by Sharon Shinn
Every night, after he left, she gave in to her frantic terror. There was a stiff, rusted deadbolt lever on her side of the door, and every night when her visitor departed she struggled to twist it home. But it was soldered or bent into place; though she fought with it ten minutes or more, she could not get it to budge. She had no way to make her room secure—and she knew that sooner or later he would find the right key. The thought turned her colder than ever in her unwarmed prison.
The fourth morning, when the servants brought her breakfast, she was ready for them. Grouched to one side of the doorway, she waited till they had stepped just inside, arms laden with trays of food and wood for the fire. Then she dashed out into the hall and down the first turning the corridor took.
Instantly, there were shouts and footfalls behind her. She raced madly past doorways, through a crisscross of passageways, hopelessly lost within minutes in the gray tangle of arches and stairwells and doorways. The light along these halls was murky and erratic, filtering in through a few narrow windows irregularly appearing along the walls. The uneven surface of the flagged floor tripped her up several times as she made her incautious flight. Once she fell to her knees, scraping her hands as she broke her fall, but she was instantly up and running again.
She had nowhere to run. She had no hope of escaping. When more servants boiled up the stairwell from a lower level, running hard to cut her off, she surrendered with only token resistance. “I want to speak to Raphael,” she said as they grabbed her arms and pinioned them tightly behind her. “Let me speak to the Archangel.”
Obviously his staff had been instructed not to talk to her, for at first no one answered. She began to struggle then. She had pretended to flee merely to get attention. “I want to be taken to the Archangel!” she shouted, stiffening her legs and bracing her feet against the stony floor. “Take me to Raphael!”
Finally one of them answered, in a strange north country accent that she had rarely heard, even in her Edori days. “He iss not here,” said the speaker, a drab but powerful man who looked as rugged and as flinty as the mountain itself. “He will b’back tomorree. See’m then.”
So she allowed them to return her to her room. She half-expected her food or fire to be taken away from her as punishment, but there were no repercussions. The day passed as all the others had.
But this afternoon she spent some time working on the dead-bolt attached to her side of the door. Using some of the butter saved from her breakfast bread, she attempted to oil it into docility, but it stubbornly refused to move. Defeated finally, she tried to think of alternate methods of security or escape. Her eyes turned involuntarily to the window across the room. She had no wish to flee down the treacherous mountain, and she assumed Raphael had made sure she could not try it, but she had not even cheeked. Maybe the window lock would yield to her; maybe, driven to desperation, she would in a day or so be willing to risk the flight down the stony slope, into the black ravine… .
But she discovered, after twenty minutes of wrestling with the iron bolt holding the glass in place, that this lock too was immovable. She laid her opened palm against the cold, foggy pane and felt the glass shiver when the wind glided over it again. And again, sending in its inevitable plaintive call, part cry and part whisper; and again—
Turning away from the window, she nervously picked up her pipes, hoping with their sweet, childish music to drown out the mistuned oratorio of the wind. And indeed, she felt marginally better while she played, soothed and rehumanized, though she had not mastered the reeds well enough to play two notes simultaneously.
And then she realized why Windy Point seemed such a sinister place, so eerie and evil: There was no harmony here. Angels did not sing, voice against voice, as they did in the Eyrie on a constant basis; nothing, no one in Windy Point worked in concord. She had been right, a day—two days—years ago, when she instinctively felt that Yovah would not hear her from here. He had forsaken this corner of the world because it held no harmony.
She cradled the pipes against her chest and drew herself together in a small bundle. And she was lost in this soundless, soulless place, that even the god had deserted.
Depressed by the dirge of the wind and the bleakness of her own thoughts, Rachel had passed a difficult night; she fell asleep late and was still sleeping when Raphael’s servants attempted to serve her breakfast. It was their pounding on the door that woke her, and she stumbled groggily across the cold floor to admit them. Well, it took some effort: She had pushed the heavy wooden armoire across the floor the night before, wedging it as tightly as it would go against the door frame. The idea had been to block the entrance of her midnight visitor, although she had not been sure the weight of the armoire would be enough to deter him should he be fortunate enough to find the key. It had stopped the servants, though, and that cheered her.
They threw her fulminating looks as they entered with their usual stock of food and fuel, and this time they watched her more closely to make sure she didn’t make another break for freedom. One of them pointed an accusing finger at her as he prepared to leave.
“Too-night,” he said, in that looping hill-country accent. “Yoh will hof dinner wif the angel.”
“Raphael is back?” she demanded. “I will see him tonight?”
“Be ready,” the servant said, and left, and locked her in.
Oh, she would be ready. She had been ready for five days now.
This day passed with even more excruciating slowness. Once she had washed and dried her hair, and decided which of the old woolen gowns was the warmest for the trek through the drafty castle to whichever dining hall Raphael considered suitable for entertainment, there was, as usual, nothing much to do. She practiced voice exercises again, played on her pipes, chipped at the two obdurate locks, and waited.
The light had begun to fail, the signal she interpreted as middle evening here, when the aging gray servant cum guard came to fetch her. She was on her feet before the door had completely opened.
“He iss here now,” was the man’s greeting. “You wanted so much to speak wif him.”
Rachel swept haughtily before him out of the room, then waited for him to lead the way down the labyrinthine hallways. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother to spit on him,” she said frigidly. “But today, I have a few things I’d like to say to him.”
And that little spurt of defiance helped her gain confidence as she followed the guard down three flights of stairs and dozens of passageways till they gained the dining hall of the Archangel.
The smell of overcooked food told her that this was indeed a meal she had been summoned to. Otherwise, she would have thought she had stepped into a nightmare.
She had entered a huge room, so high-ceilinged that she could not tell if the roof was raftered or merely arched stone. Great doors led off the chamber in six directions, but there were no windows to let in light or air. The whole place was illuminated with clusters of candles, but still, it seemed gloomy and underlit. Unseen breezes teased at the insufficient flames and, in sudden swift gusts, extinguished whole candelabra at once. The flickering flames that remained revealed and then shadowed the activities below.
Everywhere, great angel wings were draped over chairs, tables, lounges and divans. There was something indolent, almost abandoned, in the outflung feathered limbs. Low voices were interrupted at sudden jarring moments by loud bursts of laughter; now and then a call rang out from one side of the room to the other. Glassware chimed against silver, pewter clinked against china, as diners poured wine and carved meat and passed plates, and yet the pace was so sluggish, the movements so slow—
Rachel had frozen in the doorway, seized with a curious, reluctant dread. The guard prodded her from behind but she remained where she was, looking more closely about her. Angels were intertwined with humans everywhere she looked. Those great white wings overlapped frail mortal shoulders and drew them into clumsy, inexact embraces. Nearly every angel in the room was male, and every human female. The women sat f
orward in the divine laps, wrapping their arms around the thick necks or running their fingers through the ruffled feathers. In a far corner of the room, three winged shapes gathered around one small human form; Rachel could vaguely hear a medley of seduction and supplication as the girl’s voice rose higher and higher on a note of distracted panic. The silent servants who wound through the room brought pitchers of fresh wine to every table, and those who were not slumped forward on some shoulder or backward on some chair raised their glasses for more.
All the angels of Windy Point were drunken and stuporous; and this was the court over which the Archangel ruled.
“Rachel! My charming guest! Over here, my dear. We’ve saved you a place at our table.”
The mellifluous voice jerked her head around. Even in this dim light, it was impossible to mistake Raphael. He had come to his feet and was waving her forward. From this distance, in this light, he appeared to be bathed in a topaz glow emanating from the sheen of his own body. Hair, feathers and skin shimmered with gold highlights. He stood in an aureole, motioning her toward his table.
She crossed the room and came to rest before him, simply staring.
“It is a bit much compared to the austerity of the Eyrie, isn’t it?” he said sympathetically, pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to be seated. “It isn’t always quite this relaxed, I assure you, but I’ve returned after a few days’ absence, and my host is glad to see me. This is in the nature of a celebration, you understand. We are ordinarily much more decorous.”
“I wonder why I doubt that,” she said, finding her voice along with her habitual sarcasm.
“Because you are a sullen and suspicious girl by nature, of course,” he replied smoothly. “I can’t imagine what Gabriel sees in you.”
Laughter erupted from a small circle gathered at Raphael’s table; it was the first time she had consciously realized that Raphael was not at this post alone. She glanced quickly around to note three other angels at his table, two of whom she had never seen before—and one of whom she instantly recognized. Saul. The fair-haired, rapacious angel she had first met in Lord Jethro’s house—
He grinned at her. She felt an irrational wash of terror, and quickly looked away. Raphael was still smiling at her, extending his hand.
“But sit down, my girl, sit down,” he said. “Eat with us. I understand you were so anxious to see me that you went scampering through my castle the other day. Unfortunately, as I said, I have been gone. But I’m here now, and you may converse with me to your heart’s content.”
“Gladly,” she said, remaining on her feet. “But I wish to do so in private.”
“Oho!” he said softly, smirking a little. “You wish to tell me secrets. I am flattered to be your confidant.”
“I wish to hear the truth from you,” she replied, “which, if I judge you correctly, you rarely speak before an audience. And I refuse to sit for even a minute in the presence of that—” She waved a hand at Saul. She would not acknowledge him either with name or epithet.
Saul laughed. One of the other angels said, in a slurred, uncertain voice, “Don’t want to leave. Want to talk to the pretty lady.”
Rachel waited. Raphael smiled. “Oh, very well, my dear. But remember, when the talk turns dangerous, that you asked for this little assignation, not I. Saul, take the others away. Leave the candles, that’s a good boy. And the wine, please. You can get more at another table.”
When the others had protestingly vacated the table, Rachel finally sat, perching on the very edge of her chair. Raphael lounged across from her, studying her through the amber candlelight.
“You know, I do think we must be related,” he said musingly, as if it was a puzzle to which he had given a great deal of thought. “Surely you cannot be my daughter, though I admit my progeny must be scattered across half of Jordana. Or could I be wrong? Was your mother the type who would seek to ensnare an angel lover so she could boast of her conquests to her friends?”
“My mother died when I was a child, as you know,” Rachel replied in a level voice. “But I think she was a virtuous woman.”
“Your grandmother, then. Perhaps she dallied with my sire or one of my uncles. It’s no disgrace, really, none at all, to be an angel-seeker’s offspring. It’s one of the reasons, no doubt, Jov ah has kept such good track of you through all your amazing changes of fortune.”
“Yovah is not the only one who has tracked me,” she said.
“True—very true. I have been interested in you for quite some time. And I have, as you may have guessed, authored one or two of your misfortunes. But you’re such a resourceful girl. You survive everything. Truly you are an example to us all.”
“And now you have brought me here,” she said, still in that tight, controlled voice. “For no purpose that I can guess at. What do you want with me? Why do you want to kill me? What have I ever done to you?”
Raphael opened his tawny eyes very wide. “Rachel, my dear, my dear! Such ugly talk. Here you are in my house, for the very first time—can’t we make some pleasant dinner conversation?”
“If you consider this social entertaining, then where’s your wife? Shouldn’t Leah be here?”
“My wife prefers to take dinner in her rooms on occasions such as this,” Raphael said smoothly. “The excitement of my homecoming is sometimes too much for her.” He smiled at Rachel engagingly. “You understand.”
She watched him from narrowed eyes. “In her own rooms,” she said softly, “by choice or by chain? Do you compel the angelica as you compel me?”
“No, indeed, she has free run of the place, though she rarely chooses to exercise her rights,” he said. “She is a most indulgent wife, of course. She allows me whatever amusements I prefer, and in exchange I respect her wish for privacy. You see, we are much more well-suited than you and your so volatile spouse.”
“I would not have said the god chose well when he matched you with Leah,” she said, “but Yovah’s ways have always been passing strange.”
Raphael poured her a glass of wine and filled her plate with delicacies from the platters on the table. “Well, that’s the interesting thing,” he said softly. “Jovah did not exactly choose this wife for me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rachel snapped. “He chooses every angelica.”
Raphael nodded vigorously over his own glass of wine. “Oh yes, he chose mine! She was a Jansai girl, quite beautiful, with a great deal of courage and physical strength. Her parents were wealthy merchants and she despised them, and she had gone to live with her aunt and uncle some years before we were betrothed. I don’t know how much you know about the Jansai,” he added, “but strong-willed teenage girls are pretty much a rarity. Well, they are scarcely tolerated. She had had a rough time of it, poor girl, between one household and the next, but nothing had dimmed her really indomitable spirit. She had—it is hard to know how to describe it—an inner flame that was simply unquenchable. Or seemed unquenchable. The Jansai men, of course, are very good at quenching.”
Rachel had begun to feel queasy. Without knowing the end of this story, she knew that she wouldn’t like it. “What happened to her?” she asked slowly. “What was her name?”
He was smiling that warm, golden smile. “Her name,” he said, “was Leah.”
Rachel gave a small start. “Then,” she said stiffly, “‘they—and you—did a superlative job of quenching, because the woman who is your wife—”
“Oh, it’s not the same woman,” Raphael said almost gaily. “The Leah I was to have married is dead. Died, sadly, a few days before our wedding. My Leah—that was not her name originally, but you know, I find I cannot always call it to mind—my Leah was an angel-seeker who had spent a good deal of time convincing me that she would do anything she could to oblige me. You know how it is with angel-seekers, my dear—they’re the worst kind of whores, but that often makes them the best kind of whores. So I switched them.”
“You—” Rachel could not breathe. She was sure she had not
comprehended. “You—what do you mean?”
“I switched them. The Jansai brought their Leah to Windy Point, all embarrassed apology because she was such a contrary handful, and I said, ‘Jovah and I will tame her with love.’ Indeed, those were my exact words. I said, ‘Let her make a prenuptial visit with me for one month, and then we will have the wedding in Breven. She will be so docile you will not know her.’ Well, they were only too glad to leave her on my doorstep, because, as you can imagine, she’d been no end of trouble to them for the twenty-some years of her existence. And when we arrived in Breven four weeks later”—he spread his hands so smoothly that no wine spilled from the goblet he held—”I brought my Leah instead of their Leah, and married her in front of Jovah and the angels and everybody.”
“But didn’t they—couldn’t they—How could you fool them?” Rachel stammered. “Her parents, her family—”
“Well, you know how the Jansai women are,” he said. “Very wrapped up in veils and cloths and so on. We had my Leah all wrapped up, and I never for a minute left her alone with her loving family. They were too delighted at the change in her to inquire too closely. Oh, perhaps they had their suspicions, but they didn’t like to voice them. After all, what harm had I done them? Whether I’d married her or whether I’d disposed of her, I’d taken the rebellious girl off their hands. And I was Archangel and I had the ear of the god. They smiled and said they’d always known marriage would calm her down.”
The distant roaring in Rachel’s ears must be the physical manifestation of shock, but she felt no other symptoms. She had passed through horror to find herself sick and dull, sated with an awful knowledge. “You killed her,” she said stupidly. “And you’re going to kill me.”
“Mmm, well, that was my original thought, I must admit,” he said consideringly. “For so long, you did seem the one stumbling block to my plans. Because I know my Gabriel! He’s not the man to try to fool the god with any plausible substitute. If Jovah told him, ‘Marry Rachel, daughter of Seth and Elizabeth,’ then no one but Rachel would do for him. And I thought, ‘Ah. If I wish to prevent this man from becoming Archangel, what easier way than to dispose of his angelica?’ But, as I say, you are a hard woman to kill. My compliments, of course, on your continued survival.”
