A powerful woman. That much was for sure. Why? What power? And why was Henna so certain this one, apparently open-minded Quin would be dangerous if left to her own devices, in a way radical preachers like Celadon never had been?
“Thank you,” Verte said. “Would it be acceptable if I sent someone to the Cremnitz house to pick you up at, say, eight tomorrow morning? I know it’s early, but attending with a Terre means a certain level of pomp and formality, and I want to make sure you have a chance to review what you need to know.”
His brow tightened. Henna suspected he was doubting the wisdom of this decision as he imagined all he would need to do to prepare this woman for her responsibilities during such an event.
“I grew up on a farm. Eight is not too early.”
“And may I ask your name?” Verte asked.
“Dahlia Indathrone.” She gave another brief curtsey, this one slightly more graceful, as if it were something she had learned once long ago but never had reason to practice.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands. Henna felt a shudder run through her, as if the contact had completed some kind of circuit. She tried to follow the almost-vision, but couldn’t, and before she had refocused on the conversation Dahlia was excusing herself and Verte was saying goodbyes on their behalf.
The moment Dahlia was gone, Verte’s polite smile faded. “What was that about?” he asked.
Henna wished she had a better answer for him. “I don’t know,” she said. “You need to keep her. Protect her. You do not want her going to someone else to learn. Of that I am certain.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Hesitated. Then said, “Maddy told me about her husband. Is this like that?”
A wash of relief, like salt-water spray. “Yes,” Henna whispered. Thank you, Maddy.
Verte nodded. “Then I’ll trust you. My parents will be horrified, but I’ll make it work.” His mouth twisted half up, as if the prospect was at least a little enjoyable, but the expression didn’t have a chance to fully form before he sobered again. “It isn’t just me this is likely to cause trouble for, you know. Celadon thinks I am womanizing, grave-robbing, elitist scum. He will be horrified, and he is in a position to make her life miserable.”
“He’ll make her life miserable anyway, as soon as he realizes her curiosity puts her at odds with his doctrines.”
“True,” Verte conceded. “I suppose at least this way she’ll know she has other allies in the city. Unfortunately, this means I should cut tonight short. I need to find someone to prepare her for tomorrow. Oh, and I need to ask Sepia’s help to get her outfitted. I can’t imagine our little farmer packed attire appropriate for a formal ball.” He looked more anxious about telling the palace’s head servant about the additional work than he had about telling his parents about his Quin partner. “I should also set up a meeting with Mistress Rose of the trade guild. I was supposed to escort her daughter tonight. I’ll have to see what kind of groveling and concessions she’ll expect in response for the slight. And . . .” He winced in anticipation. “I should ready myself for a very long talk with Celadon Cremnitz tomorrow morning. Can I have him arrested if he pounds on the palace door before I’ve had my coffee?”
“That would solve your problem about how to keep his group from protesting tomorrow,” Henna said wryly, trying not to let her lingering uneasiness show. She wasn’t sure she succeeded; their kiss goodbye was brief and felt awkward, both of them clearly lost in thoughts of the past and the future instead of the present moment.
When she returned to the temple, Henna found Helio and Maddy both there, Helio working with an apprentice Henna barely knew and Maddy sitting with Clay at a carved wooden altar favored by old magic users. The child was batting at something, probably remnants of cold or old power that Henna would need to strain her senses to see, while his mother mixed ingredients for what looked like a healing salve.
Helio and his student worked at another altar, one made of silver and glass with a pure white silk cover. The girl kneeling at the altar had all her attention focused on spinning rainwater into thread. In addition to being an early cold magic exercise, the thread could be used by healers as incredibly fine sutures, which kept most wounds from scarring.
Helio murmured something to his student, probably an encouragement or word of advice, then stood and met Henna at the door.
“Were you able to accomplish what you needed to?” he asked without preamble, pitching his voice low to avoid disturbing the others working.
Henna frowned, still unable to shake her sense of unease. “I’m not sure.”
“Who was that girl?”
“No one,” Henna sighed, exasperated. “A Quin farmer recently come to town and staying with the Cremnitz family.”
Helio shook his head emphatically. “She isn’t no one. She has disaster all around her.”
Maddy had noticed their conversation and rose to join them, brows raised in question. Henna briefly tried to summarize her strange vision, hoping Maddy or Helio had some words of advice.
“Is it possible you’re sensing the general, ongoing conflict with the Quin?” Maddy asked, concerned. “Or something that might—”
“Nanana!” Clay interrupted in his emphatic way. “Abibi! No gimme!”
“Maybe,” Henna admitted, “but—”
“Nana nana abibi!”
The child’s voice rose, soon joined by a discordant noise, like bells tumbling to the ground. Helio glanced apologetically toward his student; the sound had been her hard-worked thread snapping.
“Just . . . watch her,” Helio said. “I feel like she has had the potential to do something wonderful, but also something very dark. I don’t—”
“Mine!” Clay shouted, grabbing restlessly at Henna’s earrings. “Dis mine! Gimme no gimme abibi!”
“I’ll take him out,” Maddy said. “The temple usually calms him when he’s fighting sleep, but not tonight apparently. I’m sorry we disturbed your lesson, Helio. Henna, we should talk more about this later.”
Helio nodded distractedly. “Let me finish this exercise with Lassia, then I’ll meditate on your mystery girl. I’ll let you know if I see anything.”
“Thank you. Will it distract Lassia if I try to work as well?”
“I don’t think so. She has traces of hot power, but not enough to see someone else’s magic unless she—”
The bowl of rainwater abruptly froze and exploded, sending icy shrapnel flying in all directions. Lassia, who had apparently run out of patience and attempted to restart the spell without Helio’s guidance, let out a string of curses as she wiped frost from her face and hands. Clay let out a delighted whoop, followed by a rising wail as his mother carried him from the room.
Helio returned to his chagrined student. “Well, that’s something I haven’t seen before. Do you know how it happened?”
Henna sighed and opened her personal supply trunk, where she had the pieces of a spell she had been working on to deter foxes and fisher cats from attacking chicken coops. It was dull work now that she had mastered it, but just then, dull was what she wanted.
She had an unsettling feeling that boredom was a luxury she should cherish while she could.
Chapter 11
Verte
Closer.
Closer.
Verte held his breath and wished he could still the distracting beating of his own heart. Slowly, he nudged one last drop of power into position in the complex web of spellwork surrounding and saturating the palace, as if placing the final Numini on the head of a pin.
His mother muttered a curse as she pushed back with equally exacting precision, balancing her magic to his.
“That has to be enough,” Sarcelle said. Her voice was husky from tension and hours spent in the smoky interior of her private ritual space. She had knocked on Verte’s door to ask him for help just before dawn, after her new apprentice had apparently passed out from exhaustion from working through much of the night
. “If we push any more, we’ll bring the whole thing down.”
She arched back and rolled her shoulders, making Verte aware of the aches and stiffness in his own body. They hadn’t been here more than an hour or two at most, but each new breath of power was harder than the last.
So much for so little, he thought, touching the fine metal chains piled haphazardly on top of his mother’s altar. His father would have spread them out lovingly, displaying the gold and silver netting with reverence, but his mother didn’t bother with such niceties. A tool was a tool to her.
These tools appeared to be jewelry—a hairnet for the Terra that shone with rubies and diamonds in addition to the finely crafted metal, and belts and wristbands for the two Terre men. They looked exquisitely crafted and expensive, fit for royalty. They did not look magical.
A net to represent a net, as Verte’s father said.
When Verte stood, spots danced in front of his eyes, sparkling like shooting stars.
“You’re pushing too hard,” his mother warned as she saw him wobble on his feet. “Get yourself something to eat, and maybe take a nap before—oh, you have to deal with that Quin now, don’t you?” She glanced at the clock. “There should still be time for you to make it, if you’re so insistent on going yourself.”
Once the dizziness had passed, Verte lifted his head. He had left directions with the housekeeper to dispatch a groom to pick up Dahlia if Verte’s last-minute assistance to his mother took too long, but he would rather not subject the servants to Celadon Cremnitz if he could avoid it.
He left the spelled accessories behind, trusting his mother to store them properly. If Verte had been with his father this morning, some sharp parting words about Dahlia probably would have followed him out the door, but Sarcelle had been sanguine when Verte had explained that a vague vision meant he needed to take a complete stranger to Festival this year.
Her acceptance, of course, had begun an argument that had ended only when each of Verte’s parents left for their own private ritual spaces to complete last-minute preparations for greeting the Osei.
It always created a bit of a flurry when Verte stopped in the kitchens, as if he hadn’t been dropping in to swipe food at odd hours since he was a young boy. His schedule had never been regular, and he liked to avoid formal meals with his parents whenever he could.
Today as he slipped in through the door, one of the kitchen staff looked up, handed him a bag, and said in a tentative voice, “Miss Sepia says she has packed you breakfast, since she knows you will not have time to eat before leaving to pick up your companion, and—” The servant, a slip of a boy Verte thought was the cook’s son, gnawed on his knuckle a moment, then realized what he was doing, clasped his hands and went gamely on with Sepia’s words. “And that I should tell you to keep out of the kitchen today, because she is far too busy preparing for Festival to deal with your antics. Um, sir. They were her words.”
Verte laughed, shaking his head as he accepted a basket of still-warm fruit pastries. Sepia had worked for the Terre line for longer than Verte had been alive, but not all the staff were as comfortable with her informality.
“Apple tart?” he offered Tealyn, as the guard fell into step behind him on his way out the front door.
“No, thank you, sir,” she replied.
“You’re familiar with Celadon Cremnitz?” Verte asked, as he led the way toward the Cremnitz residence, a little over a mile north of the palace in an area of the city Verte rarely visited.
“I’m aware of him and his movement,” Tealyn confirmed. “I haven’t dealt with him directly, but I’ve had interactions with other Quin. They tend to have a lot of bluster and brag, and they’ll fight back if attacked, but they don’t usually start physical altercations.” Respectfully but firmly, she added, “I know the difference between posturing and threatening. I won’t get in your way as long as it’s all talk, but Celadon isn’t a sorcerer. If I feel he is a threat, it is my duty to respond.”
Verte nodded, accepting the guard’s confident assertion of her responsibilities, and her frank acknowledgement of the difference between this meeting and their last potentially hostile confrontation. He wasn’t particularly worried about violence from the Quin preacher—today—but the fact that the royal guards had been discussing the Quin enough for Tealyn to know how they “usually” acted boded ill.
“With any luck, this visit will be as uneventful as the last,” Verte said, thinking of Wenge.
“Uneventful,” Tealyn echoed skeptically. “I’ve never seen a person look that close to death while still walking. Will he be all right?”
“He takes the brand today,” Verte answered. “Once his magic isn’t overwhelming him, he will have a chance to recover. Nothing is certain, but his chances are better now than they were before.”
“The Quin position on sorcery starts to make a little more sense after something like that.” Hastily, Tealyn added, “That doesn’t mean I agree with their other tenets, or that I approve of their disrespect toward yourself and your line, sir. I’m loyal to the Terre, not Celadon Cremnitz.”
I should have followed up with her sooner, Verte thought, mentally kicking himself for neglecting that duty to his new guard. As it was, now wasn’t the time to get into a conversation about the risks and benefits of sorcery.
“You might find it useful to speak to Dove, the counselor working with Wenge,” Verte suggested, as they turned the corner to the block where Celadon’s home was. “She could offer perspective on your concerns, and update you on Wenge’s condition.” Verte would check in with him as well, though it would probably take Wenge a day or so to recover from the brand itself enough to want visitors.
Tealyn nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
The tenements and townhomes on the Cremnitzes’ block were well maintained, their paint crisp and shutters straight as the occupants opened them to greet the warm spring morning. By contrast, the cobbled street looked loose and shabby, clearly neglected.
I should talk to the district manager, Verte noted absently, as he moved to avoid tripping on a cobble. Ice and snow always heaved some cobbles out of the road each winter, but this seemed particularly bad, as if the public maintenance crews had been neglecting this area for some time.
Or they’ve been refusing aid from the crown. How many of the homes in this area belonged to Quin families?
When Verte and Tealyn reached their destination, the first person they saw was neither Dahlia nor Celadon, but a teenage girl with curly blond hair. She was tending a small garden grown in containers around the front door with a level of violence not normally required to pull weeds and deadhead flowers.
“Is everything all right?” Verte asked her, alarmed by her vehemence.
She looked up with a start. Her blue eyes widened, and she wiped dirty hands on her apron before giving a half curtsey, stopping, and saying with less fluster than her manner suggested, “I’m not sure how I am supposed to greet you.”
Verte had heard that Celadon had a younger sister, but had never expected to meet her.
“You could say good morning,” he suggested.
She glared at him. “Oh, do you think it is?” she asked acidly. She waved a hand in the direction of the house. “Because I think it is a terrible morning, and I think that is your . . . fault.” She hesitated only once in this pronouncement, when raised voices from inside interrupted her.
Verte winced. He couldn’t make out the words from here, but he recognized Celadon’s furious voice.
“Have they been fighting long?”
“Oh, only since Dahlia said you invited her to the festival,” the girl replied. “Celadon told her the only reason you would invite a naïve country girl to the ball is because you think she’ll be too awed and provincial to object when you decide to spread her legs. Dahlia called him a close-minded fool and said if anyone was naïve it was him, since he clearly wasn’t willing to educate himself or listen to any point of view different from his own. Then Celadon realized I
was listening and ordered me outside.” She spat each word at him defiantly, and at the end tossed her head. “I have a date, too, but I’m not foolish enough to tell Celadon about it.”
It was not Verte’s responsibility to help Celadon manage his little sister, even if he had wanted to. It was his responsibility to rescue Dahlia from the mess he had caused for her. “I should get in there.”
Conflict was clear on Tealyn’s face, in the pinch of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes. Verte had a feeling she would love it if he said, Go in and get Dahlia and don’t let Celadon get in your way. Instead, she said, “I will wait at the door unless you call me or I hear threats, sir. The presence of an armed guard is more likely to escalate the situation.”
Verte nodded at her wisdom, then reached for the door with no solid idea just how he intended to defuse the argument. As he pulled it open, he heard Celadon bark, “I will not have a royal slut staying under the same roof as my aunt and sister.”
“In what wild dream did you think I would want to stay here, after this morning?” Dahlia retorted. “I’ll grab my belongings and be on my way.”
“I’ll have Ginger pack them for you. You can—”
At that moment, they both saw Verte. Each, Verte noted, had a blotch of reddening flesh on their face. Who had hit whom first? Either way was intolerable, given Celadon’s larger size and Dahlia’s position as his guest.
Before Verte could speak a word, Dahlia said flatly, “Oh. You’re here. Well, I’m ready to go, as you can see.”
She turned her back on Celadon and stormed through the front door.
“Your line poisons everything it touches,” Celadon declared.
Verte had heard it all before. “I assume I will see you at the festival,” he sighed.
“You know you will.”
Without bothering with pleasantries, Verte followed Dahlia. She had paused to say goodbye to Celadon’s sister, who threw herself forward to hug Dahlia fiercely. “My brother is stupid,” she declared. “I know you’re not a . . . what he called you.” She glared at Verte, eyes flashing, and added, “But that doesn’t mean you know what he wants from you. Be careful.”