The scene dissolved again, and Wyllin was in a grove of enormous trees with thorny trunks and dark purple leaves. Cerulean wandered through them, leaving behind wispy trails of magic that caused flowers to spring up in their wake, and the grass to grow thicker, and the air to become more fragrant. Wyllin loved this part, when they would come to the planet in large numbers to give back what they had taken using the gift of their magic. The City did not steal—it only borrowed from the planets. There were so many Cerulean this time, easily two hundred. Elysse was not the only one who had enjoyed being attached to Orial. Its weather was pleasant, its people fascinating, its waters and woods teeming with life. Wyllin’s favorite were the fish that had appeared in the Estuary once they had tethered here, one of the planetary gifts from Orial. The fish had fine filaments that hung over their eyes and they would light up in spectacular colors.

She wondered where Luille was among the Cerulean gathered—it was tradition for the High Priestess to be present for the replenishing. Then she caught sight of her, several yards away, her magic like a cloak streaming out behind her.

Wyllin spread her palms and called on her magic and it flowed through her like a river, faint trails emanating out from her as she walked, blessing the ground with fertile richness. She passed an elderly Cerulean named Meranne, who called out a greeting, the orange ribbon around her neck shining against her skin.

“Last day on Orial, Wyllin,” she said. “Are you sad to be leaving?”

“Yes and no,” Wyllin replied. “It will be nice to see a new planet.”

Meranne smiled and patted her moonstone, a brooch fashioned in the shape of a bumblebee. “I have just seen my green wife leaving offerings at Aila’s statue for a safe journey. She is eager for a new planet as well.”

“I will leave an offering myself when we return,” Wyllin said. “Perhaps—”

The rest of her words died on her lips as there was a whizzing sound by her ear, and then the back of Meranne’s head exploded in a burst of bright blue, her body crumpling to the ground.

Wyllin did not make the conscious decision to drop to her knees, but suddenly she was lying in the grass and there was whizzing all around her, and the Cerulean were running and screaming and falling.

Bullets, Wyllin thought, her mind clumsy as another whiz pierced the skull of a Cerulean running for shelter among the trees. Bullets, they are called. From a gun.