“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.
