Chapter 20 Feather
Feather
Imade a quick detour to the storage closet on my way back. The door was shut, but the lock Righteous had put on it the time he’d caught me in here all those months ago wasn’t engaged. I peeked around, then pushed it open, closing it silently behind me after I slipped inside.
As I let my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realized someone else was in here with me.
I could hear whispers and muffled giggles, and what sounded kind of like a guitar being played.
I tiptoed to the wall and slunk along the left side of the room, half hidden in the shadows of the tall shelves that filled the room for the first fifty feet or so.
It was big, much bigger than any closet on Earth.
Almost a warehouse, with room for the unused beds and personal items of High Angeli who had sacrificed themselves for Sanctuary—and plenty of room for the fun stuff the Guides had been systematically forbidding over the past years.
Or centuries. I wasn’t certain when the rules had been codified to outlaw music and art, but they had been de facto since Arabella’s fall.
“Okay, when we get to the bridge, we all stop playing and sing for four measures—the descant bit, remember? After that, we repeat at the coda for a minimum of five minutes, getting louder each time, until the last repeat. It has to go on at least that long, since this is a song of healing, so stagger your breathi—”
Before I could stop myself, I’d jumped out from behind the shelf and yelled, “A healing song?”
The eight Protectors that had been sitting in a circle all screamed and dropped the instruments they’d been holding onto the floor. The room filled with a giant crashing sound, as if someone had taken an ax to a piano.
I blinked, trying to process what I was seeing. They were all naked, their clothing folded in neat stacks behind them. “Um, sorry to interrupt your… whatever,” I muttered. No one answered; white fabric and bare asses were flying everywhere as they scrambled to get dressed.
What kind of musical group required stripping bare? I saw a glint of gold glinting between one guy’s cheeks. Oh, please don’t tell me they play the kazoos with their butts. Sunny will never forgive me if she’s been putting a rectal kazoo in her mouth all these months.
“Everyone, quiet,” one woman hissed, staring first at the dinged-up golden harps they’d dropped and then at the door. “I thought I heard voices.”
The closet was silent while we waited to see if Guides were going to come crashing in. I tried not to look at any naked parts as they silently, and quickly, finished putting their togas back on.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered after a long minute had passed, everyone was dressed, and no Guides had come bursting in to tear off our wings. “Do you know how to play those?” I nodded at the discarded harps that lay on a mound of fabric.
No one answered, until a familiar mop of muddy brown hair poked up from the side of what I thought might be a floor harp wrapped in an enormous white cloth bag. “Hey, Feather.”
“Hey, Truth,” I answered, relaxing immediately. He’d been sitting with me in Purity class, and was becoming a friend. “Why didn’t you tell me you played the harp?”
“Didn’t know it mattered,” he answered, and the tension in the room started to dispel. The others all sat down, and I noticed a few other familiar faces. “And if anyone finds out, we all lose our wings. So please don’t tell.”
“Trust me, I won’t tell anyone about… any of this.” I pointed to his toga, which had gotten twisted and was riding up high on one thigh.
He blushed, quickly fixing it. “Head Protector Righteous gave us permission to be in here. We’re doing a job for him.”
I wasn’t going to bother asking what “job” they were attempting. I didn’t want to know. “You said something was a song of healing?”
He stepped around the pile of harps and picked up a piece of parchment that had fluttered to the ground nearby.
“We found this music. It was written by High Angelus Seraphiel a long time ago. The weird thing is, we’ve never been taught to read music here—the angelic notation isn’t anything like the human version.
But when we look at it… it makes sense.”
“Like in the Matrix,” I agreed, scanning the page.
The notes on the curved staff lines were almost spinning toward me, as my eyes passed over them.
What was weirder was when the lyrics appeared underneath in dozens of languages…
and in angelic. Which I could somehow read.
“I can read it, too,” I confided. “The notes and the High Angelic lyrics. Can you?”
They all shook their heads. Truth squinted at the music over my shoulder. “I can sort of see some writing below the Earth languages, but it looks like scribbles.”
I sang a few lines, and felt the sore places on my feet from standing and running all day begin to heal, though the angelic words made my throat hurt a bit.
“I’m pretty sure it works. Can I have this?
” I peeked around, and blushed. The angry glares had all turned into awestruck—or lovestruck—expressions, and a few of their robes were poking out at odd angles.
“Don’t stop,” one guy said, adjusting himself. Ew.
“Our silence for yours, Protector.” Truth’s face went slightly green. “Wait, why did that happen?” He swallowed hard and repeated, “Our silence for yours.” And then he enunciated, clearly, “You are a Protector.”
Before I knew what was happening, he raced behind a shelf and vomited into what I thought might be an empty harp bag. When he emerged, his eyes bloodshot but filled with dangerous knowledge, I mimed locking my lips.
“Feather, you’re a High—” he began, but I rushed forward and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Bye, not hi.” I stared into his face. This was news I didn’t want reaching the Guides’ ears. He nodded, understanding.
I turned back to the group, who had been watching every move we made with wide eyes. “Did you all know that if the gate doesn’t get music—song, preferably—pretty much round the clock, the gate will fall and the Abyss will rush in?”
Truth blinked. “True, in every terrifying detail.”
“Do you know any more songs?” I pressed.
“Ancient ones are best, but I don’t want you getting in trouble.
Someone told me the Guides made a rule against them.
Listen to this one.” I sang one of the easiest songs Rumple had taught me, in Latin.
They echoed me, getting it perfect on the first try. Showoffs.
Then I had a thought. “You can’t play instruments out there… but if no one’s around, and you can sing even a bit in High Angelic, maybe your healing song would be good for the gate, too.” They looked skeptical but I sighed. “It can’t hurt to try.”
I held up the music and sang through it, though my throat began to burn by the end.
By the end of the short verse and chorus, they were all giving me puppy dog eyes.
Then I asked them to echo me. The first time, most of them grabbed their throats in pain.
After I’d gone through it twice, though, a few of them could sing it down an octave. Their pronunciation was excellent, too.
“Why can you sing angelic?” I asked during a break. “And listen to it. Like, your ears aren’t bleeding. Aren’t you young?”
“Yeah, we’re all High Angelus Mikhail’s latest,” one woman explained, sipping some water from a flask.
“We’re different. I don’t know why, but we can…
do a few extra things. Hearing it never hurt us like it does the olds.
Had no idea we could say the words, though.
I guess we have a little more of him in us than we realized. ”
I put a pin in that one; I was way too tired and close to making jokes about how good it felt to have a little of Mikhail in me, too. Whatever the reason, it meant these singers could do something no one besides the oldest Protectors and Guides could: reinforce the gate from this side.
We stopped when their voices were mostly gone, and I quickly sketched out the problem, letting them know that Righteous had been taken away. “There’s no one to keep the gate going while Sunny and I find him. We need fighters—”
One of the others laughed bitterly. “Ask around. We’re no good with a sword.”
I smiled. “Well, Rumple—my friend in the Abyss—said our best weapon is music. So we need you. In fact, I have a feeling music is what may save us all.” They all swiveled their heads to Truth, who was trembling.
“Utterly true,” he whispered. He waved at the rest. “Put away your instruments. It sounds like we’re needed.” They shuffled around, picking them up and putting all but one of them back into their velvety bags.
“Thanks.” I waved, walking back to the door. “Go meet with Sunny. She’ll organize a rotation. We have to find Righteous. Anything you hear, send word with Sunny, or Hope.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the Maker Hall.” I held up the music. “I have a big job myself.”
When I reached the workshop, both the Protectors were sleeping, curled up on the cot Mikhail had put near the fire for me.
After I stoked the fire and took a few sips of water, I sat on the edge of the soft mattress and began to sing, reading the words on the page until they were etched in my memory.
It was a song of healing, all right, and I watched the wound on Heart’s neck close up and begin to glow.
The scar was a strange, feather-shaped divot, as if her own flesh had been carved out along with Glory’s. I sang the song until my voice was raspy, only stopping when I began coughing and flecks of blood landed on my palm.
Glory’s hand was there when I stopped coughing, offering me a strip of white cloth. “How did you do that?” She scowled at the blood. “Did you trade our pain for yours?”
“No,” I said, my voice shattered. “I’m new.” I couldn’t get any more words out, and Glory was sitting next to me, her hands cool on my head. I felt odd, dizzy and weak, like I’d been running a high fever for days.