Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  Celadon paused, He was breathing heavily, but instead of sweat, he had a fine layer of frost across his brow and upper lip. He reached up to brush it away, and Henna saw the flash of fear in his eyes as his fingers first touched the ice, before he swept it clear of his skin.

  “It’s open,” he said.

  Henna rushed forward.

  Stupidly.

  A blast of frigid air swept from the doorway and pummeled her like a shell slammed to the sand by storm waves. She was aware of nothing until her head struck the cobbles with a sickening thunk that brought a slew of violent afterimages:

  Terre Verte, striking the ground.

  The lash, ripping into flesh.

  Osei claws, sinking deep into a ship’s sides.

  The old war, a battle so fierce it tore the worlds—

  “Henna?” Maddy’s voice interrupted the dazed visions. “Henna, can you hear me?”

  Henna opened her eyes, then shut them against the glare of sunlight. The visions were fading like dreams.

  “You hit hard,” Maddy said. “Don’t try to move yet.” Her fingers worked along the back of Henna’s head, painful at first but then cool and soothing as her magic sought and mended swelling and fracture.

  Henna didn’t try to stand, but she did speak. “I didn’t think,” she gasped. “I just wanted—” to find Terre Verte, who we all know is dead. “I acted on impulse. But I felt the doorway. It’s open now, finally, just warded against hot power. Celadon shouldn’t have a problem. I think your hot power is minimal enough that you could go, too,” she added. “It wouldn’t see you as a threat. Find the Terre.” She reached up and touched Maddy’s hand.

  “You—”

  “We have other healers. I’ll be all right.”

  “I should go, too,” Dove said, stepping forward, “if it will let me.” She didn’t need to add why; if Terre Jaune and Terra Sarcelle were dead, Dove was best equipped to learn what had happened and why. “And Dahlia should try.”

  “Me?” Dahlia had bravely conquered many difficult tasks in the last weeks, but in this moment she stared in horror at Dove. Given the amount of blood on the back of Henna’s head, even after Maddy’s quick ministrations, it was hard to blame Dahlia for her hesitation.

  “I would rather not go back to the council with only Celadon and two sorcerers to report whatever we find,” Dove said logically. “The others will trust you more than us.” She slid a glance at Celadon that suggested she didn’t want his report to be the only one the other Quin heard, either. Henna agreed.

  “Be careful, all of you,” Henna whispered.

  Maddy grasped her hand, then stood. “We will be.”

  Henna nodded, then winced and gagged hard as her stomach rolled, warning her that she still had a concussion even if Maddy had healed the skull-fracture she had probably also suffered.

  There were no further dramatics as each of the chosen four stepped forward: Celadon first, with a level of bravado Henna had to assume was feigned, then Dahlia with considerably more hesitation.

  Maddy stopped short as she tried to follow, as if she had encountered an invisible barrier, but nothing threw her back. She pressed a hand against empty air and whispered a quiet plea Henna couldn’t quite make out, then drew a deep breath and said more loudly, “Terre Jaune, I am your child’s mother, and you will let me pass!”

  The barrier gave way so abruptly Maddy stumbled, nearly falling. Dove hurried behind her.

  Then they were gone.

  Lassia, Helio’s last student, offered Henna a hand to help her stand slowly up. The woman’s initiation had been only the week before, but she was a fair healer already, so Henna was grateful for her help.

  They had made it only halfway across the plaza when Mikva emerged from the Cobalt Hall and hurried toward them. As usual, her gaze skipped over Henna as she searched the crowd, probably looking for Dahlia.

  Eventually, she asked as if of the air slightly to Henna’s left, “Where is Indathrone?”

  Henna ignored her. Her head ached, and her skin felt wind burned and tingled with residual magic.

  “Henna?” Mikva said, apparently resigned to the fact that Henna was the only council member available. “I need Indathrone.”

  Henna turned, a motion that made her head swim and forced her to lean harder on Lassia, and watched Mikva’s gaze avert, as if she suddenly found the purple sparkles in the Cobalt Hall’s exterior walls mesmerizing.

  After all the nightmares and pain, after weeks sitting at a table with this woman almost daily, after identifying Helio’s ravaged form, after otherworldly voices and a hostile door, Henna did not have the patience to coddle this Tamari sea captain.

  “If you cannot be bothered to acknowledge my existence,” Henna snapped, “I am not inclined to respect yours.”

  “I’ve offered to take you with us when the ship sails,” Mikva said, as if that solved everything.

  “And I have declined.”

  “Henna, you really should sit down,” Lassia urged. “Let’s go inside.”

  “You’re one of the sea travelers!” Mikva exclaimed, switching to the native Tamari tongue as if that would make her point more effectively. “It is the worst kind of luck for a boucan to be land-locked.”

  “I’m Kavetan,” Henna snarled back.

  “Some of the other Tamari say your relationship with Terre Verte was why the Osei fought against him. You know they speak for the sea.”

  “The Osei killed Verte because he dared stand up to them,” Henna responded, her fury so cold it made her body shake in a way that had nothing to do with her injury, “which is something the Tamari have never done.”

  “But—”

  “Tell Dahlia Indathrone your theories about bad luck,” Henna challenged. “See if she believes I am an asset at the council table, or a threat.”

  Dahlia won’t believe it, Henna told herself. She is wiser than that.

  Henna hoped.

  “If you tell me where she is, I might do that,” Mikva said coolly.

  “She isn’t available right now,” Henna said shortly. “Is there something else I can help with?”

  “The Osei,” Mikva said. “Kegan received a message from the Third House—he says Dahlia has been waiting for it?”

  After everything else, Henna didn’t have any concern to spare for this latest news. The Osei slave always insisted that everything he had to say must be the council’s top priority.

  “I couldn’t go after her if I wanted to,” Henna admitted.

  “And you don’t want to,” Lassia added, chastising. “You need to sit, and accept some healing.”

  That, too.

  After all, it wouldn’t do to be injured when she slipped into nightmares and her magic filleted her like a fish. Or when the Osei came back and finished the job they had started.

  Chapter 28

  Dahlia

  Where, Dahlia wondered, was old-fashioned misogynistic Quin paternalism when it might have benefited her? When had Celadon become someone who would willingly guide her with a pair of sorcerers into the clearly enchanted and possibly cursed palace?

  Whenever he learned to respect you, she told herself. Stop whining.

  Dahlia looked around the foyer, which was dimly lit by sunlight filtering through foggy windows, and a chill breeze passed over her; she shivered, wrapping her arms across her chest. It was summer outside, but in here it felt like the dead of winter. She wished she had worn a cloak, but didn’t dare suggest going to get one for fear they wouldn’t make it back inside.

  “Does anyone know their way around here?” Celadon asked. “I only know the way to the prison and the petitioners’ hall.”

  “I know the general layout,” Maddy answered. “I think I can find the private wing and the ritual rooms. Those seem the logical place to start.”

  “We need light,” Celadon suggested.

  The palace, which had been bright and lively during the festival, was now cavernous with shadow. Lamps and foxfire orbs a
like had gone dark, their glass stained with smoke. Maddy showed the way to the central hearth, but though Celadon found flint and tinder there, along with fresh lamp oil in a storage closet and a handful of candles, they couldn’t seem to make a spark.

  At last, Maddy pulled a coin-sized sphere of foxfire out of her pocket, and they groped their way forward by its faint, flickering illumination, which turned the rich carpets and paintings to dull shades of gray.

  The more they walked, the more Dahlia felt as though she was exploring a tomb. Even their footsteps were muffled by the stale air as they ascended the stairs and entered a wing of the building Dahlia had never seen.

  “It’s getting colder,” Celadon observed.

  “The door to the temple should be somewhere around here,” Maddy said. Her voice was husky, as if her throat were tight and dry. She put a hand to the wall and Dahlia saw her shiver. “It’s normally hidden, though we might be able to—”

  “This?” Celadon asked, looking at what appeared to be a blank wall.

  Maddy crowded closer, peering at the space in the dim light. “Where?”

  “Here,” Celadon said. “It’s right . . . you don’t see it.” He looked at Maddy, and then at Dahlia, who shook her head. “Why can I see it?”

  Maddy sighed heavily. “It’s hidden from those without magic, and Jaune has set up some kind of barrier against those with a certain type of magic. Your power is closer to his.”

  “It is not,” Celadon protested, an indignant reflex.

  Dahlia expected him to add more, to argue against the suggestion he might have any kind of magic, but he didn’t.

  Stunned, she reached out a hand to pause them all. “What magic?” she asked.

  Celadon’s expression dropped as if she had slapped him, and he averted his eyes. “Nothing I chose, I assure you,” he mumbled. “I’m not even convinced it’s true.” His words sounded more desperate than defiant, and his downcast gaze betrayed that he did believe it, much to his shame.

  “This isn’t the time to argue. You have power,” Maddy said. “Specifically, you have what we call cold magic sorcery. That’s the same kind I use, but yours is . . . purer, I suppose, because you’ve never worked with old magic or hot magic. That’s why you could open the front door, and it must be why you can see this door when Dove and I can’t. Now, can you see how to open it?”

  “With the knob?” Celadon suggested sardonically.

  He reached out, and as he motioned as if turning a knob, Dahlia finally saw the outline of a doorframe, so faint she might have assumed it was a trick of her eyes if it hadn’t been pointed out to her.

  “It’s stuck,” Celadon complained.

  “Locked?” Maddy asked.

  Celadon shoved with all his strength at the invisible door with an Umph, before reporting, “I don’t know. The knob turns, but it feels jammed.”

  Maddy stood beside him. She leaned against the wall and crooned, “Jaune? Are you in there? Can you hear me?” She looked back. “Dove, do you sense anything?”

  Dove shook her head. “I’ve been listening,” she said. “I should be able to hear echoes of the Terre ancestors who spent their lives and deaths in this building, but there’s only a ringing in my ears. Something is here, but whatever I’m hearing isn’t a ghost.”

  “I’m tired of fighting doors.” Celadon pushed Maddy out of the way, then flung his body against the supposed doorway and demanded, “Open, you Numen-cursed thing!”

  As his shoulder struck what appeared to be solid stone, the archway shimmered. Celadon flew through the stone as if through water. Dahlia darted after him without thinking, and though she flinched when she should have struck the wall, she passed through without injury.

  She emerged on the other side regretting the valiant act, however; it was so cold here that her breath hung heavy and white before her. She crossed her arms snugly across her chest, but couldn’t stop from shivering. Maddy and Dove, when they followed a moment later, did the same.

  Celadon, who had fallen into a pile of frost-covered books, pushed himself up. Unlike the rest of them, he seemed unaffected by the cold. He looked around with consternation, stopping his scan of the room when his gaze reached another door, this one seeming etched in ice and snow on the wall. It cast a pure, silvery light that made Dahlia blink, blinded momentarily by its glory.

  “I suppose that door is next?” she asked.

  Maddy nodded. “It must be his private sanctuary. The Terra and the prince should have them, too—”

  “Here’s the Terra’s,” Dove said in a tight voice. She was standing in front of an archway beyond which Dahlia could see only faint shadows. “I still can’t hear Terre Verte or Terre Jaune, but I can hear her now. She’s—oh.” Dove’s voice cut off with a strangled cry. “You work on that door,” Dove said, gesturing toward the ice-encrusted door. “I’m going to help the Terra.” She stepped through the dark doorway.

  Dahlia briefly considered following, then immediately decided no power in the mortal realm could induce her to step through those shadows, which seemed to have devoured Dove.

  Responding to Dove’s directions with a brusque nod, Celadon brushed snow from his clothing and strode up to the icy door. Upon closer inspection, it didn’t look like a real door—there was no knob or latch, just ornate paneling painted by frost—but then again, Dahlia hadn’t even been able to see the last one.

  The instant Celadon’s fingertips touched the surface, he jumped back with a startled hiss.

  “What happened?” Dahlia asked.

  Celadon shook himself, stepping forward again. “It felt like something stung me.”

  Celadon and Maddy both jumped then, Celadon whipping his head around, looking about as if he had heard something. “What was that?”

  Dahlia looked around, too, even though she knew it was stupid. Why had she come here? She wasn’t a sorcerer; she was a liability. She had seen what this power had done to Henna when she tried to walk through the door. Worse, she had seen what it did to Helio.

  “Jaune?” Maddy asked, moving toward the door. “Oh, sweet Numen, he’s trapped in there. I hear you, honey.” She reached for the door, pressed a hand to it, closed her eyes, and leaned forward as if listening.

  “How in the three realms did he get trapped?” Celadon demanded, shaking his arm and flexing his fingers.

  “Maybe when he warded the palace to contain . . . something else.” There was a hitch in Maddy’s voice, as if she had changed what she was about to say at the last minute. “But that’s gone now. We need to help him.”

  “Are you all right?” Dahlia asked Celadon.

  “Pins and needles,” he answered. “It feels like I stuck my arm into a bundle of jellyfish.”

  Dahlia wanted to ask about more than his physical state, about his apparent magic and how he felt about being forced to use it, but now wasn’t the time.

  “Jaune, honey, you have to help me,” Maddy was saying. “I can hear you . . . I want to help you . . . please . . .”

  “A desperate woman can be a dangerous creature,” Celadon said softly. “I’m not quite sure I trust her.” He looked to the opposite doorway, where Dove had gone.

  “Neither would I,” Dahlia said truthfully, “but Henna was the one who sent us here, not Maddy. She has valid reasons to think we can’t ignore this any longer, and I agree with her.”

  “What do you know that I don’t?”

  Maddy let out a frustrated cry. “It’s no use. It’s blocking me. Celadon—”

  “I’ll try,” Celadon said reluctantly. “Move aside.”

  Maddy moved enough to let him press a hand to the door. He winced, but this time he didn’t draw back. Dahlia saw Celadon’s body tense as he pushed, with no visible result.

  “Push with your power, not just your hands,” Maddy advised.

  Celadon gave her a look as if she had just suggested he swallow hemlock.

  “It’s not going to kill you,” Maddy snapped.

  “Let’s as
sume I’m willing to do this,” Celadon bit out. “How would I go about it?”

  “Oh.” Maddy seemed to deflate a little. “Just . . .” Maddy chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You have power. You’ve used it already, plenty of times, intuitively. Your will can direct it. Many people who use cold power find it helps to chant, or otherwise use words to focus their intent.”

  “You want me to talk to the door?”

  Maddy shrugged. “Try it?”

  Celadon shut his eyes as if trying to compose himself. “This is absurd,” he muttered, but the words had the sound of surrender in them.

  This time he put both palms against the door without flinching. He closed his eyes and Dahlia saw his lips quirk, as if he were struggling to take this exercise seriously.

  When after a period of silence there was no response, Celadon opened his eyes. He cast Dahlia a look she thought was supposed to appear amused, but which revealed anxiety and disquiet simmering beneath Celadon’s confidant façade.

  He turned back to the door.

  “Hello, door,” he said. “This is a little uncomfortable. If you would spit the Terre out already, we could leave you alone.”

  “Celadon,” Maddy sighed.

  Celadon cleared his throat.

  “Open. Open, open,” he said under his breath, his gaze fixed on the icy patterns of the closed doorway. “Open for the Napthol lady, would—shit.” The curse came as the doorway shifted, patterns becoming brighter.

  “That’s it,” Maddy breathed.

  “His arms,” Dahlia whispered to Maddy, as blooms of frost first covered Celadon’s hands and then started crawling over his wrists.

  “It’s an expression of the power,” Maddy answered. “It won’t harm him.”

  “Okay, door,” Celadon continued, voice tight. “This hurts like a son of a bitch, so let’s finish this, all right? Open. Now. The Terre made you, so open and let him pass.”

  The doorway brightened further, until Dahlia had to avert her gaze. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dove emerge from the other room, gray-faced and panting.

  Dahlia hastened to help the other woman to a chair.