Of the Mortal Realm

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

“We need to move on,” Verte said, as if knives in the heart were so commonplace that being disturbed or delayed by them was silly.

  “That . . . really . . . hurt,” Hansa managed to say.

  “Blood, fire, pain, flesh,” Naples replied. “Had to feed the link all four.”

  Hansa couldn’t seem to stop checking to ensure he didn’t still have a knife through his ribs. Naples meanwhile held out the knife to Cadmia, who hesitated more than a moment before taking it, at least until she confirmed that it was clean and none of Hansa’s blood had stayed on it.

  Verte drummed his fingers on the wall against which he was leaning, at which point Naples looked up at him with a snarl.

  “Give us a minute!” he snapped. “Scheveningen isn’t going anywhere!”

  “No, but we do have an angry, Abyss-marked Numini after us,” Terre Verte replied bluntly, “and I would rather be further along before she arrives.”

  Naples drew another knife, and for a moment Cadmia thought she was about to need to break up a fight, but instead of going for Terre Verte the Abyssumancer made one quick cut on his own arm and opened a rift, into which he stepped without any hesitation or explanation.

  The rift closed behind him.

  “That should not be that easy,” Umber remarked.

  Terre Verte just shook his head. “The Abyss doesn’t guard its borders. Only the Numen does.”

  “It doesn’t guard its borders,” Umber replied, “but the veils between the planes still exist. Could you create a rift so easily?”

  Terre Verte’s expression quirked for a moment in a way Cadmia couldn’t recognize. He smoothed it before he pointed out, “The Numini have exiled me, and I have no desire to return to the Abyss. That leaves me with this plane.”

  “I agreed to this crazy plan,” Hansa said, his voice still a little breathy but closer to stable, “but if I can avoid walking into the Abyss again any time soon, I would appreciate it.”

  Naples returned shortly, dripping glittery water with a sheen like oil, and grumbling, “Throw me in the lake, will you, bastard hornless . . .” He kept talking after that, but it drifted into a language Cadmia didn’t recognize, but which seemed to be composed of sounds she wasn’t sure the human throat could actually make.

  “Thrown in the lake?” Umber asked.

  Naples shook himself, sending droplets flying everywhere. Where they hit Cadmia, they were hot and oily.

  “The second level of the Abyss is a little wet,” he answered, “and that’s where Sennelier was. He wasn’t happy to see me, but I explained the situation and we managed to come to an accord. He won’t fight you now, Hansa.”

  “Uh . . . thanks,” Hansa answered.

  Naples shrugged.

  Verte cleared his throat, not discreetly.

  Hansa glared at Verte, but then asked Naples, “So how do we do this?”

  “Word of warning, you have nowhere near enough power or control over that power to be meddling with the denizens of the Abyss,” Naples answered. “Do not summon anything. Do not attempt to open rifts. In fact, for now, even stay out of the temples, or you will get yourself eaten quicker than a six-day-old kitten in the crystal caves. Sennelier has agreed to assist us, and knows he will answer to me and Modigliani if he attempts to harm you, but after today you do not want to make the mistake of thinking you are in charge.”

  Hansa nodded, looking more calm rather than less, as if it were comforting to know he wasn’t suddenly going to be completely different when this was all done.

  Naples continued. “Normally, when you summon one of the Others, you contest your will and your power with theirs. Powerful tools help.” He flipped the knife he had been holding and handed it, handle-first, to Hansa. “This was made of the bone of the previous lord of the Abyss. You may keep it.”

  Hansa reached for the knife tentatively. When he grasped the handle, his hand clenched spasmodically. His eyes unfocused and his lips parted slightly, as if Naples had just done something far more intimate; Naples’ half smile suggested he knew exactly how Hansa felt. Cadmia fought the instinct to look away, to give Hansa some privacy—and won the fight, because her curiosity wouldn’t let her miss this.

  Naples waited until Hansa had shifted his grip on the knife and shook himself a little before he said, “Most of what you try to do is a matter of will and sacrifice. In this case, we’re dealing with two Abyssi who are on our side and will cooperate with us, in which case the amount of power and sacrifice necessary are both significantly less. As long as I open the main rift—that’s the hardest part—you should be able to call to Sennelier on your own. I’ll go first.” Naples drew a second blade, and with his gaze still locked with Hansa’s, cut across his forearm. Blood flowed, sudden and quick, and as it dropped to the ground Naples said simply, “Modigliani.”

  The rift appeared with the stench of smoke, and the entire room darkened. Even Lydie stepped back, crossing her arms across her chest and looking around wildly, as if she couldn’t see the rift but could feel it as the lord of the Abyss stepped through.

  Cadmia backed up until she hit the wall, suddenly regretting her curiosity. She had seen this beast in the Abyss. Had she really wanted to see it again?

  Modigliani flowed onto the mortal plane like a shadow, his form black as ink but still indistinct. He moved up behind Naples, who leaned back against the formless darkness before nodding to Hansa.

  Hansa mimicked Naples’ movements, but didn’t appear nearly so comfortable about it. He hesitated and shut his eyes as he drew the blade across his own arm, and when he spoke Sennelier’s name, it was nearly a whisper.

  Either Sennelier had chosen to appear in solid form or, unlike Modigliani and Alizarin, he only had one form to begin with. Though his torso and arms were that of a man, his lower body was serpentine, with thick legs like a lizard’s that helped him balance in an upright position. His face too was mostly humanoid, except the angles were all a bit too sharp, including ridges on his brow that led to a crest of spines instead of hair. From claws to face he was scaled with a pattern of burgundy and gray that gave his body a hypnotic, mosaic appearance.

  “Finally,” Terre Verte sighed, as the fourth-level non-royal Abyssi stepped through the rift, and paused to regard Hansa with eyes that shone with a familiar cobalt light. He had Umber’s eyes . . . or, Cadmia supposed, Umber had his. “Now can we get a move on?”

  Chapter 44

  Lydie

  Lydie’s heart pounded as she crossed the market square. She couldn’t fully see the two Abyssi with them, but she could sense them as a crawling sensation down her spine and gooseflesh across her arms.

  Hansa had told the guards at the Quin Compound that he was escorting Cadmia and her friends—Lydie and Umber apparently among them—back to the Cobalt Hall, where they would be tended to by the Hall’s medics while safe from the mancer threat that supposedly had injured them in the first place. Lydie thought a few of the guards had started to give Hansa questioning looks, as if they were curious or concerned but not quite confident enough to speak up first.

  Rinnman did stop them, to ask, “Where are you really going?”

  “The Cobalt Hall,” Hansa answered immediately.

  Rinnman’s gaze flickered to Lydie before he said, “Indeed?”

  Lydie bristled. Having a Quin guard give her that look made her want to either fight or flee.

  “We’re hoping we can end this,” Hansa said. “If we don’t come back—” He cut off sharply, as if realizing that if they lost, Rinnman would know soon enough.

  “Do you need backup?” Rinnman asked.

  Hansa paused, and Lydie could see him considering it. After all, they were going after a mancer and his Other. That was the 126’s job.

  Lydie wasn’t able to discreetly talk to Hansa directly, but she met Umber’s gaze and let him see her terror there. She already had two demons at her back, and was anticipating a Numini’s wrath as she worked with Terre Verte to try to summon Scheveningen. Even if Rinnman
thought he could identify other Quin guards who were willing to work with them, Lydie would never be able to trust them enough to do the work that needed to be done.

  Hansa jumped a little, probably as Umber spoke to him silently.

  “Given what we’re up against,” he said, “I fear anyone else we bring in will end up being collateral damage.” He looked pointedly at the gash in the ground left by Quinacridone’s lightning. Lydie would have expected that someone would have at least tossed some boards across it for safety’s sake, but it had been left alone. Probably no one dared go so near. “Be ready, though. If this goes wrong, I don’t know what we’ll face next.”

  “I’ll organize the men we have left in the compound,” Rinnman said, a bit pointedly Lydie thought. He must have known Hansa had sent many of the men on a wild-goose chase.

  “Thank you.”

  “We need to go,” Verte interrupted briskly. “Send your minion back to the barracks and then we need to get to the Hall’s basement. In my day it had a dirt floor?”

  Rinnman cast an assessing look at Verte, sighed, and said, “Good luck, sir,” before turning back to his station.

  “It’s still dirt,” Cadmia said, as they crossed the plaza. “It’s mostly used as a wine cellar. That’s where we need to do this I assume?”

  She looked at Lydie. “In the earth beneath the oldest structure in Kavet,” Lydie repeated, confirming.

  It was easier said than done, though. As Lydie approached the Hall, she could feel the air thicken in resistance. By the time she reached the first step, her lungs burned as if she were trying to breathe molasses. She couldn’t force herself up another.

  Hansa could, and did, without apparent effort despite his new status. He ascended the steps without hesitation, at which point Umber and Naples exchanged a glance. Cadmia hurried to catch up to Hansa as he opened the front door.

  Apparently having forgotten what he now was, and that he shouldn’t be able to reach that door—never mind open it—Hansa glanced back to ask Verte, “Is there something we need to do to let people in?”

  The once-prince was scowling.

  Modigliani pushed forward, a faint shadow in Lydie’s vision. He paused in front of Hansa, and his voice reached Lydie like a distant growl. “May I?”

  Hansa nodded, and Lydie could see him swallow, as if his voice had flown in the face of the beast.

  As the Abyssi crossed the threshold, it felt as if the building itself breathed a sigh. Lydie’s ears popped with a sudden shift in pressure, and the air around her flowed freely once again, crisp and frigid with winter.

  She wasn’t the only one to feel it; the others took it as a sign, moving up the stairs. Hansa stepped out of the way as the rest crossed, Verte last, so the two men briefly faced each other in the doorway. Of Kavet’s two leaders, one deposed and one not yet elected, the Hall had plainly chosen Hansa.

  “It might have worked for you, too,” Lydie heard Hansa say.

  Verte shook his head and turned away, saying, “This way,” as he led the way to the kitchen, and the door from it to the basement. “I think it’s safe to say the barrier is fully down, that Quinacridone will have felt it, and that we’ll see her shortly.”

  “I’m going to look for Pearl,” Cadmia said, following their plan and splitting off as the rest of them went to the cellar. Cadmia hoped Pearl had run back into the building before the lightning struck. If the half-Numini child wasn’t in her room at this pre-dawn hour, they had all agreed, she was probably with Quinacridone and Cupric. In that case, Verte seemed certain that Quinacridone would bring her, either to use as a hostage or as a way to help control Scheveningen when he rose.

  Lydie didn’t like splitting up, but Cadmia was the only one who could walk through the Cobalt Hall without attracting attention. The rest of them were hoping few people would be up at this hour, and that either Hansa could talk his way out of trouble or—more likely, in Lydie’s opinion—that Umber or Verte could manipulate anyone they saw into looking the other way.

  There was a lamp hanging from a hook next to the cellar door, clearly intended for anyone going downstairs, but no one bothered with it. Verte and Naples each lifted a hand, and then the winding stone stairs were lit by streaks of silver and turquoise foxfire.

  “Dioxazine?” Verte prompted when they reached the bottom.

  Lydie wasn’t sure yet what she thought of the Numenmancer. No one had taken the time to detail Xaz’s story to their newest necromantic companion, but Lydie had picked up enough to know that Xaz’s history seemed to be a series of momentary success and seeming acceptance followed by betrayal and imprisonment. She had been used, and Lydie respected the anger that now billowed around her like a cloud of divine wrath.

  No, Dioxazine didn’t hesitate, even to give Verte another sharp look—or acknowledge he had said her name. She spread a white sheet on the floor at the base of the stairs, settled herself onto it, and began to chant.

  “Quinacridone,” she chanted, “Numini of the highest level of the Numen, I summon you to me. I summon you to obey me.” She continued to speak, but her voice dropped too low for Lydie to hear; she only knew that the Numenmancer was building the spell that would hopefully dampen Quinacridone’s power, so when she arrived, she wouldn’t instantly enchant everyone in the room.

  “Terre?” Lydie prompted, as Verte looked around as if to assure himself that everyone necessary was present.

  He finally looked directly at Lydie. Was that fear in his eyes? If so, was it for the ritual they were about to perform, formally tying him to the Gressi, or something else?

  “Are you ready?” he asked, as if she hadn’t just been asking him the same thing.

  She nodded, and led the way to through the wine cellar. Amid racks and bottles, she reached out with her power, trying to sense the sleeping Scheveningen.

  Nothing. She walked farther, stifling the thread of anxiety that warned her to hurry, that they had an angry Numini on its way to kill them all. Nothing. She retraced her steps. She was too young for this, hadn’t had enough training. No one had enough training, because the stupid Quin made it illegal. No—wait. There.

  Beneath the earth, half under a rack of wine bottles, she felt it. Like Veronese, the creature in the soil wore death like a mantle, but where the banished Numini had been tainted by death through his own destruction and exile to that realm, this one felt like a beacon.

  Lydie touched the chains of power that reached from Scheveningen’s resting place, and could feel that they linked to others far away, other graves where other Gressi had left their remains in the soil like nails holding the fabric of this realm together. The others were truly dead, but Scheveningen had chosen this eternal sleep; like the island of Kavet itself, he was the linchpin that held all the rest in place.

  Lydie knelt and pressed her hands to the ground. It should have been impossible for her to do more than scratch the surface of the hard dirt floor, which had been packed down by countless feet over a thousand years, but her hands slid into it as if into newly-turned soil. Above her, she heard Verte’s breath hitch.

  “Scheveningen,” Verte whispered, kneeling next to Lydie with his hands splayed flat on the ground, “please, we need you now. I am yours. Bind to me so you may walk this realm once more, mortal as this plane you created with your will.”

  The ground did not welcome him as it had Lydie. He was a Terre, and his bloodline had been promised to Scheveningen long ago, but Lydie was the one who had used Scheveningen’s gifts all her life.

  With her arm buried past the elbow, she felt a hand—skeletal and frail—grasp hers. As it did, her awareness blossomed. She could feel every grave ever dug in Kavet, from bodies sunk into shallow, marshy holes near the docks to those buried under craggy rocks on the distant shores of Quin Towers. Since Citizen’s Initiative 126, bodies in Kavet had been burned instead of buried, but even those licensed pyres called to her as final resting places.

  There was another side to this power, one that she kn
ew should allow her to feel every birth as well, but her body wasn’t capable of holding both sides of that magic.

  She didn’t think she wanted to.

  She felt Verte next to her. Terre. They had all stopped using that title because they thought it meant “royal.” Even Verte thought it did. But it didn’t. It meant, “of the soil,” or in simpler terms, “mortal.”

  And it meant “sacrifice.”

  Wielding Scheveningen’s power, Lydie reached up with the hand not buried deep in the ground. She saw Verte’s hand lift, as if he expected her to hold it, but that wasn’t her aim. When her fingers touched his chest, they flowed through flesh and bone as easily as they had parted soil, until they coiled around his rapidly-beating heart and held it gently.

  His scream was small and choked only because he couldn’t draw breath to utter a louder one.

  That was when the cellar door burst open, admitting Cupric in the lead and Quinacridone just behind with Pearl gripping her hand tightly.

  Normally during a ritual Lydie lost awareness of the world around her, but connected to Scheveningen as she was, she saw everything in hyper-clarity.

  She saw the shock on Cupric’s face as he focused on the two Abyssi, which became horror as Sennelier pounced at his Abyssumancer. Quinacridone dropped Pearl’s hand to respond, and suddenly Cadmia was there behind them in the doorway; she wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist and took the stairs back up two at a time.

  “No!” the Numen-spawn girl protested. “I need to go back! She needs my help!”

  Her voice resonated through the link Lydie had made between Schenevigan and Verte, because Pearl too was a Terre. An apt sacrifice. The magic would be happy to claim her as well.

  “Get her out of here,” Lydie breathed, sending the words to Cadmia on a breath of power.

  Cadmia pleaded with the Numen-touched girl, but didn’t relax her grip as she dragged her out of the ritual room. Veronese had warned them Pearl was likely to not cooperate, that her mother’s memories of Veronese would include a fascination with the Numini and therefore susceptibility to Quinacridone’s glamour, but it was heartbreaking to see.