Henna ran forward, intending to pull Verte away from the battling beasts, but a lash from the Osei queen’s tail sent her sprawling backward. She smacked the cobbles hard this time, winded. Spots danced in front of her eyes.
The Osei queen opened her wide mouth to reveal multiple rows of glistening teeth, like a shark’s, and hissed her fury. As if realizing the true source of her torment was not the beast but the sorceress who had summoned it, the Osei swiped at the Terra. She would have caught her if a dozen guards hadn’t leapt forward, forming a wall at the same time that Jaune grabbed his wife and dragged her to the side, sending them both to the stone ground with a painful impact.
The instant the Terra was distracted, the creature she had summoned snuffed out, unable to maintain its hold on the mortal realm.
The Osei queen didn’t go after them. Instead, she deliberately turned toward Terre Verte’s semi-conscious form. Guards closed ranks around him, too, and Henna saw Negasi hiss as she surveyed the steel raised against her on two sides.
The princes defended their queen, diving talons-first at the plaza as if intending to catch prey. Two of them managed to snatch guards up, only to then throw them at their fellows; the others recoiled with cries of pain as swords bit at their legs and even in one case succeeded in clipping a wing on the downbeat. The prince tumbled awkwardly into the plaza, and Negasi let out another furious cry.
Downing the Osei was a bittersweet victory, as the guards were forced to flee or be crushed by his massive form. Backing away to regroup, they left space so when the downed prince rolled and shifted to human form, another prince was able to snatch him up and lift him away from the battle.
The chaos left an opening, and Negasi took it.
Once again, she snatched Terre Verte into her talons and pushed into the air.
She didn’t give anyone time to fight her this time. From the height of the palace’s tallest tower, she released her prey.
Henna’s was not the only scream that pierced the air as Verte fell, seemed to fall so long, though surely it was only seconds, heartbeats . . .
Then his body hit the cobbles with a wet, meaty sound she knew she would hear in her nightmares for the rest of her life.
Her hands were bleeding from hitting the cobbles, and breathing had become pain; at least one rib had been broken when the Osei queen struck her. But none of that mattered now.
As the shadow of wings left, marking the Osei queen’s departure, Henna crawled to Verte’s side.
She was the first one there, and her immediate thought was, It isn’t him. The figure on the ground was in no way recognizable as the beautiful man she had known. It was a remnant, a broken thing, some child’s gruesome toy that had been tossed away—not the noble and powerful prince of Kavet. Not her Terre, her lover.
Others pushed her aside. Most were healers from the Order of Napthol. Verte’s father leaned heavily on a merchant as he limped to his son’s side, shoving or commanding others back.
Henna withdrew so others with more useful power could get to Verte. She had no skill in healing, herself. And she didn’t want to see.
She went to the Terra.
Magic rose off the queen of Kavet in wavering layers of heat and her skin was scalding to the touch when Henna reached out to search for a pulse.
“Terra?”
Her searching fingers found a rapid but steady pulse just before the Terra’s eyes fluttered open. One pupil was small as a pinprick, as if she stared into the sun, but the other was wide, an onyx circle in a bloodshot eye.
“Ver—” The Terra didn’t get through saying her son’s name before deep, racking coughs seized her. She groped around her until Henna offered her hands, and helped her turn over. On her hands and knees, the Terra continued to hack. Drops of dark bile flew from her lips.
“I’ll get a healer,” Henna said.
“No.” Terra Sarcelle grabbed Henna’s wrist in a bruisingly tight grip. “Anyone with that power should be with my son. I—” More coughing, but this bout was shorter, and brought up clean red blood. Was that an improvement? The Terra wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I’ll be fine.”
Henna wanted to ask her what she had done, what she had summoned into this world, but this wasn’t the time—and besides, she already knew. She just didn’t know how it was possible. She would have said that raising so much power so fast would kill a person, burn their blood and boil their organs.
Maybe it did, Henna thought, as the Terra waved away healers that came to her. She accepted assistance only from a pair of servants who came to help their mistress stand. She went to her son, but the group there waved her back with no regard for her station, focused only on minimizing distractions as they worked on Verte.
As Henna watched, one of the Order’s younger healers broke off from the group around Verte. He went to the queen first, then after being sent away with an impatient wave came to Henna’s side.
“I don’t have the strength to help the Terre, but I know how to clean wounds and wrap bandages,” he said, “and I know a little bone-mending.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” It hurt to talk, but if anyone touched her in that moment, even to heal, she knew she would shatter like glass. She could not afford weakness in that moment, not when others might need her.
The novice looked skeptical, but he moved on, seeking others who would accept his aid.
These weren’t Henna’s first broken ribs. She would ask Maddy to help her wrap them later. Her other wounds—small cuts and burns—weren’t severe enough for her to even feel them past her numb shock.
Instead, she surveyed the wreckage of the market.
The Osei were gone. Henna wasn’t the only one who had been hurt falling, or by breaking and flying glass. At least half a dozen guards were down, being tended by their fellows and the weaker Napthol healers. Either the winds of the Osei wings or the Terra’s magic had shattered nearby windows, along with many fine glass containers. Henna should probably join the other non-healers who were hurrying about, making sure none of the enchantments spilled from broken jars were dangerous.
She couldn’t make her legs move.
The group around Terre Verte began to thin. Only the most powerful healers—Terre Jaune, Maddy, Helio and Dove—stayed. The Terra watched with a blank expression.
Savagely, Henna hoped that whatever creature the Terra had summoned chased the Osei queen across the seas and devoured her and all her line.
In the next moment, she regretted the thought, because what the Terra had called to her son’s defense was a beast never meant to walk this world.
Maddy and Helio stepped aside now, allowing Henna a glimpse of Terre Verte, of his body. Most of the blood was gone, and his wounds had closed, but he was so still.
The sound of a crying child made Henna turn with a wince. Clay was waiting in the arms of one of the palace servants, but the moment he saw his mother look up he reached for her. Maddy stepped toward her, then swayed heavily; Helio tried to support her, and they both tumbled nearly to the ground before one of the guards jumped forward, staggered under their combined weight, and urged both over-pale sorcerers to sit.
“I’ll get him,” Henna mouthed to Maddy, who kept trying to get up even though it was clear her legs wouldn’t support her. Any magic she hadn’t used on the spell for the Osei had gone into healing Verte.
Henna took Clay from the servant, a young woman who looked gray-pale with shock. For a moment, her arms tightened on the child, as if he were her touchstone in this world gone mad.
“He knows me,” Henna said.
The woman nodded, and finally released Clay into Henna’s arms. “Maddy handed him to me when . . . when . . .”
“Go sit down,” Henna urged her. “I have him.”
“Cay!” the baby shouted. “Mumum!”
“It’s okay, Clay,” Henna said. Nothing is okay right now. It hurt to hold him against broken ribs, but it was better than leaving him with the shocked servant to w
ail. “I’ve got you, and I’m bringing you to your Mumum.”
“Abibi wanna Cay. No gimme?”
Clay waved his arms, slapping against the viscous patches of oil-slick power that hung in the air and clung to Henna from when she had touched the Terra.
“Can you carry him inside?” Maddy asked, staggering to her feet only with help from another guard. Once up, she was able to walk on her own, but not easily. “I don’t think I can lift him, and I don’t want to touch him until I wash off the—until I wash my hands.”
Her hands and arms were slick with blood.
They went through the kitchen door to the Cobalt Hall. Clay hiccupped, saying again, “No gimme.”
“It’s okay,” Henna said again, her voice wooden. “You’re safe now.”
“Where’s Naples?” Maddy asked as she pumped water into the sink to wash her hands. “I didn’t see him.”
“I’ll find him,” Henna promised. “You stay here with Clay.”
She wanted desperately to ask about Verte, but she saved the question. What must it be like, she wondered, to be a mother, and see another woman destroy the boundaries between the worlds to try to rescue her own son? Maddy needed her children with her before they spoke of whether another woman’s son was alive or dead.
“No gimme?” Clay begged one more time, as Maddy sank into a chair and Henna finally passed the child to his mother.
Maddy hugged him close and wiped a hand down his hair. “He’s been saying that all morning. I don’t know what he wants.”
“I think I know.” Henna finally understood, now and maybe too late. She had seen it come from the Terra’s blood and pain, seen it rip into this world from the next. Dear Numen and cold Abyss, the Terra had summoned a demon into this world. Solemnly, she looked into Clay’s eyes and said, “I won’t let anyone give you to the Abyssi. I promise.”
Chapter 19
Naples
Maybe Naples shouldn’t have brought Celadon up to his own rooms, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else he could guarantee privacy for their “talk.” Now he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hit the preacher, debate with him, teach him, or throw him down on the bed.
Celadon was a bit of a crazy bastard, with some intelligent ideas but unsettlingly wild conclusions. What Naples found most curious was that some of the thoughts he expressed echoed knowledge not found in the Napthol libraries, but which had been hinted at by the Terra. How he might have come by such information was a mystery. The fanaticism with which he preached it was, well, kind of sexy.
Naples had told Terre Verte he wouldn’t coerce Celadon into anything drastically out of character, which probably included pushing just enough of that delicious power back at him to drive him wild, strip him down and screw his brains out. But that really wasn’t fair, because every time Celadon turned in his pacing, picked up a new thread in his rant, or met Naples’ gaze, he threw off enough energy to make Naples shudder with the effort it took not to fling himself at him.
I’ll let him wear himself out, he decided. One man could only have so much power, especially when he had never been trained to center it. Sooner or later, Celadon would exhaust himself, and then he would be easier to control. Then Naples could focus on convincing him to take the brand.
The brand was the only option. He had too much power to master it in a few quick, covert sessions with Naples.
“Terre magic is breaking this realm,” Celadon spat. “A fizzik bird from the Numen itself appears over cocktail hour, and still no one questions? No one is concerned?”
“A what?” Naples asked. How had Celadon even heard about the strange creature that had appeared at the reception—and disappeared just as quickly—let alone known a name to call it? The Terra had assigned Naples to go find it, but though he had finally been able to track its power, the bird had been gone long before he reached it.
Celadon shot him a frosty look. Naples remembered thinking the preacher’s eyes were a flat, watery blue. He had been so wrong. They were all the colors of the daytime sky, shot through with silver like moonlight. They flashed with his power.
As Celadon’s gaze met his own, electricity danced along Naples skin. His breath caught and his body clenched in a way that was not entirely unpleasant.
Or maybe he’ll wear me out first, Naples thought, with anticipation more than concern.
For the first time, Celadon seemed to notice the reaction. He let out a disgusted sound.
“What, did you run out of deckhands to fling yourself at?”
“Excuse me?” Debate was fine, entertaining and possibly educational, as long as Celadon stayed focused on matters of the Abyss and the Numen and the origin of magic. Any initiate of the Napthol was keen for a debate on that subject. Even Quin criticisms of the megalomaniacal, womanizing prince and his Abyss-worshipping mother were amusing.
But Celadon was on treacherous ground now.
“I saw you in the market yesterday,” Celadon said, seeming to sense he had hit a nerve, “wrapped around that sailor. It was disgusting.”
“This again?” Naples sighed.
Or so he thought. Then Celadon straightened and his voice mellowed, as if he had decided to stop fighting with anger and to use his own brand of logic instead.
“I do not approve of what the Order does, but if you’re successful here, you must be an intelligent, well-educated young man. I’ve heard you were raised in this life. You probably don’t realize you could have other prospects.”
Naples only half listened to the words. Celadon’s anger had been titillating. Now that he was actively trying to entice, it was no wonder his followers flocked around him. How many of them thought they were madly in love with him? At least Naples could recognize the spell and guard against it. He wouldn’t be leaving here to take vows, or whatever the Quin did to declare their allegiance, though it took all his attention to make sure he didn’t let any of that dangerously alluring power slip past his shields. Noise from outside tried to distract him once, and he consciously turned his awareness from it.
Celadon continued. “You do not need to waste your life performing tricks like a trained dog for the Terre, and turning tricks for ignorant dock scum who have no interest in you beyond using you and throwing you away.”
Even with Celadon’s power twisting each word into a dozen crooning, seductive purrs, those accusations stung, in a way they never had before.
Naples had had his share of meaningless flings, but Cyan wasn’t like that. Even after the last few days, Naples had no illusions of being more than a “sweetheart in port,” but it was the first time he had been anyone’s sweetheart at all.
And he would not tolerate Celadon maligning it.
The next time Celadon met his gaze, probably expecting to see gratitude and devotion in Naples’ eyes, Naples drank down the power. Celadon’s cold magic was as opposite Naples’ natural tendencies as snow was from fire, but sweet Abyss it still tasted . . . well, divine, he thought with an amused quirk of his lips. Did Celadon realize he was seducing people into his anti-magic cult by using the grace of the Numini?
“What are you smiling about?” Celadon growled. The crooning, oh-so-reasonable tone had left his voice. He had felt something, though he didn’t know what.
“This,” Naples answered simply.
He took the power, shaped it, and turned it.
The preacher gasped. His knees gave out and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of Naples’ desk. Unlike Naples, Celadon had no shields up to protect him, and no training in how to recognize the distinction between his own desires and those of his power.
And you’re so good at making that distinction? Naples teased himself as he reached for Celadon, helping him rise, shaking, to his feet. Even if he was only looking at the physical aspects and didn’t care about personality, Celadon wasn’t really his type. It was only his power that made him attractive.
I won’t go too far, Naples thought. I just want to make a point.
With proper tra
ining, Celadon might have been magically stronger than Naples, but as he was, he had been lost even before he let Naples touch him skin-to-skin. Naples didn’t need to draw on his own power. He used Celadon’s, manipulating a sorcerer’s natural craving for magical release, which could become a physical need if left unfulfilled.
“This,” Naples murmured, his body so close to the other man’s he could feel Celadon’s frantically beating heart, and his lips hovering over the preacher’s slightly parted ones, “is what your magic does to every one of your followers when you preach at them. It’s no wonder you rail so sternly against lust and female empowerment and same-sex relations. It’s the only way to keep your own flock from throwing itself against you.”
Celadon’s control broke first. He wrapped an arm around Naples’ waist to pull their bodies snugly together, and put his other hand on the back of Naples neck to close the last distance and complete the kiss.
Not too far, Naples tried to remind himself. Celadon tasted like another world—like the sweet, clear waters of the Numen sea. This is just a demonstration. You have to let him go.
And you really shouldn’t let him do that. Celadon was scrabbling at the buttons of Naples’ shirt.
Serves him right.
He was in the process of gathering his willpower when there was a sharp rap on the door that hardly qualified as a knock. After one bang, the door slammed open. It bounced off Naples’ shoulder with a stinging impact.
“Naples, I’m sorry to intrude, but—dear Numen, are you out of your Abyss-spawned mind?” Henna’s sheet-pale face was contorted with horror and rage as she strode into the room and beheld the situation.
“Um . . . would you mind giving me a minute?” Naples asked, drawing away from Celadon’s dazed form.
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