Archangel's Heart
Page 52
The one they approached was heading down the corridor toward them. About Elena’s height, his face was in darkness because of his hood, his wings covered. However, when they asked about the Gallery, he immediately pushed back the hood. And his smile, it was a bright thing, his teeth white against skin of darkest mahogany and his black hair cut close to his skull, his cheekbones like razors, his eyes a startling sky blue.
She was surrounded by pretty men today.
“If you would not mind the company,” he said in a mellifluous voice, “I would be happy to guide you.” His expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid the Gallery is deep in Lumia, the route to it complicated. We would protect our treasures from all possible natural threats.”
“We’d love it if you came along,” Elena said. “This place is a maze. Fun to explore, but I can see how we could end up going around in circles.”
“Yes, it took me a year to learn how to navigate it,” their guide admitted. “I used to constantly end up doing my brotherhood meditations in the hallways because I couldn’t make it back to my room in time.”
A silvered chime sounded in the air.
“The breakfast bell for us,” their chatty guide said, beginning to walk. “I will go there after taking you to the Gallery. We breakfast long here, brothers coming and going as they finish their personally chosen meditations.”
Elena had her guard up so high she could barely see over it, and still she found herself wanting to like this angel who seemed an open book. “I don’t suppose you have a historical map of Lumia we could see?” she asked because, hell, why not? “It’d be interesting to see how the place has changed over the years.”
“I do not know of one,” the Luminata said slowly, “but I will search the Repository of Knowledge for you.” A smile so honest and innocent that Elena was suddenly afraid for him. “I am Ibrahim, Consort.”
“Elena.” She glanced to her left. “You know Aodhan?”
“We have not met but yes.” He and Aodhan acknowledged each other. “We carry pieces of your art in the Gallery.”
Aodhan tilted his head to the side. “I would’ve thought my age would disqualify me?”
“No, my brothers who are in charge of the art archive judge only on the merits of the work—and you are a student of the Hummingbird.” A smile that held shy admiration. “I am but an initiate yet learning of art, but in my opinion, you are the best student she has ever had. You have taken her teachings to heart but you haven’t tried to emulate her. You are Aodhan as she is the Hummingbird.”
Maybe it was empty flattery meant to put Aodhan at ease, but though Elena was no art expert, she agreed with Ibrahim. Aodhan and the Hummingbird were both astonishingly talented—and each was unique in what they created. “Do you have many of her pieces here?” she asked Ibrahim.
“As many as we have been able to acquire.” His expression became mournful. “Her work is beloved by those lucky enough to have obtained a piece. Not many will pass them on even though the Luminata wish only to hold her art safe for future generations.”
And keep them out of view of the world, Elena thought privately. It wasn’t as if this Gallery were a museum anyone could come by to visit. In fact, it struck her as being more like Lijuan’s creepy “Collection Room,” where she apparently pinned up dead angels with beautiful wings: a secret hoard.
As Aodhan and Ibrahim exchanged further comments, it became clear that Ibrahim wasn’t only a student of art but a practitioner, too. “I am an unknown, nowhere near your level of skill,” he said modestly when Aodhan asked him about his work. “But it gives me joy.” A soft smile. “It is my contemplation.”
“The greatest art,” Aodhan replied, “comes from great joy and great despair.”
Ibrahim’s smile faded. “I think for the Hummingbird, one turned into the other centuries ago.”
The comment resonated within Elena. There was such terrible sadness in the Hummingbird now, but she’d seen a work in Raphael’s Refuge stronghold that Illium’s mother had created two millennia ago—it burned with such radiant joy that to look at it was to smile.
However, even as she thought about art, even as Ibrahim told them about his favorite works in the Gallery, she was noting every step they took, creating a mental map of this sprawling maze. The stone of Lumia itself began to change as they got closer to the secret heart of the stronghold. Carvings done with time and care became apparent on the walls, while the floor beneath their feet turned into a delicacy of mosaics.
Those mosaics were earth-toned and gentle at the start, but the pale turquoise blues and faded reds slowly flowed into jewel tones so brilliant Elena wondered how the colors had been captured with such depth. And on the walls, the carvings turned into paintings of great events in angelic history.
“Who painted this?” Aodhan asked, stopping in front of a breathtaking piece that appeared to show an angel bursting into flame. His tone was dangerously quiet.
A heartbeat later, Elena noticed that while the angel’s hair was gold, his face was one with deeply familiar lines. She’d always thought Raphael strongly favored his mother, but the face that stared out at her from that painting was his. Change the golden hair to midnight, the equally golden eyes to a blue too pure to be mortal, and she’d be looking at a portrait of her archangel.
Wait. “His eyes aren’t golden.” And the hair whipping across his face was created of flame.
She was surrounded by pretty men today.
“If you would not mind the company,” he said in a mellifluous voice, “I would be happy to guide you.” His expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid the Gallery is deep in Lumia, the route to it complicated. We would protect our treasures from all possible natural threats.”
“We’d love it if you came along,” Elena said. “This place is a maze. Fun to explore, but I can see how we could end up going around in circles.”
“Yes, it took me a year to learn how to navigate it,” their guide admitted. “I used to constantly end up doing my brotherhood meditations in the hallways because I couldn’t make it back to my room in time.”
A silvered chime sounded in the air.
“The breakfast bell for us,” their chatty guide said, beginning to walk. “I will go there after taking you to the Gallery. We breakfast long here, brothers coming and going as they finish their personally chosen meditations.”
Elena had her guard up so high she could barely see over it, and still she found herself wanting to like this angel who seemed an open book. “I don’t suppose you have a historical map of Lumia we could see?” she asked because, hell, why not? “It’d be interesting to see how the place has changed over the years.”
“I do not know of one,” the Luminata said slowly, “but I will search the Repository of Knowledge for you.” A smile so honest and innocent that Elena was suddenly afraid for him. “I am Ibrahim, Consort.”
“Elena.” She glanced to her left. “You know Aodhan?”
“We have not met but yes.” He and Aodhan acknowledged each other. “We carry pieces of your art in the Gallery.”
Aodhan tilted his head to the side. “I would’ve thought my age would disqualify me?”
“No, my brothers who are in charge of the art archive judge only on the merits of the work—and you are a student of the Hummingbird.” A smile that held shy admiration. “I am but an initiate yet learning of art, but in my opinion, you are the best student she has ever had. You have taken her teachings to heart but you haven’t tried to emulate her. You are Aodhan as she is the Hummingbird.”
Maybe it was empty flattery meant to put Aodhan at ease, but though Elena was no art expert, she agreed with Ibrahim. Aodhan and the Hummingbird were both astonishingly talented—and each was unique in what they created. “Do you have many of her pieces here?” she asked Ibrahim.
“As many as we have been able to acquire.” His expression became mournful. “Her work is beloved by those lucky enough to have obtained a piece. Not many will pass them on even though the Luminata wish only to hold her art safe for future generations.”
And keep them out of view of the world, Elena thought privately. It wasn’t as if this Gallery were a museum anyone could come by to visit. In fact, it struck her as being more like Lijuan’s creepy “Collection Room,” where she apparently pinned up dead angels with beautiful wings: a secret hoard.
As Aodhan and Ibrahim exchanged further comments, it became clear that Ibrahim wasn’t only a student of art but a practitioner, too. “I am an unknown, nowhere near your level of skill,” he said modestly when Aodhan asked him about his work. “But it gives me joy.” A soft smile. “It is my contemplation.”
“The greatest art,” Aodhan replied, “comes from great joy and great despair.”
Ibrahim’s smile faded. “I think for the Hummingbird, one turned into the other centuries ago.”
The comment resonated within Elena. There was such terrible sadness in the Hummingbird now, but she’d seen a work in Raphael’s Refuge stronghold that Illium’s mother had created two millennia ago—it burned with such radiant joy that to look at it was to smile.
However, even as she thought about art, even as Ibrahim told them about his favorite works in the Gallery, she was noting every step they took, creating a mental map of this sprawling maze. The stone of Lumia itself began to change as they got closer to the secret heart of the stronghold. Carvings done with time and care became apparent on the walls, while the floor beneath their feet turned into a delicacy of mosaics.
Those mosaics were earth-toned and gentle at the start, but the pale turquoise blues and faded reds slowly flowed into jewel tones so brilliant Elena wondered how the colors had been captured with such depth. And on the walls, the carvings turned into paintings of great events in angelic history.
“Who painted this?” Aodhan asked, stopping in front of a breathtaking piece that appeared to show an angel bursting into flame. His tone was dangerously quiet.
A heartbeat later, Elena noticed that while the angel’s hair was gold, his face was one with deeply familiar lines. She’d always thought Raphael strongly favored his mother, but the face that stared out at her from that painting was his. Change the golden hair to midnight, the equally golden eyes to a blue too pure to be mortal, and she’d be looking at a portrait of her archangel.
Wait. “His eyes aren’t golden.” And the hair whipping across his face was created of flame.
