Verte could think of better uses of his time than being a middle-man between a pretentious Osei slave and the highly qualified housekeeper, but the last time he had tried to dismiss Kegan—over a matter of whether the ball would include fiddle music or a woodwind quintet—the slave had warned that the Osei might call the entire visit off if they felt insulted.
They couldn’t afford that.
In their natural forms, the Osei were large enough to lift a merchant vessel clean out of the ocean—or sink it in the blink of an eye. As if that wasn’t enough, the beasts were also shapeshifters, capable of taking the forms of humans. It was rumored they could read minds. All that made them uncomfortable allies and potentially deadly enemies.
Kavet was an island. They could not rightly take their place in the wider world when crossing seas the Osei claimed as territory exacted strangling penalties. But the old treaties had been fashioned in a time when Kavet had been a handful of city-states allied under the Terre line. They had possessed some of what was now called old magic, but it hadn’t been enough to give the young nation an advantage against the Osei, who claimed dominion over all the world’s waterways.
Times had changed. Kavet had changed, and it was time to renegotiate.
Chapter 2
Dahlia
Dahlia peered into the half-empty canvas sack that held all she had to show for five years of teaching: a few personal notes from her students and their parents, a scattering of trinkets, and several pens and bottles of ink.
Is that really all?
Over the years, she had collected books, samplers, examples, lesson plans, and supplies she could have claimed as her own, but she planned to leave them for the next teacher who used this room. She wouldn’t need them. She was done teaching.
Her heart gave a little thump.
“Dahlia?”
The concerned query came from Maimeri, a fellow teacher and good friend who had come to help Dahlia pack away the remnants of one life in preparation for another.
“I’m sorry,” Dahlia replied. “My mind was a million miles away.”
Breathing past her anxiety and trying not to let her hands shake, Dahlia took down the decorative quilt, which had been embroidered with one of the sixteen key tenets of the Quin faith: Holy are the teachers and the students, for study and learning are the heart of faith.
She had almost left it because it had been intended as a gift for a teacher, and that wasn’t what she planned to be. However, the quilt spoke to teachers and students, and once she left this small, tightly knit Quin community, she intended to be a student once again. She would learn everything there was to learn in the city. If it truly was as rife with sorcery and corruption as everyone warned her, maybe she would come home, or maybe she would find a place there working to improve the situation.
She was making the right decision; she knew it. She just needed her stinging eyes and pounding heart to believe her.
“Just fifty miles, I suspect,” Maimeri corrected, reaching over to squeeze Dahlia’s hand. “You already know I think you’re mad, and I already know I’ll never talk you out of leaving, so I’m not going to give another lecture. I just—” She paused, eyes widening as if something just occurred to her. “Has anyone warned you not to look for or accept any employment near the harbor?”
“Why would I go looking for a job at the docks?”
Everyone Dahlia knew had warned her of the dangers of Kavet’s capital city, Mars, but this was the first time anyone had suggested she might consider work at the busy shipyard. All she had ever heard of being down at the docks, aside from the obvious ships, were taverns and brothels.
Maimeri sighed. “I know you. I know you’re better suited to a farm than a classroom—oh, I don’t mean it that way,” she said, her freckled face flushing as she worried she had given offense, though Dahlia hadn’t taken any. “You’re a fine teacher, but you don’t love it. You’d rather be driving a plow through rocky fields in pounding rain than give one more grammar lesson. There are jobs at the docks that call for education like yours, scribes and tariff secretaries and the like. I can imagine you thinking it would be exciting to work there, where you could see the ships come and go and interact with captains from far away . . . oh, dear. You had no idea, did you?”
Dahlia hadn’t.
“You think I could get a job like that?” she asked, intrigued.
“No!” Maimeri gasped. “I didn’t mean—oooh, well, someone in the city would have mentioned it, impressionable girl like you, so it’s good I brought it up.”
We’re almost the same age, Dahlia resisted the urge to say.
Maimeri said, “You know my mother came from the city.”
Oh, this was going to be one of those stories. Dahlia perked up. Maimeri started all stories about her mother the same way, as if Dahlia might have forgotten her mother’s origins since the last hundred times she was reminded, but that was fine—the stories were usually worth hearing. Maimeri’s mother had been born a child of A’hknet, an amoral sect condoning all sorts of scandalous behavior, ranging from theft and lying to witchcraft and prostitution. The path that had finally resulted in her giving up her wild ways and swearing fealty to the Followers of the Quinacridone out of love for Maimeri’s father always reminded Dahlia of a fairy tale.
Maimeri continued. “She says girls and ladies who live or work down at the docks are taught to always carry a knife. Anyone who looks like she won’t be missed is liable to be picked up by slavers.”
“Slavers?” Dahlia echoed skeptically.
“To the Osei,” Maimeri hissed, dropping her voice as if afraid the creatures in question would overhear her. Dahlia instinctively flicked her gaze toward the window, beyond which she could sometimes see the Osei gliding on their immense, jewel-colored wings. Today she saw only a shepherd sitting on a rock, watching his charges. “A ship captain who’s in debt to the Osei and can’t pay in coin can pay in people. I’ve heard the Osei eat them.” Maimeri shuddered. “You’re going to be alone in the city, no longer surrounded by people who know you and will protect you. If you’re working down at the docks, sooner or later someone is going to decide you won’t be missed, and well, you’re a pretty girl. You might be valuable.”
If the Osei would just eat me anyway, why does it matter what I look like? It seemed like a logical flaw to Dahlia, and besides, it wasn’t true. With enough effort, she could pass as moderately attractive, but that kind of vanity was frowned upon. Most days she was acceptably bland, with her straw-blond hair tied back to keep it out of the way, her hazel eyes unpainted, and her strong fingers tanned by sun, hardened by labor, and frequently stained with ink.
Whether or not Maimeri was right about what the Osei did with their slaves, Dahlia had heard they kept them. Everyone knew that, though she had never stopped to consider how they got them.
“I’ll avoid the docks,” she assured Maimeri. Her eyes fell on the clock and she jumped. She had dawdled in the classroom far too long. “Oh, goodness! I have to go! Mister Cremnitz is going to be here tonight and I promised Mother I would help prepare dinner.”
Maimeri’s eyes widened. “Celadon Cremnitz?”
Dahlia nodded distractedly, hoisting the canvas sack and taking one last look around the tidy room.
“I saw him speak when I visited the city for market day last year,” Maimeri whispered. If her voice became any lower and more dramatic, Dahlia wouldn’t be able to hear her. “He’s—he’s—” She stammered, and Dahlia fought a grin at the ever-loquacious Maimeri brought to speechlessness by a city boy. In a few moments, she gulped audibly, then went on. “You know he goes before the Terre himself to protest unjust laws? He spoke at trial for a Quin boy who was jailed for refusing to greet Terra Sarcelle by title.”
“I’ve heard.” Celadon’s famed virtue was why Dahlia’s father trusted him to be her chaperone on her three-day journey, and his aunt to be her host until she was independently settled in the city. Dahlia had heard enough Celadon Cremni
tz stories in the last month that she could only hope they were exaggerated.
“Maimeri, I need to go. I’ll write to you when I’m settled.”
She hugged the other woman, and discovered there were tears in her eyes.
“You don’t need to go,” Maimeri said.
“I do. Thank you for—” She broke off, thinking of the all the days they had spent curled up in front of the hearth at either Dahlia’s house or Maimeri’s, planning lessons, grading papers, and debating pedagogy, politics, religion, or even just town gossip. “For everything.”
They separated reluctantly, but there wasn’t time for a longer goodbye.
Dahlia dashed home, bordering on unseemly as she swung a leg over her horse’s saddle too quickly to arrange her skirts properly and thus flashed a great deal of leg at anyone who happened to be looking. Her mother kept trying to convince her to buy a pair of riding pants, but the ride to and from work wasn’t long enough to justify an entirely different outfit when a saddle blanket did the job well enough.
At home, she was immediately greeted by a gaggle of unruly ducks, who were barely bright enough to avoid being trampled by the horse as they demanded acknowledgement and begged for handouts.
Maimeri had been half right earlier. When sitting in a classroom teaching the same lesson for what felt like the hundredth time, answering the same questions, and making the same corrections on papers, Dahlia had daydreamed about being home, tending the ducks, horses, and goats, and helping to turn and plant the fields alongside her father. When this was all her life had been, though, she had craved opportunities to challenge her mind.
Like most Quin, Dahlia’s father believed that everyone benefited from education, so he had supported her interest in continuing her studies even when that meant his only child became a teacher instead of taking over management of their vast holdings. He and Mother were both hale and healthy; they had faith that Dahlia would find her calling, then eventually settle down with a good man who could help care for the lands as she followed more academic pursuits.
“You could still change your mind,” her father said as she passed him in front of the henhouse. This was the first day that had been warm and clear enough to send the ducks and chickens outside, allowing for a thorough spring cleaning. “How could you walk away from all this?” He lifted a shovelful of straw and excrement with a forced smile.
He didn’t want her to leave the farm, and he wanted even less for her to go to the city, but—Numen bless him—he supported her decision despite that. Celadon Cremnitz’s father served on the Quin leadership council with Dahlia’s father; when it had become clear that Dahlia’s restlessness wasn’t going to subside as the seasons changed, her father had used his connections to arrange for her escort and support in the city.
“Maybe I’ll bring a duck with me.” Dahlia smiled back.
“Celadon is here,” he said. “He arrived about midday, says the roads are better than he expected. I didn’t realize he was so . . .” He trailed off.
Dahlia tried to fill in the blanks based on what she had heard about the famous preacher, who had left his home and moved to the heart of the wicked city to support the Quin movement there. “Severe?” she suggested. “Eloquent?” People who had seen him or heard of him raved about his charismatic sermons.
“Pretty,” he huffed, the crease between his brows deepening. “This is the man I’m sending my daughter off with.”
“From everything I’ve heard,” Dahlia said around a chuckle, “he would die of shock if I dared do something as improper as flirt. I think you’re safe.” Belatedly, she processed more of what her father had said. “He’s here? Already? Oooh, Mother is going to kill me for being late!”
She hurried inside, trying to rush without looking rushed. She wanted to make a good first impression, not only because Celadon was such a well-respected figure in the community, but also because she was going to be living with his family for an indeterminate length of time, and possibly working with them as well if she struggled to find other employment.
The image she confronted when she entered the room was the last she had expected, and she burst out laughing.
A young man who could be no other than the famous Celadon was sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth with a duck upside-down in his lap as Dahlia’s indomitable mother hovered over him, apparently instructing him on the finer points of petting the molting feathers from its belly.
Her laugh startled Celadon, who jumped and lifted his blond head, revealing blue eyes that widened farther when the duck in his lap panicked, squawked, flipped itself over and pecked at him, sending the small pile of down Celadon had gathered floating into the air.
Dahlia’s mother tended to the fleeing duck and Celadon stood hastily, brushing feathers from his clothes as he regained his composure.
He had a soft face, a bit of what Maimeri called “city plumpness,” and lacked the deep tan common in farming communities. Combined with his blond hair, which had just enough curl for the tips of strands to twist away from its otherwise neat, short style, the result was indeed “pretty,” in a cloth doll kind of way.
Dahlia tried to be kind and cease her chuckling as Celadon approached, clearing his throat and offering his hand. “You must be Dahlia?” When she nodded, not trusting herself to open her mouth yet, he added, “I’m Celadon Cremnitz. It’s an honor to meet you at last. My father speaks quite highly of your family.” He glanced out the door where the duck and Dahlia’s mother had escaped. “It will be all right, won’t it? I don’t have much experience with ducks.”
He had a nice voice, deeper and more resonant than Dahlia would have imagined based on his looks.
She managed to compose herself enough to say, “It will be fine. I’m sorry I startled you. I couldn’t believe my mother had a guest . . .” There were the giggles again, partly prompted by the memory of Celadon’s horrified expression when the duck flailed away from him, but more so the result of weeks of anxious planning and waiting. She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I just . . .” From everyone’s stories, I pictured someone sharp-chinned and hard-eyed, skinny and severe like the preacher at the town meeting hall, who would never deign to do something as mundane as help pet down from a duck. “I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
The rest of the evening passed less eventfully; Celadon was complimentary of everything served for dinner, stood whenever one of the ladies stood, and seemed to win over even Dahlia’s father. He wasn’t as rigid and intimidating as Dahlia had expected based on rumor, just calmly, politely proper, in a way that made Dahlia sit a little straighter at the dinner table.
No one would ever say Dahlia Indathrone’s parents hadn’t raised her right.
Chapter 3
Naples
Naples sprawled at the back of the Cobalt Hall temple, flipping idly through his notes on the creation of warm foxfire.
He had been quite proud of the globes he had made for the central fountain, which had kept the water from freezing all through Kavet’s frigid winter. He had made four last fall; one had lasted all the way until this spring before finally guttering out. The others, he had replaced as they failed, each new one a bit stronger, brighter, and warmer than the last, but making foxfire, while exceptionally useful, nicely lucrative for the Order, and certainly the latest fad, was getting tedious. He was glad Henna had taken the commission for the city stables.
If he had to spend another week building one of those itty magical flames to strength, like a mother bird tending to a runty chick, just so it could keep some horses from shivering for a few months, he was going to lose his mind.
He wanted to do something new. Something big. Something no one had ever done before. The desire was like kitten claws drawn down his spine, an itch so sharp it bordered on pain which he simply couldn’t find a way to scratch. He was so restless he had actually accepted a job—a stupid, mundane assignment to serve in the palace during the festival ball—just for a break in the
tedium. Hopefully he would earn a little pocket money while he was at it. Maybe someday he could travel, and seek rare and foreign magic to bring back to Kavet.
“Naples?”
He tilted his head to see Dove, an expert at old magic, who had spent many long hours trying to teach him to harness the Order’s oldest and most respected forms of sorcery. Naples’ complete lack of ability with that power was unusual in their order, and more and more as he came of age he caught Dove looking at him with dismissive pity.
“Yes?” he asked.
“There’s a visitor for you,” she said. “I’m on my way out, so I can tell him you aren’t available if you’re in the middle of a project.”
Naples looked at his books dismissively. He wasn’t busy exactly, but he was in a lousy mood, and unsure if he was fit for company. “You’re working?” he asked, taking in Dove’s somber attire. At home in the Hall, she dressed as casually as any of them did. The modest blue-gray dress she wore currently, buttoned up the back with a row of onyx beads and embellished only with swirls of darker blue embroidery at the cuffs and high collar, was one he only ever saw her wear on vigil visits, when she went to comfort the bereaved who were having trouble recovering from the loss of a loved one. Her strength with old magic gave her insight into grief and the kind of healing that needed to follow both expected and unexpected death.
Unlike his hot sorcery, which, she had once remarked when she thought he was out of earshot, was, “Very good at producing impressive baubles and luxuries, but not essentially useful on a day-to-day basis.”
Her mouth set in a grim line. “A messenger from the palace just informed me that Wenge is taking the brand. I’ve volunteered to serve as his counselor.”
Naples winced, sucking in a breath. He knew the name. Dove had been trying to convince Wenge to accept help with his power for years, hoping he could avoid this fate.