Page 45 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)
Gavriel
H e woke to bright sunlight without warmth. Distant voices rose and fell in song. Their intricate harmonies washed over him, along with a gust of arctic wind.
He sat up, disoriented and weak. His last memory was of delirium and a cool hand on his brow.
Cathrynne .
A tendril of fear wormed through his belly, though he didn’t know why.
He was at the angelic stronghold of Mount Meru, in his own solar, an airy chamber with ancient mahogany furnishings and colorful tapestries of plants and animals.
The doors to the balcony stood open. Beyond stretched the snow-clad Sundar Kush and, in the far distance where the gentle curve of the earth began, a glimmer of the Boreal Ocean.
The sky here was unlike anywhere else in the world: darkest indigo above, fading to cerulean and then pale blue at the horizon. Clouds drifted below the mountain peaks; such was the elevation of Mount Meru.
“You are awake, my lord!” a cheerful voice said.
Fenian Dawnsinger flitted through the arched doorway.
The cherubim was a small, round man with flowing white hair.
Prismatic colors swirled in his eyes. He was the seneschal who attended to the six archangels when they came home to visit.
Gavriel had known him from boyhood and was fond of Fenian, but there was nothing he despised more than feeling ignorant and helpless.
“How long have I been here?” he demanded.
Fenian hovered above the foot of the bed, wings fluttering anxiously. “A fortnight, my lord.”
“Two weeks!” Gavriel exclaimed.
The investigation into Casolaba’s murder had gone cold by now. And what about Cathrynne? Had she returned to Kirith? Been reassigned to other duties? How would he manage to see her again if . . .
Gavriel tamped down this train of thought. “Where are my companions?” he asked, trying to sound dispassionate.
Fenian looked confused. “Your companions, my lord?”
“My secretary Edvin Yarl, for one,” Gavriel snapped. “The cyphers Cathrynne Rowan and Mercy Blackthorn, for another. Where are they?”
Fenian quailed. “I’m afraid you must ask your father, Lord Morningstar. He will be pleased to hear you’re awake.”
Gavriel mastered his temper with effort. “It is not your fault. I apologize for my rudeness.” He drew a deep breath, the frigid air clearing his head. “Who brought me here?”
Fenian brightened. “It was Lady Suriel. She sat at your bedside for the first week, but when you did not wake, she departed and asked me to keep watch over you.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No, my lord.”
Gavriel sighed “Very well. Tell my father that I will come to him presently. I assume he is in the Chorale?”
Valoriel had always been a stern and remote figure, one to be obeyed without question and who rarely offered a word of praise. Naturally, this only made Gavriel want to please him all the more.
Then came the falling-out with the other two gods, Minerva and Travian. Over the long centuries that followed, Valoriel withdrew from public life, often ordering Gavriel to stand as regent in his stead.
Music was the only thing his father cared about anymore. He would sit for months without moving, his gaze heavy-lidded and distant, listening to the choir. Once, Gavriel had asked him a question and received the answer a month later, with no acknowledgment that any time had passed.
He understood that despite Valoriel’s physical form, he was not an angel but a god, and gods would always be unfathomable.
Yet his father was no longer the energetic, decisive being Gavriel had once known.
Secretly, he feared Valoriel was dying. Perhaps because the other parts of him—Travian and Minerva—had gone away.
“Ah, no,” Fenian said. “He is at the Citadel.”
Gavriel’s brows rose. “Is he?”
“Yes, he spends most days observing the legions in their exercises.”
“How long has that been the case?”
“Several years now, my lord.”
Gavriel had not been to Mount Meru for two decades. Perhaps his father was improving. It gladdened his heart.
“Shall I bring food and wine?” Fenian asked.
Gavriel realized that he was very hungry, but he did not wish to delay seeing his father. He needed answers more than he needed sustenance. “Not just yet. Have my clothes been cleaned?”
“Indeed. You can find them in the wardrobe. I will summon seraphim to escort you.” Fenian kept his expression neutral, but Gavriel knew what he was thinking.
That I am too weak to fly on my own.
“That won’t be necessary,” Gavriel said.
Fenian frowned. “Are you certain, my lord?—”
“Perfectly.” He managed a smile. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
“And you, Lord Morningstar. We have missed your presence.” The cherubim paused as though he might argue but changed his mind and flew away, wings humming.
Another arched doorway led to a bathing chamber with a sunken tub of rose quartz. Gavriel examined himself in the mirror. His face was thinner, the bones prominent. Angels were not immune to illness, but it was rare and usually mild.
He remembered feeling poorly the day after Barsal Casolaba’s funeral. The healers coming from Angel Tower and finding nothing wrong with him. After that, his memories grew foggy. Haniel had visited, and a delegation of witches, though he could not recall speaking to them.
Whatever had laid him low must have been serious if he was brought to Mount Meru. Yet the purity of the mountain air and the healing power of the choir had dragged him back from the brink.
Gavriel bathed, pleased to find that he could flex both wings easily now. The break he had sustained falling from the rooftop was healed. He donned fresh clothing and stepped out to the open balcony. The drop plunged for thousands of cubits, but there was no need for a railing.
Angels didn’t fall. At least, not accidentally.
Gavriel spread his wings, feathers ruffling in the updraft that perpetually flowed around Mount Meru’s spires. A wave of dizziness swept him. But he could not appear weak, not here—and certainly not before his father.
Before he could doubt himself, Gavriel launched into the air, wings snapping open to their full span. For a few seconds, his own weight was too great for his wasted muscles, and he dropped like a stone. Panic clutched his chest. Then he remembered how to angle them to catch the thermals.
The fall arrested, he soared upward, heart racing. The exhilaration of flight raced through him. This at least had not changed.
Gavriel sped toward the Citadel of the Legions.
It resembled a giant beehive, with dozens of open entrances into the barracks.
The Citadel was not designed for defense since no army could launch a direct assault against Mount Meru.
Any human—or witch, for that matter—would perish from the cold and the altitude before they were halfway up the mountain’s flank.
Its main feature was the vast plaza that surrounded it, used for the drilling and training of the angelic host. As Gavriel approached, he saw them assembled, rank upon rank, their golden armor catching the sun, their movements perfectly synchronized.
On a high balcony overlooking the plaza stood a tall, solitary figure. He had dark hair and broad shoulders, with golden wing feathers. Even from a distance, Valoriel’s commanding presence was unmistakable.
Gavriel spiraled down to land beside him. It took a great effort not to stumble.
His father’s face—so like Gavriel’s but for the grass-green eyes that had given him his other name, the Summerlord—registered approval, and Gavriel knew the risk had been worth it. Had he been carried by seraphim, he could picture the slight curl of disdain on Valoriel’s lips.
“My son.” Valoriel drew him into an embrace, a rare display of affection. “I am glad to see your strength restored.”
Gavriel tried to steady the tremor in his thighs. “I am well enough.” He turned to survey the host below. “Is there trouble brewing? Fenian tells me you spend your time here now.”
Valoriel was silent for a long interval. Then he said, “We must be prepared for what is coming.”
The words sounded ominous. “And what is that?” Gavriel asked.
His father’s cool gaze studied the legions. “First, tell me what you remember.”
“Not a great deal,” Gavriel admitted. “I was told that Suriel brought me here. But last I recall, I was in Kota Gelangi. How did I end up in Arjevica?”
“She said a cypher brought you to her tower. And your secretary.”
Valoriel’s mouth thinned. He did not approve of Gavriel’s penchant for associating with humans unless they were servants.
“They claimed that you were poisoned,” his father continued, “with a gem called kaldurite.”
Gavriel’s quick intellect parsed the word at once. “Kal Machena,” he murmured. “Durian Padulski. They’re the ones who found it.”
Valoriel nodded. “It has a unique property. It blocks the flow of ley entirely. A witch placed one among your wing feathers and kept it there with adhesive. It poisoned your blood.”
Gavriel was stunned, but it fit with what Casolaba’s mistress said—that the gem would change everything.
“Are you certain it was witches who tried to kill me?” he asked.
“Who else?” Valoriel replied. “They are the ones who murdered Casolaba over this gemstone. Clearly, the witches have the most to lose and are willing to kill to keep it secret.”
“Has anyone spoken to the Morag?”
“What’s the point? She will only deny involvement. No, the only course now is to secure the source of the kaldurite before the witches use it against us.”
Gavriel exhaled, his mind racing. “I must speak to Cathrynne Rowan and Mercy Blackthorn.”
Valoriel regarded him with a slight narrowing of his emerald eyes. “I imagine they have returned to Kirith, as you shall.”
“Return to Kirith?” Gavriel stared at his father in disbelief. “But this stone is at the crux of it all. I cannot go home until I have proof of who murdered the consul?—”