Page 26 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Gavriel

H e pretended to consult the map, but his gaze kept lifting to the cypher seated across from him. She was staring out the window, her right elbow propped on the armrest and her left hand, the broken one, resting on her thigh.

Although Rowan looked deep in thought, her expression was not fixed. A succession of tiny changes flitted across her features like gusts of wind across water. A slight smile, followed by a tightening of the lips and a crease across her brow as some new musing made her frown.

He would give much to know what she was thinking about—then reminded himself that such things were not his concern.

When he had learned that she would be escorting him to Pota Pras, Gavriel had felt apprehensive and elated at the same time.

So far, he had kept his head sharing close quarters with her.

And why not? In his mind, he had reframed the incident with the coach so that his racing pulse was due to a near brush with death, not a near brush with Cathrynne Rowan.

He did enjoy her company. She was far less predictable than most humans or witches he had met.

He sensed hidden depths and found her bluntness refreshing.

The revelation that she feared the Sinn, for example, was a natural impulse, but he suspected few of her sisters would admit to it.

Gavriel had no disdain for cyphers. He admired their devotion to duty.

It was entirely the fault of their angelic fathers?—

The train jolted to a stop in a cloud of steam and hissing brakes. The depot was a tiny platform with a sign naming it Jarbidge Station. Gavriel surveyed the desolate hills silhouetted beyond the window, wondering if Rowan wasn’t right. Finding anyone out here felt like a fool’s errand.

She slung her pack over one shoulder. They joined a dozen miners who hunched against the biting wind. None spared them a second glance.

“Last stop before the Western Trail,” the conductor called from the steps.

“When do you come back this way?” Rowan asked.

“Dawn tomorrow.” He tipped his cap to her and climbed into the train as it pulled away.

Heavy machinery had carved parallel grooves into the earth leading toward a distant smudge of lights.

The miners headed off down the rutted road.

Rowan tugged her collar higher, blonde hair blowing about her face, as Gavriel consulted the map.

He pointed to a faint track running northeast. “Red Dog Camp should be over those hills.”

The moon was full and the sky thick with stars, illuminating the rugged landscape in a pale glow as they set off.

“Have you ever met the Morag?” she asked after several minutes of silence.

“Once,” he said. “At a conference on the extractive industries hosted by Kievad Rus. She seemed like a formidable woman.”

Rowan gave a low laugh. “Scary is more like it. She has loads of scars from fighting the Sinn.”

“Most witches in Satu Jos do.”

“How many Morags have you known?”

A slight smile touched his lips. “Many, Rowan. Yet sometimes I wonder how much longer the current system will last.”

“What do you mean?”

He hadn’t meant to broach the subject, yet he didn’t mind speaking freely with her.

“Only that I see all the tiny fractures running through Sion and watch them widen every year. The ancient balances of power are shifting. Take the Sinn, for example. They are malevolent, yet far more real to most people than the founders of this world.”

“You speak of the triple god.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “My father rarely leaves Mount Meru anymore. Travian and Minerva withdrew from public life an aeon ago.”

“Do you know what caused the schism between them?” she asked.

“No. It was before my time and Valoriel will not speak of it.” He paused. “There is speculation, of course.”

Her eyes lit up. “Please tell me. I have always wondered.” When he hesitated, she added, “Minerva is dear to my heart even though she has been gone for so long. The cyphers hold her closest, I think. She saved us.”

Gavriel knew the gruesome history, how the infants had been killed. It was a dark time. He disliked idle gossip, but found himself softening. What harm could come from telling her?

“Have you ever heard of the Plain of Contemplation?” he asked.

Rowan shook her head.

“It is a place where disobedient angels are sent so that they may have solitude to learn from their mistakes.” Gavriel knew this was a ridiculous euphemism and Rowan seemed to know it, too.

“Like the prison camp for witches in Iskatar?” she asked.

He exhaled a plume of white. “I suppose the purpose is the same. But I have never seen this place myself. It is not within the confines of this world.”

She frowned. “How is that possible?”

“There is a fey device that opens a portal. It is called the Rod of Penance.” He cleared his throat.

“In any event, after the third Lagashi rebellion in which Kven separatists tried to establish an independent state, my father grew furious. It was a pitched battle, with great losses among the legions before they prevailed. He berated Travian for allowing humans too much free will. Then he suggested that a healthy fear of punishment—something more severe—would keep them in line.”

“So Valoriel proposed that humans be sent to this Plain of Contemplation, too?” she guessed.

“That’s what my sister Suriel claims,” Gavriel admitted. “Travian refused and Minerva took his side. But my father would not relent. Eventually, they grew weary of his incessant arguing and simply left.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

Gavriel gazed up at the stars. “I would not speak ill of my father. His intentions are always pure. But I will concede that he can be quite stern. And stubborn. So this explanation is possible.”

He glanced at Rowan. “In the end, Valoriel may yet be proven right. Humans outnumber witches ten to one, and angels a hundred to one. They are the brains and brawn that keep the empire running. I have great respect for them, but I suspect they will not suffer the yoke of Mount Meru forever. Someday, they will throw it off, and I fear the bloodshed that will result since our cousins are neither gentle nor forgiving when roused.”

Rowan considered this. “Maybe so,” she said at last. “But I am sworn to protect them regardless.”

He nodded. “As am I. And who knows? Perhaps Travian will return and take matters in hand.” Privately, Gavriel did not believe he would, but who knew the minds of gods?

The condition of the road grew worse the farther they went. Gavriel held his injured wing close as they scrambled up loose scree and navigated around deep crevices. At last, they crested a rise and saw the camp below.

It was a collection of shacks and rusting derricks that had a skeletal appearance in the darkness.

They picked their way down the slope and found the main building half-collapsed, its roof caved in on one side.

Wind whistled through broken windows. Gavriel ducked through the doorway.

Footprints overlapped in the dust, but it was impossible to tell if any were recent.

Inside, mining tools lay scattered about. Anything worth taking was already gone. Pickaxes missing their handles, shovels caked with ancient mud, cracked lanterns, and empty crates. In one corner, a ledger book lay open. He examined the brittle pages. The last entry was dated fifteen years earlier.

They spent another hour searching the camp. Kal Machena was not there, and they found no signs of recent digging. It was past midnight by the time they finished. Clouds obscured the moon and it started snowing.

“We should return to the station,” Gavriel said, frustrated at the waste of time. “We can wait for the train there.”

Rowan shivered. “It’s a long way. I vote we shelter here until the snow stops.”

“If you prefer.”

They went back inside the main building, which had been a barracks and still had rows of metal cots. Gaping holes in the roof allowed flurries to float inside. She huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees.

“I didn’t think to bring a bedroll,” she admitted. “Mercy likes to go camping, but I never leave Arioch.”

“Why not?”

Her jaw set and she averted her gaze. “I like it there.”

Gavriel studied her sidelong in the dim light. He had a high tolerance for cold, much preferring it to the hot, humid days of Arioch’s summer, but he was aware that humans and witches were more vulnerable.

At first, Rowan’s angel blood seemed to warm her sufficiently.

They talked about Kal Machena and where she might have gone.

Rowan told him that she’d seen the girl on the riverboat, and that she had a sailing ship tattoo on her neck.

This led to a discussion of the human proclivity for inking pictures into their skin, a practice found in all provinces.

Rowan unwrapped her bandage and showed him her hand. The bruises had faded enough to make out the raven on the back, which she said marked her projective hand. Then she grinned impishly and confessed that she could cast with both hands, a rare talent among both witches and cyphers.

The night wore on and the chill deepened.

Rowan fell silent. When she stopped shivering, he began to worry.

It had happened with Yarl once, when Gavriel was foolish enough to bring him to Mount Meru.

Yarl’s speech slurred and he grew lethargic.

Alarmed, Gavriel had flown him to a doctor in Isai Minye, the nearest human city, who informed him with disapproval that the cold and altitude had nearly killed his secretary.

The Zamir Hills were not nearly so high as the Sundar Kush, yet he recognized the signs. Without allowing himself to consider the implications, Gavriel unfurled his uninjured wing and folded it around Rowan’s shoulders like a blanket. She looked surprised, then grateful.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded and blew on her fingers. “You’re not c-c-cold at all, are you?”

“I was raised where the air is so thin you would struggle to draw breath.”