She plodded into the market square, thinking she would buy something to eat before turning tired feet back toward the Cremnitz house. There had been a pie seller there earlier whose venison pasties had smelled delicious.
Lost in thought, it took her longer than it should have to realize the character of the market had changed.
Where previously there were merchants selling luxuries like fancy sweets, fine jewelry, and hand-carved cherry wood boxes with mother-of-pearl inlay, she now saw the distinctive glow of multicolored foxfire, individuals with elaborate costumes surrounded by strange implements, and—oh, goodness, it was too cold for those people to be wearing so little!
She had heard people say there were Order of A’hknet prostitutes who blatantly advertised their profession in the city square at night, but she hadn’t believed it. She decided she didn’t want to know if it was true. She carefully avoided meeting the gaze of the scantily clad men and women lounging near the fountain.
“Careful.”
The soft warning from nearby made her jump, realizing she had nearly trampled the wares of a merchant set up on a brightly colored carpet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Doing so brought a sweet, ashy scent to her nose. It was reminiscent of the smoke released in midsummer brush-burnings, and caused a pulse of nostalgia to briefly tighten her throat.
The merchant gave a kindly smile, revealing fine lines at the corners of his brown eyes. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she admitted, “I don’t have any spending money with me.” Despite her better judgment, she couldn’t help gawking at the wares fanned out around him. The small glass bottles looked similar to those Celadon’s aunt made for perfumes, but these were full, sealed with wax, and decorated with brightly colored ribbons. Some appeared to hold liquid or sand. Some glowed. There were also satchels of various colors and sizes, embroidered with symbols Dahlia didn’t recognize.
“Looking is free.”
“What are they?” she asked. She could recognize the small foxfire globes; these were mostly white and yellow. One, located closest to the merchant and probably therefore most expensive, was baby pink. Otherwise, she had no idea what the paraphernalia was, though she imagined it all fell under the category of sorcery—so why was she still standing here?
Because everyone else is, she thought. Because, if sorcery is so dangerous, why are they allowed to practice it a stone’s throw from the palace? There were other young women in the square, looking perfectly happy and unafraid, unintimidated by the crowd. There were even children, laughing and playing while their indulgent guardians shopped or chatted in the twilight. The scene did not match what Dahlia had been prepared to encounter.
“These here,” the merchant said, gesturing to the glass containers, “are prepared enchants. Foxfire is the one most people are familiar with, but there are others. Here, smell this.” He opened one of the vials and held it out to her, but she drew back. She was curious, but not stupid enough to take a whiff of something someone had just told her was magic. He gave a little smile. “It won’t hurt you. It’s a perfume, designed to enhance the grace and allure of the wearer. It doesn’t do anything mystical unless it’s actually applied.”
Tentatively, she leaned forward to smell the supposed perfume. Its scent was subtle, a little lemony.
“This one is for energy,” the merchant added, opening another and holding it out. The smell of this one reminded her of burned cloves. “It’s most commonly used in the shipyard, and other places where people find themselves working dangerous jobs without enough sleep, but it’s been popular this week as young men and women prepare for tomorrow’s festivities.”
“Are they herbals?” she asked, wondering if this man had a mundane answer to her father’s question about what made the magic work. She tried to sound only curious, but the sorcerer frowned, as if he heard her anxiety.
“I can’t answer your questions until you open your mind enough to hear the answers,” he said, tone flat.
She bristled. After yet another day of being dismissed as soon as would-be employers learned she was Quin, having this sorcerer loftily accuse her of being close-minded was infuriating. “Do you know how they work?” she challenged. “Do you have any idea where your power comes from?”
“Do you?” he returned.
“Do I . . . what?”
“Never mind.” He sighed. “You should speak to Henna. She knows more about the theories of power than anyone else in our order. She can do a better job answering your questions than I can.”
Dahlia wanted to storm away indignantly, but that would confirm his accusation that she wasn’t willing to hear the answers she claimed to want.
“Who’s Henna?” she asked reluctantly.
“The seer over there,” the merchant said, gesturing to a garishly costumed Tamari woman lounging not far from the palace doors, the bright crimson and yellow of her dress sparkling with metallic embroidery. Her face was tilted up as she spoke to a man not much older than Dahlia, whose flirtatious smile implied he was attempting to distract the woman from her task.
“I . . . I will ask her,” Dahlia said. “Thank you.”
The sorcerer smiled, once again appearing the kindly father.
Dahlia shook her head, but resolutely started toward the future-seer, whose fingers were idly trailing through a pile of black and white stones. As Dahlia drew near, the rattling of those stones reached her ears like waves hissing over the pebbles that lined the coast of Eiderlee, though surely it was impossible to hear anything so quiet above the market din.
“Your future for a coin?” the woman offered when Dahlia neared.
“Excuse me?”
“Your future. A prophecy, a telling,” the woman elaborated. “A single copper coin is sufficient.”
“I’m sorry, your . . . colleague told me—”
“You have questions,” the woman said, interrupting before Dahlia could explain that the other sorcerer had suggested she come over. “Questions about loyalty and truth. Questions about . . . power. Of which you have none. As yet. I can perhaps answer some of those questions for you.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Dahlia mumbled, a chill running down her spine. The woman hadn’t looked up at her yet, and her voice had an unnerving, melodic lilt.
She didn’t realize she had recoiled until she bumped into the man who had been flirting with the fortune-teller. She jumped away from him so quickly that she stumbled, and he caught her shoulders to help her regain her balance, saying, “Steady.”
“Sorry. Thank you.” Dahlia found her footing, cleared her throat, straightened her spine, and stepped forward again. It was one thing to ask a question and decide she didn’t like the answer. She refused to be the kind of coward who couldn’t stand to ask. “I spoke to your colleague over there. He told me you might be able to answer some questions I have about sorcery.”
“Did he?” Henna finally looked up, amusement in her eyes. Dahlia was startled by the bright complexity of their hazel depths, nearly lost amid overly dark eyeliner and shadow. “I will answer your questions if I can. But first, let me read your future for you.”
Fortune-telling was just a performance, wasn’t it? Even most Quin who railed against sorcery laughed at those who claimed to see the future. Dahlia hesitated, then realized this wasn’t a curiosity she could justify indulging, anyway.
“I’m sure your fortunes are . . . helpful,” she said, trying to be polite, “but I haven’t found work in the city yet, and I don’t have much spending money.”
“Here.” The man who had steadied Dahlia earlier stepped forward and tossed a coin toward Henna. The sorcerer caught it deftly, and then it was gone. Magic, or sleight-of-hand?
“I couldn’t accept—”
“Nonsense.” The man dismissed her protest before she could complete it.
“I . . . thank you, then.” Dahlia’s heart sped with anxiety. This woman was a sorceres
s, not just a roving entertainer. What if her prophecies were real? Did Dahlia want to know her future? “Do you need to know anything about me?”
Henna shook her head, trailing her hands through the runes.
“I was right.” Her voice was distant, breathy. “You have no power in the traditional sense, the sense of magic, but you have a strong destiny. You are . . .” Her breath hitched. “Your thirst is insatiable. You aren’t meant for the Order, but you will walk its halls. You fear others like yourself because they are not like you. Oh!” She sighed, an almost sad sound. “You need a guide. Helio was right about that. But I am not the guide you need.”
As Henna’s hands fell away from the stones, Dahlia saw that they were trembling. She looked up, not at Dahlia, but at the man standing nearby, whose lips were quirked with amusement.
“This is the man who can answer your questions,” Henna declared.
His smile faded. “Excuse me?” he asked.
“You need to . . . to keep her, teach her,” Henna said. She looked frustrated, as if her vague, incoherent declarations were as irritating to her as they were to Dahlia. What did any of that mean? Was she making excuses to foist Dahlia off on someone else, as the other sorcerer perhaps had? Or were they all playing a game at Dahlia’s expense?
“Well, thank you for your time,” Dahlia said stiffly, deciding it was time to take her leave of the situation. “I should be getting home.”
“You need a partner for the Apple Blossom Festival,” Henna said to the man, her tone urgent.
He snorted laughter, obviously finding the suggestion ludicrous. Dahlia agreed, though she saw less amusement in the situation.
“You need her,” Henna insisted. “I don’t know why, but she matters. She needs a teacher, and you don’t want it to be someone else. And you . . .” She looked at Dahlia. “You’re clearly new to the city, so you probably don’t have an escort.”
“I wasn’t planning to go,” Dahlia said, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice. “My hosts don’t approve.”
“Your hosts don’t . . .” The man stifled another laugh. “Henna, I do believe you’re trying to set me up with a rebel Quin.”
“All the better,” Henna said smoothly. “You keep saying you don’t understand their movement. She can tell you everything you want to know about the Quin, and you can answer her questions about sorcery.” With a wicked smile, she added, “And a good Quin girl would never put her hands on a man she just met, so you’re safe from unwanted advances.” Dahlia blushed at the implication, and took another step back from the strange pair. “Do you dance?” Henna asked her.
“Only some country steps,” Dahlia demurred, feeling no need to trot out her dancing resume for these strangers. She cleared her throat and said firmly, “I think you’re both mistaking me for someone else. I’m flattered by the invitation, but I’m not going to the festival with a total stranger.”
The man let out a half laugh, half cough.
Henna dealt with the statement matter-of-factly. “Then I should introduce you. My name is Henna, as you know. I’m a full initiate in the Order of Napthol. You can usually find me here or in the Hall. And this is Terre Verte. Do you need a lengthier introduction?”
Dahlia felt her flushing face go cold. Her stomach rolled.
Of course she knew the name.
Had she really been talking to—
He couldn’t be!
She stared at the man, waiting for him to deny it while frantically trying to remember everything she had said to him and how much of it was probably completely inappropriate to say to a prince. Was it legal to turn him down? Briefly, she imagined the look on Celadon’s face if she told him some random sorcerer in the market had set her up with Terre Verte for the Apple Blossom Festival, and that almost made her smile again. Almost.
Even picturing Celadon’s horror wasn’t enough to overcome the sudden, uneasy knot in her chest. It seemed she was standing blindfolded on a precipice, aware she was one step from disaster, but unable to tell in which direction the fall awaited her.
Chapter 10
Henna
Watching the series of expressions that crossed the girl’s face might have been amusing any other time—almost as amusing as watching Verte go from mildly entertained, to intrigued, to incredulous, and now resigned.
“Terre,” the girl said, her voice tight, but still with more poise than Henna would have expected. She gave a clumsy half curtsey, as if she weren’t at all sure how one was performed or if this was the right situation to perform one.
It wasn’t. No one curtsied or bowed out here in the market, when the Terre was in his street clothes and walking among the people, his personal guard a discreet distance away. Still, the girl’s confusion and anxiety were understandable even before she stammered, “I’m—I’m so sorry. I’m not from the city. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Evidently,” Verte said.
Verte didn’t look like he was taking this seriously yet, but Henna wanted to kiss him for the fact that he hadn’t casually dismissed her words, either. He was playing along, willing to let her have her game.
Only it wasn’t a game. She could barely speak past the chest-constricting panic.
Why couldn’t her visions be clearer? If she could have told Verte, “On this day, such-and-such will happen unless you do so-and-so,” he would have listened.
The girl, on the other hand, looked ready to bolt, only held in place by her sense of loyalty to the Terre. Or perhaps her terror at displeasing him. The Quin probably taught their disciples that the Terre sacrificed people who offended them, or some such nonsense.
Henna shut her eyes, both to recall any details of the vision that had overpowered her when she read for the girl and to steady herself so she could speak more plainly. She considered trying again to communicate how dire the image had been, but the girl looked close to panic already.
“My visions sometimes overwhelm me,” Henna said, with a measure of calm she did not feel. “I apologize if I frightened you. But I believe what I’ve said to you is true. You’ve come to the city to learn, haven’t you?”
The girl hesitated, as if considering the truth of those words, but finally nodded.
“The Terre regulate sorcery in the city, and have access to more records and manuscripts on the subject than even the Order of Napthol. If anyone can answer your questions, a Terre can, and you can trust his words to be true. And if you want to advocate for your own people, Verte has expressed frustration to me in the past that it is so hard to understand the . . . the Followers of the Quinacridone, you call yourselves, right? It is hard for those of us with power to understand you, because most of you won’t even speak to us.”
“You’re serious about this,” Verte murmured.
Henna stayed focused on the girl. Verte would trust her. A young Quin woman had no reason to.
“I am unable to attend tomorrow’s festivities,” Henna continued, “which means Verte needs a partner. A well-bred, educated partner who is capable of behaving properly at a formal dinner, with no romantic designs or desire for the throne. I believe you fit that description?”
The girl nodded slowly, acknowledging the point with a proud tilt of her head, but not yet ready to agree.
Henna shifted her gaze toward Verte, silently pleading with him to support her.
Verte spent long seconds studying Henna’s expression, and then his posture and expression shifted. He was no longer the amused, idling man who flirted and teased; he now wore the polite, engaged expression Henna had seen on him as he held court.
“If Henna is right that you are willing to speak for the Followers of the Quinacridone, I would be honored to escort you to the festival and answer any questions you might have about sorcery, or the city or country in general.” Verte cleared his throat gently. “I have been trying to open civil dialogue with the Quin for a while now, but their leaders tend to be . . . unenthusiastic about such conversations.”
The girl la
ughed at Verte’s understatement, then bit her lip as if unsure laughter was appropriate. When Verte didn’t strike her down, she ventured, “I’ve been told that Celadon Cremnitz talks to you.”
Verte’s lips thinned. “I’m not sure talking is the right word for how Celadon approaches a conversation. You know him?”
“His aunt is my host in the city.”
Verte winced. “Of course. Was he expecting you to join his group of protestors in the market?” He shot Henna a look that she couldn’t read. Concern?
“He offered, but I never accepted.”
Now that her immediate shock was passing, the girl was becoming more confident. She spoke formally, politely, but no longer cringed in response to every change in Verte’s expression. That was good. Henna knew she needed to put this girl in Verte’s path, but even if Verte trusted Henna for now, he would set her aside if he didn’t think she could manage to behave appropriately for the formal events of the evening.
As her confidence rose, the girl’s expression became more assessing. Speaking respectfully but not cowering, she explained, “I have not yet made up my mind about sorcery, or the Terre line. I have heard many things from my parents, friends, and the Cremnitz family, but I want more information before I come to a conclusion. If you feel it is necessary—” she looked briefly at Henna before returning her gaze politely to Verte “—and appropriate and useful, I will gladly accompany the prince of my country to the festival.”
Verte raised a brow, now clearly intrigued by this country girl who had managed in the last few minutes to find her poise and courage.
She’s not a girl. Henna had to stop thinking of her that way. She wasn’t much younger than Verte and Henna, if at all. All her apologizing and hesitation earlier had made Henna think of her as a girl, but her direct, articulate response to Verte—no, to her Terre, since her careful phrasing made it clear she was accepting out of respect for the title, not interest in the man—now made her seem older. Girl she might be, due to her sheltered upbringing in a movement where females were increasingly protected and controlled by their male relatives, but she was on the cusp of becoming her own woman.