Whose?
If it was murder, Dove’s power with the dead could help them investigate, but Henna was in a better position to initially assess whether sorcery was a factor and what kind had been involved. She wasn’t overly skilled with cold or old magic, but she would be able to read either if necessary, while Dove almost entirely lacked hot magic.
“I will help,” Henna said.
Even before Verte’s death, she had seen her share of horrors, some among the Osei and many in visions. One more could hardly scar her worse.
Or so she thought.
Yours seem to be some of the worst, Maddy had said just before Henna came here.
Not anymore.
The body had been found outside, but moved inside a warehouse at some point after the first report went to Dahlia because flies had started to gather in thick swarms in the summer heat. It wasn’t an improvement. The flies still came, and now the stench was stifling as well, a reek of decaying blood and spilled viscera that made Henna’s gorge rise even before she steeled herself to step forward and look.
The phantom beast that had slashed Henna’s ribs had sliced into this poor soul’s body, laying open organs blistered with frostbite marks, as if the animal’s claws had been impossibly cold. One side of his face was swollen and black; the other was as pale as snow in death, but otherwise untouched except by spattered blood.
She lifted a trembling hand to shut Helio’s remaining eye, once gentle brown but now flat and gray. The lid wouldn’t move.
“Is that—”
Bile rose in Henna’s throat. She shouldered Dahlia aside, and raced outside to vomit into the alley.
“I’m sorry,” Dahlia said. “I didn’t know if I could damage magical evidence, if I came on my own first. I didn’t realize it was someone you—”
“No.” Henna managed the weak word before she retched again. “You needed to call one of us in. You agreed to lead. You did what you needed to do.”
She struggled to catch her breath and make her head stop spinning. Helio. Clever, discreet, insightful, kind Helio.
Dahlia came by her side and matter-of-factly held Henna’s hair back as she lost all the food she had eaten so far that day. Vomiting pulled at burned and torn muscles, and she fought not to scream against the pain—and the fear.
Which of them would be next?
Dahlia rubbed her back in a gesture that was certainly meant to be calming, but only made a squeak of pain escape Henna. She recoiled, and declared, “I need to show you something.”
“Did you see—I’m sorry I have to ask, but did you see any magic on the body?”
Henna nodded. “But it isn’t what you think. Please, come with me. I don’t want to be overheard.”
Once they were in another empty room, Henna tried to explain in simple terms an untrained mundane would understand.
“Magic killed him,” she confirmed, “but it wasn’t murder.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Dahlia said.
“There’s something wrong.” That much was obvious, with a body just upstairs, but Henna began there. As she considered her own wounds—yours are worse than most—and what she had just seen, she felt hysteria trying to worm its way into her again. “With the Order, I mean. Since the storms, our members have started having nightmares, fits like night terrors. Often we wake, marked as if we had been attacked. For some of us, it comes in the form of claw marks and burns. Others wake coughing, lungs convulsing. Some have lost feeling in fingers or toes due to inexplicable frostbite. We’ve been trying to protect ourselves, but haven’t been able to stop it. Now I fear . . . no, I’m certain that whatever has been afflicting us is what killed Helio.”
Helio had been involved in many of the early meetings, but had mostly preferred labor to politics. He had been working on dock repair the last few days. He must have dozed off down here, exhausted from hard work and the sleepless nights. Had he woken when the magic savaged him, or had he gone into death without ever feeling the pain?
Dahlia winced at the name, but then her eyes widened as she considered the implication. “If this is an escalation of an ongoing problem, it’s likely to happen again. Randomly?”
“Not randomly,” Henna said, too loudly, to cover the beating of her heart in her ears. “I haven’t seen any of the Quin covering their arms, haven’t seen the Silmari or Tamari flinching when someone claps them on the shoulder. The Order of A’hknet tends to be private, but I’ve spoken discreetly to some of their small-magic users, and they don’t seem affected, either. It only affects those of us who use hot or cold sorcery.”
“Helio was one of your strongest cold magic users, wasn’t he?” Dahlia asked. Henna couldn’t remember when that had been mentioned in their meetings—probably sometime when they talked about how to allocate resources. Dahlia had a mind like a flytrap. “Are the most powerful of you being most strongly affected?” Before Henna had a chance to respond, Dahlia followed the generic question with a more personal one. “You, Maddy, Dove—are you all right? Is Clay in danger?”
“We’re—” Her throat tightened, strangling back the words. Dahlia hadn’t asked about one of their most powerful hot magic users, Naples, because he had disappeared from his sick bed and hadn’t been seen since. She didn’t know him. Now, Henna would never be able to stop herself from imagining his body, ripped to pieces and rotting in some quiet place few people ever visited—
No. She couldn’t think about it, not without going mad.
“Clay hasn’t shown any signs of injury or even nightmares,” Henna said. “The rest of us—” Again, she couldn’t find the words. The injuries down my back look very similar to the ones that sliced across Helio’s chest and stomach. Maddy’s frostbite scars on her hands and arms are the same as the ones on Helio’s liver and intestines. “Those of us who use primarily old magic, like Dove, don’t seem as strongly affected.”
“What’s causing it?”
“We’ve been calling it ‘wild magic,’ because it doesn’t seem to be under anyone’s control or connected to any intentional ritual. One theory is that it is emanating from the palace,” Henna said. “Many of us believe we could learn more and possibly reverse the effects if only we could get inside, but so far no one has been able to breach the shields the Terre put in place.”
Dahlia frowned. “It probably hasn’t helped that you have all been putting your strength into other tasks. Why didn’t you come to me sooner? I would never have asked you to focus your efforts elsewhere if I had known your people were being injured.”
“Our alliance with the assembly in general, and the Quin in particular, was so tenuous for the first few weeks,” Henna pointed out. “We felt it would be unwise to share details like this that might exacerbate the situation, and distract from more important work that needed to be done.”
Dahlia set her jaw in a resigned expression Henna recognized from council meetings. It tended to precede Dahlia’s cutting through an argument, calling out whichever council member’s pigheaded stubbornness was causing problems, and declaring a resolution. Henna usually delighted in seeing it, since Celadon and Mikva were the most frequent targets of Dahlia’s ire.
She was alone now.
“I know the Order of Napthol values its privacy,” Dahlia said. “I respect that. But can you honestly tell me you wouldn’t have reported these injuries to the Terre immediately?”
Henna swallowed thickly, and spoke aloud what they already knew: “You, and the council, are not the Terre.”
“I know.” Dahlia sighed. “I do not have the royal family’s knowledge of sorcery, but even I can see that addressing this danger is critical. If it were just your adult members deciding to put other work ahead of their personal safety, that would be one thing, but you have minors in your care—Clay and two, or is it three, novices?”
Henna nodded, chastised. They had three novices currently who had not yet reached their majority. Two had had the nightmares, though neither had any injuries. Yet.
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Dahlia continued. “I’ll tell the guards to release the body to the Order of Napthol as next-of-kin. Then, I’m going to add an agenda item to the upcoming meeting explaining that the sorcerers of the Order of Napthol have been removed from all other duties. You need to focus your attention on opening the palace. Whether you share the details of your affliction with the assembly is up to you, but I expect you to report to me regularly.”
Henna nodded again. There was one more thing they could do, but she didn’t know how Dahlia, who still openly identified as Quin, would feel about it.
After sharing her decision in an authoritative tone, Dahlia added more gently, “And please, remember, you and your order aren’t alone. I can’t be Terre, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you, if you’re honest and tell me what you need.”
The words were an unwelcome barb, since Henna had just been considering whether or not to lie to her about the necessary next step.
She sighed. “If you mean that, there is one more thing we need to do before we try the palace doors.”
Most of the guards that ringed the building less than an hour later were there to keep the area as private as possible. Henna had to admit, while they could have managed the same effect with sorcery given enough time and effort, Dahlia’s assistance had allowed for a more rapid and efficient solution.
One of the guards was particularly familiar to Henna from numerous visits to the Cobalt Hall to see Dove. Verte had first put them together, though he had done so with the expectation that Dove would help Tealyn understand sorcery, not that they would develop a far deeper relationship after his death.
“I won’t ask if this is safe for you, because I already know the answer,” Henna overheard Tealyn saying to Dove, as Dove prepared herself to look at the scene. They had covered most of the body, but Dove needed to be able to see Helio’s face for her magic to work best, and there wasn’t much they could do about the smell. “I will remind you that I’ll be here waiting when you’re done.”
“I should never have taken the brand,” another voice lamented, drawing Henna’s attention away from the private moment. Wenge paced the warehouse vestibule, his hands crossed tightly across his chest.
Even though Wenge’s power was gone, he was a fount of information about old sorcery, particularly that which dealt with the dead. Henna had brought him as an expert whose power couldn’t distract Dove as she worked.
“The brand saved your life,” Henna reminded him.
“Dove is powerful,” Wenge admitted, “but I was more powerful. She hasn’t been able to speak to Terre Verte. I was almost always able to summon any spirit I wished, even when they didn’t want to come. What if she can’t reach Helio? I could have—”
“You would not have learned anything because you would not have been here,” Henna interrupted, less gently than she might have if this weren’t such a familiar lamentation at such an anxious time. “Your power was killing you.”
Wenge believed being able to force any spirit to speak to him showed his strength; Henna, like most of the Order, saw that only as a sign of his previous power addiction and willingness to burn his own life in pursuit of his sorcery. Dove probably could do the same, if she had equally little regard for her own physical and mental survival.
One reason Henna wanted Wenge to shut up was the fear that Dove might do just that: look at Helio’s corpse, and let her desperation drive her to go too far. Tealyn was right. This wasn’t safe.
But it was necessary.
The two women embraced briefly. Dove started to pull away, her power already billowing in a way Henna knew meant her mind was probably drifting into the deep, still realm of the dead. Tealyn tugged her back and kissed her firmly.
For a moment, Dove seemed confused. Her power condensed like water beading on glass—then Henna lost all awareness of it as she turned away, remembering the last time someone had held her that way.
Verte. Driven by her visions, she had given up her last chance to see him, dance with him, hold him, or taste his lips against hers.
“Something to remind you you’re alive,” she heard Tealyn said firmly. “You always tell me that’s the greatest danger in this kind of work.”
The others stayed behind as Henna and Wenge followed Dove to the alcove. Henna heard Dove swallow thickly, but she didn’t gag at the stench, and her face remained calm as she knelt next to the body and touched Helio’s cheek, avoiding the blood and seeking clear skin.
As Dove reached out with her power, her skin paled, going as gray and waxen as Helio’s. Henna couldn’t see her eyes, which were closed, but knew from past experience that they, too, would have the flat dullness of death.
Dove’s breath rattled out. Then in. When she spoke, it was with a voice other than her own.
“I’m sorry.” The rapid, weeping words resonated like the copper bells at the tops of country town halls, some of which could be heard even here in the distant city when the wind was right. “I’m so sorry. It is against all we believe to shed blood. We only want to protect you. You are my chosen. You named your Order in my honor and I—”
The words cut off abruptly. Dove gasped, a wheezing, labored sound that made Henna step forward, concerned she might be choking before another voice stole her lips, this one more familiar.
“They speak of the old war here,” Helio said through Dove. “It ended thousands of years ago, but will never be over. They call us the protected, but we are the pawns and the prizes to be won. They are fighting over what they must do now. They—”
Another gasp, and the voices fell silent. Dove collapsed forward, onto Helio’s body, which squelched and released another wave of noxious odor; Henna and Wenge hastened to help her up before the congealed blood soaked through the blankets covering Helio’s wounds and reached Dove’s clothing and skin.
As they passed through the doorway, half carrying her, Dove’s body jerked and went rigid. On one last rush of air, a new voice spoke with a command that made the glass windows ring: “Find the Terre.”
Chapter 26
Naples
Question one: Where was he?
Naples opened his eyes and tried to assess this situation.
It was dark. That was all he could tell without moving. In theory he could move, but he didn’t want to until he had answered question two: Who was he with?
He tried to remember what had happened before he fell asleep. It was getting harder and harder to do.
For the moment, he was lucid. That was good.
Though, a few hours ago, when he had been lost in the haze of flesh and sweat, that had been good, too—
No, he had to keep focused. He wasn’t Abyssi, no matter what the creature seemed to think would be best. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life feeding, gorging on power until he was bloated like a tick, and then collapsing like a sated lion to sleep the day away.
Why not?
That voice did not belong to the sleeping man half on top of Naples, but to the Abyssi curled against his other side. It had one hand on his chest and was kneading like a kitten that had been badly weaned. Its claws drew spots of blood with each clench.
Feed, fuck, sleep, it said. What’s missing?
At some point I should eat, Naples thought as he rolled over, upsetting the other man in bed with him, who let out a semi-conscious grumble before falling back asleep.
He drew the distinction between feeding and eating.
Why? the Abyssi asked.
Naples had learned how to talk with the beast silently some time ago, but he had also learned that it was nearly impossible to communicate with. Its range of understanding was too limited.
Because this isn’t all I am.
The Abyssi leaned down and licked the beading blood from Naples’ chest. The sensation, as always, sent a wave of heat through him and shot shivers across his skin, unfocused his eyes and curled his toes.
Stop that.
You were being boring, it said. You try to draw lines like a Numi
ni.
I try to draw lines like a human being. Naples tried to sit up, and on one side the Abyssi pinned him, and on the other his bed partner—who in the three realms was he, anyway?—lazily looped an arm across his waist to hold him in place.
“Get off me,” he said to both of them.
The other man shifted a little, enough to suggest he was starting to wake up, and asked, “Hmm?”
“Off!” Naples snapped.
The man edged away. “You’re a grumpy bastard in the morning.”
Off! he repeated to the Abyssi, who pulled back with a hiss. At last, Naples managed to sit up, saying, “Yeah,” to the man beside him and trying his damnedest to remember who he was, or where they had met, or for that matter when, or where they were. He looked around, squinting to make out shapes in the darkness.
Finally, he had to turn toward the other man, who was still lounging in bed. “Where are we, who are you, and where in the Abyss are my clothes?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry for being blunt,” Naples grumbled, but he was tired of this. “Can’t remember how we got here.”
“Aaa . . . fuck.” The other man stood, fumbling for a lamp. “Look, if someone slipped you something, it wasn’t me. I would never—I mean, you seemed—”
“Oh, shut up. I’m not going to try to get you arrested. I just want to know where I am.”
“Western outskirts of Brockridge.”
“Western what of where?”
“What do you remember?”
Naples could hear the other man struggling to get an oil lamp to spark, and realized he had not only shacked up in a town he’d never heard of, he was with someone who wasn’t equipped with foxfire. Talk about slumming.
He moved forward impatiently, navigating in the dark, and needed only to brush fingertips over the lamp’s glass in order to focus enough power to light the wick. The flame burst into life, violet-white for an instant before it settled into a more normal orange-yellow.