Authors: Karyn Henley
Peron popped her thumb out of her mouth and chanted, “Within this tree stood the stairway to heaven made wholly of light.”
“Exactly,” said Melaia, glad that for the moment the tale was distracting Peron from the intruder, whose gold eyes held a hungry glitter. Melaia continued:
An angel named Dreia, guardian of the Tree, saw the Second son lying there and asked the cause of his despair. When he told his tale, she pitied him and gave him the juice of one fruit. “This will grant you knowledge and cleverness to find the right gift for your father,” she said. As he sipped the juice, the man’s eyes brightened. “I know the perfect gift,” he said. “A fruit from this Tree.”
Dreia hadn’t intended to give the man a whole fruit. Its seeds were precious, carried by angels into the heavens to plant wisdom trees in worlds among the stars. Yet the man was handsome, his entreaties eloquent.
At last Dreia said, “You may take one fruit if you vow to bring me the first creature that greets you when you arrive home. This I shall send over the stairway as payment. Moreover, you shall return the three seeds of this fruit, for they are strictly forbidden to mortals. Should you fail to repay your debt, the Tree itself shall exact payment in breath and blood.”
The Second-born agreed to the bargain, for the one who always greeted his homecoming was his old hunting dog. Taking his dog and the seeds back to Dreia would be good reason to see the beautiful angel again. So he carried the fruit home.
While he was still afar off, he saw, bounding across the field to greet him, his young niece. “Uncle!” she cried. “Terrible news. Your old hunting dog has died.”
The Second-born fell to his knees and wept, not for his dog, but for his niece, the only daughter of the Firstborn, now to be payment for his debt.
Melaia paused as the intruder slipped off his gloves. His fingernails were long, curved, and sharp. Talons. Her pulse pounded at her throat. His blackened eye, his scratched brow, his feathered cloak, his limp.
She had met him before. As a hawk.
“Is there no ending to the tale?” He smirked at her recognition of him and stroked the corpse. “I favor endings.”
Melaia felt foggy, as if she were in a dream. She tried to gather her thoughts.
“The Second-born knew only one way to escape his debt,” Iona prompted.
“Yes.” Melaia cleared her throat and forced out the words.
The Second-born knew he had to destroy the Wisdom Tree.
Dreia saw an army approaching, the Second son in the lead, betrayal in his heart. She gathered what angels she could. Some plucked the remaining fruit and hastened over the stairway to celestial worlds. Others stayed behind to defend the Tree. But these were not warring angels. The best they could do was save some of the wood as the Tree fell and was plundered by men who wanted pieces for themselves.
“That was the end of the stairway,” Nuri said.
“And the end of angels in our world,” added Iona.
“But the brothers planted the seeds of the Wisdom Tree,” offered Peron, “didn’t they?”
“They did.” Melaia set the harp aside. “The brothers learned that cultivating wisdom takes patience.”
The girls chimed in, “Wisdom, over time, is earned.”
The hawkman hissed. “A pitiful ending and woefully false.” He pointed a taloned finger at Melaia. “Remember this, Chantress. The Second-born abducted his niece and headed for Dreia. But fortune was with the Firstborn, for I discovered the treachery in time to rescue my daughter. To ensure that the Tree never collected on the debt, I destroyed it. My daughter and I ate the seeds, round and shiny, red as blood. We became immortal!”
“You’re trying to haunt us with our own tale.” Melaia took up a poker and stabbed the coals in the brazier, determined not to show her fear. “There were three seeds.”
“So there were,” said the hawkman. “The third I crammed down my brother’s throat. Now he owes his debt for all eternity. And it is my pleasure to make sure he never repays.” He grinned at the dead man. “Son of Dreia, this night you are destroyed.”
He snatched up the corpse, and its wings unfolded. The girls shrieked and ran to Melaia.
The hawkman dropped the body back to the bier as if it had burned him. Then he cursed and shoved it to the floor. He scanned the room. “The man had a pack. Where is it?”
“Maybe he lost it in the side yard.” Melaia felt her face grow warm at the half lie.
But the man didn’t press his search. Instead, he stiffened and stared at the front door, his head cocked, listening. Melaia heard only wind, but the hawkman slowly retreated, tense as a cat backing away from danger. He glanced from the door to the window to the roof hole, where smoke drifted into the night. Then he hurtled toward the brazier, and his body contorted.
All of Melaia’s instincts screamed at her to run, but she stayed her feet, clenched her jaw, and gripped the poker with both hands. As the hawk leaped into the flames, she swung with all her might.
She struck only air as he rose in the smoke and vanished.
M
elaia was still gaping at the roof hole, watching smoke swirl away, when Benasin, the overlord’s advisor, barged into the sanctuary like a dog on the hunt, his windblown dark hair giving him a wild look.
The high priestess swept in after him and slipped off her gold-trimmed blue cloak. She paused to catch her breath, her almond-eyed gaze trailing him around the room as he inspected every nook. “You run like a young man, Benasin,” she said. “What did you sense?” When he gave no answer, she turned to Melaia. “What’s happening?”
The other girls all spoke at once, pointing at the roof hole. “Strange man—” “Gold eyes—” “Up there—” The words bobbed like apples in water.
“And the other man, he has wings,” said Peron, pointing at the stranger on the bier.
“The cloaked man called him Dreia’s son,” explained Melaia. “He started to take the body, then changed his mind.”
“No wonder in that.” Benasin squatted beside the corpse. “Your visitor saw the wings and knew his mistake. Dreia’s son doesn’t have wings.”
“Who is the winged man?” asked Melaia.
“I intend to find out,” said Benasin. “He’s one of the angels, that’s certain.”
“Angels are real, then.” Nuri frowned at Melaia. “You said your stories were just legend.”
“I thought they were.” Melaia knelt beside Benasin. “You spoke of Dreia as if she’s real.”
“She is,” said Benasin. “Legend is often based on truth.”
“But according to legend, Dreia is an angel,” Melaia pointed out. “So her son would be too. Wouldn’t he have wings?”
“Mellie, for once try to hold back your questions,” said Hanni.
“It’s all right, Hanamel,” said Benasin. “The girls deserve answers for what they’ve seen.”
“You have answers?” asked Hanni.
“Some.” Benasin gently lifted the corpse and laid it back on the bier. “To start, few angels have wings. This one happens to be an Erielyon, one of the lower ranks of angels. A simple messenger. Erielyon are the only winged angels.”
Iona stepped gingerly toward the bier. “I’ve never seen an angel before.”
“How would you know, if they don’t have wings?” asked Nuri.
“I wish I had wings.” Peron snuggled up to Melaia and put her thumb in her mouth.
“That would make you the lowest rank,” said Nuri. “I’d rather be higher.”
“How many ranks are there?” Melaia stroked Peron’s silky hair.
Benasin eyed Hanni. “You’ve not schooled your charges in the histories?”
“It’s all I can do to train them in herbs and rites. We’ve little time for histories. As for angels, they should stay in tales.” Hanni sank to the bench at the brazier and stared weary eyed at the stranger.
“But the tale of the Wisdom Tree,” said Melaia. “Is it in the histories? Is it true?”
“The part about no more angels in the world is obviously wrong,” said Iona.
The girls began guessing which parts of the tale were true, which false. Hanni flapped her hands at them as if shooing chicks. “Off with you now. To your prayers and pallets.”
As Melaia herded the girls out, Hanni caught her arm. “You’ll be wanted here,” she said. “Iona will take charge.”
Melaia followed Hanni to the bier, where Benasin was examining the angel’s wounds. Melaia cringed at the sight of the gashes. Even though she had cleansed them, it took all her willpower to keep from turning away.
“Hanamel told me about the hawk.” Benasin glanced at Melaia. “You saw the attack?”
“Hanni was at a birthing. The girls came running when they heard the screams. I don’t know how much they saw, but …” She bit her lip. A hawkman sounded imaginary. Yet before tonight angels had existed only in legend. “The man who was here tonight is the hawk that killed the angel.”
Benasin’s face hardened. “You’re sure?” He searched her eyes.
“His face was scratched, and he limped,” said Melaia. “It was my doing. I chased away the hawk with a stick.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Benasin’s mouth. “Shameful, being beaten away by a priestess.” He drew the sheet over the Erielyon’s chest.
“But a hawk who becomes a man?” Hanni shook her head. “It can’t be.”
“You’re right,” said Benasin. “He’s more likely a man who becomes a hawk.”
“Wonderful.” Hanni held up her hands in exasperation. “Why now, Benasin? Why here?”
“Should I know the why of it?” he asked.
Hanni shook a finger at him. “Don’t trifle with me. You’re one of them. You’re—” She glanced at Melaia.
Benasin raised his eyebrows.
Hanni’s gaze locked onto Benasin’s. “You’re an angel, and you know more than you’re saying.”
Melaia stared at Benasin. “Do you have wings?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I had none the last time I looked.”
“Benasin is not an Erielyon,” said Hanni.
“Angels are of different races,” said Benasin. “For the most part they move about undetected.”
“And they live extremely long lives,” said Hanni.
“But they can be killed.” Melaia eyed the Erielyon.
“True,” said Benasin. “Angels can be killed in physical form, which is how most appear in the world these days. But if they can avoid getting themselves
killed, then, as far as I know, their time here is unlimited. I tend to think of myself as immortal.” Benasin stroked his close-trimmed beard. “This winged one was no doubt a messenger. Did he say anything before he died?”
“He tried.” Melaia shivered at the memory of his vibrating spirit. “He carried a pack.” She retrieved it from the shelf and handed it to Benasin.
He drew out a thin, palm-sized wooden box.
“A money box,” said Hanni.
“A codex, rather.” Benasin lifted the lid and thumbed through leaves of papyrus. “A book.” He closed the wooden cover and held it out for Hanni to see.
Melaia leaned in to look. A
V
with a line running straight up the center was carved into the ruddy cover.
“The sign of the Tree,” said Hanni. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I know this book,” said Benasin. “It’s Dreia’s. I expected her to send her son here, not the book. It seems, instead, that we have the book and not the son.”
“You expected Dreia?” Hanni’s mouth dropped open.
“You know Dreia?” Melaia asked.
Benasin made no answer as he leafed through the book.
“He knows her quite well,” Hanni said as if it were an accusation.
“You assume I know more than I’m telling,” said Benasin. “I assure you, I know very little.”
“I’m aware that angels can’t know things that depend on human choice.” Hanni narrowed her eyes at him. “But don’t you have insight into the spiritual realm?”
“Are you worried Dreia will come here for her book?” asked Benasin.
“An angel dies in our courtyard, an intruder frightens my girls, says he has unfinished business with me, and disturbs a corpse.” Hanni paced to the brazier, then whirled around. “Who under the Most High has unfinished business with me?”
“Who indeed?” muttered Benasin.
Melaia glanced back and forth between Benasin and Hanni. She had never seen the high priestess so agitated. Both Hanni and Benasin seemed to have forgotten she was present.
“It’s my duty to protect this temple and my priestesses,” said Hanni. “I do not wish to be mixed up in the disputes of angels. You of all people—of all—”
“Beings?” Benasin seemed amused.
Hanni huffed. “You of all the creatures that roam this wild world should understand.”
Melaia bit her lip. Hanni’s sharp, direct observations intimidated most people, but Benasin was unruffled. He obviously knew he had to brave some thorns to reach Hanni’s soft side.
“Dreia is an enigma to me,” said Benasin. “She’s always coming up with these sayings.” He thumped the book.
“I’m not talking about sayings, and you know it,” said Hanni. “I thought I was done with angels.”
“Except for me?” he asked.
Hanni rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Except for you. Yes. But I do not want this, Benasin.” She pointed to the Erielyon. “Do something. Take the corpse.”
Melaia cleared her throat. “There’s one thing more.” They both looked at her as if she had just arrived. “When I cleansed the body, I saw a scroll in his fist. I left it there.”
Benasin set the book aside and uncovered the corpse.
“It will be tight bound by now.” Hanni joined Benasin, who worked with the angel’s fist.
As Melaia looked on, Benasin inched a crumpled scroll from the angel’s grip. He unrolled it and read, “Now is payment due in full.”
“Well enough, then,” said Hanni. “It’s no secret that you wager, Benasin. I would say your debts have caught up with you.”
“I’ve paid all. All but one.” Benasin looked askance at Melaia. “You have no debts, have you?”
“Me?” Melaia blinked at him. “I’ve never wagered or borrowed—”
“I thought not. Yet the messenger was approaching you with the scroll.”
“I was the only one in the yard.” Melaia tried to rub the chill from her arms. “Besides, he didn’t give it to me.”
Benasin tucked the scroll into his waist pouch. “Did I not say Dreia was an enigma?” He took up the book again. “I’d like to sit here awhile to see if this book yields any answers. With your permission, Hanamel.”