by S D Simper
Lara giggled as she leaned against Flowridia. “I can,” Flowridia said, then she gently took Lara’s waist. With care, she took small steps, leading her through the crowd. “Come on, empress.”
“You don’t have to call me that,” Lara mumbled, and her head fell against Flowridia’s shoulder.
Fortunately, Lara stood shorter than her, and she could support her well enough. With her hands firmly around the empress’ waist, Flowridia led Lara out the door and into the quiet hallway.
Two flights of stairs, down the hall, turn to the right, and there, she knew, were the Solviran guest suites. The stairs would be difficult.
Flowridia leaned down and set one hand at Lara’s knees, attempting to scoop her into her arms . . . but nearly dropped her instead. The empress giggled. “Trying to get under my clothes?”
“Lara, wait here. I’ll go find Thalmus. He can help you up the stairs.”
“Why are we going upstairs?”
“We’re taking you to bed.”
The ground began glowing. Flowridia barely managed to say, “Lara, what—” before the world shifted. The hallway disappeared, replaced by Lara’s guest suite. A large bed rested at the center, lit by stars gleaming through the window. Dizzy, Flowridia fell against the bedpost, steadying herself amidst Lara’s continued laughter. “All right,” she groaned. “That’ll work.”
Again, soft lips brushed her cheek. Flowridia pulled back. “You’re so sweet,” Lara cooed. “Please be sweet to me.”
“Will you please lay down, Lara?” Flowridia said, firm in her words. “I’ll help you take your shoes off—”
Lara fell onto the bed, dragging Flowridia with her. The empress lay on her back, still laughing to her heavily drunken self and smiling as she blushed. Flowridia sat up, grateful when Lara didn’t follow. “Will you stay here if I leave? It’s time for you to sleep now.”
Lara gave a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. “But I’m always alone.”
In slow movements, Flowridia placed her hand on Lara’s shoulder, endeared when the intoxicated woman held her hand. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
In Lara’s drunken state, Flowridia couldn’t say whether or not the smile gracing her lips was genuine or not. Etolié often said that alcohol caused men’s tongues to loosen, yes, but they never spoke lies.
The Solviran Empress had lost her father only seven months prior. Had she anyone else in her pristine palace?
Outside, the moon shone in a familiar grin, one that had haunted her for months. It beamed down upon her, upon Lara who still clung as tight as her drunken self could to Flowridia’s hand. Descended of the moon and stars, wielding power unmatched, the Silver Fire gave her an understanding of magic beyond what anyone else could dream to attain, but Flowridia realized in that moment that Lara held a very exploitable weakness.
Casvir had said that on the battlefield, the empress might best him. But alone in bed, Lara held her hand and kissed her cheek.
“Lara?”
A gentle, “Hmm?” left the empress’ lips.
Flowridia leaned in close and brushed aside errant strands of brunette hair from Lara’s face, fingers trembling at the touch of her soft skin. Lara smiled to blind the moonlight. So easy it would be, to place kisses on her cheeks and those soft, flush lips, to steal her heart and . . .
Flowridia’s very soul revolted at the wickedness of it. She pulled away, allowing the intoxicated empress to touch her hand and nothing more. She could not have left if she tried, for how light her head had become.
With evil thoughts prickling at her mind, ones that sickened her to her core, she waited until Lara’s breathing grew steady and deep. Flowridia withdrew her hand, grateful when Lara gave no reaction. She stumbled from the room, fearful of the plot echoing in her head.
Down the stairs and through the hallway, Flowridia returned to the ballroom against her better judgment.
The doors opened before she could reach it, and out slinked Murishani, attached at the lips to a young man. Interlaced with his fingers was the hand of a lovely woman, who giggled when Murishani pulled away and placed a kiss on her neck.
His bright eyes matched Flowridia’s, and to her surprise, he smiled. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“Well enough—Hold on.” she replied, eyes darting between the enamored young man hanging off Murishani’s hip, and the woman whose hair he kissed. “You’re not supposed to—”
“I’m not talking to you.” Murishani continued planting kisses on the breathless, giggling woman. “How is the sweet empress?” he cooed in her ear.
Flowridia frowned, yet dared to play his game. “She had too much to drink. I took her to bed.”
“A pity she couldn’t stay longer. She’s breathtaking, that one. I would have loved to speak with her. But it’s kind of you to care for her.”
Flowridia simply nodded, faint at the thought.
Murishani seemed to notice. He released his hold on the drunk, amorous couple and stepped forward. “Are you all right?”
“Remember the thing about your head being thrown to—”
“I’m talking to the stars.” He stopped exactly ten feet away from her and stared at the ceiling. “It must be difficult for you to be here,” Murishani said, and Flowridia heard nothing but sincerity in his soothing voice. “All this effort spent on dear Marielle’s happiness and love while you still fight to retrieve yours.”
“Insightful,” Flowridia said, her tone purposefully biting. “I didn’t think the stars were so heartbroken.”
“No, but I heard the moon might be.”
His words froze something in Flowridia’s blood.
He was baiting her. But the mere fact that he was able to meant he knew.
“I hear she’s desperately lonely, after the death of her father. Emperor Malakh was one of the only friends and confidants she had. Such an isolated existence in her palace of glass. All the wealth and power in the world . . . but no one to cherish.” Murishani gave a ‘tsk tsk’ noise. “Such a sad tale, that of the moon waiting for someone to light up her life.”
Everything inside of her screamed to stop, but she said, “You’re telling me nothing I don’t already know. What do you want?”
“I want the annoying little mouse in my home to see herself out, but that won’t happen until she accomplishes her goals.” Now, Murishani did look at her, not wicked but utterly serious. “And if I can help her, don’t we all win?”
Poisonous words, and Flowridia wanted nothing to do with them. She stepped away without another word, too sick to return to the ball.
She went, instead, to Casvir’s room, head swimming, content to lie down and let sleep soothe her.
But to her surprise, there sat Casvir at his desk, idly humming to himself as he perused his paperwork. He spared her a glance. “Back so soon?”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I made an appearance.”
She collapsed into bed, shoes and all. “Keep humming. It helps me sleep.”
He did.
* * *
When Lara left with Flowers, Etolié kinda hoped she just wouldn’t see them again. Alternatively, Flowers had an honor code and likely wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk empress.
She stood alone in the crowd, sipping her drink, mulling over Lunestra’s words, trying to make sense of the layered questions, and at about the point she might’ve felt awkward, she heard her name. “Etolié?”
She recognized Sora, but she didn’t know the Celestial woman accompanying her. Etolié guessed she was from the Theocracy, given her apparent association with the half-elf and because she hadn’t been seen with Solvira. “Etolié, this is Priestess Emilla Redin of the Theocracy of Sol Kareena. She’s a close associate of Archbishop Xoran.”
The woman had her hair done up in the way elegant women did when they actually knew what the fuck they were doing with a brush, whereas Etolié hadn’t brushed her hair today at all and was relying on a series of well-mainta
ined illusions to give off an aura of civility instead of homelessness. When Emilla offered a hand, Etolié accepted, but fought her surprise when the woman lifted it to her lips and placed a light kiss on her knuckles. “I’m absolutely delighted to meet you, Magister Etolié. I’m the one who was graced to receive your sixteen dissertations on why your charming kingdom should take possession of the holy orb.”
“Seventeen,” Etolié mumbled, but she smiled with all the radiance of a sheep among a pack of wolves, pretending to be one of them.
“To be quite honest, I’ve been petitioning your cause. I was hoping we might speak more of it; perhaps I could garner more information to sway him—or incentive.” When Emilla quirked an eyebrow, Etolié’s stomach lurched, but she was fairly confident she kept her head on her shoulders. “Perhaps after the party, we could speak in private.”
Sora, innocent little bastard, new to political jargon, kept her pleasant smile, as though a petition had not just been made to warm Etolié’s bed.
It was not the first time Etolié had been given the offer of seduction for favors. The first time had been during year one of Staelash, and Khastra had set the precedent of, “Absolutely not, Etolié.”
“He did say he’d forgive the border dispute, if—”
“We own nothing to Tholheim. We do not need them soft on us. Let me deal with this in my way.”
Khastra had sent herself and a number of Solviran troops to carve a literal line in the sand to mark the border, sneering all the while.
Etolié forced a smile because they did need the Theocracy soft on them, because if this woman held the sway she claimed to—
Unmistakable bravado lit the room with laughter. Across the crowd, Etolié saw a half-demon in the throes of riotous revelry. “I have a prior engagement with Solvira this evening, but you’re very kind to even think of me. Perhaps we can touch base tomorrow, before the wedding.”
“Of course, and my apologies,” Emilla replied, her eyes following Etolié’s gaze. “I would never wish to come between you and . . . Solvira.”
Emilla spoke politics as a second language, her insinuation understood. When the priestess bid her goodnight, Etolié politely accepted her farewell. They parted; she didn’t expect for Sora to tug on her arm not three seconds later. “Solvira can wait. She can get us the orb.”
“You are welcome to meet with her in private tonight, Sora,” Etolié replied, a bit of coldness filling her limbs—the same sort of nerves that always debilitated her when someone saw her as a body to fuck. “But I can’t.”
Sora clearly didn’t understand, but Etolié left her alone to stew anyway.
She wove her way through the crowd toward the magnetic laughter, realizing she had stumbled upon a contest of dangerous prowess.
Khastra sat at one end, several empty tankards of Nox’Karthan Ale spread around her, with Reginal on the other with Eionei’s brew. Khastra, being undead and immortal, would surely win any drinking contest—except, well, against Etolié herself, perhaps—but Reginal was old enough to have little to lose.
They had attracted quite the crowd, a large envoy of Solvirans, Staelashians, and even a few Nox’Karthans cheering on the two combatants.
Khastra and Reginal slammed down their tankards in tandem, erupting into riotous laughter. “Seven!”
“Where do I place my bets?” Etolié said as she met Khastra’s eye.
Save for the evidence of scarring across Khastra’s face, in her street clothes she looked as living as the rest. Well, not quite street clothes—she had cleaned up nicely, her long-sleeved tunic all shiny and embroidered, even with the eerie protrusion of her mechanical heart beneath the fabric.
Khastra grinned. “Speak to Jules. But this will not go on much longer.”
Reginal looked near puking, but he smiled right back. “I could best you in life, and I’ll best you in death.”
They started chugging number eight, and Etolié stood beside Jules, nursing her flask until the high priestess spoke. “I thought Lara was with you.”
“The Nox’Karthan Ale defeated her. Flowridia is escorting her to bed.”
They lapsed into silence, Etolié’s thoughts louder than even the game before them.
She recalled an interaction of years past, of the first she’d ever heard of those rumors—“. . . can’t believe he had the gall to insinuate . . .”
“But did it keep him away from you?” Khastra’s laugh held warmth enough to soothe Etolié’s irritation. “Let them believe what they will about us. It means nothing.”
And yet it had meant everything, for who would dare try to steal what belonged to the eldest of Ku’Shya? From her pocket dimension, she withdrew a few coins and placed them in the high priestess’ waiting hand. “On Khastra.”
Within three more rounds, Reginal vomited into a bucket and Khastra reigned supreme. When the half-demon stood up, she swayed ever so slightly, and Etolié ran to steady her, ignoring that her friend would crush her if she fell.
“Careful,” Etolié said, grabbing Khastra’s waist, which felt much more like iron than flesh. Death hadn’t hindered her physique. Etolié’s face fell at about the base of Khastra’s sternum, so when the half-demon brought her hand down, it met the small of Etolié’s back. “I want to be alive to collect my victory earnings.”
Most people had bet on Khastra, so the pool was largely spread out.
“Where is the empress?” Khastra asked, her hooves unsteady as she stepped. “I have not yet seen her.”
“Drunk as hell. Flowers took her to bed.” Etolié quickly scanned her oversized friend. “Do you need to go to bed?”
“This will wear off within a few hours.”
“Oh. That’s good. Guess you don’t need me, then.” She winked, but Khastra shook her head, apparently going to call Etolié out on her accidental truth.
“I always need you, Etolié.”
Gods, that was sweet. “You’re drunk. Have a seat.”
Khastra obeyed, settling right where she had just been. She kept her hand on Etolié’s waist, and the Celestial leaned into the touch, then plopped onto her lap.
Just like old times. Sincerely so—when the world was too loud and she was too sober, Khastra would shield her in her arms, letting Etolié hide her face, blocking sound with her hand and chest.
For a moment, Etolié contemplated faking the need to do so, but then she spotted a flash of white at the corner of the ballroom. “Oh, that damned orb,” Etolié muttered, shaking her head. “One of the Theocracy Priestesses invited me to engage in a ‘private conversation’ to discuss Staelash’s claim to it. Apparently she was a fan of my seventeen dissertations.”
Khastra, who wasn’t an oblivious idiot, shook her head, her grip on Etolié’s waist suddenly steel. “Tactless, to initiate diplomatic discussions at a party.”
“Since when did you pay attention in diplomat school?”
Khastra chuckled. “I attended meetings with you for twenty years. I learned from the best.”
“A couple thousand years working for Solvira obviously had nothing to do with it.” When Khastra continued laughing, Etolié smiled and rested her head against the half-demon’s shoulder, avoiding brushing against the mechanical protrusion as she settled contentedly against her chest. Still, her stomach brewed discomfort. “I’m still dwelling on it.”
Khastra, who knew her better than she knew herself, held her tenderly, allowing Etolié to hide behind her skin.
“I know you’re all happy with your new life,” Etolié said, as softly as she could in the noise of the party, “but do you ever miss Staelash?”
“Not particularly.”
Rude. “Getting all the glory from Nox’Kartha, then?”
Etolié didn’t know what Khastra’s expression was, given that her head was tilted to rest on Etolié’s. “Their army will be the largest I have ever led. I look forward to that day.”
That was . . . actually rather suspicious. Etolié’s political bullshit senses tickled
in her mind. “Well, my drunk companion, when do you think that day will be?”
Khastra’s hand appeared at Etolié’s chin, gently tilting it to face her. With a tenderness that shook Etolié’s very core, Khastra stroked aside her hair.
All the party faded. What remained was Khastra’s touch and glowing eyes.
“Nothing to worry about, Etolié. Trust me.”
Her hand fell away. The noise of the party returned, as did its guests and the silent whispers of those who thought the same as Priestess Emilla. They sat touching, yet Etolié felt like there were some great canyon between them—the stark chasm dividing the secrets they held and could share.
Again, the true costs of Khastra’s death weighed heavily in Etolié’s mind. She pulled her flask from the air, unable to tear her gaze away from Khastra’s as she took a sip. She offered it forward, and when the half-demon accepted, her stare ripped away, freeing Etolié.
Etolié stood up and accepted the flask when offered. Instead of drinking, she tossed it back into its pocket realm. “I’m obligated to stay until the end of tonight’s bit of fun.”
“Etolié, when is the last time you slept?”
“Well, not last night because I was talking with you.”
Exhaustion weighed on Khastra’s eyelids, but Etolié knew she didn’t need to sleep. “You have to take care of yourself. I am no longer here to care for you.”
Again with the gods-damned choking in her throat. All the bitchiness Etolié had so lovingly tucked away rose to strangle her. “You aren’t my mother, Khastra. Not that my actual mother contributed much to the ‘keeping me fed and watered’ fund—My point,” Etolié said, cursing her rambling tongue, “is I’m a big girl who can drink herself to death if she wants to, so fuck off.”
Somewhere in Etolié’s cold, black heart, she had hoped this might get a rise out of Khastra, but to the detriment of her guilt complex, her dearest half-demon only looked hurt. The gentleness in her tone cut deep. “Etolié—”
“Please, don’t,” Etolié said, suddenly swallowing tears. “I can’t handle you right now.” She walked away, willing herself to vanish into the crowd.
