twenty soldiers surrounded them in a loose circle, hard gazes noticing everything.
Anpiel’s gold robe shimmered under the sun’s rays, matching the white-gold of the soldiers’ armor that covered them head to toe since angel skin was fragile and easily bruised.
“I will join you on your mission, oh brother mine.” Anpiel linked her arm through his and turned to the outer borders.
Gabryl’s warning rang in Roland’s head. Did the high chancellor say anything to Anpiel? Should he? But Gabryl had told Roland in confidence about Mykial’s worry. Roland took his promises and secrets very seriously, and he would never betray Gabryl’s trust. But didn’t his sister’s life outweigh that? Even with the soldiers, twenty couldn’t do much against a hundred or more demons. Or—gulp—a dragon.
As much as Roland wanted to shrug off the vague threat, he couldn’t since the consequences of being wrong would be dire.
“What makes you think I want company?” He kept the tone playful and pulled his arm away from her grasp. Though it pained his heart to reject her since he really had missed her, he couldn’t risk putting her in danger.
“I didn’t ask, did I?” she said, expression turning hard, eyes glinting with authority.
Roland frowned. She’d never taken such a tone with
him before. “I’ve done this alone before.”
“Not today.” She took his hand firmly. “Indulge me this one time, brother. Things are uneasy out there past the gates. Trust me.”
She knew.
But she didn’t know he knew as well.
He forced a smile on his face. “You glow like a red star when you’re demanding. Whoever you bond with will have their hands full.”
Her expression softened, and she squeezed his hand. “They will simply have to learn their place, as you will, when I hold the scepter.”
Quick as a flash, Roland pulled out of Anpiel’s grasp, yanked her hair, then flew away, laughing loudly. She squealed and flew after him, intent on revenge. Roland briefly caught the exasperated looks the soldiers gave each other before they flew after their future leader. Then Roland could think of nothing but keeping out of his sister’s grasp.
She was stronger and slightly taller than him and a full year older. She was going to kick his ass when she caught him.
EMPHORIA WAS nowhere in sight when they reached their destination. Rear stinging where she’d kicked him, Roland refused to rub it and give Anpiel the satisfaction. He ignored her and the soldiers, focusing on the dew of the clouds and streams of light given by the stars. They were far northeast of the capital city and nearly halfway toward Auroran, where their parents lived. He should probably visit them sometime soon. It had been nearly two years since he’d seen them last, and though they exchanged frequent letters, those never compared to face-to-face contact.
He missed them.
They were soldiers and rarely allowed to leave their stations. He’d been so caught up with commissions, and Anpiel with her studies, time just flew by. Perhaps he could visit them on his own but knew it would be better with Anpiel there as well.
Anpiel wrapped a slim arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. They gazed at the stars together. The brilliant pinpricks of light looked to be holes punched in the unyielding black of the sky. The sun was fiercely bright behind their backs, casting their shadows on the gray clouds below their feet.
