Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “Call it back, Celadon,” Naples pleaded.

  The preacher trembled and collapsed to his knees. His head bowed and his chest heaved as he fought to pull back the power he had unwittingly summoned.

  “That’s it,” Naples whispered as Celadon struggled. “You’ll be okay.”

  The next time Celadon looked up, his eyes were once again human blue, but they were still filled with a desperate kind of pain. “Something’s wrong.”

  That much was obvious.

  “We’ll take you to get the brand,” Naples said. “This is just—”

  “No!” Celadon recoiled with a cry, until he stood with his back pressed to the wall. “I can’t. I don’t know why, but I know I can’t take the brand. I know . . . I think they told me, when I passed the gate to bring back Verte.” He whispered, seeming lost in memory, “They didn’t want me to do that. It wasn’t time. They tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. It isn’t time, but time . . . they don’t understand time.”

  Naples looked at Modigliani. “What is he talking about?”

  The demon shrugged and rolled onto its back like a cat wanting to play, now seeming unconcerned. “Numini are very big on rules and right and wrong and how things should be, so they are always debating and saying this and that. It’s tiring. Feed, fuck, play. That’s what matters. Abyssi know.”

  There was too much residual magic in the Cobalt Hall; it had to be making this situation worse. Why had no one insisted Celadon either be branded or trained before this? Someone with this much power should never have been allowed to walk about ignorant. “Let’s go outside, Celadon. It will help you clear your head.”

  And maybe, once outside, Naples could calm Celadon down and coerce him across the plaza and to the room in the palace where the brands were made.

  Celadon nodded. Naples shook off the concerned questions from the ever-present collection of bureaucrats and would-be politicians and policy-makers in the hall as he herded Celadon out into the damp afternoon air. Having an audience seemed to do the preacher good; aware that he was being watched, he instinctively drew in his power to conceal it from others.

  That was good.

  Celadon stopped by the fountain, staring into the water and its one last foxfire orb. Modigliani slunk after them; when Celadon stopped, the Abyssi splashed a hand in the fountain, making Celadon flinch from the spray of water.

  They had to get into the palace. Out of public. Out of danger.

  Away from people—like the one approaching them right now.

  At any other moment, any other, Naples would have been overjoyed to see Terre Verte. Now, he knelt anyway—it was the thing to do when greeting one’s prince for the first time in weeks, and when so much of the country was uncertain as to whether it planned to do the same—but he itched to move on.

  “Terre,” he said respectfully.

  “You found the right plane,” Modigliani said, jumping up to greet Kavet’s prince.

  The Terre looked directly at the Abyssi. He frowned, as if struggling to remember, and at last said, “You pushed me.”

  Modigliani nodded.

  “You can see him?” Naples asked, a wave of joy sweeping through him, and almost making him forget about Celadon. Terre Verte could see the Abyssi. That meant . . .

  Naples had no idea what that meant. Even Henna, whose power was closest to Naples’, hadn’t responded to the Abyssi’s presence earlier. He never would have expected Terre Verte, who mostly used cold power, to see it.

  He didn’t know what the dazed look in the Terre’s eye meant, either, or why there was such a long hesitation before he said, “And you’re Naples. Madder’s son.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Terre could use cold power. If he was strong enough to see the Abyssi, could he heal Ginger, and close her off to the parasitic power the way Naples had closed off Henna? “Terre, we’re in trouble, and—”

  “So I can see.” Verte looked past Naples to Celadon as he said it.

  Celadon struggled to his feet, looking at Terre Verte with a wounded expression. Naples resisted the impulse to curse. This was not the time for a Quin-Terre conflict.

  “Celadon, keep calm,” he urged. “Terre, could you give us a moment?”

  Instead, Terre Verte’s expression mirrored Celadon’s—disappointment and sorrow.

  As the blue of Celadon’s eyes started to fade to silver, Modigliani yawned. “We might as well move on.”

  “Shut up,” Naples hissed.

  “You poor, abused child,” Celadon crooned, in a musical voice that was more than human. It should have been beautiful, but it made Naples’ guts writhe. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

  Frost appeared on the preacher’s skin, as if he were made of glass instead of flesh and blood.

  “Neither are you,” Verte replied. “Celadon, Celadon,” Verte said, his voice barely a whisper as he invoked the power of naming. “You don’t understand the entities speaking through you. You have to control them before they do more damage.”

  Naples expected Celadon to shout back, but instead his eyes widened in an expression of pure panic. “Help me,” he whispered.

  Verte nodded. He stepped forward and touched Celadon’s hand. “Stay with me,” he said. “Focus. Don’t let the Numini use you like this.”

  “A mortal can’t fight the Numini,” Naples recalled aloud.

  “No,” Verte said, “but a Numenmancer can. Celadon should be able to command them just like you can command your Modigliani.” To the Quin preacher, Verte said, “Push her back. I can’t do that for you. You opened the door in the palace against her will. You can push her away the same way. You remember how.”

  Celadon shut his eyes and Naples saw his lips move in silent prayer.

  Terre Verte sat at the edge of the fountain, and Celadon knelt before him as he struggled against the divine force riding him.

  “Good,” Verte said, softly. “Almost.”

  The frost on Celadon’s skin melted, and his flesh returned to a heathy, human color.

  Naples looked up, and couldn’t resist a smirk as he saw how large their audience had grown. How would the Followers of the Quinacridone react to seeing their leader in such a position?

  Modigliani leaned against Naples’ back, purring. “Can we go now? We still haven’t fed, and I can’t touch either of them.”

  “We’ll go hunt in just a minute,” Naples promised. He wanted to make sure Terre Verte could get Celadon to take the brand, first. Ginger should be done by now.

  Celadon smiled and gazed up at Terre Verte like a small, triumphant child showing off a new trick. His brow glistened with sweat from his exertions. He didn’t seem distressed to find himself kneeling on the ground in front of a Terre.

  “Celadon?” Naples asked. The preacher nodded. “Terre, he needs to take the brand. Celadon, you understand that, right?”

  This time instead of panicking, Celadon nodded again. “I understand.”

  “I can do it,” Verte said. “Naples, may I have my mother’s blade?”

  Naples drew the knife with a frown. “What for?”

  “We should do this as fast as possible. I don’t need all the tools we normally use.”

  Celadon looked at the blade nervously, but didn’t flee. “What do you need me to do?” he asked. “And do we have to do it here?”

  “Is the Numini still pushing at your thoughts, trying to come back out?” Verte asked in reply.

  Celadon shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Then we must work quickly. It won’t hurt.” Verte held out his hand for the knife.

  Naples handed the precious tool over reluctantly. That knife had become a part of him. It was twined with his magic, and—

  In the instant Terre Verte’s hand closed around the handle, Naples’ awareness of the other man’s power swelled. The shock of cold lasted only an instant, but it was enough. He could see behind the prince’s eyes another entity, with talons and wings and righteous fury. The Numini was
n’t riding him the way it was Celadon, but its essence suffused him like a drug, or a poison.

  “Wait—”

  There was no wait.

  As promised, it surely didn’t hurt. With the Numini subsumed and for the moment powerless, Celadon’s body was defenseless to a blade driven with muscle and magic, straight between his ribs, and into his heart.

  It was over in an instant. Celadon fell, a hand going to the hilt with shock.

  The screaming began around them.

  “I’m sorry,” Terre Verte whispered. “It was the only way I knew to—” He staggered, and Naples shuddered against the flash of icy wrath. Whatever the Numini had intended for Terre Verte to do, this wasn’t it. “I’m sorry,” Terre Verte gasped. “I know you disapprove of bloodshed, but how else could I send her back to you?”

  “Terre!” Naples was only barely aware of others running toward them. “What have you done?”

  “A truly mortal act,” Modigliani said, his body going taut, his eyes sparkling and his tail lashing. “Mancer, you have made your allies cross.” The Abyssi deliberately moved closer and put a hand on Verte’s shoulder. No flash of lightning challenged him; no icy blast threw him away. “Very cross.”

  Terre Verte dragged the blade out of Celadon’s body and turned toward the Abyssi, biting out the words, “This is my world.” He pulled the knife across his palm, mingling his own blood and the preacher’s.

  “You don’t have the strength,” Modigliani said, his eyes flashing with challenge.

  Terre Verte concluded, “And you are not welcome here.”

  Naples recognized what the Terre was about to do only the moment before he slapped a palm to Modigliani’s chest. The Abyssi shrieked, and Naples stumbled at the backlash of searing power, an instant before he would have pulled the two apart. They struggled.

  And Modigliani was right—Terre Verte was not strong enough.

  More screaming. It seemed like his ears rang with the cries of hundreds, even before the heat of blood surrounded him. Someone’s hands were on Naples’ shoulders, trying to pull him back, but he was aware only of the Abyssi and the fact that it had just, in a single move, rendered Naples’ Terre to a wash of red that spattered across the plaza, sizzling and burning wherever it touched flesh.

  Naples threw himself at the beast.

  He was still weak; he hadn’t hunted since healing Henna. He didn’t have the strength to go hand-to-hand, or more rightly power-to-claw, against a prince of the lowest level of the Abyss.

  It turned on him with a hiss and a slash of claws.

  The blood was enough. Naples put a bloodied palm, not against flesh or stone, but to the veil between the worlds.

  Chapter 46

  Henna

  All at once, it was over, leaving behind the stench of sulfur and burned flesh.

  Henna wiped blood from her eyes, but opening them only revealed more of the same: a red stain, nothing more. Celadon, Verte, and Naples were all gone, into that crimson wash. So too was the demon, which had only become visible the moment Terre Verte had set his hand to it.

  Clay, huddled in Henna’s arms, stared with his wide, innocent eyes at the bloodstains.

  She and Verte had been almost dozing, still morbidly near the Terre crypts, when the burst of wild power from the Cobalt Hall had washed over them like a storm wave. Verte had urged her ahead, saying he needed to go more slowly, so she had reached the Hall alone, only to find novices and initiates alike bleeding and gasping. She didn’t see Maddy, but she heard Clay’s cries and dashed up the stairs to find Lassia curled protectively around the child as if to protect him from the phantom beast that had cut claw marks into her ribs.

  Henna had taken Clay, thrown a pillowcase at the bleeding sorceress to use as a makeshift compress on the cuts—the wounds were ugly, but not life-threatening—and then hurried to find the others. She had been so relieved to find Naples with Terre Verte, and then, and then . . .

  “What happened?” Maddy raced from the palace in a shambling, ungraceful lope that was the best she could manage with her own injuries. She hadn’t seen . . . Thank Numen she hadn’t seen.

  For once, Henna would like to not be there, to not see . . .

  Ginger, leaning heavily on Dahlia, limped to catch up to Maddy. Her skin had the flushed, sweat-slicked sheen of someone recovering from fever—or of a cold magic user whose power was just branded away.

  “What happened?” Ginger echoed. “Where are Celadon and Naples?”

  “Dead,” someone whispered.

  Henna’s awareness extended like a bubble given more breath. There were so many people around, staring. She had heard them scream when they saw the demon, but her mind hadn’t grasped them as more than a disembodied shriek.

  “No. No!” Ginger’s objection was the useless protest of the helpless. “I was only gone a minute!”

  Maddy’s face lost all color and expression. She didn’t speak, just stared at the splattered blood and power that had once been her oldest son.

  Then everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Ginger, shouting for Celadon, as if he might just be hiding somewhere. Clay, shouting for his mama, who took him from Henna’s arms and held him to her chest as the tears began. And of course, all the voices calling for Dahlia.

  Dahlia, what’s going on? Indathrone, please explain. Tell us what happened, tell us we’re safe, tell us . . .

  Dahlia must have heard her name as a dozen people called it, but the young woman never looked up from the carnage. She had no power. Even with decades of study, Henna wasn’t sure she fully comprehended what had just happened—so how could Dahlia?

  “What was that thing?” so many voices demanded.

  Other cries reached Henna’s ears. Words like murder. And monster. And worst, deserved it.

  “We have to get inside,” she managed to whisper. “Away from—” the blood “—the crowd.”

  She grabbed Dahlia’s arm in one hand and Maddy’s in another. Ginger stumbled after them, gripping Maddy’s other side.

  “I will call a meeting as soon as I have something to say,” Dahlia managed to choke out, when someone from the crowd boldly broke away from the others and stepped in her way. “First I need to understand what just happened.”

  “Healers,” Henna managed to say. “We need mundane healers, as many as are available.”

  Dahlia glared at the crowd when no one replied, and snapped, “You heard her. Gobe, Gemma,” she said, spotting those individuals nearby, “I know there are herbal healers and apothecaries among your people. Can you get them?”

  “Yes,” Gemma answered simply. “Gobe, you run to Graham Street. I’ll go to the docks.”

  “You can have free access to the Hall,” Maddy said as they reached the entrance. “Please, help anyone you can.”

  In the meantime, they needed to come up with a plan to stop this, now.

  “We don’t know,” Dahlia snapped at last, when one last sailor demanded an explanation just before they escaped the crowd. She slammed the hallway door on the continued noise from the crowd, and then closed and bolted the kitchen door as well.

  “But we do know, don’t we?” Maddy broke her silence with a quavering voice. “Naples explained it. He said . . .” She drew a breath, but it seemed to hurt her more than give her strength. “He said one of the Numini was what was causing the injuries, and that invoking it gave it more power.”

  “Not just Numini,” Dahlia said. “I think he told Celadon he—” She hesitated, looking around as if worried how Naples’ mother and friends would react to her words. “I think Naples was working with an Abyssi. It’s what gave him his power.”

  Henna wanted to deny that, but how could she?

  “This is my world,” Henna muttered, “and you are not welcome here.”

  The blood on her skin had made the old injuries, the ones Naples had healed, ache afresh.

  “Do we think the Terre was acting on his own?” Dahlia asked. “He spoke as if Celadon was being manipulate
d by the . . . the Numini. Do we know if Verte was acting under his own will?”

  She stumbled over the name of the divine others, but that was all. She did not flinch to name the dead.

  “I don’t think we have any way of knowing,” Henna said.

  “It matters less,” Maddy said, “than stopping it from happening again.”

  “How do we stop it?” Ginger asked. The girl sat awkwardly at the edge of her seat, cautious of the wounds both from the wild power, and from the brand at the center of her back. She kept fidgeting and scratching at the back of her hands, trying to relieve an itch Henna doubted would ever be soothed.

  But she was alive, at least.

  “How do we fight the denizens of the other realms?” Dahlia asked. “What does it take to weaken a demon?”

  Silence fell.

  Maddy stood, but only long enough to get a banana cookie for Clay. Henna watched crumbs fall to the floor.

  “You’ll get mice,” Ginger warned as no one moved to sweep up the fragments.

  Maddy shrugged and sat back at the table. Clay munched on his biscuit.

  “There was a spell made,” Dahlia said, “to protect against the Osei. Could something like that be used to guard against the Abyssi and Numini?”

  “Aren’t the Numini supposed to be good?” Ginger asked. “Why did they . . .” She choked off. Stood and got a glass of water.

  They were all refusing to think about what had happened. Henna embraced the numbness of shock. Once it was gone she would start to feel again, and she couldn’t afford that, not until they had come to a decision.

  “The Numini aren’t good or bad,” Dove said. Her hands were clasped firmly in her lap, and covered by a shawl. Henna didn’t want to know how bad the damage was. “They’re creatures of absolutes, without knowledge of compromise or any acknowledgement of situation or moral relativity.”

  “Killing Helio was an accident, I think,” Henna said, remembering what the creature who had spoken through Dove had said, and forcing herself to recall the terrifying moments when she had been certain she was about to die. “When I was hurt . . . I don’t remember it well, but I think an Abyssi and a Numini were fighting over me. They both knew what they were doing could kill me, but they didn’t mind that cost.”