Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  In its light, he could see the other man’s eyes widen. He shifted back a bit.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a Numen-damned Quin,” Naples blurted out before he thought better of it.

  “Not quite,” the other man replied, with a very blatant once-over of Naples’ still nude body, reminding him that the Quin frowned on such relations. “But I’m not an Abyss-damned sorcerer, either,” he said, copying Naples’ inflection.

  The Abyssi started laughing. The Quin remained oblivious, blind to the demon in his presence. He drew a steadying breath and said, “Look. I noticed you at the town inn. You seemed pretty obviously on the prowl. You noticed my looking and struck up a conversation. You said you hadn’t paid for a room yet, so we came back to my place. You don’t remember any of that?”

  Naples shook his head.

  “And you don’t remember getting to Brockridge?”

  Naples frowned, trying to recall. “How far are we from the city?”

  “About twenty miles. My name’s Argent, by the way.”

  “Yeah, sure. Naples.” Names weren’t at the top of his priorities. “Clothes?”

  “Somewhere around here.”

  They didn’t talk for the next few minutes as they pulled on clothing that had obviously been pulled off in a hurry.

  How long had he blacked out for? A day? Two? Longer?

  I’m bored now, the Abyssi complained.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Argent asked. “Do you need help to get back to the city?”

  The city . . . yes, he should get back there. He should see how his mother was doing, and make sure she knew he was—

  Had he had this conversation before? These thoughts? Naples was suddenly sure he had, at which point the question became, how many times had he woken like this?

  “If you’re going to faint—”

  “I’m okay.” He waved off the solicitous mostly Quin.

  Argent hesitated a moment, then finally offered, “How about breakfast? We meant to have dinner last night, but it didn’t happen.”

  Naples nodded. He had just been saying that he needed to eat, hadn’t he? His stomach wasn’t making any complaints, but maybe it needed something to remind it of its purpose.

  Maybe he needed something to remind him he was human.

  As they left the bedroom, however, Naples received his next surprise. The shutters in the bedroom had been drawn, blocking the dawning light. Here they were open, revealing a pink and gold sky above sprawling fields.

  Brockridge was apparently a farming community. Naples was no expert when it came to soil and plants, but he was bright enough to tell that there was no ice on these fields, no snow. The ground had been turned and planted. A haze of green suggested the tiny tips of new plants sprouting.

  Naples stared in shock as Argent built up the fire in the wood stove—without asking for any help, though Naples could have accomplished the goal in an instant.

  “What do you grow?” Naples asked, fishing for hints of how long had passed since the ice storm.

  “Potatoes and wheat,” Argent answered. “We also have turkeys. There are some fruit trees and vines on the property, but they’re mostly supplemental, growing where there’s room for them.”

  Naples took a moment to be impressed as his gaze skimmed over the fields and collection of other houses. “Do you own this land?”

  Argent shrugged. “To an extent. It takes more than one man to plant and maintain it all. The land’s in my name, and I oversee the work, but at the end of the season, the crops are shared by everyone who works.”

  “Hmm.” Trying to sound casual, Naples asked, “Did that ice storm do any damage out here?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Argent replied as he came to stand beside Naples. He set a hand on the sill, looking out at the fields with obvious pride. “Thankfully we hadn’t planted yet, but we spent weeks clearing debris and fixing fencing. Three tenants’ roofs caved in. We were lucky enough not to lose much in the way of seed—a lot of other farms ended up with flooded root cellars or seed stores—but the winter wheat was hit hard, and the fruit trees—” He glanced at Naples and whatever he saw in his face made him cut off abruptly.

  “Weeks?” Naples echoed.

  Argent looked at him nervously.

  “What did you do to me?” The Abyssi had temporarily disappeared, but Naples spun about, reaching out with his magic and demanding its return. “Damn you, get in here!” There was no immediate reply, except from Argent, who had backed in the general direction of the knife rack.

  “I’m not crazy,” Naples snapped.

  “Of course,” Argent replied. “On second thought, would you mind leaving before breakfast?”

  Naples shook his head. “I’ll go. I just—” He broke off, realizing suddenly that he wasn’t wearing his knife. “Fuck,” he whispered, returning to the bedroom in long strides. Though, given the amount of time that had passed, he had no reason to believe he had only just misplaced it.

  Lifting a hand, he summoned magic as simply as snapping his fingers, and immediately a globe of ruby-colored foxfire hung above him.

  Well, the Abyssi had promised him power, hadn’t it?

  It hadn’t mentioned a clause about losing weeks of his life.

  “What are you looking for?” Argent asked.

  “Knife,” Naples replied bluntly, which made the Quin’s eyes widen. “It’s not a weapon, it’s a tool. And it was a gift from the Terra.”

  “Black handle?” Argent asked as Naples proceeded to ransack the room in his search. When Naples nodded, Argent added, “You were wearing it at the inn, and when we got back here. A lot of travelers carry some kind of work knife, so I didn’t think much of it. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

  He was speaking in the smooth, even tone of a man trying to calm a wild animal.

  Close enough.

  They searched together, Argent frequently glancing warily to the foxfire Naples had summoned. They turned the entire house upside-down, even rooms Argent swore they hadn’t been anywhere near.

  Looking for this?

  Naples spun about as he heard the Abyssi’s voice, to find the creature standing there, holding up the Terra’s knife in a loop of one of its many tails.

  “Naples?” Argent asked, seeing Naples’ attention turn.

  “Hand it over,” Naples said, holding out a hand to the Abyssi and trying to feel as confident as he made himself look and sound.

  You were upset. It seemed wise to disarm you, the creature said, spinning the knife around his nine tails the way Naples had seen sailors spin blades around their fingers. Are you ready to come play now? It looked up at Argent, who was standing by in a remarkably protective fashion, as if prepared to come to Naples’ aid if necessary. Or do you really prefer the Quin?

  “Give me back the knife. Then we’re going back to the city.”

  “Naples, who are you talking to?” Argent asked again. When Naples didn’t reply, he added, “What are you talking to?”

  The Abyssi moved forward, and though Naples stepped to the side to stay between it and Argent, it managed to move past him like smoke, as impossible to block as the air.

  If you prefer, we can play here. Naples reached out to grab the Abyssi, forgetting the danger in such a move. The moment his hand closed on the creature’s arm it pulled him close, wrapping him in darkness and fire. He struggled to pull away and it placed a hand on his chest, setting claws to flesh not quite hard enough to draw blood.

  It trailed those claws down his chest, ever so carefully. Naples tried to stay focused, but felt his back bow and his legs start to weaken.

  He was only barely aware of Argent moving forward, stupidly trying to come to his defense against an enemy he couldn’t see, until the Abyssi slashed out. The claws that had so carefully not pierced Naples’ flesh turned Argent’s chest to red ruin in a second.

  The man fell backward with a scream, terror in his eyes.

  Naples struggled against the Ab
yssi’s grip, intending to go to the other man, but the creature’s hold didn’t lessen.

  Abruptly, he realized why it was being so gentle with him. It wasn’t threatening to bleed him, to hurt him—it was being very careful not to. It also didn’t worry Naples would stab it; that wasn’t why it had taken the Terra’s knife away.

  Blood was power, and while a good blade was indispensable, there were other ways to bring that crimson magic to the surface.

  Naples spun in the Abyssi’s arms and turned its own techniques against it. He pressed himself against its chest and let nature—if anyone could argue that such lust was natural—take its course. He let himself shiver at the feel of that silken fur sliding across his still bare chest.

  Kissing an Abyssi was a sensation not easily described. Its mouth was shaped mostly like a man’s, but the short fur that covered its face was softer than any beard or stubble, and Naples was very aware of the needle-sharp teeth that would probably take off his tongue if it dared to venture forth. That was fine, since once the kiss had begun, the Abyssi preferred to be the aggressor. It tightened its grip on him, and its heat became scalding.

  Lust is as strong a power as blood. It had told him that when they first left the Cobalt Hall. It was one of his last clear memories. If you won’t hunt with claws, you can hunt with flesh instead.

  Naples rubbed a hand along the Abyssi’s cheek, feeling the tiny spines that lined the top of its cheekbones, just under the fur. Those spines weren’t quite sharp enough for his purposes, but as he broke the kiss, maneuvering so the Abyssi turned its head, his arm was close enough that its instincts took over.

  Teeth sank into the meat of Naples’ arm. He bit back a shriek as the pain hit him, just before blood cascaded down his skin and the Abyssi’s smoke-black fur.

  Blood was good. He could use it, and he did, to shove his power forward. “Give me the knife.”

  The Abyssi went rigid, fighting him. It didn’t turn the blade over, but it couldn’t stop him from taking it.

  “Now go.” Again it fought, pushing Naples’ own power back toward him, sending him stumbling a pace away. It didn’t matter if Naples wasn’t touching it directly anymore. His blood still coated its fur, and that was enough to force it to obey. “Go! Leave me!”

  It disappeared.

  Naples collapsed, too exhausted to do any more than clutch his injured arm to his chest. The bleeding had stopped, but the meat the Abyssi had bitten off would take longer to heal, and the wound still throbbed with pain. He was lucky the Abyssi hadn’t stripped it to the bone.

  He didn’t dare stand up, certain he would faint. Instead he crawled on knees and one arm to where Argent lay, hyperventilating. The taint of the Abyssi clung to him.

  “I saw it,” the farmer said in a choked voice. “I saw it.”

  “It’s gone,” Naples replied. For now, he thought. He didn’t delude himself into thinking he was strong enough to keep such a creature at bay for long.

  Chapter 27

  Henna

  It had been one day since Henna had stood by Helio’s corpse and listened to the words from beyond the veil, words she was no closer to fully understanding. Who had that mourning, apologetic voice been? Who were the “we” who wished them no harm? All the souls of the dead? Or something more powerful—the creatures of the Numen and Abyss? What did it mean if they were fighting?

  She didn’t understand, but she stood before the palace doors, this time with a satchel of tools and almost every cold magic user from the Order of Napthol, including Dove, who insisted she had recovered well enough to help. Dahlia waited just behind, trying to be present, supportive, but unobtrusive.

  Find the Terre. Those words, at least, had been clear enough that even Clay, back in the Cobalt Hall, had woken from his nap shouting them aloud. For the next day, he had repeatedly babbled portions of the conversation Dove had with the spirits in garbled toddler-tones that reminded Henna eerily of his pleas before not to be given to the Abyssi before Terre Verte’s death.

  Now, standing before the palace, they could all only hope the command had come from an entity that meant them well.

  Every report since Naples’ first fight with the door had made it clear that the power blocking it was cold. Henna doubted her hot magic sorcery would be helpful, but hoped her visions might be able to guide the others’ actions.

  She settled in front of the doorway with her rune stones in front of her and the other members of her order behind her, so she could use their power to enhance her own. She tried to clear her mind, the way she used to when sitting in the market, telling fortunes—before. Before it all began. Before she had seen wings in the sky and blood on the cobbles.

  As she trailed her fingers through the stones, she could feel all those things: the Osei; Terre Verte’s death; the blood of the Queen of the First house splashing across this door as the Terra summoned a demon to destroy the creature that had taken her child—

  No!

  Henna would not relive that.

  Such pain. Cold seeped up her arm, an echo of so many years of loneliness, of deep aching sorrow.

  Then, suddenly—

  “Terre?” she whispered, her eyes shooting open.

  There was just the door.

  For an instant, she had been so certain that Verte was there, that he was standing in front of her. She looked back at Dove, wondering if that woman’s power had allowed Henna to briefly hear the prince’s ghost. But Dove was undisturbed, her eyes shut in concentration.

  Henna put her mind back on the door, trying to let her thoughts skip idly to allow room for the visions. Between memories of the past and anxiety for the future, it was a struggle, but if she wanted any chance of protecting her people and stopping the dream assaults before another sorcerer was ripped apart in the night, she had to get into the palace.

  She took a deep breath, shoving away the image of Helio’s ravaged body. She stood, leaving the rune stones behind, and pressed both palms flat against the door.

  Cold. The pain came from the door, so she let her thoughts rest on it. And yes, there was someone inside, but he was so far away. The barrier between them was thick, and set to keep out . . . the Terra? Had he set these walls against his wife, to restrain her?

  To restrain what she had summoned?

  That had to be it. These were cold walls, but they had been designed to keep out power like Naples’ or Henna’s. Most members of the Order of Napthol used hot power to some extent; even those of them most inclined toward ice, like Helio and Maddy, usually had some affinity for hot power as well. That explained why none of them could pass. They had been trying to use force. What they needed wasn’t a battering ram, but a key—someone with the right flavor of power, unmuddied by experiments with other forms.

  She happened to know just such a person.

  “Someone get Celadon Cremnitz.”

  “Who?” Dahlia asked.

  “Celadon,” Henna repeated. It was possible Celadon had disclosed his power to Dahlia, but Henna wasn’t certain. The Order of Napthol’s alliance with the Followers of the Quinacridone was so tentative, they had all agreed it would be best to let Celadon keep his secret—as long as he wasn’t actively endangering anyone. As long as the council included sorcerers, they could keep him from using his power unintentionally to manipulate anything.

  “I think the shields set on the palace door might completely ignore him,” she told Dahlia, hoping the Quin’s ignorance of sorcery would keep her from asking too many questions. “He may be able to get inside, and if he does, doing so may breach the wards sufficiently to let the rest of us in. Do you think you can convince him to try?”

  Dahlia frowned thoughtfully. She cast a look around at the crowd, possibly considering what she would ask without an audience, and deciding the same thing Henna had: less said here was better.

  She nodded. “I will try.”

  She did better than try. She returned with a skeptical-looking Celadon in less time than Henna would have th
ought possible. At Henna’s urging, he sighed, then put a hand on the palace’s front door.

  Only then did he hesitate. “If the Terre blocked this door, it was probably for a reason, wasn’t it?”

  Helio’s lifeless eyes flashed in Henna’s memory.

  “It could be dangerous to open it, but I think it’s more dangerous to leave it closed,” she said. “Will you try? Please.”

  “We’ve been functioning without the Terre and Terra for weeks,” Celadon argued. “Even assuming they’re still alive in there, which seems unlikely, why do we need them, and why now?”

  “The magic blocking this door is leaking into the rest of the city,” Henna explained, struggling to keep her voice level as she said aloud what she knew perfectly well was exactly what most Quin feared about sorcery. “It’s hurting people, only members of the Order who are sensitive to power so far, but there’s no saying it won’t be dangerous to your people, too. So yes, the Terre probably put this shield in place for a reason, but it’s dangerous.”

  Celadon nodded, slowly.

  “And why am I the only one who can do this?” he asked.

  Henna glanced pointedly to the mixed group of onlookers. “We can discuss that later.” Too softly to carry beyond their group, she added, “Privately.”

  He still looked as though he might balk, for good reason. Celadon didn’t understand his magic, or want to understand his magic; most days, he acted like it didn’t exist, even though Maddy, Dove, and even Wenge had all urged him to accept help managing it.

  “Please,” Dahlia said.

  That was all, but it seemed to be enough for Celadon. He put his hand back on the wide wooden latch of the palace’s main double doors and tugged at it. Henna held her breath, waiting for him to strain against the impossibly locked door—or be thrown back, as Naples had been.

  Instead, the heavy door, which had remained motionless for a month and a half, shifted.

  Celadon, unaware he had already done something trained sorcerers had found impossible, set his shoulder to the door to use his whole body for leverage. It still seemed massively heavy, but it moved.