“Are you all right?” Terre Verte asked.
She nodded sharply. “What will happen to them?”
“I’ll release them in the morning,” Terre Verte said, sighing. “Much as I would love to charge them all with assault on the crown or at least creating a public disturbance, I don’t think it’s their fault.”
His gaze swept the crowd. Guilt crawled down Naples’ spine as he met the prince’s gray eyes and remembered baiting the preachers just a few minutes ago by immolating one of their fliers. Naples couldn’t see any magic acting on the Quin mob, but that only meant they hadn’t been dosed by hot magic; as Dove had lamented many times, Naples was inept with cold and old magic. He wouldn’t notice those kinds of spells unless one of them slapped him in the face with as much power as the Terra’s enchanted net.
It took nearly a dozen guards to haul the Quin out of the market square. In their absence, the unnatural hush that had fallen over the crowd slowly lifted. First whispers rose, then more normal conversation. Someone laughed. The musicians started playing again.
Terre Verte looked hesitant as he offered a hand to his date for the first dance of the spring season, as if worried about how well she would perform. The woman grinned up at him defiantly, clearly noting his lack of faith, then tossed her head and whirled into the traditional jig with light and lively feet that left even Naples clapping in admiration—until Cyan snagged him around the waist and pulled him into the growing crowd of dancers so they could bump somewhat less gracefully through the energetic steps.
Despite the earlier brawl, if asked, Naples would have called it a perfect moment.
Chapter 14
Verte
A few country steps, Verte thought wryly, as he watched Dahlia pair off with yet another dance partner, this one a Silmari aristocrat named Jade.
Verte had briefly worried that Dahlia might embarrass herself—or him—when asked to perform for the gathered crowd, but it had quickly become obvious that he was far more likely to fail than she was.
The day gown Sepia had commissioned for Dahlia was well suited to the dance, with petal-light, ankle-length skirts that swirled and flashed bright patchwork accents whenever she spun or kicked. The sun brought out faint strawberry highlights in her otherwise dull wheaten hair, which had been worked into an elaborate wrapped braid that couldn’t hope to stand up to her rapid movements, and was as a consequence starting to shed pins and tumble around her shoulders.
As the afternoon progressed, the makeup of the crowd changed. In the country, children would go home to search for sweets hidden in the orchards and to tie ribbons on the fruit trees; here, many homes hosted afternoon carnivals that took over entire city streets. Working folk who had been given the day off returned to their employers to prepare for evening festivities, and sailors and the younger, more rebellious Kavetans moved to the docks district, where the Order of A’hknet merchants and entertainers would host salons dedicated to all-night dicing and card tournaments, more provocative types of dance, and the talents of their professional courtesans. There would also inevitably be fights—some spontaneous and some arranged—picked pockets, and at least one visiting aristocrat who decided despite all warnings to “slum it” and woke up the next morning to find himself with an empty purse and no idea how he spent the night except for the evidence left on his skin by a tattooist’s needle.
None of it would be reported to the official authorities.
In the market square, that left the Order of Napthol, wealthy sons and daughters of Kavetan families who did not yet need to return to their own families’ celebrations, and the visiting aristocrats from Tamar and Silmat, but also as far away as Frevania and the Forgotten Isles. If Dahlia felt uncomfortable with the rising prestige of her dance companions, it didn’t show.
She’s doing better than I am, Verte thought, sitting near the musicians by the fountain to catch his breath—a struggle that had nothing to do with the exuberant dancing. His skin crawled with power. His muscles twitched with it. The edges of his sight continually wavered as his peripheral vision caught glimpses of the net meant for the Osei, which hung suspended, waiting to fall on its prey.
By contrast, Dahlia’s complete absence of power felt strange. Verte was a lightning-rod, while Dahlia was a clear glass sphere, unresponsive to the power crackling around her.
At the end of the song, Dahlia took leave of her most recent partner and sank down at the edge of the fountain beside him.
“We do that one a bit slower at home,” she said, breathless. One of the merchants offered her a cup of cool cider, which she accepted with a grateful smile.
“You held your own,” Verte observed. “Jade was out of his depth.” He considered telling her the Silmari noble she had just danced with was second cousin to the reigning king of that country, but decided that information could wait for formal introductions at the ball. Jade probably hadn’t considered it important enough to mention.
Dahlia tucked a stray curl away from her face. “Jade has not had to instruct aspiring debutants in these steps. Or did you forget I used to be a teacher?”
He didn’t think he had ever known she was a teacher. Had he asked?
Dahlia didn’t wait for a response; her eyes had fallen on a juggler who was performing complex illusions using foxfire orbs as props. “Is that sorcery, what he does, or chicanery?”
Verte knew the man. “What he’s doing right now is a combination of sleight-of-hand and misdirection. He is a small magic user, though.” At her querying look, he clarified. “Small magic is the term we use to refer to the simple spells almost anyone can learn. A lot of it is based on herb lore, pressure points, or physiology.”
“And what of sorcery?” she asked. “Can anyone learn that?”
He shook his head. “People are either born with power or not.”
“I’ve been told,” Dahlia said, lifting her voice even while she avoided his gaze, “that children raised in the city are more likely to become sorcerers, because they’re exposed to so much magic here by the royal family and the Order of Napthol.”
He pondered the suggestion for a moment. “That may be, but we’ve had powerful sorcerers come from the country—Maddy, for instance, who leads the Order of Napthol right now. Or from overseas, like Henna and my mother. So I would think it’s just that children raised in the city seem more likely to have power, because they’re more likely to be identified.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “But where does that power come from? You say some people are born with magic, but is it all internal, or—when you make foxfire for example, what is the source of the actual light?”
He debated what answer to give her. He knew the Quin theorized that a sorcerer’s power was stolen from the realms of the dead, the Abyss, and the Numen. “We don’t know,” he admitted. “Some people are born able to make fire. Some people are born able to make frost. Some people can tell the future, and others can make enchants to draw love. Or lust. We don’t know where the power comes from, just as once long ago humans didn’t know how rubbing two sticks together could make a spark.”
“It doesn’t bother you, not knowing?”
“Of course it bothers me. I’ve spent most of my life studying and trying to learn what I can,” he answered. “But what I know for certain is that Terre and Napthol magics improve the lives of the citizens of my country. For example, do you know how many acres of Kavet are dedicated to tree-farming to meet the winter need for fuel? Worse, do you have any idea how many homes are destroyed by fire every year?” He thought of the devastating accident that had claimed the life of Madder’s husband. “Imagine what other purposes that space could be put to, and how much safer people would be, if more of us were able to create the foxfire that can heat a house without smoke, without ash, and without fear of catching the neighborhood on fire.”
Again, that nod. This time, he knew what she was thinking, because Celadon liked to throw the accusation Verte’s way whenever he had a chance: You say it’s
safer. You don’t know the cost of this magic you use. You don’t know how it might damage the innocent people around it.
Before Dahlia could challenge him further, he saw one of the servants discreetly signal him through the crowd. “We need to go in now. It’s time to prepare for the ball this evening.”
Rather than a maid, Sepia herself appeared to escort the girl once they were back inside the palace. The housekeeper’s expression and tone were always scrupulously polite, so Verte wasn’t sure yet if her seeming protectiveness of Dahlia had to do with wanting to take close care of Verte’s guest, or worry that the Quin girl would steal the sterling-silver-without-iron flatware.
Either way, he knew Dahlia would be taken care of.
A hot bath had already been drawn by the time Verte returned to his rooms, and he enjoyed the moment of peace, washing away the dust of the market and the lingering tension from his encounter with the Quin, before seeing which evening clothes his valet had set out. Verte was aware that his preferences for simple attire had created a trend in Kavet, but that fashion had clearly not taken root when it came to festival attire, which tended to lean more toward Tamari trends.
He shook his head when he saw the lace that spilled down the front of the turquoise shirt with opal buttons. At least the cuffs on the wrists were snug these days. Verte had put his foot down when gauzy, draping sleeves had made a brief spin into popularity, leaving gentlemen trying to manage their cuffs at the dinner table with all the care of ladies picking their long skirts out of mud.
His vanity was briefly flattered when he went to fetch Dahlia from her room, as she appeared to be dumbstruck at the sight of him. Then he realized her lips were pressed together not out of nerves but amusement.
When he raised a brow in permission, she said with a sweeping gesture to both him and herself, “This is ridiculous.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The next few hours would be the most complicated political and magical tango of his life, and that meant dressing in a way that simultaneously denoted power, status, wealth, and respect—but that didn’t make him feel any less silly as he saw himself reflected in Dahlia’s practical gaze.
At least he wasn’t alone in looking like a peacock. The patchwork style of Dahlia’s dress for the day had been an echo of the multicolored, elaborately crafted bodice and skirt of her evening gown. The bodice was warm gray, with diagonal slashes in the same turquoise color as his shirt that created a dramatic V-shape to her upper body and gave the girl an illusion of more curves than she had. Certainly, he didn’t remember her having quite so much bosom earlier in the day; the stiffness in Dahlia’s posture suggested she wasn’t entirely pleased about that part of the dress’s cut, either.
Or perhaps she was anxious to be wearing a heavy, looping necklace of rose gold set with sparkling opals and turquoise; Verte knew it had come out of his mother’s jewelry case, along with the matching earrings. Sepia must have asked to borrow something on Dahlia’s behalf.
“You look lovely, and fully appropriate for the event,” he assured her as he took her hand to lead her down to the great hall.
“I’m wearing the equivalent of my father’s farm’s yearly tax liability,” she murmured in reply.
“Someday you can tell your father how you single-handedly kept us from refitting the docks with foxfire lanterns.”
The exaggeration made her chuckle, which took some of the tension out of her shoulders.
“Ready?” he asked her, as they paused outside the doors of the great hall.
“Probably never,” she replied, “but I can fake it for a few more hours.”
She put her hand on his arm, and servants pulled the doors open. A marshal announced them: “Terre Verte, heir to the Terre of Kavet, and the Honorable Dahlia Indathrone of Eiderlee.” Dahlia slanted a look his way at the courtesy title, which was in the style of Silmari honorifics and not one generally used in Kavet. He had a feeling that one of his parents—or maybe even Sepia—had made it up to avoid drawing undue attention to Dahlia’s background.
As he looked around, Verte had to admit that the Order of Napthol had outdone itself. The room was lit by dozens of foxfire orbs in varying shades, adding yet more color to the mass of nobles and royals whose garments resembled the shimmering scales of tropical fish.
He had barely had a chance to reach the bottom of the stairs when the doors opened again and the marshal called, “Terre Sarcelle and Terre Jaune, Queen and King of Kavet.” After a polite pause, he continued. “And Queen Nimma of the Third Noble House of the Osei.”
Verte looked up, bracing himself. His mother and father entered the room together, united by common purpose tonight in a way they hadn’t been united by affection for decades. Beside his mother stood another woman, this one tall and made of sharp angles and too-vivid colors. Supposedly the Osei could impersonate humans so perfectly that no one could tell the difference, but that was either a myth, or Queen Nimma hadn’t bothered. She had approximated the shape of a human being, but the lines of her body were subtly wrong. It seemed like she might have attempted to mimic Sarcelle, whose skin was too fair for a native Kavetan and gave away her Ilbanese background. But while for Verte’s mother the description “pearly” would have been metaphorical, the Osei’s skin literally glistened like a pearl, with an iridescent sheen of green and blue hinting at the color of her scales.
Behind the three royals were five men whose ages were hard to determine, since they, too, had features and coloration that weren’t quite correct. The marshal did not say their names.
The Osei hadn’t approved of the idea of a marshal at all, and had particularly objected to the idea that the princes would be presented to the room as a whole, something they claimed was only ever done with immature princes when they were presented by their birth-queens to the rest of Osei society. Nimma’s slave had declared that announcing them to the crowd would therefore be insulting and infantilizing—but was, of course, perfectly acceptable for the Terre men if they so chose.
Remembering the discussion still made Verte’s head hurt.
No, that’s the magic, he thought. The spell had reacted the moment the Osei walked in the room, pulling at him greedily. Across the room, he saw Naples, tonight dressed in the same immaculate black and gray as the serving staff, suck in a breath and stagger a bit. He ducked his head and murmured an apology to the Tamari noble he stumbled into, a remarkable bit of feigned subservience by a member of the Order of Napthol.
I wish Henna was here.
With Dahlia, he approached the marble stairs, and at the base bent a knee in a deep bow, as was appropriate for a prince greeting a visiting monarch. Beside him, Dahlia sank into a formal curtsey—at last appropriate for the situation and this time performed confidently and gracefully—and behind them, the gathered crowd did the same.
“Nimma of the Third Noble House, allow me to present Dahlia of Eiderlee and Kavet, who is escorting my son this evening,” his mother said, making the introduction in the way they had—after yet more painstaking debate—finally agreed. “Dahlia, you and your prince may rise. Welcome to our home and our celebration.”
As he stood, it was an effort for Verte to keep his gaze down and not look directly at Nimma, especially since he could feel her gaze on him.
Dahlia said, “Thank you, Terra, for your welcome and your introduction.”
“I believe I am familiar with your territory,” Nimma remarked. “You hunt the black and white seaducks near our sister court’s waters.”
Verte didn’t understand the comment, but thankfully Dahlia did. She said, “Yes, our land is named for the eider ducks, and our shores border the waters of the Eighteenth Common House. I am honored to hear we have gained your notice.”
Verte was saved more standing around like a useless ornament as one of Nimma’s princes stepped forward and, in a soft voice that did not interrupt the women’s continued conversation, said, “Perhaps you would join us, son-prince of Kavet?” The inflection and compound term
he used to refer to Verte suggested there might be a specific word in their native language for a “son-prince” in contrast to a Queen’s mate.
“I would be pleased to do so,” Verte replied.
The Osei prince wrapped an arm casually around Verte’s waist to guide him toward the other men, including Verte’s father, who had apparently been given the same treatment. It was an overly familiar gesture Verte would have liked to object to, but didn’t dare for fear of giving offense and disrupting the spell. Watching the other Osei men, who stood close to each other and often touched each other idly, he decided the gesture had been meant as friendly, not insulting.
The habit would work in his favor. Each time one of the Osei touched him, he felt a shock of power like frost melting across his body. Even though he knew the spell was designed to be hidden from the Osei, he kept expecting one of them to recoil from him in confusion when they touched his icy skin.
He met his father’s gaze briefly. Terre Jaune’s eyes, normally a dark, placid gray, were like polished steel, glistening with power. Verte saw him deliberately set a hand on the shoulder of the oldest-looking Osei prince under the pretense of saying something innocuous about the apple trees for whom this festival was named.
In the midst of the conversation, Verte felt eyes on his back. He saw his father tense slightly, but the other princes didn’t react, so he forced himself not to turn until the hand dropped onto his shoulder and Nimma remarked, “You seem to fit in well with my princes.”
Chapter 15
Dahlia
If Celadon can speak to a prince of the Osei, I can speak to a queen.