“You have,” Rielle replied. “I made that journey myself, remember.” She smiled. “How are you, Sa-Mica?”
“Well.” His expression was, for a moment, contradictory, and that made her instantly uneasy. Perhaps it was because she had rarely seen him smile, and only briefly. He had never spoken of his years growing up at the Mountain Temple, but she suspected he had many bad memories and terrible regrets. Yet the uncertainty in his regard of her was new. Perhaps it was her fear of what others would think on seeing her tapestry design that made her read him so. She turned to look at the local priest and her heart skipped. By the trim of his robe he was no ordinary priest, but one high in the hierarchy.
Sa-Mica can vouch for me, she told herself. He can tell them this is truly what the Angel looked like.
Yet Sa-Mica had also been present when she’d promised not to speak of the Angel to anyone. Now, as he turned to see what the other priest was so excited about, his expression changed, and the realisation of the foolishness of what she had done crashed around her. How could she explain that she had been driven to finish this? That excuse seemed silly now.
“I expected to find you in the artists’ workshop,” he said, with no trace of disapproval. “But I see you have found another medium worthy of your talents.”
“Will the Angel be angry?” she asked, relieved that the Schpetan priest did not know Fyrian.
“At this? I don’t see why. It’s a fair and flattering likeness.” Sa-Mica looked amused, then seeing her anxiety he frowned. “But it is something else that worries you.”
“I promised not to speak of him,” she acknowledged weakly. When his eyebrows rose she spread her hands. “I wasn’t going to finish it, but today something… something compelled me.”
He nodded. “Captain Kolz said you saw us coming.”
She remembered Betzi then. The young woman was looking from local priest to Rielle to foreign priest to tapestry, her eyes wide and her mouth open in confusion and excitement.
“I wasn’t sure it was you,” Rielle admitted to Sa-Mica. “And even so… that’s no excuse. I promised.”
Sa-Mica dismissed her fears with a wave of his hand. “It will not matter soon, I expect.” The troubled expression returned and he looked at the other priest and gestured toward the door. “We’d best get back.”
The local priest’s expression showed no hint of understanding, and Rielle realised neither priest knew the other’s language. Yet the Schpetan priest nodded, recognising the tone and gesture despite not understanding the words. Extending a hand towards the door, he looked at Rielle expectantly. “The Angel has requested you meet him at the palace,” he said in Schpetan.
The Angel. Valhan. Rielle felt as if her stomach had suddenly become weightless. He was here, and he wanted to see her again. She swallowed and looked at Sa-Mica.
“You truly came here to find me?”
“He truly did,” he replied.
She gave Betzi a nervous smile as she passed, then glanced back at Sa-Mica. “Why?”
Again, the troubled look. “I don’t know–but nothing he has said or done has given me cause to suspect he is angry with you.”
His tone was apologetic. Perhaps this lack of knowledge was what troubled him. He must wonder if the Angel did not trust him, or the secret was dangerous. Her stomach shivered at that last possibility, but she had no time to dwell on it as she stepped out into the hall. It was full of curious weavers. During the short journey to the main door she replied “I don’t know” three times to their questions and then she was outside, surrounded by a small crowd of neighbouring crafters, come to see the foreign priest. Sa-Mica joined her, the Schpetan priest emerged and, with a respectful half-bow and wave, indicated they should follow him.
To her surprise, night had arrived, though the quality of light suggested the sun still lingered close to the horizon somewhere behind the heavy clouds above. The priest created a small flame and sent it floating ahead of them to light the way. The walk to the palace was winding and mostly uphill. Rielle was used to it, and Sa-Mica was used to travelling, so it was the local priest who set the pace, panting and stopping to catch his breath. Clearly he was not in the habit of mingling with the people living in the lower part of his home city. Or perhaps they always came to him.