by M.C. O'Neill
***
“It’s right through these doors,” Banda pointed to the large portal down the long hall. “Courthouse Rotunda Entrance - Circle of Law” was advertised before them in a less-formidable script than were the names of the dungeon’s circles. Arched over the grand verge greeted the incised motto, “This Scale Shall Never Sway.”
“Yeah, right,” Quen’die hissed in disgust.
“What are you on about?” Tam’laa frowned.
“I never even made it to a trial,” the grey elfmaid continued to spit. “Oh, the bulls had no problem putting me on the manaspike, though!”
Colonel Na’rundi’s brow cocked to that. “Look, Dee, this is all over with. Things are different now with the exodus and such. Everything seems to be breaking down. I cannot say I agree with it, but considering the world believes it’s basically the end, some things have been overlooked.”
“This won’t be the end,” Mavriel added. “I will see to this. We need to focus on the situation at hand and get Quen’die out of here.”
As the four shuffled down the corridor, the lights were already less dim. It seemed so ceremonial, as if the dungeon’s architects and interior designers used illumination to signal the glow of freedom the closer one got to the double doors.
“I don’t like this,” the Colonel announced with a whisper. “The entrance to the Circle of Law is unguarded. Perhaps it’s locked. I do hope that my governmental passcode works.”
Just as he had expected, the massive doors failed to budge. The elder gold elf set his tablet into the panel on the side of the gates and waited for the flow to accept his identification. In a quick, quiet response, the panel sang to them, “Colonel Banda Na’rundi… Gonduanna Defense Forces… Initializing… Authenticating… Handshaking… Accepted…Welcome to the Circle of Law, Colonel.”
The old lord let loose a huff of relief as the bulky portal clanked from its inner mechanisms. He knew very well that his access would be granted, but the guilt in his mind made for plenty of second guesses. He was conducting the most illegal of jailbreaks for a capital offender, after all.
Mavriel covered Quen’die’s prison uniform with a black blanket while the doors parted as if moved by snails. To add to the hasty disguise, he pulled a small fisherman’s cap from his satchel and plopped it on her head. The brim of the cover hid her green eyes, and the deva thought she looked very young and endearing as she craned her neck about to see the world before her; almost adorable.
“What the…,” Tam’laa blurted with the widest of eyes.
Displayed before the group of escapees, a presentation was being erected in the center of the rotunda. Lights, rigging, manamirrors and even a snack cart were being rushed around by technicians of all purposes. The scene was one of slight panic as the casting crews were hustling to get the broadcast underway.
“I don’t know what this is,” Banda said with eyes as shocked as his daughter’s. “It looks like some news report.”
“Or maybe a special exposé,” Tam’laa supposed. “This is way too much tech for just a late-breaking report. This is something big.”
Quen’die lifted the brim of her cover. The Xochian was the first thing that her eyes met, and the only thing. Sitting in the middle of the ring of spotlights sat Venn’lith Mitlan. The maiden was shaking her crossed legs with a nervous fidget as a stylist daubed cosmetics on her face. Like an infrared scanner, the sun elf was nothing more than a diminutive target in the middle of Quen’die’s enraged crosshairs.
Logic and common sense failed as she knew that now was the time and the only opportunity to act. It wasn’t revenge, as that would have been planned and better served after some cold time. Neither was this a mere reaction as the hate had been burrowing in Quen’die’s heart for weeks.
When Venn’lith used to give Quen’die the stinkeye in the hallways at school, she figured that the sun elf was just sizing her up and no real harm was meant. When the Xochian beat her and scratched her at her stupid beach house, Quen’die feared the maiden. When Venn’lith failed to beat her again at school, Quen’die rejoiced a minor victory because it only proved that the grey maiden was a better runta player. When Venn’lith destroyed her family later that very afternoon, the black feelings were shut and sealed. Quen’die Reyliss, for the first time in her life, truly hated someone. Then everything got worse from there.
Hate was the worst of all sensations, this she knew well. It made the face hot and the eyes swim. Quen’die could feel her teeth chatter as if she were trekking through the Vrillian Wastes despite the heat inside of her. The maiden’s legs were wobbling and she couldn’t feel her stomach. Daggers of energy, like red mana itself, were running up her back and into her shoulders. This power was flowing into her brain and out into the tiny world before her where Venn’lith was queen and sole survivor. Today was the day that her tyrannical reign would end.
“VENN’LITH MITLAN!” the bellow echoed throughout the stately halls of the rotunda and bounced from gantry to gantry upwards. Legal wardens and assistants of all sorts looked down from the spiraling balconies to find the source of the terrific boom. On the mezzanine above, a young paralegal dropped her mug of tea in a state of shock.
Her eyes were stupid, sightless and fixed on the sun elf who blithely turned her head toward the thunder. Her hair was done up in the most lavish of fashion, as usual, and the production’s spotlights made perfect hits on every one of the maiden’s good sides. She looked like a smoked-silver menagerie, but life-sized. Venn’lith was nothing more than a little princess of dainty politeness awaiting attack by a fearsome red troll from tales of yore.
Mavriel and Tam’laa tried to stop her once they realized what was happening, but the maiden’s speed was amped beyond normal elven ability. Years of runta matches and weeks of anger closed the long gap between Quen’die and her prey in what seemed like a single movement. The grey elf flew unassisted by limmer or cycle across the marble floor of the rotunda.
Her eyes were open and emotionless as she aimed to make grievous contact with the sun elf. Quezz was very proud of her as she scooted back from the perimeter of the set to allow Quen’die to perform the rite of passage into her infernal care.
For fear of their own safety, all the elves on that floor retreated from the area of the fracas. All the Aldebarans present joined their earthly counterparts, but only to observe. And observe they did, with due care. Prince Stolas stood back steadfast as he savored the crime unfolding before him with calm study. Quezz was all but drooling for her moment to seal a deal of stewardship from Mavriel.
Cadreth was a demon of a different color. His eyes darted with nervous energy between the awaiting form of his dearest love and the authoritarian glare of his prince. This was nothing to scoff at and his conflict was making him as sick as it was rendering him confused. From the looks of the Reyliss maiden’s rage, he would not have much time to make a decision and act upon it.
Quen’die Ferd’inna Reyliss did strike Venn’lith Cente’na Mitlan off of her styling stool at precisely 10:04 a.m. on Marsday, the twenty-third of Sixthmoon, 2789 in the Age of Mana. The Xochian rolled with the blow as she was not bracing herself for the unexpected. Such a surprise was fortuitous, as she could have broken her back if she had stiffened up in expectation.
Straddling the sun elf, Quen’die dug her knees into her victim’s armpits so she could not gain the leverage needed to escape the clutch. After three days of nothing but a delousing, Quen’die stank like a wild animal and moved much the same. The maiden’s odor assaulted Venn’lith’s nose and subdued her all the more.
“Help me! Security!” she screamed as Quen’die raised back a knobby fist, ready to strike. “Agh! The bruja stinks!”
On the balcony above this spectacle, the sun elf’s wish was granted. Armors of the courts filed into position with casters screaming to hellish arousal. So many innocent civilians dotted the floor below them, and none of their positions were optimal for a shot without hitting one.
“Blast!” one of the bulls cursed. “I can’t get a fix on the little witch!”
Noticing this, Mavriel bounded into the fray as he threw off his shadowy cloak. His brilliant wings flooded the rotunda, thus blocking the small opportunity for the snipers in full. One of the wardens lost his nerve and let loose a couple of bolts of red mana which hit the angel square in a wing only to bounce off without a scratch.
“Secure those casters, warden!” his commander screamed. “We aren’t clear!”
The three demons all inhaled a gasp of surprise upon seeing their heavenly enemy in his full glory. It was true that many of their forces were aware of his arrival, as Sammian had warned, but to see him without preparation was quite the startling jolt. Quezz trained her focus on Mavriel as would a long-departed lover who had come back from the dead. Her normally emotionless face dropped with shock and a hint of amusement. This is going to be good, she thought with devilish glee.
“Quen’die, don’t. Please!” Mavriel shouted. Such a bark was not usual from him, but that morning, everybody was reacting instead of relying on good sense. The whole courthouse had become a scene of tense chaos. As the deva saw it, nothing good would come of it either.
Sound was not an issue for the grey maiden and Mavriel’s caveat did not register. The only thing in existence was her fist and Venn’lith’s face. Quen’die would see to it that the two connected. As her young target was now in her clutches, her hate gave way to raw duty. It was her time for action.
With the first strike to the sun elf’s face, Quen’die relished seeing the posh maiden’s teeth fly out of her maw. Almost the entire top row skittered across the rotunda’s floor as rivulets of her blood flew close behind them in an attempt to catch up. The scratching sound of the ivory raked over marble sent shivers up Tam’laa’s trunk.
Stolas was beaming and couldn’t stifle his glee. This one had promise and he was eager to see what could transpire. “Don’t listen to Mavriel, Quen’die! Proceed!”
Quen’die didn’t hear the goetic prince’s plea for encouragement; she only wanted to finish what needed to be done. Follow-through was always a quality she had prided herself for, and if one started something, one should finish it.
The second blow crushed Venn’lith’s right cheek. Quen’die’s new muscles were surprising even her, but she figured that even without them, the damage would be no different. She was not fighting with meat, but dark spirit.
“Kill her, maiden!” the goetic prince barked. “I’ll have you made an officer! I promise you this!” the infernal began to laugh. “You can even have an entire legion!”
This alarmed Cadreth as his tears were becoming unstoppable and he could no longer hide them. His eyes began to drool for the horrid damage done to his love before him and the pain of having to juggle the dire decision of saving her or risking a terrible offense to his office.
Her hostility was failing to wane, and still smoldered from her guts to her brain. Quen’die grabbed the Xochian by both her shoulders and slammed her glitter-strewn head down on the hard Thuless’in-imported marble. Rich brown contact lenses flew out of her eyes leaving behind the hellish yellow that they were. The grey elfmaid cared not why they were in such a state. At 10:05 a.m., Venn’lith Mitlan’s occipital nerve dislodged, leaving her blind in her left eye.
Eyes open, the Xochian saw her aggressor reared back for an assured killing blow. So much terrible harm had been done about her head, that it was sure to be irreversible. Not a doctor or health warden on the earth could bring her back to the maiden she had been a few minutes ago. So much blood seeped out of her face that it was nothing but a grisly red mask.
“Quen’die! If you do this, you’re out of my hands!” Mavriel peered over at his giddy counterpart nearby as he continued to cover the battle from the wardens above with his mighty wings. He noticed the asura was gloating in the anticipation of her hopeful ward’s downfall. “I’ll be forced to give you over to Quezz forever! Please, my love!”
Tam’laa looked upon her friend in horror. Never before had she seen her, or anyone else for that matter, so possessed by rage. The wide glare of hate was nothing short of alien to the gold elf. Without realizing what she was doing, Tam’laa thrust her hand into her satchel and pulled out the cold blade just in case she needed to defend herself. Chek’yiv’s blade.
Cadreth went for broke. He could not bear to idly obey his foul handlers any longer. This sun maiden was much more valuable to him than his station as an incubus, and he cared not for the assured punishment he would receive once summoned back to the Nine. “Quen’die! Stop! She’s pregnant with my baby!”
Although the rotunda of the courthouse carried echoes better than most of the architecture in all of Atlantis, sound and time had stopped for the crowd upon Cadreth’s statement. Quay’liss Dalian was tapping the breaking news into her tablet with wild effort. Mavriel maintained constant vigil over Quen’die, as did Quezz. Tam’laa stood at the ready with her blade in a very inefficient and untrained battle stance that was more or less just for show. Quen’die, at last, dropped her poise to strike her nearly-unconscious opponent with sluggish grace.
Stolas turned his long, thin head over to the weeping lust demon with deliberate meter, unable to arrest his shock and anger. His eyes burned into the youthful fiend. “What! You conceived a Merovai with an earthling, you idiot? What did we say about this before the operation? Fool!”
Cadreth stood to his full height in seething defiance. “Oh, if you think I’m the only one who has tasted the fruits of this world, you are sorely mistaken, old coot! There are scores of us now! What did you expect from one of my ranks when you assigned me to such a beautiful specimen?”
“All the more reason to snuff this little witch out,” the prince oozed from his clenched mouth. “We shall not have loose ends. Venn’lith is no longer of any value to me or this mission!”
Tam’laa was thrown back with a stony arm as the incubus wrenched the sword without any effort from the gold elf’s weak grip. The demonic lad knew very well what the blade was hewn of and he wanted to vomit for the few seconds it rested in his fists. “She is to me, you sick demon!”
Prince Stolas discorporated into a pool of black filth the very moment Cadreth sliced the cold iron through his neck. The goetic had no time to utter a protest in either pain or plea. Stinking goop befouled the smoked marble of the majestic circle, and the only thing left in it was the lavish robes the hellish regent wore that morning.
Mysteries were solved only to open new puzzles that instant. These were not only beings of another world, but life of a different nature. The abysmal pool of grue on the floor stank like the hell from which it was forged. Quay’liss Dalian was recording the whole event with a tiny manamirror on her shoulder and a tablet in her hand. The world had to see this event unfold and, love her or hate her, this was the precise reason why she was its premiere journalist.
Quezz walked backward with a slow measure, away from her comrade’s biting blade. Icy fear ran up to her brain, yet she tried to remain as impassive as always. This was not the time to let Cadreth get the best of her.
The asura’s scarlet hair undulated back and forth as she trod away with caution toward a side entrance of the circle. She was determined to make her way towards the Morning Star. With a slim finger, she pointed at the incubus in self-righteous accusation. “You’re dead, Cadreth. I’m telling the boss.”
Tears were wiping away the blood that covered Quen’die’s cheeks. The sorrow and disgust for herself from her attack made her want to lose her innards. Venn’lith did not deserve this, and she knew it well as her good sense had returned to her mind. She found she was no longer straddling the sun elf in combat, but holding her like a little baby. The water from her soul broke holes through the Xochian’s blood which covered her face in equal amounts. Quen’die bent forward all the closer and kissed her foe’s broken lips.
“Mavriel!” she cried through the ghastly red lipstick of Venn’lith’s lifeblood. “P
lease help us! She’s going to die!”
He bent down as the pair basked in his faint glow. Lifting the petite form out of Quen’die’s arms, the deva held Venn’lith close to his heavy chest. She began gasping short gulps of air with each second of his embrace. The glow blossomed to an illumination of solace with every passing moment as Venn’lith’s body repaired itself with steady progress in the holy light.
Her gasps became breaths and her breaths became sobs. Venn’lith had never felt so close to anyone in her life, including Cadreth, as she, at last, knew that she was back home. Sight and sound were returning and shattered bones were reforming as she spent each second in the glow of the Creator’s love. It was an energy that was unmatched upon anything her father could ever hope to trade for on the open market.
The deva raised her weary ears to his lips. “Your child is safe. You are going to be all right.”
Venn’lith raised a hand to her deformed mouth. It continued to feel odd to her. “My teef? “she blurted with a groggy lisp.
Wincing, Mavriel touched her thick lips. “Sorry, but we don’t do teeth. Eh, I hope you guys have a dental plan.”
“Mavriel,” the incubus touched his estranged comrade on the shoulder. “We must tell the world about Lucifer’s plot. The best way I can see that the message gets out is through Venn’lith.”
The angelic shook his blond head in slight amusement. Never before had he thought he would hold a friendly conversation with any of those who had rebelled. Despite his infernal faction, the demon was correct, and now was as grand a time as ever.
“I don’t see why not, Cadreth,” the deva gestured at the mirrors and lights surrounding them. “We have all we need right here.”
Cadreth took his love from Mavriel’s arms with gentle care. “Lith, do you think you feel up to making another late-breaking report?”
Quay’liss Dalian sidled up to the couple with Mavriel’s robe in her hands. The reporter was a whirlwind of frantic joy and determination. An amazing story was about to be broken. “Yes, Lith, I’m right here for you. My mirrorcasters recorded it all and we can feed it into the playback flow. We just need Cadreth to fill us in on the whole situation. You owe it to the world to expose this! But first, you had better cover-up with this robe. You’re kinda, well, gory.”
Venn’lith looked down at the impressions of her beating. Her silvery gown was marbled with streaks of red. Wrapping herself in the tenebrous garment, the sun elf thought she looked more like a humble Kamdenite milkmaiden than a wealthy Xochian. Remembering the state of her eyes, she had to think with haste before she could present herself to the public. “Eh, Quay’lith?”
“Yes, honey, anything.”
“Can I borrow a pair of thunglatheth?” the maiden pointed a quivering finger to her glowing alien eyes. “I don’t want everybody to thee me like thith.”
The unnerving sight at last hit the newsie. What a strange side effect, she thought. Sans teeth, the maiden wasn’t doing too hot with her oratory skills either. “Uh, sure, baby. And, eh, I think you better let me do the talking, okay?”
Quen’die knelt shaking in a heap of herself; her arms crossed her legs while she rocked with a slight bob. She lifted her green eyes up to Mavriel. So much shame and regret filled them and she feared for her soul for what she had just done. “Mavriel, I… Please.”
He knew she wanted him to hold her and that was what he did. The angelic’s embrace was meant for healing inside and out. All fear slid from her spirit, but the pain of her actions of that morning failed to follow it. “I’m so sorry, Mavriel. I almost killed her! I never want to feel like that again. I don’t care about all the trouble she caused me. I want to forget about all of this! I love that beautiful fiend!”
With a soft whisper, her deva held her even closer in his glorious warmth. “Quen’die, you won’t be able to forget this as long as you live here. But already, you have forgiven and that is so much for the better. Amnesia is a disease, but forgiveness is a blessing.”
After the longest time in his gentle clutch, Mavriel lifted his ward to her feet. “We need to get you out of here. This is just the beginning of your calling. I’ve seen to it that you will be in exile for some time. You will be hiding away at the home of the lad whom you call “Face.” I will be with Colonel Na’rundi and Tam’laa, as will your father and grandmother. The colonel has decided it is better that you are split up from us. Everyone is safe for the time being, but we must prepare ourselves quickly for the next step.”
“What is this step, Mavriel?” she gazed up into his warm eyes.
The look in those eyes turned grim. “It won’t be easy. The whole world will soon be in immediate danger once this broadcast goes live.”
Quen’die sniffled back a heavy burden into her nose. It had dawned upon her that there was no doubt she was “chosen,” as that notion was clearer to her than ever. What she was experiencing was true responsibility on her shoulders. The weight of the world. Angst. She was beyond sleepy. Pure surrender she gave to her angel and she reveled in it. Such a male was nothing less than she had ever hoped for, even in her royal fantasies. The deva was the most beautiful soul, she swallowed. She needed the kind of rest that the usual six hours could not remedy. “Okay, but first, I really need to take a hot waterfall. Stinky Quen’die.”
He smiled. “Yes, this is true.”
Matron of our Doom
Deafening roars of boos and hisses congealed into a slow, united chanting outside the Circle of Law on that overcast morning. The people of Corosa City wanted Quen’die Reyliss’ head for what she had done to the docks, so the news reported. Signage of all forms bobbed up and down throughout the crowd. Sandwich boards, posters, and banners dotted the throng of disgruntled elves, some of which were prophetic with ominous accuracy (QUEN’DIE REYLISS: MATRON OF OUR DOOM) while others were brutal and lowbrow (QUEN’DIE REYLISS SUCKS). Many others were simple declarations of love for the adolescent star of today’s special broadcast (VENN’LITH, MARRY ME!).
Ferd’inn Reyliss slunk back low in the waiting utility coach for his comrades to rush out of the Circle’s doors. This escape plan was going to be tenuous at best and he didn’t account for the broadcast event when he and his old friend had devised the plot the other night. There was much anger and energy out on those steps of the stately circle that day and it was all directed in livid harmony at his poor daughter. They should have tried the breakout after curfew when the steps were bare, but that would be inherently suspicious.
In the back of his mind, Quen’die’s father wondered if he should just plow his vehicle through the crowd with all four doors open the very moment the entrance of the circle split. That would be quite a spectacle, he chuckled to himself with nervous glee. No, it would all have to go by the book, considering his daughter’s rescue party even made it that far. For all he knew, he fretted, Banda and his Tam’laa were being thrown in cells of their own all while he chewed on his knuckle.
He craned his neck high over the coach’s trackball with an incessant bobbing like a skittering meerkat. The lord wasn’t aware he was doing it half of the time, as it was like an obsession. He wasn’t just waiting for his daughter’s escape party to appear, he knew in the pit of his soul that he was hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife.
It had been so long since he last saw her on that terrible Moonday afternoon. Glynna did anything she could to make herself as scarce as possible from his eyes. Perhaps avoidance was a blessing, he considered. How horrible it would have been to have to continue to see her in the shadow of that terrible lout Centeo Mitlan. The dour look that was assured to be on her face when she saw him would hurt even worse. Such a look was one of complete detachment. No longer would she raise an eyebrow in mirth-laden disappointment, but just drop her features as if to communicate, “Oh, no - it’s you.”
As Lord Reyliss waited outside the side entrance, he marveled at how crowded even this portion of the building’s curve was. These people were out for blood and they wanted
to hear the most ghastly of news from Venn’lith’s lips. Since her arrest, there had been a complete media blackout regarding his Quen’die, and not knowing anything about her well-being set him beside himself.
Glynna was, in all his sanity’s fortune, nowhere to be found, but one familiar face did float before the enraged horde. It took some time to register her form as she was out of her normal, cheerful context and the red uniform was not her usual attire. Lauryl’la Hay’cenn was barking orders for the crowd to stay behind the temporary wooden barriers that separated the roiling cull from the steps to the circle. Every now and again, she would bang her truncheon against the ramparts whenever some of the protesters got too close to the perimeter. Ferd’inn, to be frank, thought she looked a bit ridiculous playing civil warden. Her parents would have been much more professional about their duties, but the maiden was still young and the general climate of the exodus must have been just as stressful to her as it was for the rest of the world.
After all had been arranged, Ferd’inn decided to opt-out of Hal’rinn’s offer with the wardens. It just wouldn’t be his kind of gig, he figured as he watched the young maiden, and he was thankful that he had chickened out. He imagined himself failing with miserable disgrace at the job. What would he say against a looter, he wondered? “Okay, perp! Eh, drop the goods, please, or I’ll, like, blow your head off or something. Um, sorry.” To that supposition, he managed a little chuckle.
With a nervous sigh, he continued to wait and devour his knuckles. Perhaps Banda and company would have to overpower Lauryl’la if she tried to arrest them. It was a horrible consideration as she had been a friend of the family ever since Quen’die was in novice school. The lord prayed under his breath that she would just step aside from them once they rushed down the steps. Colonel Na’rundi was a seasoned combat veteran and it terrified Ferd’inn to think what he may do to that whelp if she tried to interfere in a direct manner.
Ferd’inn’s casserole of worries was at last broken as were the side doors to the grand circle. What was this, his mind screamed after the great bang? Did Banda use some type of explosive to cover his exit? Upon adjusting his eyes, Quen’die’s father soon realized that the source of the blast was not elven at all, but of one of the demons.
She looked so much like his daughter, but an older version of her. Perhaps as how Quen’die might look by the time she would be in the middle of her stint at the university. This one had the same flowing red hair and fair complexion as his maiden. Unlike Quen’die, this being had giant dark wings, much like a moth, and a face that seemed unaccustomed to showing emotion.
The thick double doors blew into planks and shards behind her. She was skimming not far above the ground, but her speed and force were still terrific. Any fool who dared to pick a fight with this being would have to be insane and suicidal. Lauryl’la didn’t know what hit her as the demon picked her off her feet and dropped her square into the middle of the crowd without a bother to decelerate.
Not a soul in that throng was concerned for the young bullock. All of their eyes followed the unholy maiden’s trajectory into the lead-white sky over their city. At the base of their bewildered feet, Lauryl’la moaned in pain from her fall. “Ow! Please help! I need a doctor! I think it’s broken!”
Whatever had developed inside that rotunda that morning had to be a complete disaster, Ferd’inn assumed. He clutched the trackball until his red knuckles bleached white. No matter what just happened, he had to keep his nerve and stick to the plan. Although he wanted to tear away from that scene worse than ever, his daughter was in there and the situation had to be grim.
