4. Zariel
Chapter four
Zariel
I hadn’t left the Ashen Mountain in years, other than for short flights, and now I wanted nothing more than to go back inside its familiar silver walls. But if I wanted to leave the mountain and be home, truly home, we had to make the summit a success. Cael had hammered in a truth we had long known—without assistance, we wouldn’t survive long enough to figure out a way to return home. I reminded myself of that fact—even as we humbled ourselves to exchange our carefully guarded knowledge with creatures who didn’t understand where we came from, or what they were asking of us.
We had to go home. That was the important part. The payment of knowledge was worth it to bring this treasure back to our people .
I walked behind the High Artist and other Artists with my arms crossed, doing my best to seem impassive. And I was. Today we were dressed as warriors in breeches and leather vests, not scholars. Even though our lives were devoted to knowledge, and even though the mountain had guards devoted to its protection, we were all trained to defend the mountain should the need arise. While a couple guards came today, the Artists wanted as many of the library staff from all ranks as possible to witness the exchange and assist with planning any future summits.
Thus far, the summit had merely been a matter of our flying over the crowds that waited on the streets for our arrival, where they would remain out of sight but within earshot. There were many among the humans who thought we were servants of their god and that we came to announce the end of the world. Maybe some of our species were a god’s servants—somewhere—but not us. We served only ourselves, as was right.
Cael had given me worried glances the entire journey, but by now his face was turned to stone—he had appearances to maintain here, too. The humans would gain their information, but we wouldn’t be pleased by having to provide it. And as the High Artist’s son, even more attention would be on him.
After around twenty minutes of flight from our mountain we had arrived at the meeting place, an airport that was closed for the encounter. I was perplexed at this choice, but it seemed that it had the security the humans desired, the space for us to fly in, and it was also close to our home. The Artists found it acceptable, so who was I to challenge their decision? Even if this location was nothing like the Ashen Mountain, with none of its craftsmanship or beauty. It didn’t have the silent song that called to us, the only place left of our home.
Leaving the mountain and its clouds to go to the summit felt like leaving behind a part of myself. Which it technically was, considering how our runes were made.
There were fifteen of us on this journey, with many more who remained at the mountain—waiting outside for the humans to deliver their promised shipment, near where the humans couldn’t pass. Apparently, the humans were prepared to be quite generous with their gifts—we’d see if they kept their word. Today, my task was to stand in the sterile room that was nothing more than a circle of seats under harsh lights, and watch. A stoic show of force and nothing more. We would defend ourselves if attacked, but it seemed odd that the humans would’ve gone through so much effort if they wanted to just kill a few of us. There was no reason to think they’d be hostile to us now.
And then the talking started. All my nerves vanished and were soon replaced with boredom.
“High Artist of the Ashen Mountain,” one of the human representatives said, “we welcome all of you, and this great opportunity to further the relationship between our peoples.”
“The honor is ours,” the High Artist lied, “and we want nothing more than the same aims as you—a beneficial friendship. You have our gratitude for hosting us today.”
There were even more formal greetings—hesitant exchanges with the stuffy and fragrant humans about alleged friendship. And discussions. So many discussions. They asked us questions, what we knew about…everything. We were told that angels were known here as beings of divine wisdom. It was just a happy coincidence for them that the angels who ended up in this part of the world were the ones who cared for the library. They likely wouldn’t have been as impressed if the night quarter of our capital, with its attendant courtesans, had appeared here instead. Instead of a library in a mountain, it would be a street of musical, ribald, and barely dressed angels attracting customers for the entertainment of all senses.
“Zariel,” Cael whispered from next to me, “stop scowling.”
“I’m not.”
“We’re trying to be allies.” He shifted, his tall wings grazing the ceiling. “Act like it.”
“Yes,” I said, biting back a smirk. He was set to be the High Artist someday—whether he liked it or not, and sometimes he acted like it, despite his best efforts.
But Cael was right—there was nothing to be gained by acting as if my feathers were being plucked .
I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a long day of nothing, when my runes suddenly burned with an intensity that shocked me. And then it faded, replaced by something more .
It was as if a hook worked its way into my body, pulling my attention across the room, desperately seeking something unknown. Something that I needed more than my breath.
And then I saw her.