Above the Ashen Clouds (Twisted Worlds #2)

39. Zariel

Chapter thirty-nine

Zariel

H igh Artist. What a joke.

I was too young. Too inexperienced. There were far better qualified in this mountain. This was the last position I wanted, and a week in the role had not changed my mind. In fact, if I ever made it home, I’d be sorely tempted to leave the Ashen Mountain for good, no matter how hard I worked to earn my place here. It was difficult to accept the idea of living where I had almost been sacrificed. And the place that had been so cruel to Aniela.

But Cael was right—who would take the High Artist’s place, if not me? Cael didn’t have the mind for any sort of rule, and it was not merely a reluctance. He hated politics. If I didn’t step in, would the role be filled by someone who had the High Artist’s aims, who willingly drank the poison he poured into their minds? Or would it be taken by some Artist who would see this as their chance for power, and not care about bringing our people home?

I’d sit on the High Artist’s seat. I’d do the endless tasks, both political and administrative. But I wouldn’t take the oath that bound me to this role, which had to be witnessed by a quorum of Artists. That alone should help convince more than a few that I was sincere in this being a temporary arrangement.

The High Artist had convinced a chosen few that becoming a god was the best option to go home, and I was the one who had the best chance of truly accomplishing that task. But it all depended on a message from the elves of the Darkening Woods, and there was no way of knowing if they’d answer. We may not have been allies before the worlds shifted, but in this we were united—surely, we both wanted to go home. And we would work together to do so. I hoped.

“How much more do we have to do?” Cat asked me from her desk. Taking the position of the High Artist meant going over the mundane correspondence of the mountain. From inventory, promotions, internal squabbles—both of the library and the prison. There was so much to do, and thanks to the High Artist’s obsession with what benefitted him, many of the tasks went unattended to. Again, to assure angels that I intended my position to be temporary I had to leave much unchanged, but there was still so much other work.. .

“A lot.” I sighed. “All of it.”

Prisoner inventories and conditions. Cleaning schedules. Rations. Inventories. Personal disputes. It never ended.

“I expected more fighting,” she said. “We’ve been doing this for a week and there hasn’t been anyone pounding at the doors to kick us out.”

“Give them time,” I said. “Angels normally fight with their wits, and battles are conducted in secret. I’m sure I will have a challenger soon. But we’ll manage.” I smiled at her. “After the next summit they’re going to realize that you’re the best one to help us, and the resistance will disappear. That is, until we are back in our kingdom.”

“I can only hope.”

“ You are my hope.”

I took a moment to take her in, the brave creature who saved my life. If she hadn’t returned to the mountain, broke into the prison, and freed Aniela, I would be creature food and the High Artist would be divine. Speaking of creature food, I kept my word—the harpy ate Gadriel. But his corpse was no longer my concern. Cat sat at the desk, knees bent and feet resting on the seat, her pale blue robes flowing around her. Her nearly white hair was in its normal braid, but there were dark circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there before. She was more beautiful to me than the sun reflected on crystalline snow, and more precious than my own heart.

“Come,” I said, standing and reaching for her.

She didn’t look up from the papers. “We have work to do. The university asked for a list for the next food shipment and no one bothered to put a decent one together. And I actually know what things are called, and I know better than to ask for ‘tuns of oil’ or ‘barrels of butter.’”

I frowned. “That isn’t correct?”

“It’s … there’s a better way to ask for things. Those have not been used in centuries. We’ll get a scale and figure out more efficient measurements. But the spice list—gillyflower? Cinnamon makes sense. Hippocras? I understand that the languages shifted, but apparently it decided to be very peculiar about food. I need to fix it. And tell them no more of that fruit punch.”

“It can wait,” I said. “There’s something that I insist we do now.”

She raised her head. And smiled.