The Secret
Page 95
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“Do you see Gabriel?” Damien asked.
Malachi scanned the crowd nearest to the top of the stairwell where Gabriel would have his position as Konrad’s secretary.
“There,” Rhys said. “I see him.”
Malachi bent closer. “Is he involved in this?”
“No,” Damien said. “I simply hoped he would not miss the ceremony. Tala, his mate, was slated to take a council seat when she was killed. This would be… important to her.”
Malachi was still searching for Ava.
“It is important to us all,” Rhys said. “Damien, are you sure—?”
“I want you here,” the watcher said. “Keep in contact with Malachi.”
“Fine, just make sure the Luddite checks his phone.”
“I’m not a Luddite.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “A higher score in Angry Birds does not make you technologically literate. Just keep your phone on. I’m going to stand with Gabriel.”
Malachi glanced at Kostas, whom he could tell was bursting with questions he couldn’t ask.
He was about to make Rhys’s excuses when he saw a flash of dark curls along the stairwell.
Ava.
Malachi smiled. She was radiant in her robes, her hair not tied back as was traditional, but falling in soft waves down her back.
“There she is,” Malachi said.
He saw her pull a thick shank of hair over her shoulder just as she drew something small and black from a fold of her robe. She crossed her arms casually as her hand twisted in the fall of hair. Her fingers…
She was holding something.
As her shoulders slowly angled toward the stairs, he saw it.
A tiny camera, no bigger than her thumb. If he wasn’t looking for it, it would have totally escaped his notice.
Malachi sighed. “Damn it. The woman is incorrigible.”
Damien turned. “What?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Maybe.
“They’re almost ready.”
He could see the seven women walking down the stairs. The rustles and murmurs of the crowd had stilled. There was only the sound of shuffling feet and excited breaths as, one by one, the seven elder singers took the desks that Sari had pulled to the center of the room.
Daina, the Caribbean singer, spoke in a resonant voice.
“The songs of the Irina have returned to our city. We greet our brother scribes at their desks.” She nodded to Jerome first, who was closest to her desk, no doubt enjoying the grim resignation on his face. Jerome couldn’t complain, Malachi decided. His own mate was on the council, a rarity in Irin tradition. It was doubtless a concession in his eyes.
“Clearly,” Daina continued, “the dust on our desks is simply an oversight.”
“Sisters,” Jerome said. “We wel—”
“The Irina will sing,” Abigail interrupted him. “And then we will talk of other matters.”
Jerome’s face turned an ugly shade of red, but Malachi enjoyed knowing there was nothing—nothing—the old scribe could do about it.
It was Constance who started singing, her clear alto voice piercing the air as she began the traditional greeting song.
As soon as she began, Malachi was thrown back to his childhood, to the gatherings his village had hosted and the songs his mother had led to greet visitors. He felt Constance’s magic fill the room. The ancient magic of his mother and grandmothers. Of their sisters and daughters. Songs and verses that stretched back a thousand years to the first daughters of the Forgiven.
“We come,” Constance sang.
The other women responded, “We come.”
“The Irina raise their song
We sing of our Creator and his children
We, the daughters of the Forgiven
We honor them with our words.”
One by one, the seven voices of the elder singers joined their sister, chanting their mandate in the Old Language, calling their power as the chamber filled with magic.
“We sing a song of Uriel,
Wisest of heaven’s host,
Of Rafael, our healer,
He that searched for the lost,
Gabriel, messenger of heaven,
Gave our songs to us,
Ariel, beloved of the earth,
May our children lift you up.
We shout of the power of Mikhael,
The mighty fist of heaven.
And call to the heart of Chamuel,
As we serve beside our brethren.
Let Leoc open up our eyes
That we might seek our path,
Bring honor to our Creator,
And glory to his crown.”
Kostas could not contain his quiet gasp. The strength of the Irina flowed through the room as the women in the singers’ gallery joined in the chorus their elders sang. The scribes around him lit with power as the air of the Library charged. The mated singers across the gallery gleamed in the afternoon sun. Malachi saw Kyra raise her hood and stand back, melting into the crowd behind Ava.
“We sing of our fathers
We call to the heavens
We honor the gifts they have given
In thanks, the Irina sing:
Hear us, oh heavens, answer our song
We call on the power of our fathers
We call to our reshon…”
Malachi searched for Ava, only to see his mate looking right at him, her eyes shining with joy.
I love you, he mouthed to her.
I love you too.
He narrowed his eyes and pointed to his chest, letting her know he’d caught her with the small camera.
She only laughed and shook her head.
Malachi scanned the crowd nearest to the top of the stairwell where Gabriel would have his position as Konrad’s secretary.
“There,” Rhys said. “I see him.”
Malachi bent closer. “Is he involved in this?”
“No,” Damien said. “I simply hoped he would not miss the ceremony. Tala, his mate, was slated to take a council seat when she was killed. This would be… important to her.”
Malachi was still searching for Ava.
“It is important to us all,” Rhys said. “Damien, are you sure—?”
“I want you here,” the watcher said. “Keep in contact with Malachi.”
“Fine, just make sure the Luddite checks his phone.”
“I’m not a Luddite.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “A higher score in Angry Birds does not make you technologically literate. Just keep your phone on. I’m going to stand with Gabriel.”
Malachi glanced at Kostas, whom he could tell was bursting with questions he couldn’t ask.
He was about to make Rhys’s excuses when he saw a flash of dark curls along the stairwell.
Ava.
Malachi smiled. She was radiant in her robes, her hair not tied back as was traditional, but falling in soft waves down her back.
“There she is,” Malachi said.
He saw her pull a thick shank of hair over her shoulder just as she drew something small and black from a fold of her robe. She crossed her arms casually as her hand twisted in the fall of hair. Her fingers…
She was holding something.
As her shoulders slowly angled toward the stairs, he saw it.
A tiny camera, no bigger than her thumb. If he wasn’t looking for it, it would have totally escaped his notice.
Malachi sighed. “Damn it. The woman is incorrigible.”
Damien turned. “What?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Maybe.
“They’re almost ready.”
He could see the seven women walking down the stairs. The rustles and murmurs of the crowd had stilled. There was only the sound of shuffling feet and excited breaths as, one by one, the seven elder singers took the desks that Sari had pulled to the center of the room.
Daina, the Caribbean singer, spoke in a resonant voice.
“The songs of the Irina have returned to our city. We greet our brother scribes at their desks.” She nodded to Jerome first, who was closest to her desk, no doubt enjoying the grim resignation on his face. Jerome couldn’t complain, Malachi decided. His own mate was on the council, a rarity in Irin tradition. It was doubtless a concession in his eyes.
“Clearly,” Daina continued, “the dust on our desks is simply an oversight.”
“Sisters,” Jerome said. “We wel—”
“The Irina will sing,” Abigail interrupted him. “And then we will talk of other matters.”
Jerome’s face turned an ugly shade of red, but Malachi enjoyed knowing there was nothing—nothing—the old scribe could do about it.
It was Constance who started singing, her clear alto voice piercing the air as she began the traditional greeting song.
As soon as she began, Malachi was thrown back to his childhood, to the gatherings his village had hosted and the songs his mother had led to greet visitors. He felt Constance’s magic fill the room. The ancient magic of his mother and grandmothers. Of their sisters and daughters. Songs and verses that stretched back a thousand years to the first daughters of the Forgiven.
“We come,” Constance sang.
The other women responded, “We come.”
“The Irina raise their song
We sing of our Creator and his children
We, the daughters of the Forgiven
We honor them with our words.”
One by one, the seven voices of the elder singers joined their sister, chanting their mandate in the Old Language, calling their power as the chamber filled with magic.
“We sing a song of Uriel,
Wisest of heaven’s host,
Of Rafael, our healer,
He that searched for the lost,
Gabriel, messenger of heaven,
Gave our songs to us,
Ariel, beloved of the earth,
May our children lift you up.
We shout of the power of Mikhael,
The mighty fist of heaven.
And call to the heart of Chamuel,
As we serve beside our brethren.
Let Leoc open up our eyes
That we might seek our path,
Bring honor to our Creator,
And glory to his crown.”
Kostas could not contain his quiet gasp. The strength of the Irina flowed through the room as the women in the singers’ gallery joined in the chorus their elders sang. The scribes around him lit with power as the air of the Library charged. The mated singers across the gallery gleamed in the afternoon sun. Malachi saw Kyra raise her hood and stand back, melting into the crowd behind Ava.
“We sing of our fathers
We call to the heavens
We honor the gifts they have given
In thanks, the Irina sing:
Hear us, oh heavens, answer our song
We call on the power of our fathers
We call to our reshon…”
Malachi searched for Ava, only to see his mate looking right at him, her eyes shining with joy.
I love you, he mouthed to her.
I love you too.
He narrowed his eyes and pointed to his chest, letting her know he’d caught her with the small camera.
She only laughed and shook her head.
