Angel of Storms

  What will you ask from Semla? What can she possibly offer to equal the healing of her child?

  “It is likely I will never ask for anything,” he replied–this time out loud because they had arrived in another world. She drew a breath to speak but before she could do so they entered the place between again.

  But the possibility is always there in her mind, she pointed out.

  “And mine. I have performed countless small favours throughout the worlds. When I need a minor task performed, I need only search local minds until I find someone who owes me a favour. I do not ask for anything greater than what they consider equal to what they demanded.”

  So major tasks require greater favours?

  “Occasionally. Much can often be achieved through many minor ones, however. People’s needs are often the same, no matter what position they hold in a society.”

  The healing of a king’s daughter would be a debt far more likely to be paid than that of a washer woman, she mused. As they flashed in and out of three more worlds, she considered why he might refuse to do something.

  What if you can’t do what they request?

  “Then we have no agreement.”

  How likely was it that he was incapable of fulfilling a request? She decided it would be best not to ask. It was rude and foolish to ask a ruler what his weaknesses were, after all. Better to ask what they could do.

  Which, for him, included the most sophisticated of the uses of magic. Ironically, it was the kind the corrupter had expected Rielle to learn and use on herself. Unless the woman had meant her to return to ask for healing. If so, did that mean the corrupter knew pattern shifting?

  “That is extremely unlikely.”

  According to the Travellers’ healer I have… wait… does Ulma use pattern shifting to heal?

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly Ulma referring to the old woman helping her as her daughter made sense. Rielle thought of all the dolls made from the same mould, each with different colouring, and wondered… then brought her thoughts back to the question she had wanted to ask.

  I have healed myself, according to Ulma. Does this mean I have a talent for pattern shifting?

  “Not necessarily,” Valhan replied aloud as they surfaced in a forest she remembered from their earlier journey. “Your body heals without conscious effort, and since you have access to magic, it can use magic to assist the process, though not reliably.”

  So she could have been using magic all her life without realising it. The priests of her world would not have approved of that. And she couldn’t have been using much since she had never noticed Stain in her home.

  Then why does my body allow me to age? she asked as several worlds flashed by.

  “Because when the body heals it is attempting to return to a pattern. Ageing is not a deviation from the pattern.”

  Which was why it was called pattern shifting. To not age was to alter the natural pattern of the body. Did it automatically try to return to the natural state? Did being ageless require constant application of magic?

  “All these questions will be answered in time,” he told her. Darkness surrounded them, then brightness, then the gently lit Arrival Hall. “But not yet,” he finished aloud. She nodded to show she understood. She must master everything else before she tackled the more sophisticated kinds of magic. She must finish her lessons with Dahli.

  Valhan let go of her arm, stepped back and vanished.

  CHAPTER 18

  Rielle hovered in the entrance to Dahli’s rooms. Like all of the maintained areas of the palace, the walls were so covered in sculpted, painted and gilded surfaces she could not guess if the walls beneath had been fashioned from the natural stone of the caves or a human-made addition. Artwork of vastly different styles hung where gaps had been left in the decorations. Sculptures occupied niches and alcoves. Hangings blanketed walls and curtained doorways.

  The open door suggested visitors were welcome, but she could not overcome her reluctance to enter without an invitation.

  “Hello?” she called.

  A head appeared in one of the internal doorways, then a man stepped into view and bowed. He wore a plain, sleeveless garment that hung loose from his shoulders and fell to the tops of neat slippers.

  “Master Dahli is not here,” he said.

  “Ah.” Rielle drummed her fingers on the door frame as she considered what to do. Dahli had said nothing to suggest her lesson wouldn’t be taking place as usual. “Can you tell me where he is, or when he will return?”

  “I do not know. I apologise.” Another bow.

  She smiled. “No need to apologise. I will return later.”

  Retreating into the corridor, she started towards her rooms. They were almost as spectacular as Dahli’s, but she had examined the artwork many times already. The constant presence of servants made her self-conscious and when she tried to strike up a conversation they looked confused and uncomfortable.

  Though she’d grown up in a wealthy family, she had regarded the workers in the dyeworks as friends, or a second, extended family. Yet this was not how all of the rich families of Fyre had treated their employees. She’d learned to judge a person’s true character by the way they behaved towards those lesser in status, or how their servants and children responded to them.

  Yet it wasn’t fear the servants here expressed. They didn’t expect punishment if they were caught being too familiar, they simply hadn’t encountered anyone among those they served who had paid them much attention beyond giving orders. And they preferred it that way. Sorcerers–ageless sorcerers in particular–had such different needs and wants to ordinary people that they were close to being something not human at all. Something beyond human.

  It meant the only person she had to talk to was Dahli. Fortunately he didn’t seem to mind. He was good company and never treated her as a lesser person because of her inexperience, or background. Unlike the priests of her home world, he showed an interest in her beyond her role as a student. He seems as much like a friend as a teacher now. A new friend, she amended. There is still much I don’t know about him. And, unlike with Betzi, we have no shared experiences to bind us.

  Valhan was their only common connection. And magic. Thinking of the artwork in Dahli’s room, she wondered if he had chosen it. The works in her room were all in harmony with the décor. As a result, some were a little twee.

  Without thinking too much about it, she steered her feet in another direction. What else was there to do but go exploring again? Parts of the palace were still unknown to her. She’d been saving them for a day like this, when she might have to return quickly. Winding through the wide interlocking corridors, she slipped between two heavy doors too warped to close properly into an unlit corridor. With a magic light floating before her, she pursued the receding shadows.

  The plaster on the walls still remained intact, but the paint was faded and peeling. Despite the obvious abandonment, artwork still hung from the walls. She guided her light closer to see faces staring back at her from gloomy surrounds, or the black trunks of trees framing dark water or shadowed fields, or animals both graceful and menacing lurking in the gloom.

  Here and there heavy lengths of fabric hung from rails–some only by a last few stitches–or sprawled over the floor. A closer look revealed the familiar texture of tapestry, though some used techniques she did not recognise. Their colours were strange, the dyes having shifted or faded with time. She’d hoped to guess how long it had been since the corridor was used and maintained by the deterioration of the textiles, but the varying levels of decay and the possibility that more robust materials and dyes were used in other worlds than those in Schpeta made estimation impossible.

  A pair of ornately carved doors emerged from the darkness. She stopped to admire them. Despite the coating of dust and many cracks, the skill of the artisan still radiated from the wood. After admiring them for a while, she peered through the crack between them, opened thanks to the shrinking of the wood. A faint, cold lig
ht within revealed another enormous room, populated with people and creatures frozen and still.

  Statues. It is a gallery?

  In the centre a huge, elongated shape rose towards the ceiling. A faint light from somewhere above revealed arms and a chest draped in cloth, but the doors did not allow her to see any more.

  She did not want to risk damaging the doors by trying to open them. The gallery was wide and she could see more doors further along the corridor. Walking to the next pair, she found one hanging awkwardly from a single hinge, leaving a good-sized gap to slip through.

  The soft-soled shoes she had been given to wear in the palace made only a whispery scrape on the dusty floor. The illumination within the room came from a deep fissure, the square sides polished to reflect light down from the surface far above. The top of the huge statue was revealed and her heart skipped a beat as she recognised the face.

  Well, who else would it be?

  Someone laughed. Someone male. She froze and cast about, trying to locate the source. Fainter voices drew her attention to the far side of the room. The statues there were illuminated by a lower, warmer source of light than the one above the statue of Valhan.

  Another familiar voice joined the first.

  “So why not?” the one who’d laughed asked.

  “I don’t know,” a familiar voice replied. Dahli sounded weary. “Despite what they say, he doesn’t tell me everything.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve admitted that! Well, to me anyway.”

  “Perhaps I did but you weren’t paying attention, Atorl,” Dahli replied. “Just as you couldn’t have been when I told you not to come here.”

  “You told me not to come. I don’t follow your orders.”

  “They were Valhan’s orders. I made that clear.”

  “So you say. But we’ve not seen you with him since he returned. How are we to know you are still his most loyal?”

  “Because I am here, and you are not.” Dahli’s tone was firm. “Stay if you wish. It is not my order you are disobeying.”

  The stranger paused. “He won’t mind that much, will he?”

  Dahli didn’t reply.

  “You don’t have to tell him.”

  “I have as much choice as you, or any other person in all the worlds.”

  The stranger paused again. “Is that a light?”

  Rielle froze as she realised it was her light the man had seen. Just pretend you were approaching, not standing here listening, she told herself, and began walking slowly towards the voices.

  “Dahli?” she called.

  “Rielle.” Dahli sounded relieved, as if he had feared it was someone else. “What are you doing here?”

  “Exploring.” She stopped as he came into view. A thin, stooped man peered at her. “You have company? Should I leave?”

  “No.” Dahli’s shoulders rose and fell. “Come here. I may as well introduce you.”

  As she drew closer she examined the stranger, who returned her scrutiny with equal interest. He was young and would have been a head taller than Dahli if he hadn’t been hunching his shoulders. Pale, short bristling hair covered his scalp, and his lips were so thin that he might as well have had none.

  “Rielle, this is Atorl, one of the Raen’s allies. Atorl, this is Rielle, who I am training.”

  He looked her up and down. “Really?” he said, in what she doubted was a formal greeting in anyone’s culture. “For whom?”

  “Valhan,” she replied.

  His thin, prickly eyebrows rose. “Indeed. For what purpose?”

  She looked at Dahli. His lips twitched with amusement, but he said nothing.

  “I see.” Atorl’s eyebrows rose higher.

  Dahli shrugged. The smile he directed at Rielle was a little strained. “You may continue exploring,” he told her, then gestured around the room. “There is much in this part of the palace to marvel at, but remember how easy it is to lose track of time here. Lessons begin after the middle meal.”

  She nodded and took a step back. “Honoured to meet you, Atorl.” The thin man snorted as if this amused him, and turned his attention back to Dahli.

  Rude man, Rielle thought as she walked away. From behind her she heard the stranger’s laugh again.

  “A plain one but I’m sure that will be rectified soon enough. Since he’s not teaching her as a favour to anyone, is he…?”

  “No.”

  “What a relief for you. It would sting, after all this time. Actually, I’d wager it was you she—”

  “And you’d lose,” Dahli interrupted.

  Atorl laughed. “How frustrating would that be, for all three of you?”

  “It is time you left, Atorl.”

  The other man made a low retort, then his laugh was abruptly cut off. Rielle glanced back, wondering if Dahli had something to do with that, but only her teacher stood there. He glanced at her, his face in shadow, then vanished.

  Silence expanded to fill the enormous space like magic spreading to fill a void. It was strange how certain she was of her solitude. She’d noticed that she could sometimes detect when other people were around despite not seeing them. Less reliably for sorcerers, however.

  Brightening her light, she drew closer to a group of statues. Three women were dancing in a circle, naked but for flowers in their long hair and a thick covering of dust.

  What had Atorl been alluding to? She frowned. Whatever the man had suggested, it had angered Dahli, so he might not appreciate her asking about it. Though she had a right to, since it involved her. She resolved to later.

  For now, she had half a day free to explore. Moving through the statues brought her closer to a wall, painted a dark colour. As her light reached them, small black squares were revealed to be paintings. A thrill went through her and she hurried over to the closest. Dust rimed the frame and coated the painting. She blew on the surface, dislodging a little. With a mental apology to the servants who cleaned her clothes, she rubbed a sleeve gently across the surface. A dull blackness appeared. She could make out no features. Thinking that perhaps it was a night scene, or a dark painting with a small subject to one side, she wiped until the whole square was clean.

  It contained nothing but black paint.

  Puzzled, she stepped back and brought her light closer. Brushstrokes were revealed. Reading them like a relief carving, she made out the shape of a landscape. Black clouds raced across a midnight sky. Inky flowers bloomed in the darkness.

  Was it a style of painting, secretive and deliberate? She moved to the next painting and wiped away the dust. Another black surface appeared, but this time a murky shape lurked in the darkness. A smiling face. It was as if someone had painted over it with many layers of black glaze.

  Licking a finger, she rubbed at a corner of the face. Grime came away, revealing stronger colour.

  The varnish has darkened, she thought. The residue on her finger was greasy. Oil? Is this what happens to oily paint over time?

  Stepping back, she considered the two paintings. Words were carved into the frames. She recognised the style of lettering, but while her grasp of the Traveller tongue was good enough for most conversation–and Dahli’s lessons–she could not read or write it.

  Would Valhan remember the artist? she wondered. He must have seen the work of thousands. Thousands upon thousands. Why would he remember them all? Will he remember me, in another thousand cycles–or even just a hundred? Or will I be like Dahli, dedicating my life to the ruler of worlds?

  It didn’t appeal. Why would it? Unending cycles of servitude seemed a disappointing future after escaping three unextraordinary domestic existences; and imprisonment. Dahli believed she would be a great sorcerer. To her that meant freedom and independence, not attending to someone’s every wish and command. Though it would be a limited freedom, since she couldn’t travel through the worlds without Valhan’s approval.

  And one day I may need his help. I’d have to offer something in return.

  She sighed. The galler
y and her thoughts had filled her with melancholy. She turned away from the paintings, feeling betrayed by them. All art deteriorated and, in time, fell to dust. As a tapestry artist she’d learned to accept its ephemeral nature, but she’d been consoled by the thought that it should, made well, last beyond her lifetime. She’d assumed paintings would survive far longer.

  If she learned to become ageless she would see all her creations perish. And everyone she knew who was not also ageless. And her children, if she ever had any and they did not have strong enough magical abilities to become ageless as well.

  “Rielle.”

  She jumped; then, spying Dahli in the shadows of a statue, shook her head at him. “Give me a warning before you do that!”

  He smiled. “Would you not also jump at the warning?”

  “I guess, but that’s not the point.”

  “I apologise for not frightening you with a warning that I am about to scare you.” He chuckled. “I thought you might linger here.”

  She shrugged. “The paintings are so dark with age they’re almost entirely black.”

  “Yes, but the statues are in good condition. In other worlds, if exposed to weather, their features would have long worn off, or they’d have crumbled away.”

  “Does Valhan come here?”

  He looked up at the statue. “Occasionally. It’s one of the oldest representations.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shook his head and turned back to her. “I expect you want to know who I was talking to, before.”

  “Atorl? One of Valhan’s allies.”

  “Yes. Do you recall what the term means?”

  “Allies? Yes. Sorcerers Valhan has made agreements with.”

  He looked pleased. “That is correct. What is important to note is that they are not truly loyal. Many serve him only because they profit from it.”

  “So they would betray him if they thought they’d get away with it.”

  “Yes.”