He’d gotten that from Aegaeon, she thought, a kind of wild charisma that swept everyone up in its wake. Illium’s charm, however, was far kinder and without arrogance. But then, he was only a babe.
Aodhan, however, was like Sharine. Withdrawn around strangers, reticent with new people. Not that he was shy. He knew his mind, could speak it. Illium might’ve made the first move in their friendship, but Aodhan had chosen to accept the overture.
She’d heard them argue over decisions on what to play, which way to walk, and Aodhan never simply gave way. He won his fair share of battles. Theirs, she’d been pleased to see, was no uneven balance, but a true friendship of equals.
Now Aodhan looked at her with big eyes. “My friend, Blue.”
“Yes. You’ll always be friends with Illium. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have other friends.”
“Adi, my friend,” Illium said in his most stubborn tone of voice, his little forehead scrunched up darkly.
Oh dear. It looked like her son had inherited a possessive nature, too. From whom, she wasn’t quite sure. Neither of his parents held on to one another. Perhaps she could find a grandsire to blame. Be that as it may, she’d have to watch him to make sure he didn’t accidentally stifle Aodhan’s attempts to make other friends.
Yes, Aodhan could stand his ground, but she wasn’t sure he would when it came to making more friends. He had one true friend, and that was enough for him. Sharine understood. She had one true friend, too—that Caliane Slept at this time and place made no difference to their bond. But she was an adult, and she did have other friends who weren’t as close to her as Caliane.
No, she’d make it a point to tell Jessamy to put the boys into different groups for games. Else, they’d pair up, demolish everyone else, and not widen their circle.
12
Today
Not counting the Tower, Illium had attended meals at the court of more than one archangel. The most recent had been at Titus’s. His “stepfather” had threatened to deck him if Illium called him that one more time, while his mother smiled in a way that was dazzling sunshine full of humor.
For that alone, Illium would’ve loved Titus. But the archangel had many things to commend him—chief among which was how he treated his warriors. Never were they expendable to Titus. The Archangel of Africa valued each and every person in his forces and was known to take the time to train with even his most junior squadrons.
Of course, he did believe Illium too young to have so much power.
“You need seasoning, boy!” he’d boomed, slapping Illium on the back. “There’s a reason ascension happens at a certain age.”
The word “ascension” shot terror up Illium’s spine any time someone spoke it in relation to him. He had no desire, none, to become an archangel. Maybe that would change in the future, and maybe it wouldn’t, but one thing was true: he was too young for it to even be a whispered idea. The power would tear him apart. Even should he somehow survive—so remote a possibility as to be negligible—he’d be eaten alive by those of the Cadre who had no reason to care for him or call him a friend.
But the worst casualty of all would be having to leave the Tower, the Seven.
No, Illium was not on board with any talk of ascension. As a result, he’d been quite happy to watch Suyin ascend on the far end of the war. She might be untried, but she was thousands of years older than him, had a grace and a maturity that he was still in the process of developing.
He could be envious of her relationship with Aodhan and still accept her qualifications as a member of the Cadre—and more specifically, as archangel of this ravaged territory. This land needed an architect, a builder, far more than it needed an archangel of warrior blood.
As for Titus, despite his misgivings about the accelerated speed of Illium’s power curve, the archangel had treated him with the respect due to a warrior of his skill and experience. There’d also been no formalities at his table, the three of them eating as family.
Even prior to Illium’s mother’s entanglement with Titus, the other archangel’s table had been easy. Nothing could be like it was when Raphael got together with his Seven, but it had been close.
Neha’s table, by contrast, was a thing of formal manners, every dish a work of art. Elijah’s table fell somewhere in between—the familiarity of a warrior at ease in his home, but with a touch of elegance in the presentation. To be expected, since his consort was an artist.
Suyin’s table reminded him of Dmitri’s stories of how things had been when Raphael first became an archangel. Young and untried and with a furious intensity to him, as he learned to rule the land that was his territory.