Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  Dahlia left the two of them together and backtracked to the temple. She apparently shouldn’t have worried; she encountered Celadon, unharmed and alone, before she had gone up an entire flight of stairs.

  As he saw her, he demanded, “Where’s Ginger?”

  “Talking with Maddy,” Dahlia said evenly.

  “Damn.” He sighed heavily, then started walking again, leading them back toward the public areas of the Cobalt Hall.

  Dahlia had expected more than the one whispered curse. “That’s it?”

  “She’s seventeen,” he grumbled. “I can’t make her decisions for her, and she would be a fool to make a decision like this without thinking it over and getting all the information she feels she needs. And Ginger isn’t stupid.” He frowned. “She still has lousy taste in men, though. She’s too sweet to realize a man can have a pretty face and say pretty things and be a snake inside. I don’t care what kind of power Naples has. If he takes advantage of her, I’ll kill him.”

  Dahlia didn’t intend to discuss Celadon’s hatred of the young sorcerer, so she turned the conversation. “How will her beau respond to her considering the Order? He’s Quin, isn’t he? Or close to it?”

  Celadon paused, contemplative. Started to smile. Stopped. Mock-frowned. “That isn’t a fair tactic to take at all. Now I must choose between wanting her to get rid of Abyss-spawned magic, or wondering if the magic could get rid of that damn sailor. And if he breaks her heart because he learns she has magic, I’m going to end up defending the Order and beating the tar out of him.”

  Dahlia laughed and Celadon gave a self-deprecating smile and a shrug. He was no sailor, used to hard labor and dockside brawling. He wasn’t likely to make good on any of his physical threats.

  They returned to the assembly room, which was quieter now that it was after the dinner hour, but not empty. A lively group in the corner was debating something having to do with fruit trees, a topic of which Dahlia was heartily tired.

  The first time she overheard Terre Verte’s name, she turned toward it just in time to hear a man say in a hushed murmur, “No, really, I saw them bring him out of the palace.”

  Recognizing him as one of the Quin, she nodded toward Celadon, who drifted as if aimless toward the group.

  The gossip about the prince had started.

  Dahlia left Celadon to get the news from his people as she walked the length of the sideboard, wishing there were something more appetizing on it than a few shreds of bread that had been put out many hours ago.

  Dinner. In her worry about Ginger, she had entirely forgotten about dinner with Willow Cremnitz. She hoped Celadon had thought to send someone to the house to let her know they wouldn’t be there, since they were far too late now.

  “Forget to eat again?” a teasing voice behind her asked.

  “I suppose I did,” she said. “I was . . . busy.”

  “You always are.” Jade turned her gently and put his hands on her shoulders, then applied gentle pressure with his fingertips, trying to release the tension that turned the muscles of her neck and back to steel.

  She shut her eyes, leaning into the massage with a sigh. The first week or so after the ice storm, her heart had given a little lurch every time she saw Jade. The handsome aristocrat had been her savior, and his tales of his native land had been romantic, an escape from the Turquoise and the bitter, extended weekend. In the time since, that dazzled infatuation had faded to a more gentle fondness. She valued his friendship and was glad she had been too focused on political conflicts to fall for his casual flirtation.

  Not that she never wondered what would have happened if she had been the kind of girl who could have given herself over to an ill-advised whirlwind romance.

  “Can I interest you in a bowl of fisherman’s stew down at the Crawdiddy?” he asked.

  “They’re open already?” Dahlia recognized the name of the tavern a group from the Order of A’hknet had proposed opening. Mentally, Dahlia reviewed the most recent update she had received about the dockside market.

  “Oh, stop that,” Jade chastised gently. “I’ve come to recognize the crease that forms on your brow when you’re picturing reports. Yes, they started taking in supplies this afternoon and are open for the first time tonight. They’ve specifically asked for the honor of your attendance.”

  The amused lilt in his tone took the pressure off the otherwise lofty invitation.

  “I would love to,” she answered, just as Celadon returned to interrupt their conversation with a disapproving frown. He had pulled her aside once to let her know it “looked bad” when she let Jade touch her so familiarly; Dahlia had been too tired at the time to care about anyone’s approval, and had stared him down wordlessly until he backed off and mumbled an apology. He hadn’t brought it up again.

  “I can make sure all the captains have received word about tomorrow’s debate and election while I’m there,” she mused.

  “Or,” Jade suggested, “you can relax and have a nice meal.”

  “Do you really think the docks after dark are the best place to bring a lady?” Celadon asked.

  “You mean with all the foreign sailors getting laced, whoring about, and starting brawls?” Jade shook his head, exasperated, in response to Celadon’s scandalized expression. Dahlia understood the Silmari’s point, but also knew he had chosen to be crude to irritate Celadon.

  “The docks are almost as staid as the central market at the moment, and will probably stay that way until ship-trade opens again,” Jade continued. “Besides, I don’t think there’s a man or woman in this city who wouldn’t jump into the fray if someone tried to threaten Dahlia.”

  Dahlia did what she usually did when the two of them squared off, traditional Quin values coming into conflict with Silmari disdain for fussy delicacy—she walked away. If the Crawdiddy had managed to open early, she wanted to support that establishment. She could decide whether to be angry with Jade or Celadon later.

  As expected, both men stopped bickering and hurried to catch up to her before she reached the door.

  She addressed Celadon first. “You’ll keep me updated?” she asked, referring to Ginger without saying her name.

  He pressed his lips together, but nodded. “I’m going to stay here until she comes out.”

  “And if she chooses to stay the night?”

  Dahlia tried to keep the question quiet, but knew Jade overheard. Thankfully, the Silmari had the sense to recognize the private conversation and say, “Dahlia, I’ll meet you outside.”

  She nodded grateful acknowledgement. Once Jade was gone, Celadon said, “If she chooses to stay with the Order, I’ll have to tolerate that, but I won’t have it while she’s still my responsibility. If I don’t see her by a reasonable hour, I’ll go looking for her.”

  Dahlia winced. “I’ll come back after dinner. Please don’t go storming the Cobalt Hall without me.”

  If someone needed to fetch Ginger, Dahlia knew she could manage it with far less conflict than Celadon could.

  She was about to leave when Celadon asked, “What exactly is your relationship with Jade?”

  “Is it any of your business?”

  Quite simply, Celadon replied, “I’d like it to be.” As Dahlia tried to puzzle out what those artless words meant, she noticed the pink flush creeping up Celadon’s cheeks. He drew a deep breath. “I know I’ve been a beast to you at times in the past, and it won’t surprise me if you tell me to find a hole in the Abyss to crawl into, but . . . well, I was hoping to have a conversation with your father. And I was hoping you could give me some hint as to whether you would like that.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Her father? Did he have questions about farming? Or—

  Oh. Now she understood.

  And she couldn’t help her response. In the face of Celadon’s nervous, rambling words, contrasted with all the stress and horror and uncertainty of the last few days, she laughed out loud.

  “You
are . . . such a Quin.” The Followers of the Quinacridone believed in those old-fashioned manners, of declaring intentions for courtship to lady and father, of permission and ritual and romance. But Dahlia had pictured the actual conversation so much differently.

  “Well . . . yes,” Celadon managed to answer, confusion, hope, and nervousness showing equally on his face.

  Dahlia wasn’t certain how she felt about the proposal. As he had admitted, he had treated her terribly, and even if he had apologized for that, even if she had seen him change, did she trust him not to revert to his previous ways as soon as the crisis passed? On the other hand, saying yes wasn’t a commitment to accept any future proposal. What he was asking was, did she want to give him a chance?

  Celadon drew a shaking breath. “I don’t want to pressure you, but saying something would be nice.”

  “I think . . .” She considered his very earnest—now bordering on terrified—expression, resisted the urge to start laughing again, and said, “You should speak to my father.”

  Celadon nodded, his anxiety shifting to elation. It was a new kind of expression for him, one that was quite endearing. “I’ll do that, then.”

  “Let me know when you hear back, if you have a question for me.”

  “I assure you, I will.”

  She felt a kind of giddy joy that made her steps buoyant as she walked down to the docks and flavored the food at the Crawdiddy better than any fish and spices ever could.

  It wasn’t Celadon specifically that made her feel so good, she realized. Courtship and marriage had never been her ultimate goal in life, and though Celadon had become a close friend, she didn’t get lovesick and sigh at his name or feel butterflies in her stomach when she gazed into his blue eyes. Instead, it was hope that had brightened her gaze and lightened her steps. It was the assumption that there would be a future, and happiness in that future. It was the thought that, someday, things would return to normal.

  Chapter 40

  Naples

  Why hadn’t his mother even mentioned that Henna was hurt?

  No, no. Much as he wanted to be angry about the oversight, Naples knew the answer. She hadn’t been his mother when he had seen her; she had been Madder, leader of the Order of Napthol, and she had been with a potential new student. She had also been in front of Celadon and Dahlia.

  Knowing that, Naples still hated that it could have been hours before he learned what had happened if Celadon hadn’t mentioned it.

  He didn’t know if he believed the Quin’s protests that he had no idea what Naples meant about his power. Unfortunately, if the Quin had somehow bound himself to one of the divine others in the way that Naples had bound himself to one of the infernal, he didn’t intend to admit it.

  It’s like he doesn’t trust me, Naples thought wryly.

  Naples shook his head, trying to clear the short confrontation from his mind.

  He sent away the novice that had been watching Henna, shut the door to the sickroom behind himself, then rounded on the Abyssi he saw crouched at the foot of Henna’s bed.

  “I didn’t do it,” Modigliani said with a yawn before Naples opened his mouth. “I was just waiting to see if she died so I could eat her.”

  “Then what did do this to her?”

  “Power,” the demon answered.

  “In the form of one of your kind?”

  It leaned over Henna, close enough that Naples moved forward, ready to intervene if it tried to touch her.

  Celadon had said she would “live or die,” as if he didn’t know or care which one. It took only a quick glance for Naples to know the latter was more likely. The novice Maddy had assigned to watch her had been a healer, but she hadn’t been working when he entered; she had been using her power only to keep track of Henna’s vital energies, waiting for the moment when others should be summoned to say their final farewells.

  “No, not like me,” the Abyssi said. “I’m the only one like me. She isn’t strong enough to bring one of us into this world.”

  Henna also wasn’t stupid enough to try. “Then what made these injuries?”

  “Power. Your body accepts power. Hers fights it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are Abyssumancer. And she is human.” The Abyssi was getting impatient, which meant trying to question him further would be useless. It didn’t matter anyway; Naples would find out more about the injuries’ origins by trying to heal them than by trying to understand the demon’s words.

  He put a hand over Henna’s and shut his eyes to focus, only to be distracted when the door opened behind him to admit Maddy and the Quin girl, Ginger.

  “What’s she doing here?” Hearing his own accusative tone, he said directly to Ginger, “You have every right to be here. I just don’t see why you would want to be. Do you know her?”

  Ginger shook her head. “I wanted to see. That sounds terrible, I know. It’s hard to believe a sorcerer is afraid of anything.”

  “None of our healers have been able to do anything about these kinds of wounds,” his mother warned him, taking in the situation. “The power that made them pushes our magic away.”

  “I was able to heal similar wounds on myself,” Naples said. “I don’t know for sure that I can do anything, but I’m planning to try.” To Ginger, he added, “You can watch if you would like. It might look a little strange or even scary to you, and my power doesn’t work the same way yours will, but maybe it will interest you.”

  Ginger nodded, eyes wide. “I would like to see, if I won’t be in the way.”

  “You don’t have enough active power yet to interfere,” he said. “Mother, would you mind stepping out and giving me a little room?”

  Madder nodded. “I should go check on Clay, anyway. You’ll look out for Ginger? And Ginger, is that all right with you?”

  They both nodded, so she stepped back through the door and closed it behind herself.

  Though his mother mostly used cold power, Naples had studied with her long enough that he could sometimes feel her when he worked. That was not, however, the real reason he wanted her gone. She wouldn’t approve of his methods. That disapproval was far more distracting than her power ever could be.

  “Is there anything I should do?” Ginger asked.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he replied. “I’ll answer any questions you have after.”

  She nodded and leaned back against the wall, watching him.

  Modigliani yawned widely. “We aren’t going to go anywhere fun until this is done, are we?”

  “Nope,” Naples answered, softly so Ginger wouldn’t hear.

  He knelt beside the bed again and put one hand on top of Henna’s. He had studied with her extensively as well. He knew the way her magic was supposed to feel, which was what made it easy to recognize the wrongness in it. Power, Modigliani had said, and he was right. There was so much extra magic twined in with Henna’s, it was no wonder it was burning her. Once Naples had healed her, maybe there would be a way to siphon some of that extra power away, to keep it at a level her body could handle.

  First, though, she was bleeding inside. That was easy to sense; his magic was drawn to blood. While it had been easy to heal his own wounds, though, he wasn’t familiar enough with hers to act with the same level of instinct. He also had to be careful not to push any extra magic into her when her body was already overwhelmed.

  “Would you like help?” the Abyssi finally offered.

  “Why would you help?”

  This time Ginger heard him. She tilted her head, curious, but seemed to understand that he wasn’t talking to her. She didn’t ask, at least.

  “I’m bored. It will go quicker if I help.” He crossed to stand behind Naples, embracing him almost in his usual fashion, but leaving his arms free. “Besides, you plan to drink the extra power from her.”

  “Only to help her.”

  Modigliani shrugged, dismissing the importance of the distinction. Naples returned his attention to Henna.

 
; For an instant, with the demon so close, he couldn’t help but see Henna as the Abyssi did: blood, meat, and power, something more worth devouring than repairing. A creature too weak to be of use.

  He shut his eyes and bit his lip, fighting the demon’s influence on his mind. This was Henna. Henna.

  “Henna,” he said aloud, before putting a hand on her chest over her heart.

  Modigliani put his slightly larger hand on top of Naples’. He flexed once and his claws drew pinpoints of blood from Henna’s skin in four places, just above the tips of Naples’ fingers.

  It was enough to form the connection. Suddenly Naples could see Henna’s injuries as if he were looking at a detailed mural by the clear light of day. The wounds on her skin, though deep, were superficial compared to the damage done inside. Her heart was bleeding, the veins supplying it with blood broken. There was blood pooling in her lungs. If not for her magic, she would have been dead already.

  Naples worked like a surgeon, using his magic in the most effective way he knew. He absorbed the spilled blood, and used the power from that to knit together the ruptured veins and arteries. The Abyssi did what the Abyssi did best: it fed. It worked deftly, helping Naples sever the foreign magic from Henna’s. When that power fought back, the Abyssi subdued it and consumed it happily.

  And the alien power did fight. Naples recognized the stain of the Abyss clutching at Henna’s flesh, but Modigliani had been honest; it wasn’t his power corrupting her. Another Abyssi had set its hooks into her—when? When the Terra had opened a tear to that realm, trying to save her son? Or earlier, perhaps the moment she had first stepped on Kavetan soil?

  Naples felt his body tremble with fatigue as he turned his attention to the cuts and burns up and down Henna’s skin. With the power that had made them gone, they were easier to heal, but Naples was nearing the end of his strength. Maybe he could borrow just a little . . .

  He threw himself back with a growl, and then fell, panting, to his knees. The Abyssi stood above him, disappointed.

  “Naples?”