Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “I don’t want to eat. I—”

  Movement in the corner of his vision made him twist, moving too quickly. This time he did fall, only at the last minute guided toward the bed by his mother.

  Rest. He looked around, but he couldn’t locate the voice, the one that sounded almost like his own thoughts, like a bar of music stuck on repeat in one’s memory. You’re weak. Rest a while, and when we stop the snows you can leave.

  “Naples?” His mother sounded even more worried now.

  “I’m . . . fine,” he said. Lied, he was pretty sure. He resisted the urge to reach up toward where, despite all the evidence, he could feel a hand on his shoulder. Instead, he let the phantom hands guide him back down.

  “Try to stay awake long enough to eat,” his mother asked. “I’ll wake you if you don’t.”

  Feed, the other voice in his mind said. Eat now, and later I will teach you to feed.

  Was this what going crazy felt like?

  His mother put a hand on his brow. “You’re still feverish,” she pronounced.

  “The fever isn’t the problem,” Henna said, as she returned with what looked like a bowl of soup. “You’re burning power as if you’re fighting something. I tried to shut it down for you, but I’m not strong enough. Can you ground yourself?”

  Naples shut his eyes, trying to focus on his magic and draw it back.

  No! He jumped with a yelp as he felt phantom claws at his stomach. It will hurt you if you stop guarding yourself. Eat, sleep, and then we hunt.

  Chapter 22

  Dahlia

  As the storm continued, Dahlia began to actively daydream about Jade’s semi-tropical Silmat.

  He filled the mercilessly dull hours with tales of rushing rivers and grand ballrooms, and dispelled the deadly cold with descriptions of misty forests and tranquil lakes where snow never fell.

  After the first, awkward night, during which Dahlia had slept fitfully across the room from Jade, she had been horrified by her own momentary feeling of gratitude when the innkeeper had haltingly explained that the ice had collapsed part of the shed containing the extra fuel for the rooms heated by wood furnaces. He was asking everyone in the foxfire-warmed rooms if they would be willing to share with those who had originally been in the cheaper, wood stove rooms.

  “Of course I’ll refund your money,” the innkeeper added. “I wouldn’t ask if people were able to leave and find other places to stay, but I can’t send anyone out in this weather.”

  The captive patrons of the Turquoise doggedly grouped together in the foxfire-warmed rooms, then, as the temperature dropped even further, they crowded closer so they could bring two or three orbs into each single room to bring it to a comfortable temperature. Dahlia ended up sleeping with Jade after all, technically speaking, but she didn’t think it counted when the bed also held three others, and another half-dozen men and women slept on the floor.

  At least the Turquoise had foxfire. What were people doing who didn’t have such luxuries? Out in the country they would be well prepared; her father always kept plenty of wood stocked. But she remembered the Quin neighborhood, with seashells in every windowsill. Did they have enough fuel for these seemingly endless days? Despite her feud with Celadon, Dahlia didn’t despise the Followers of the Quinacridone. She didn’t want them to freeze to death because they disapproved of foxfire.

  At last, the sleet became fluffy snow, and then the skies cleared to reveal blinding sun that bounced off the icy landscape. The winds remained bitter cold, but that didn’t stop those who had been trapped in the Turquoise from venturing forth—or trying, at least.

  The first people to leave needed to go through the windows. Several strong men went to work chipping away at the sometimes foot-deep layer of snow and ice that blockaded the exits, while other Kavet natives climbed to the roof, to check the ice and cut rivets for melting water to flow down. Jade offered to help, but anyone who had listened to his stories—everyone—knew better than to trust him on the ice.

  The moment the door was open, Dahlia told Jade, “I’m going to check on the stationer’s shop, to see if he’s around and needs any help cleaning it up after the storm.” It seemed the sensible thing to do, but Dahlia admitted to herself that her real motivation had more to do with a desperate desire to stretch her legs than a need to be responsible.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  The offer made her smile. She could picture Jade sliding across the market plaza in his effort to be a gentleman.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Your help is needed here.”

  Now that the storm clouds had parted, the sun’s glare was deceptively bright, making the weather seem pleasant until Dahlia stepped into the bite of the wind. Despite wearing layered clothes—the ones she’d had on her back the morning of the storm, as well as an extra vest and cloak of Jade’s—the cold cut through her like a blade.

  Her footsteps crunched beneath her. She placed her feet carefully, both to keep from slipping and so she wouldn’t break an ankle if the ice crumbled beneath her and her foot plunged into softer snow beneath.

  “Sweet Numen,” she hissed, when her path took her across the market.

  Most of the cobbles were slick and white, but the center fountain was still liquid, simmering from the heat of the foxfire within. Rivulets of water ran from it, only to solidify a few feet away in the frigid air. Steam, wind, and winter had created a jagged castle of ice. Some trick of the weather had swirled those bladelike stalagmites toward the palace, so they stood like soldiers’ lances that threatened and pinned the main gate shut.

  Members of the Order of Napthol swarmed the outside of the Cobalt Hall. As Dahlia crept past, she almost ran into someone striding back toward the Hall from the palace with unwisely swift steps.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, keeping her face ducked down to block the icy wind.

  “Dahlia?”

  She recognized Henna’s voice and looked up. The sorceress was bundled as heavily as everyone else, but Dahlia could still see her eyes, which were swollen and shadowed as if from crying and sleepless nights.

  “Henna, hello,” she said. “I—”

  Henna shook her head and waved a hand, dismissing anything Dahlia might have said in consolation. “I’m glad to see you’re all right. I’m sorry I don’t have time to chat. I’m working to figure out why the doors to the palace are sealed.”

  “Sealed?”

  “The Cobalt Hall took in several guards and servants displaced when the Terre and Terra sent everyone away,” Henna answered. “They’ve been trying to get back in, but it’s more than ice and locks keeping the doors shut.”

  “You mean the royal family sealed it magically?” Dahlia asked. “Why?”

  Henna stared at her in wordless disbelief. After long moments, she drew a shaking breath and said as if to herself, “You didn’t see. You can’t understand.”

  Dahlia almost protested that she did understand grief—she had never lost a child, of course, but that didn’t mean she lacked all empathy—but didn’t understand why the Terre and Terra would use magic to isolate themselves. Then she remembered who she was talking to, and that a girl from a Quin community couldn’t assume she saw the world the same way as a powerful sorceress.

  “Good luck,” she said softly.

  Henna nodded. “You as well.”

  With what? Dahlia almost asked, but didn’t, because Henna was already turning back toward the Cobalt Hall. Perhaps the reply had been automatic. If it was more prophecy, Dahlia didn’t want to know.

  If it hadn’t been for her prophecy, where would you have been the last few days?

  That thought, and imagining Ginger and Mrs. Cremnitz, spurred her to pass the stationer’s shop and continue doggedly north.

  In an alley two streets over from the Quin neighborhood, which had been somewhat protected from the driving wind, the snow was shallower. Dahlia’s gaze flickered to that shadowed space as she walked by, but it took her mind a mom
ent to catch up to her eyes. When it did, she turned so quickly she nearly fell.

  Even coated with frost, the somber black clothing was ominously vivid against the cobble, brick, and snow.

  Heart pounding, no longer aware of the cold, Dahlia hurried toward the form, which quickly revealed itself to be a man’s body. She touched his shoulder, wincing at the chill, and turned the form so she could see its face.

  Her stomach dropped when she recognized Celadon Cremnitz. Dahlia was not a morbid thinker by nature, but her first thought was not that the leader of the Quinacridone movement had simply wandered out and been caught in the storm.

  This was no accident.

  “Dear Numen,” she whispered. Terre Verte was already dead—the most well-known and beloved sorcerer in Kavet. And now here she was looking at Celadon’s body—

  He gasped, and Dahlia let out a choked shriek. “Celadon?”

  His eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes didn’t quite open. “Dah . . . la?”

  “Yes!” she shouted. She took his hand in hers, but didn’t lift it for fear of sending cold blood cascading back to his heart. She half expected to feel the stiffness of rigor mortis in his fingers, to suddenly see the gruesome truth that she had mistaken the wail of the wind for life, but his hand twitched, then moved to grip hers. “You’re awake,” she said, half to him and half thinking aloud. “That’s good. I . . .” There was only one place she was certain would be able to move him safely and warm him. “I’ll run to the Cobalt Hall. Their healers—”

  Celadon managed a surprisingly vehement, “No.”

  “I’m not letting you die out here because you—”

  “Sorcerer,” Celadon mumbled. “Did . . . something to me. Why I’m out here. Can’t go there.” His limbs started moving, shifting aimlessly, and she realized he was trying to push himself up.

  “Can you move?” she asked him. He had ice in his hair and on the exposed skin of his face and hands. How could he be this cold, yet still be alive, much less conscious?

  “House,” Celadon said. “Next street . . . green . . . number twelve. Help me to it. Please.” His breath ran out on the last word, as he heaved himself onto his hands and knees. He paused there, panting.

  He’s not shivering, Dahlia thought. That should have been a bad sign, but if he was awake and moving around he couldn’t be as bad off as he seemed.

  “Here,” she said. She put an arm under him to help him stand, since that was obviously his intention.

  For a moment, it looked like his legs wouldn’t hold him, and then he balanced and straightened his knees. He leaned on her heavily and walked with ungainly shuffles.

  Dahlia helped him to within sight of the green house, but then his legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees again, panting. Dahlia ran to the door and knocked frantically, and uttered praise to the divine when it opened within seconds.

  She recognized the man who answered as one of the Quin who had been protesting Festival with Celadon. Judging by his narrowed eyes, he recognized her, too.

  “What in the three worlds brings Dahlia Indathrone to my door?” he scoffed.

  “Celadon needs your help,” she snapped. “I found him out in—” The Quin had already seen his fallen leader. He shoved past her.

  “Is he—”

  “Alive, or he was a moment ago,” Dahlia said. “He was conscious and able to walk most of the way here.” Celadon had collapsed, and his eyes were now closed. Had he used the last of his strength to get them here?

  “He was walking?” the man asked.

  When Dahlia nodded, the Quin seemed to consider, then wrapped an arm behind Celadon’s shoulders and lifted him. “Help me get him inside,” he said, animosity toward Dahlia forgotten in the face of this crisis.

  Together, they managed to settle Celadon on a pallet of blankets in front of the kitchen hearth. A quick glance around made it clear that he had spent most of the storm in this one room, in front of the fire—probably wondering if his stock of firewood would last longer than the ice.

  “Can you add another log?” Dahlia asked, but he was already doing so.

  She reached for Celadon again. She shook his shoulder, and when she received no response, she searched for a pulse.

  It was there, achingly slow but even.

  “He’s alive,” she said, though that didn’t mean much. She knew that his being alive now was no indication of how he would come through; sudden shocks or movement could cause all their efforts to be in vain. “I need some warm towels. And scissors—his clothes are covered in ice.”

  “I know,” her Quin host snapped.

  Dahlia opened her mouth to respond with equal hostility, but saw the fear in his eyes. It was panic making his words abrasive, not intent.

  She found what she needed on her own while the Quin watched his leader like a lost boy instead of a grown man. Dahlia moved around him, distancing her mind and trying to stay clinical as she cut ice-crusted clothes from Celadon’s body and wrapped him in blankets and towels warmed by the fire.

  Even if Dahlia had been the type of person who could wish anyone dead, she would still have prayed for Celadon’s recovery, for the sake of the city. He was too powerful among the Quinacridone for his death not to provoke a powerful response. And if she had understood him right, if someone from the Napthol had done this to him . . .

  “What’s your name?” Dahlia asked finally.

  “Ochre.” The single word was not accompanied by anything else.

  Dahlia gave up the attempt at conversation, at normalcy. Ochre went out for more firewood and she stayed with Celadon, wondering if she would hear him wake or just end up being there when he died.

  “Dahlia?”

  She blinked as she heard his voice, realizing the angle of light through the window had suddenly shifted. Had she drifted off?

  “Celadon? Are you awake?” She touched his cheek. His color was better, but his skin still felt chilled under her fingertips.

  “I think so.” His voice was small and tight. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t try to talk,” she said. “Save your strength.”

  He shook his head. “I hurt you.”

  “We don’t have to discuss this now.”

  “I was scared for you,” he said, as if determined to say these words or perish in the attempt—which she still feared he could. “Made me angry. And dumb.”

  So scared you tried to throw me out on the streets, she thought. They could have a proper argument on the subject if he made it through the night and still wanted to try to apologize. Fighting about it right now was more likely to kill him.

  She said, “It doesn’t matter right now. Just rest.”

  “Need to . . . Dahlia, you don’t understand. They—” He broke off. For an instant Dahlia feared he had given himself a heart attack, but he didn’t go limp. His eyes flashed silver, then as they faded back to blue, he finally started to shiver. Sweat appeared in shining drops on his forehead. When Dahlia touched his forehead, his temperature had returned to normal.

  Not just cold, she thought. Magic. Well, he had said someone from the Order of Napthol had done something to him.

  She saw the same thought in Ochre’s eyes as he asked, “Celadon, what is—”

  Celadon ignored his follower and grabbed Dahlia’s wrist, looking at her now with his own, frightened blue eyes. “I don’t know what that sorcerer did to me, but it . . .” He struggled to turn onto his stomach and half pushed himself up before he started to cough.

  Ochre pushed Dahlia aside and helped Celadon sit up, and supported him as his chest spasmed with deep, racking dry coughs.

  “I’ve got him,” Ochre told her. Sounding grudging, he added, “Thank you for helping him. We’ll take care of him now.”

  By we, he meant the Followers of the Quinacridone—not including Dahlia. He looked pointedly at the door, then back at Celadon, whose coughing had started to slow. Ochre helped Celadon lean on a pile of cushions and blankets and said, “I have some cider
I can warm. Wait just a minute.”

  Dahlia took the cue to leave. Her mind churned with questions.

  She sympathized with the grief the Terra and Terre were feeling, but the palace couldn’t just close its doors, draw its curtains and mourn. What if there were others affected as Celadon was? Who was protecting the citizens of Kavet from magical malevolence—or managing more mundane but equally vital work? Had anyone initiated work to fix the docks and ships damaged by the Osei and the storm? Those ships were the life blood of Kavet. Who was organizing assistance for merchants whose shops and wares needed repairs? The Turquoise’s wood-shed couldn’t be the only building damaged by ice. Leaking roofs could lead to the destruction of trade goods and essential supplies.

  Repeatedly the last few days Dahlia had pushed away fears for her parents and friends back at Eiderlee, assuring herself that her family was cautious and well-prepared, but now the possible scope of the devastation struck her. How had Eiderlee fared, and the other farming communities? And even if they were all right, what about the trees, animals and fields, their livelihood—and Kavet’s primary source of food?

  Others will answer these questions, she told herself. It isn’t your responsibility.

  Is it?

  Chapter 23

  Naples

  Eat now, and later I will teach you to feed.

  Naples had pushed the memory of the phantom voice at the palace to the back of his mind, crediting it as a fever-driven hallucination, but hadn’t he heard it before the fever?

  And what had taken him from the palace to the Cobalt Hall, if not that strange presence?

  As soon as he could walk, he did something stupid: he scaled the stairs and found his wobbly way to the temple. After days trapped inside by the ice, most of the Order’s members were outside making repairs, seeking provisions, or just taking in fresh air, so he was alone for the moment.

  He paused in front of the shelves of supplies, uninspired. He wanted to scry, to try to call back the disembodied voice or see who had attacked him, but while he knew several techniques for doing so he had never had Henna’s knack for summoning visions.