She sat and leaned against his side. If it rained, they would get wet, but a summer rain never harmed anyone. If this was what he needed, she would let him have it.
I never expected Celadon Cremnitz of all people to drag me back into this realm.
Verte probably didn’t realize it, but he had confirmed one of Henna’s worst fears. There was only one reason he would need to be brought back into the mortal realm: if he had already passed beyond it.
I was willing to give my life for Kavet. That’s what I was raised to do, and it’s what I did.
He had been dead. Henna wanted to think it had only been for a few moments, until his father healed him, but knew that was naïve. He had been in the realms beyond for weeks, until they bullied Celadon into bringing him back.
“I’ve told you about how the weeks have passed here,” Henna said. “Do you want to talk about . . . about anything?”
His body answered the question for her as he started to shake, and his breath hitched in a muffled sob. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against his shoulder, trying to comfort with her nearness, knowing there was nothing she could say.
“I don’t remember it well,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he spoke around his tears. “But I . . .”
He trailed off. Aside from his gasping, hitching breaths, he was silent for several minutes.
“The Numini see us as infants, young and foolish and in need of authority figures so we . . . so we don’t soil ourselves and choke on our toys.” His bitterness gave way to awe as he continued. “But to be with them is to be like a child wrapped in a mother’s perfect love and protection. They welcomed me and said I could stay forever, but then they locked me out, an unwanted child desperately pressing his face against the window until they chased me away.”
“When your father called you back?”
He glanced at her, tears making his lashes darker and emphasizing his startled expression, as if he hadn’t realized he was speaking aloud or that she would hear him.
He shook his head, lifting his face and closing his eyes as the first drops started to fall, blood-warm in the summer air. His eyes closed, Verte didn’t flinch as the skies opened, and the cascade of rain turned his body to a glistening silver statue.
Henna instinctively hunched against the water, then shook herself, remembering once again the little girl who had laughed through a summer shipboard squall.
Let this rain be cleansing, she thought. Let it give us strength.
They would need it.
Chapter 42
Dahlia
Dahlia took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table to keep from swaying as a wave of dizziness swept over her.
It had been like seeing a ghost. She had heard the whispered word, Terre, spread through the crowd, and then she had looked up and into his eyes and the horror had seeped over her.
And guilt, of course. How many petitions had crossed her desk, suggesting a vote to officially renounce the Terre line and vote Dahlia Indathrone into power as official President? She had refused to acknowledge them or ever bring the subject up at the assembly, because she knew what would have happened. They would have approved the measure in a landslide.
Fool, she cursed herself.
She should have stayed down in her curtsey. If only she could have found the words she needed, she could have expressed gratitude for Verte’s return and asked him to step to the high table in her place. She could have escorted him back into power.
Instead, she let her pride get the better of her. When he had ignored her, she had stood, met his gaze as an equal, and then made that damning movement, which had become so natural to her in the last month. She had taken authority in the moment she might have passed it to him.
“Can we please get back to the topic at hand?” she implored the chaotic group for perhaps the fourth time.
She had considered walking away after the Terre left, but feared without leadership the crowd would become a mob, answerable only to its own whims. So she had climbed once more into her chair at the high table, and called the meeting back to order.
“I think the topic at hand should be the Terre being alive,” someone shouted back. “And what we intend to do when he comes back in.”
“He left,” someone else said. Too many people were talking too loudly for Dahlia to pick out the owner of each voice. “He obviously didn’t have any respect for this assembly. He’ll just—”
“He’s the Terre,” someone, one of the members of the Order of Napthol Dahlia thought, interrupted. “He was nearly killed in his attempt to protect this country from the Osei, and the king and queen were killed. They didn’t abandon us; they were taken from us. Terre Verte is back now, and I think we should remember that—”
“Remember that we don’t need a prince,” one of the Silmari objected. Their presence, which had seemed so natural until now, suddenly chafed. What right did Silmari and Tamari nobles have, to weigh in on the subject of Kavet’s government?
“Whether or not Kavet needs a prince,” Dahlia said, “we do need a ship. I think we are all in agreement on that. That ship, and who will captain her, is supposed to be the first order of business today.”
And what am I going to say to the Osei? She still hadn’t written that damned letter. It had seemed natural the day before to think she would know more if Terre Verte woke. She knew nothing more.
“Where is Cyan, anyway?” someone asked.
Dahlia skimmed the crowd. Cyan still wasn’t here? She had sent a message to his ship the night before, and another one early that morning. She had hoped he was just running a little late, since as far as she could tell, he was widely regarded as the best prospect for the position.
She looked at Gobe, who was always a fount of gossip. He shrugged. “Last I saw Cyan, ‘e was walking off with some of his crew, and that sorcerer with the black hair and funny eyes. That was yesterday though.”
The sorcerer in question had to be Naples, whose coppery-brown eyes were indeed notable.
“Celadon!” That was one of the sailors. “Have you seen Ginger’s new sorcerer boyfriend anywhere about?”
Oh . . . fuck. When had that rumor started?
Celadon shot to his feet, murder in his eyes.
Putting all the authority she had unwillingly gained in the last weeks into her voice, Dahlia snapped, “Celadon!” He looked up at her and his expression turned sheepish. “Go get some air.” She made sure the words were not phrased as a suggestion. “Gobe, run to the docks and find Cyan, or someone who can tell you where he is.” The A’hknet youth nodded, and obediently scampered from the room.
Dahlia searched the crowd, and spotted Maddy near the back.
“Maddy, would you try to find Naples?” The woman nodded, and stepped out. “To the rest of you, we’re going to take a brief recess. When we get back, we will decide on the ship captain, and then and only then will I open the floor to respectful discussion of the Terre’s return. Suitable topics will not include Celadon’s sister’s love-life—”
“Or magic?” someone called out. He ducked back into the crowd before Dahlia could recognize him.
“Ginger Cremnitz is not a topic for debate,” Dahlia insisted, “and anyone who drags her reputation into this room will be immediately thrown out. Do I make myself clear?”
There were muted sounds of assent.
“Then we break until lunchtime. I will hold individual meetings in case anyone wants to add to the afternoon’s agenda, but please remember I have a hard time holding more than a dozen conversations simultaneously.”
She stepped down from the dais and, as expected, was mobbed instantly. She fell back on her calm smile, an expression she had learned to hold during the last six weeks no matter what was going on behind it. She nodded and smiled and spoke softly, until those around her reflexively lowered their voices to match hers, and once they had done that she said, “Would one of you mind bringing me a glass of water?”
The patient, blas
é request stymied all of those who had worked themselves up to argue about the Terre.
Someone brought the requested water. Dahlia took a sip, and cleared her throat.
“I have heard the thoughts that many people have raised over the past six weeks,” she said to the men and women standing before her, “but most of those comments and suggestions were in answer to what we believed to be abandonment and negligence by the royal house. The Terre has been sick, recovering from wounds taken in defense of Kavet, and I think we must—”
“The Terre,” one of the men pronounced, “was dead. I was one of the doctors there the day the Osei—” He swallowed thickly, cleared his throat, and continued. “I was there. So were more than a dozen healers from the Order of Napthol and every doctor in the city of Mars. The strongest healers in the Order pronounced that there was nothing they could do.”
“What . . . exactly . . . are you implying?” Dahlia asked. She inwardly cursed herself for sending Maddy away just when her input was needed most. She and Dove were best equipped to respond to these kinds of accusations and explain the magic that had brought Verte back.
“I’m not implying. I’m saying it right out,” the doctor replied. “We have no idea who that man is, but I for one doubt he is who he looks like.”
“If not the Terre—”
The doctor spoke over the objections of those around him.
“The wyrm can change their forms,” he pointed out. “It’s common enough in Silmat for them to try to sneak into the population by masquerading as humans. The Queen of the Third House tried to take Terre Verte as her prince. They want control of Kavet. Who is to say this isn’t how they plan to take it?”
“We would recognize an Osei,” one of the members of the Order said, a novice whose name Dahlia didn’t know off the top of her head. He often attended meetings, but tended to hang near the back and not participate.
“Would you?” the doctor replied.
“Then we test him with iron,” one of the Silmari suggested. “That’s what is done back in our country.”
The young sorcerer gasped. “You do not seriously mean to ask the prince of Kavet to prove his identity!”
“You’re a magic user,” the doctor said, turning on the sorcerer. “Were you there the day the Osei attacked? Did you see the wounds?”
“I saw them.” Thank Numen, Dahlia thought, as she heard Naples’ sardonic voice in the crowd. She was doubly grateful that Celadon was still out of the room. “I am the only person who followed the Terra and Terre into the palace, and spoke to them both, and saw the measures the king had taken to revive his son.”
“Measures that would have taken six weeks?” the doctor scoffed.
“Possibly,” Naples replied. “Terre Jaune was the best healer in this land. He had wrapped his son in some kind of shell, doubtless to hold him in stasis and keep him alive while he—”
“Not alive,” the doctor said, softly. “Say the truth. Hundreds of us, everyone in the market that day, saw him die. If Terre Jaune was keeping his son anywhere, he was keeping him from crossing over to the world after. For how long? And if you believe Terre Verte is who he says he is, I would argue we have something even more dangerous in our midst than an Osei. We have a soul trapped on this plane. Or maybe just a body without its soul.”
“Spoken like a Numen-damned Quin,” Naples spat. “Terre Verte is alive, and here you stand and slander him, because you haven’t the faintest idea how our power works.”
“I haven’t used your magic, but I have heard the rumors. I know that since Terre Verte fell, your people have been afflicted by ‘wild power.’ I know it has killed at least one of you. I know it has struck even Ginger Cremnitz, who never meddled with your works in the entirety of her life. I may not be a magic user, but in my time as a doctor I’ve cut an arm off a man to keep it from poisoning the rest of his body. I can recognize the signs of an infection.”
“Serves.” The sharp, unexpected chastisement came from Ochre, one of Celadon’s Quin followers with whom Dahlia had intermittently clashed since their first interaction at the Apple Blossom Festival. “This isn’t the best time or place or manner for this discussion.”
Serves; Ginger’s beau. Ginger hadn’t mentioned he had been a ship’s doctor, but it made sense given the rest of the conversation.
Letting Ochre’s words be the final say on the matter of Ginger—and speaking over Serves’ attempt to make them otherwise—Dahlia asked, “Naples, do you know Cyan’s whereabouts?”
The sorcerer tensed as if stung and answered too sharply, “Why would I?”
Not helpful. Hopefully Gobe would be able to find him quickly.
Dahlia spotted Celadon coming back inside, skin and hair slick from the rain Dahlia hadn’t even noticed falling. She nodded toward one of the back conference rooms, then turned to Naples.
“Would you be willing to tell me more about what you saw when the prince was hurt?” she asked the young sorcerer. She needed to talk to him, Maddy, and Dove, she decided, and come up with a plan before she let the council reconvene.
She spoke the words “would you be willing” as a matter of courtesy. She didn’t expect him to practically snarl, “No, I would not be willing, because it’s none of your business. Verte is back—and someone needs to point out that he is not prince anymore, but with his father’s death, he is king. It isn’t up to country farmers or Silmari sailors or A’hknet courtesans or even Napthol sorcerers to make that decision. He is the only legitimate heir to the line that founded Kavet from a bed of volcanic rock a thousand years ago!”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned sharply and stormed off toward the private areas of the Cobalt Hall.
Dahlia sighed. “Jade, would you try to find Maddy, and Dove if you can?” She had expected Maddy to come right back, but something must have delayed her. “I want to consult with them before we reconvene this afternoon.”
Jade nodded. “I’ll find Gemma as well,” he offered, referring to the Order of A’hknet leader, who generally chose whether to attend meetings based on how she felt the topic would specifically affect her people. Otherwise, she spent meeting times supervising work rebuilding the docks. “Should I plan to sit out, and hear your thoughts this afternoon?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Naples’ words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. He was right that this wasn’t a matter for the foreigners to decide.
As they entered the conference room, Celadon said, “This is going to get ugly. Do you have a plan?”
“Do you believe the accusations about the Osei?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral to hide her own skepticism.
Celadon scoffed. “I wish it were so simple. At least that would be an easy accusation to prove or disprove,” he said. “I believe he is Terre Verte. But I do fear what magic brought him back into this world, and I think anyone who thinks the rising of the wild power is coincidental is an idiot. But maybe that’s a price the Napthol is willing to pay.”
“They say they don’t know what is causing the injuries.”
“The magic they use does not come from this plane,” Celadon asserted. “Naples all but admitted that to me. After all, it is hard to doubt where he believes his power comes from, after he accused me of making deals with the Numini to get mine.”
“He did not!” Dahlia exclaimed, just as the door opened to admit Maddy, who was even more sodden than Celadon.
“Sorry for the delay,” Maddy said. “I went to check on Terre Verte. He and Henna might both drown in this rain, but otherwise he’s all right . . . as all right as we can expect, anyway. Dove won’t be able to join us. She’s working with Sepia and Tealyn to plan the memorial services for Jaune and the Terra, now that their deaths have been officially confirmed.”
“Of course,” Dahlia said hollowly. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to plan such a thing, perhaps because she had thought of the king and queen as having been dead for a month and a half. She had mourned them long ago. She cleared her throat, thinking about ho
w she would confront Maddy about the fact that Terre Verte clearly had been dead, and what did that mean now? “What are we going to say when people ask about Terre Verte this afternoon? They deserve to know the truth about their prince, but—” She corrected herself. “King, I mean. Naples is right about that. If we acknowledge him, he is king.”
She couldn’t miss the way Maddy tensed in response to her words.
“We’re not considering not acknowledging him, are we?” the sorcerer asked with unconcealed horror.
“I’m not officially considering or not considering anything,” Dahlia sighed, looking toward the door. Once Gemma arrived, she feared they were going to need to discuss just that—how to support Terre Verte’s return as king, and how to respond if the citizens of Kavet were truly insistent that the time of kings in Kavet was over.
It’s too big a decision, she thought. This one council in this one city couldn’t possibly speak for the entirety of Kavet, but they had no choice. What happened in the Cobalt Hall in the next few hours, she feared, would define the future of the entire country.
Chapter 43
Naples
Naples stormed away from the argument, feeling foolish for engaging in it at all. These people were too ignorant to listen to reason, and anyone ungrateful enough to sit there and whine about the sacrifices the Terre had made for them wasn’t worth his breath.
And Cyan! It wasn’t Naples’ responsibility to know where every old lover was, and Cyan had made it clear that’s all he intended to be.
Or so Naples thought.
It was hard to clearly remember his last few, biting moments of argument with the sailor. The wave of fury had been like a drug-haze, an Abyssal dream. He had been impressed with Dahlia once, when she had stood up to the Quin who tried to harass her at the Apple Blossom Festival, but what gave her the right to interrogate him?
She wasn’t interrogating you, you fool. It was a simple question.