Of the Divine Read online

  “They see us as animals who can be bought or sold like chattel,” Verte agreed. “We’re hoping to change that impression.”

  Henna started to pace as she ranted, her tone raised but her words clear and logical. “It isn’t how they see us that’s the problem. It’s how they see themselves. Osei don’t possess a notion of freedom. They don’t have aspirations beyond those set for them by their Queen or their House. You can try to explain to them that humans cherish independence and self-determination, but you might as well preach individuality to an ant or a bee. They don’t understand. They can’t understand.”

  Without knowing her history, Verte hadn’t realized how unique a perspective Henna might have on the creatures. To his knowledge, there wasn’t anyone else in Kavet who had ever lived among the Osei. The potential value of her wisdom outweighed the risks of telling her. He was certain his parents would agree.

  “We haven’t had Osei on Kavet soil in centuries,” he said, “but we have discussed the issue with leaders from Tamar—” Henna scoffed dismissively “—and Silmat. We understand the difficulty of communicating with—”

  “If you discussed the issues with the so-called leaders of Tamar, you spoke to someone in the Lasable caste.” Her accent, which had previously been local with just a hint of the rolling Tamari tongue, became stronger as she talked about her homeland. “What do they know? They live in the city. Those who live on the water know the Osei cannot be regulated. They are seen in the same way as a tempest, a natural disaster that—”

  He interrupted her rising tirade with a soft voice. “Sorcery can mitigate the worst effects of nature.”

  Henna’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes widened as she caught the implication of his words.

  “You intend . . . to enchant . . . the Osei?” she asked. “You can do that?”

  “We believe so.” Verte looked around the garden, which was already a demonstration of Terre power doing what most sorcerers considered impossible. “My parents and I have been working on the spell for months. It needs to be done carefully, though. We need to lull them into believing that acquiescing to our demands is their own decision, based on respect and fondness.” Again, she scoffed, but it was softer this time. She was listening. “If you have any insight that could help the negotiations go well, I would be grateful. We need to avoid giving any offense during the days they are here.”

  She dropped to sit comfortably on the ground and idly warmed her hands on the gold foxfire, which cast ghostly shadows across her face as she moved her fingers in front of it.

  “The next few days,” she repeated. “You mean they’ll be here for the festival.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer it. “You will want a woman beside you. The Osei won’t speak to an unattached prince, since they have no status except as . . . I don’t know how it works, really, except that a prince seems to be considered no one until a queen chooses him. If the Osei see you and acknowledge you at all, they’re more likely to assume you’ve been presented as a valuable trade good than to deal with you as a man who has authority in his own land.”

  Verte nodded. “My mother will do most of the face-to-face negotiation with the Osei queen. My father and I, and the other men in the Silmari and Tamari delegations, have been warned to only speak to the princes. I had hoped to have you with me.”

  Henna shook her head at once, a tinge of regret in her expression. “I cannot guard my thoughts well enough to mingle with Osei for an evening. They would sense my hatred, and they might give you trouble for harboring an escaped slave. Find someone else.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do you want recommendations? I know two or three ladies here at the hall who have the comportment to manage a royal event but no interest in a longer relationship. My first would be Dove. She loves lavish parties, but rather wishes you had a sister.”

  The frank words and the implication—that she would happily hand him to another woman for the night, as long as she could ensure that woman had no interest in him—made him laugh aloud despite the seriousness of the topic.

  “I’ll find someone,” he assured her.

  “Can you do anything about the Quin? If you’re casting a delicate spell, the last thing you want is those fanatics holding their annual protest in front of the palace.”

  Verte sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth like foxfire next to him, and her heart pounding hard enough to make her skin vibrate. Despite her calm voice and careful poise, she was fighting panic. She leaned toward him, and he put an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close.

  “When have I ever been able to do anything about the Quin?” he grumbled. “There’s no reasoning with them. If I give them any hint their efforts might cause the royal house trouble, they’ll only redouble them. If I tell them the truth . . .” Even Henna laughed at that. The Quin blamed every evil imaginable on sorcery. Numini only knew what they would do if they learned the royal house was preparing such a powerful and delicate spell. “Short of rewriting the country’s laws to make peaceful protest illegal, I can’t stop them from gathering in public places to share their ideas.”

  “Phah,” Henna sighed. “What good is royalty if you won’t abuse your power?”

  “The Quin would say I abuse it plenty already.”

  She shook her head and reached out to caress one of the heart-shaped aquamarine flowers on the honeycreeper vine, triggering a waft of perfume like sweet whiskey. “There seem to be more of them every year. How can such a dismal sect attract such interest?”

  “If I succeed with the Osei, I’ll have time to deal with the Quin.” And if he failed with the Osei, the Quin would be the least of his problems.

  “The scars cross most of my back,” Henna said suddenly. “I’ve said all I plan to say to you about how I got them. The other thing you should know is that some of the Tamari won’t like what they see if they get a good look at me on your arm. I’ll have to tell you more about that at some point, but . . . not today. Not today. Are either of those things a problem for you?”

  Tamari culture was complex, and Verte didn’t understand all of it despite many interactions with the sailors, politicians, and aristocrats on holiday who frequently came to Kavet’s shores. He did know they had a strict caste system, which he imagined didn’t have much leniency when it came to allowing a woman to abandon her native traditions and resettle as a sorcerer in a faraway country.

  If Henna’s warning meant more than that, there was time to learn the details another day.

  “No, it’s not a problem.”

  “Good. That means there’s no reason I shouldn’t do this.” The hand that had been tickling the honeycreeper bloom reached up to stroke his cheek, then settled firmly on his shoulder to stabilize her as she turned and swung a leg over his. “You answered all my questions,” she murmured. This close, her skin smelled of incense and wood smoke from her ritual workings, and her warm breath held a hint of citrus and spice. “Now I’m ready to change the subject.”

  Her lips met his, and all thoughts of the Osei and politics fled from Verte’s mind.

  Chapter 6

  Naples

  The palace temple was behind a door in the middle of an apparently empty stretch of wall, which only appeared when Terra Sarcelle put her hand on it.

  “How—”

  “Simplicity itself, once the portal has been established,” the Terra crooned as Naples followed her through the dim passage into what appeared to be a small, private library.

  The room was lit by spheres of pure white foxfire—clearly the work of cold magic, but more steady and brilliant than any Naples had seen his mother or Helio make. Most foxfire was dim and flickered like a candle flame. This made Naples look around, expecting to see a window streaming sunlight.

  There were no windows, only shelves of books in all shapes and sizes, and rows of magical paraphernalia, most of which Naples recognized but some of which was a mystery. Instead of an altar, a sturdy, oblong table filled the center of the room, currently occu
pied by a man Naples had to assume was Terre Jaune, King of Kavet. He was dressed as casually as his wife, with his shirt collar untied and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

  When they entered, the king had four books open in front of him; he was taking furious notes in one while referring intermittently to the others. At first Naples didn’t think he was going to acknowledge his wife or her guest as they crossed to a blank section of wall at the back of the room, but just as the Terra raised a hand as if to summon another doorway Terre Jaune inquired, “A little young even for you, isn’t he?”

  Naples stiffened, unsure how to respond.

  The Terra didn’t hesitate. As she called the door, she murmured back acidly, “Oh, but he’s from such a wonderful bloodline.”

  Well, that answered that question. She knew who his mother was.

  Naples was almost certain the Terra hadn’t brought him there for the reason Terre Jaune was implying, but . . .

  He cleared his throat. “Er, what kind of work did you want me for?”

  As they passed into the Terra’s private ritual space, the air heated and became dense and smoky. The light in here was dimmer, provided by a row of tiny yellow foxfire orbs, each no larger than an apple seed, strung on a golden chain draped carelessly on the corner of a bookcase. Distracted from his question, Naples approached it, and discovered the strand was hot to the touch—not just warm, but scalding, like metal that had been left baking in the sun.

  “Not what my husband thinks,” she said. “Sex is a delightful way to raise our power, as I’m sure you’ve learned for yourself, but I’m rather particular in my partners. And if I’ve heard right about you, I’m not your type, either.”

  He cleared his throat again, determined not to let her drive him to speechlessness a third time in a row. “You didn’t seem to know who I was, downstairs.”

  “One must dissemble in front of servants,” she replied. “It wouldn’t do for gossip to say the Terra sought out her husband’s mistress’s son. The entire Cobalt Hall would be up in arms, convinced I meant to sacrifice you in some obscene blood ritual.” As she spoke, she began to gather materials, moving through the dimly lit space with confidence and grace. “That said, it would be a criminal waste of your potential to let you stay at the Cobalt Hall, and since my son favors his father when it comes to sorcery, I am in need of an assistant and apprentice. Or do you still feel you have more to learn from the Order of Napthol?”

  Naples’ gaze was already traveling over the bindings of the books within his sight. He had studied and mastered every tome of sorcery at the Cobalt Hall by the time he was fifteen—which wasn’t saying much, since hot magic was so new to Kavet that there were few resources on its use, and unlike his mother, he seemed utterly devoid of cold power. Henna’s power was similar to his own in type and strength, but hot power was so new that even she spent more time experimenting with him than instructing him.

  “You have more you could teach me?”

  “Oh, yes.” There was a purr in the Terra’s voice as she placed the items she had chosen on a sturdy but unremarkable hardwood table—oak or ebony, Naples thought, though it was hard to tell in this light. The surface seemed to be irregular, scarred by time or use, but otherwise there was nothing noteworthy about it.

  “You don’t use an altar?” he asked.

  The Terra shook her head. “Cold magic is finicky. It wants sanctity and respect and therefore is best focused by white silk and pure silver and other elaborate and pretty claptrap. My husband and son both have altars with those things in their private ritual spaces. The old magics want a tie to the land, and as the Cobalt Hall temple is on the highest floor, it’s useful to have an altar of clay or wood or stone. We on the other hand carry our magic in our veins. This is the only altar I need.”

  With that, she drove the tip of a knife into the already pitted wooden surface, next to a pile of fine metal chains—jewelry of some sort. She seemed to be waiting for Naples’ response, so he examined both more closely.

  Looking at magic was like trying to see two faces instead of a vase in the old optical illusion; if one had power, it took only a mental shift to see another version of the world on top of the mundane. The knife seeped with potential power, but it was clearly a tool, not enchanted itself. The chain . . .

  “Oh, lovely,” he breathed. The magic woven into the simple jewelry blazed so brilliantly it should have scalded the table beneath. The spell seemed to hum and whisper just beyond his ability to understand. “What is it?”

  He leaned closer, trying to listen to the undercurrents of magic and make out what they had to say to him.

  “A trap,” the Terra replied, with all the pride of a new mother. “My husband and son are working on the other half. Blending cold magic and hot is—oh, you trusting fool.”

  He heard a sharp crack and pain shot up his arm from his hand. He jerked back and realized the Terra had just slapped the back of his hand with one of the wooden sticks he had taken for kindling, hard enough to make his fingers tingle.

  Then, a moment later, he realized he was on his knees next to the table, and had been reaching for the jewelry with trembling fingers.

  Trusting fool, indeed. He refocused his thoughts, this time warding himself against outside power, and hugged his throbbing hand to his chest. He would have a nasty bruise there later, but the shock of pain had snapped him out of her spell.

  “What do you need my help with?” His voice was hoarse, breathy. “You could have any man in Kavet with that.”

  “I don’t want any man in Kavet,” she answered. “I need to snare an Osei queen.”

  He blinked up at her, trying to imagine the scope and danger of such a charm. If Terra Sarcelle had put those baubles on and deliberately focused the spell inside on him, he probably would have thrown himself at her and let her have him on the table, insensible of the fact that he had never been attracted to any woman, much less one over twice his age. Deliberately invoking such an impulse in an Osei, a creature known to disdain human opinions or preferences, could only result in disaster.

  “What possible benefit could come from having an Osei queen want you that way?” he asked, keeping his gaze anywhere but on the charmed jewelry as he unsteadily rose to his feet.

  “My side of the spell is designed to intrigue and fascinate,” the Terra said. “It is the first lure, a blaze of desire meant to draw the Osei near and hold them close. Jaune and Verte are creating the more subtle persuasive elements, since cold magic is needed for that work, but they will never be able to get their spells around the Osei unless I can snare them first.”

  “I’ll help if I can, if you tell me how,” he said. How long had it been since he had genuinely had to ask someone to teach him something? Though she may have already limited his efficacy; he experimentally flexed his hand, and winced. Nothing was broken, but it was swelling. “Do you have some ice I can put on this?”

  She made a tsk noise and said, “I have something better.”

  She reached out and he offered his throbbing hand. He expected a salve of some sort. Instead, she grasped his wrist firmly. He only realized she had pulled the knife out of the table when its blade cut a fine, swift line across the back of his bruised, swelling flesh, raising a thick line of blood.

  The noise that came from his throat was somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, the choked noise of a terrified animal. He was no healer, but he had studied enough anatomy to know how delicate the tendons in the back of the hand were. If she had cut them—

  The Terra dropped the knife with an indifferent clatter and slapped her palm over the wound. New pain, fierce and dizzying, stole his breath as her power danced between them. His knees weakened and he had to balance himself by grabbing a nearby bookcase.

  A cold draft enveloped him when she let go. He shivered at the absence of her magic, and looked despondently at his abused hand.

  No bruise. No swelling. No cut. No blood.

  “What . . .”

  Histor
ically, one of the primary responsibilities of those in the Order of Napthol was to act as healers, because old magic was excellent for repairing damage to both body and mind. Cold magic was excellent for curing disease and repairing damage done to the body by poison or infection, so sorcerers powerful with both of those types were especially versatile in the realm of medicine—Naples’ mother, Maddy, and Terre Jaune were both renowned for their healing abilities, which was how they had first become so close.

  One of the greatest criticisms of hot magic was that it was helpless in the face of illness or injury, which was why people like Dove saw Naples as exceptionally powerful—there was no denying that—but in an utterly useless way.

  Even if her methods were uncomfortable, the Terra had just done something most of the Cobalt Hall believed impossible.

  “There is so much you need to learn about our power,” she said, rather fondly for someone who had just taken a knife to him. “First, I need you to forget the Cobalt Hall’s mandates against the use of blood in sorcery. It has crippled you. If you wish to stay on as my assistant, and my student, you must accept that my ways are not the ways you’re used to. You must also understand that I am not gentle, or particularly patient. I will push you to your limits and maybe past them. We’ll see.”

  Naples looked away from his hand and stared instead into her intent green eyes. He’d had his share of generous, patient, cautious education at the Cobalt Hall, and he hadn’t tested his limits in what felt like years.

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Then let us begin. We’ll start with this.” She picked the knife back up from the table. Naples flinched instinctively, but she merely flipped it around and offered it to him with the same casual air as a Napthol novice handing out clean bed linens.

  “It’s Silmari made,” she said, as Naples took the knife from her and looked it over. It wasn’t long—not much bigger than a fruit knife—but the razor edge of the blade shone in the faint foxfire light. The handle was dark and slightly irregular; he thought it was bone. “You may keep it.”