“I’m sorry,” Naples said. She had to be devastated that someone she had tried so hard to help had fallen so far. “If you want to . . . talk . . .” The offer was awkward and halting, because they had never been close friends, but he knew he had to say something.
She gave him a small smile, thankful but dismissive. “You have a guest,” she reminded him. “Cyan, of the Blue Canary.”
Naples’ heart skipped a beat. “Cyan? Really?”
The clash of conflicting emotions from the two pieces of information—Wenge and the brand, and Cyan at the door—made his head spin. He tried not to let the excitement show too obviously on his face, because it was inappropriate in Dove’s presence just then, but he couldn’t help it.
“I need to gather my tools,” Dove said, stepping past him toward the rows of shelves.
He nodded, and kept his pace sedate as he put his books away and exited the temple.
The moment he had passed the doors, though, he hurried down the long, winding staircase, past the second floor living quarters, and to the common rooms. If he hadn’t grown up in this place, he probably would have broken his neck dashing down the well-worn, slightly irregular stone stairs, but his feet knew the way too well.
He skidded to a halt just before he reached the main foyer, where his guest would be waiting, as he realized he was half dressed and more than a little rumpled. His feet were bare against the chilly stone floor and his long black hair had been tied back hastily a few hours ago with the intention of keeping it away from his eyes and the fire he worked with, not of looking neat.
He glanced back the way he had come, wondering if it would make sense to have Cyan wait a few minutes while he cleaned up. This wasn’t the impression he—
“Naples?”
He spun toward the doorway to the foyer, which was now filled by a broad-shouldered man dressed in the simple shirt, jerkin, breeches, and boots favored by Silmari sailors. Sun and sea air had given a bronze glow to his deep brown skin, which stood out against the ivory of his linen shirt—and even more so, Naples knew, against the milky undertones of his own skin, which by the end of summer would still look like it had never seen the sun.
Any Kavet native would have heeded Dove’s instruction to wait, as would any foreign noble, the former because of the awe they tended to hold toward the Order of Napthol and the latter because aristocrats were used to the layers of formality and etiquette that made up court life. Cyan of course was neither; that was one of the things Naples loved about him.
Not love, he chastised his errant thoughts. Don’t be foolish. You only see him a few days each year.
“You’re early,” Naples said, the first words that came to mind. “I didn’t expect you for another week.” Of course, that had stopped him from going down to the docks each afternoon to see which new ships had come in.
“Captain skipped part of our regular route to bring in a large shipment for some local festival. I thought I’d take the chance to see you in your natural habitat.” Cyan touched Naples’ cheek with a teasing grin that was explained when his fingertips came away ashy. “It’s a treat to catch you without your armor.”
Naples raised a questioning brow. Cyan had seen him naked. How much less armor could a man have?
His confusion seemed to amuse the sailor, who tugged on Naples’ tangled ponytail, then wrapped a hand around the back of his neck to pull him forward for a kiss. Naples’ eyes closed instinctively, then opened again when he heard footsteps.
His gaze met Dove’s accidentally as she came down the stairs, then hers slid away. Naples felt heat rise in his face as she quietly slipped past them and out the door.
“You’re shy suddenly,” Cyan murmured, smiling, as Naples pulled back. “Is this the same hussy who fearlessly prowls the Mars docks?”
My mother lives here, Naples had the sense not to say. He had grown up in the Cobalt Hall; except for the youngest novices, most of the people here saw and treated him like a son. Like a child. The only time Naples had tried to flirt with one of the new novices, it had elicited so many sidelong glances and patronizing remarks he had decided never to try it again, and to turn down any overtures they made.
He glanced away from Cyan to try to regain his equilibrium and his gaze fell on the hall clock.
“Shit,” he whispered. “It’s late. I mean, I’m late. I—oh, of all the Abyss damned luck. I’m working during the Apple Blossom Ball, too. If I’d had any idea you would be in town . . .” He trailed off, miserably, realizing he’d missed his chance to actually have a date for Kavet’s largest holiday, which was three days away.
“A man has to work,” Cyan said, understandingly—and completely failing to understand.
Naples didn’t need to work, beyond what he already did at the Cobalt Hall. All his needs were met by the royal house in exchange for his help giving instruction to those who came to the Hall with uncontrolled power and his occasional work on commissions like the fountains’ foxfire. He had committed to work at the palace, though, so he would. Not doing so would damage his reputation, and that of the entire Order of Napthol.
“Before you go, I have something for you.” Cyan reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, parchment-wrapped packet. “We stopped in the Forgotten Islands last winter and this made me think of you.”
A gift. As Cyan had hinted, Naples was well known down at the Mars docks. He wasn’t short on lovers—or at least, on meaningless liaisons—but he tried to be realistic, and he would have been shocked to learn any of them spared a thought for him when he wasn’t there. Naples knew Cyan was different to him, but he hadn’t expected the regard to go both ways.
“I only have a few minutes and I need to get cleaned up and dressed, but you’re welcome to come upstairs if you want?” Naples offered belatedly.
He hadn’t realized how obviously nervous he was about Cyan’s presence until the sailor paused, looked him up and down, and asked, “Is that all right with you?”
Yes.
No.
He pictured the sailor walking into his quarters, which weren’t large or lavish but were luxurious compared to a hammock strung in the cramped forecastle of the Blue Canary. Naples’ space was decorated with a Tamari tapestry he had seen at the market and bought on impulse, a small collection of carved jade animals from Silmat inherited from his father, and lately a warm foxfire sphere the brilliant orange of the setting sun. The stone floor was softened by a woven rug so thick his toes sank into it, and the linens on his bed were combed wool and goose down.
Briefly, the thought of Cyan sprawled out on that plush, luxurious bed pushed his discomfort aside, and then he imagined how Cyan would react to seeing it. Unlike many sailors, Cyan had never assumed Naples was soft and spoiled and useless just because he was a sorcerer. That could change.
“I really should hurry,” Naples said, telling the truth but evading the obvious question. “Can I come find you at the Canary later?”
“If you don’t wait too long,” Cyan said, the warning lightened by the teasing lilt in his tone. “And if you open that before you go.”
He nodded to the gift in Naples’ hands. Naples couldn’t remember accepting it; he had been too startled by its offer.
He peeled back the parchment wrapping to reveal a scrimshaw carving of a hunting cat about the size of his palm. Its flank had been painted with symbols in purple and black ink.
“Shamans in the Forgotten Islands carve these and claim to enchant them,” Cyan explained. “This one is supposed to bring pleasant dreams, but I have no idea if it’s actually magic or not. Either way the cat reminded me of you, and if it is magic, I thought you might have fun doing . . . whatever it is you people do.” Cyan idly flicked the silver charm dangling from Naples’ left earlobe, stamped with the symbol of the Order of Napthol, three stylized waves inscribed in a circle.
“Thank you,” Naples breathed.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. He came here looking for you. No one’s ever done t
hat before. If you send him away, he won’t assume you’re embarrassed by what he might think of you. He’ll assume you’re ashamed to be seen with a simple sailor. He won’t come back.
Naples planted his feet, straightened his spine, and drew in a slow grounding breath as if preparing to raise power. Instead, he lifted his gaze to Cyan’s, knowing that in this dim light his irises were thin bands of molten copper.
The sailor’s breath caught for a moment, and then he smiled slowly. “There’s the Naples I know.”
“I have a few minutes,” Naples decided aloud. “Come on upstairs.”
Naples had intended to be early, to make a good impression, and as a result was only a bit late. The head housekeeper, Sepia, seemed surprised that he had come at all; he wasn’t sure if he should be frustrated by the low expectations, disappointed that he had apparently met those expectations, or relieved that it worked out in his favor.
The others hired as temporary help during Festival were mostly professional stewards and butlers borrowed from well-off families, mixed with adult children of shopkeepers and craftsmen. They all gathered in the vast palace kitchens to receive instructions.
Sepia explained their presence while evaluating their appearance as a group.
“As you all know, the palace is hosting a delegation of Osei for the first time in centuries.” She frowned at a boy younger than Naples, who was gazing wide-eyed around the room. “What you probably do not know is that an Osei pride—that’s what they call their nuclear group—consists of a queen and several mates, called princes.” Naples did know that, but his education as a member of the Order of Napthol had probably focused more on those magical beasts than the average citizen of Kavet. “Princes never speak to or interact with any woman other than their queen. Unfortunately, half the regular staff of the palace are women, so—Your Majesty.”
She broke off, dropping into a brief curtsey. Naples turned, following Sepia’s gaze, to find a woman in a luxurious emerald velvet dressing gown, worn casually and untied to reveal the simple cotton dress—barely more than a frock—beneath.
Even if he hadn’t heard Sepia’s greeting, Naples could have identified Terra Sarcelle. It wasn’t her porcelain-fair skin he knew, or her mahogany hair, which had half fallen from its pins. It was her magic. Henna was the strongest hot magic user at the Cobalt Hall—after Naples—but even after a week of elaborate ritual, she never exuded this level of pure, magnificent power.
“Naples,” Sepia hissed, chastising him for his inappropriate staring.
Terra Sarcelle laughed, a throaty sound carried on a wave of honey-sweet magic. “Don’t worry, Sepia,” she assured her head servant. “He’s given no offense. In fact, I believe his assistance may be useful to me. Can you manage without him?”
The words were asked as a courtesy. Sepia replied, “Of course, Terra,” with only the faintest note of disapproval in her tone.
The Terra waved informally for Naples to follow her, then spoke with her back to him as she led him up the hall. “I don’t believe you’re new to the Cobalt Hall. That means they have done a very good job of hiding you away. Why is that?”
Naples frowned, about to object that no one had been “hiding” him, but then an awkward truth crossed his mind. Inside the Cobalt Hall, it was no secret that the king and queen had been estranged almost since the birth of their only son, or that Naples’ mother was the king’s longtime mistress. Naples’ younger brother, Clay, was the king’s bastard son. Considering all of that, it was quite possible that a deliberate effort had been made to keep Naples from crossing this woman’s path.
“I don’t do much work in the palace,” he answered, trying to be politic.
“That is going to change.”
As Terra Sarcelle pushed open a door, Naples realized they were leaving the servants’ areas of the palace and entering what had to be the wing containing the royal family’s private quarters. “As it happens, I am in the midst of a very complicated, very difficult and exceptionally important piece of work. My husband and son do what they can, but they favor cold magic, which is useless for my side of the spell. Your power is similar enough to mine that I can use it.”
The phrasing felt vaguely threatening to Naples, and he noticed that she didn’t try and pretend he had a choice in the matter. Any member of the royal house had the right to demand service from any member of the Order of Napthol, but such requisitions were usually made politely, through messengers and paperwork—not through an autocratic draft.
You wanted to do something different, Naples thought, remembering his boredom. Here’s your chance. Besides, the Terra was credited with bringing hot magic to the country when she had come to Kavet and married Terre Jaune just a handful of years before Naples was born. He wanted to see this project of hers.
Chapter 4
Henna
Henna trailed her fingers through the rune stones without feeling them.
The letters etched on the stones were meaningless to her. It was the stones themselves—irregular, slightly translucent pieces of black volcanic glass kissed with white blooms—that focused her power and allowed her brief glimpses into other times and places. In this case . . .
Pounding waves, howling wind, flashes of lightning before growls of thunder, and the slick boards of the ship lurching beneath her feet. A little girl laughed, tossing long, tangled hair out of her bright hazel eyes as she scrambled to help secure the deck. Rain cascaded down her tawny-brown skin, but it was summer rain, warm like—
Warm like blood.
Blood splashed across stone. Gray cobbles stained scarlet. So much blood. Was this the old nightmare, or a new one? The little girl on the ship was Henna from long ago, but the blood . . .
Too late to make sense of it. Another vision subsumed the first.
A woman in a cinnamon-colored dress danced briefly before Henna’s inner eye, then twirled away. Words came to Henna without her consciously seeking them. “Trouble in your path,” she murmured. “Don’t trust her.” The woman smiled with painted lips. “She will cherish your heart but devour your security. You need to decide.”
In the world outside the visions—the real world, the current world—a man standing nearby said something. But all Henna could hear was the click of the rune stones as she ran her fingers through them.
The visions didn’t always come just because she sat here and offered to give prophecy for a coin. Thankfully, her usual customers didn’t care if she spoke the truth or made up a story. They came for entertainment, and most days, her prophecies were nothing but wish-fulfilling inventions.
Other days, true visions came to her like storm waves over the deck of a ship, threatening to drown the woman who had once been a little girl who laughed at the lightning.
The moment her customer left, Henna tried to turn her mind back to the blood on the cobblestones.
It was gone.
As soon as she tried to direct the visions instead of letting them drift the way they wanted, the trance broke. All Henna saw were the snowflake obsidian stones, which had been polished smooth, then carved with letters of an ancient language once spoken by an unremembered tribe.
“Damn,” she whispered, blinking as the sounds, smells, and sights of the city square washed over her.
The cobbled plaza extended one hundred paces in each direction, packed with the carts, tables, and sprawled mats and blankets that delineated each merchant’s claimed—and jealously guarded—space. The scents of roasting dainties, pastries, and perfumes mingled with the salt air that drifted up from the harbor. Conversation competed with street musicians and mongers touting their wares.
Henna looked up to gauge the time, then squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily blinded by the setting sun as it bounced off the mirror-polished marble decorations and pristine, sparkling windows of the palace that delineated the northern boundary of the square.
The time didn’t matter, she remembered belatedly. Verte’s messenger had said he would be late.
&nbs
p; Other magic users who plied their wares here were just coming outside at this hour, transforming the city square from a place that sold luxury goods to one ringed with examples of Kavet’s famous sorcery. Members of the Order of Napthol didn’t need the money for survival, but the marketplace was a way to earn personal income, and for Henna it was a way to practice a gift that was hard to exercise in the predictable confines of the Cobalt Hall. It was also one of the novelties that brought a steady stream of foreign visitors and trade to the otherwise isolated island of Kavet, so the royal house encouraged it.
Henna had intended to stay a few hours, or until Verte arrived, but the vision had left her feeling shadowed and hunched, as if someone would suddenly look at her and say, she doesn’t belong here.
It had happened before. Her Kavetan and Silmari customers didn’t know any better, but she had seen the horror in more than one Tamari sailor’s eyes when they got a good look at her and realized she wasn’t some unusually dark-skinned Kavetan, but one of their own.
It was her hazel eyes, which were only found among the seafaring boucan caste, which gave her away. While working, Henna favored vivid scarlet and violet blouses and dark charcoal and mahogany eyeliner and shadow, which drew the attention away from her eyes and made her just one of the crowd of performers, but she was still careful to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze directly. Many of the magic users who practiced “show trade” adopted similar garb, so no one in the Order of Napthol questioned her chosen style, or realized that the games they played to make themselves appear dramatic and mysterious for their customers were indispensable camouflage for her.
“Uugh!” Her frustrated exhalation startled a young girl who had been tentatively approaching. She darted back behind a man who appeared to be her father. Henna gave an apologetic smile, shook her head, and began to sweep the rune stones into a pile and transfer them into a pouch.
Of the Divine Page 3
