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.”
