by S D Simper
Her own words had surprised her, coming from some horrible place within her that was probably in touch with its feelings. Etolié drank, willing all her discomfort away, and opted to make nice instead, flattering nobles the whole night through.
Flowridia, who slept without the damned ear, dreamt a vision she hadn’t seen in months.
“Flower Child, there’s nothing more endearing than a man compelled to love you.” Mother idly laid the strips of meat upon the cutting board, where they would stay until she hung them to dry. “Well, except the darling look of betrayal when you slit his throat during . . .” Her voice trailed off, her laughter rising to fill the silence. “Don’t be so embarrassed. You’ll surely find a young lady to lure in and—”
Banging at the door awoke Flowridia from a fitful sleep.
She sat up from bed, realizing tears had welled in her eyes, just as Casvir went to twist the knob—
And nearly toppled over, bombarded by a frantic wolf bursting through the doorframe. Demitri shot past him to Flowridia’s bed. First you never come back, and now you’re crying!
Clicking on the floor meant Ana had followed. The skeletal fox tried and failed to leap onto the bed—perhaps because of the chained ear wrapped around and through her ribs. Flowridia lifted her up and sought to untangle it, panic filling her. “I’m fine. Just a bad dream. Why does Ana have—”
What if you’d been taken? Or killed? I’d go from intelligent wolf to intelligent orphan—
“Demitri, stop being so dramatic!” Casvir leered behind him, and Flowridia worked to steady her breathing. “I apologize for Demitri’s behavior,” she finally said.
But Demitri would not be detoured and kept poking at her dress with his nose. You don’t usually cry after nightmares. You just whine.
“Tell Demitri,” Casvir said, a wicked glint in his eye, “that I accept his challenge to spar.”
Demitri turned at that, releasing a low, emanating growl.
Having finally freed Ana from the macabre accessory, she stuffed it down her bodice, chain and all, then glanced down at her rumpled lace dress and said, “If you’ll give me a moment to change, I’ll fight on his behalf.”
Without waiting for a reply, she pushed Demitri forward and escorted him from the room.
Ana’s nails clicked through the hallway, but Demitri stopped, refusing to budge once they’d left Casvir’s room. The gold arch of Murishani’s ‘tent’ stood near them. I wasn’t challenging him—
“You really let Ana walk around with . . . that? What if someone had seen?”
No one did. They’re all drunk and asleep.
Flowridia glared, but Demitri was apparently immune to her withering stare. “That’s not the point.” She continued down the hallway, forcing down her fury and her remaining tears. “Now, kindly explain why Ana had the ear?”
She said she wanted to carry it.
“Ana doesn’t—”
You always talk for her. Now, it’s my turn.
Petulant boy. Flowridia rolled her eyes, then wiped them on her sleeve.
But why were you crying?
“Demitri, it’s . . .” Flowridia stopped, her hand rubbing against the long lace sleeve of her gown. She thought of Lara and her slurred words, her penchant for raining drunken kisses, and wondered if perhaps the empress’ kindness toward her held more meaning than Flowridia had previously considered. “You know my quest,” she whispered. “Last night . . . If I’m truly wicked, she’ll never see it coming.”
What do you mean?
Her steps continued their shuffling, her tears finally stemming. “What I mean is that if I move forward, my behavior might appall you.” The very thought lacerated her heart. “I’ve never felt so trapped. I love Ayla. I love her with all of my heart. But I can’t do what must be done.”
Demitri rubbed his head against her, conveying what comfort he could.
Sparring distracted her exhausted mind, though a layer of frost covered the ground, the sun having not quite risen. But the threat of Casvir’s weapon held her focus, and by the end she managed to hold a sincere smile.
Once she’d cleaned herself, Flowridia made her way downstairs to the library. The wedding was a few more hours away, but the excitement up above threatened to drive her mad. With Ana prancing around her ankles, she silently opened the door, wondering what drunken state she would find Etolié in.
Layered shelves met her view, blocking the center, where she knew she’d find the usual piles of scarves, a skylight, and hundreds of books.
She hadn’t expected to hear voices.
“. . . accused her of fucking Imperator Casvir. I remember that much.”
Flowridia stopped, holding up a finger to stop Demitri. He loomed like a shadow by the door.
“She’s been accused of fucking Casvir by everyone and their wolf at this point,” came Etolié’s voice. “She won’t hold it against you.”
“I resent you for letting her take me to bed.”
“The worst that could’ve happened is nothing. The best is all your dreams come true. I don’t regret anything.”
Flowridia was quite certain she hadn’t been meant to hear that. The pit in her stomach expanded, threatening to rise up her throat and choke her.
“It’s too soon. The woman she loved died only six months ago.”
“Listen. I, for one, sleep better at night knowing that sadistic bitch is dead.”
Flowridia felt her raw heart seize at Etolié’s words.
“Etolié, it’s cruel to speak so ill of the dead,” came Lara’s indignant voice. “Whatever your opinions on the matter, Flowridia obviously cared for Ayla.”
Flowridia peered through the cracks between books and saw Etolié move to sit beside a despondent figure. Lara looked well, given she’d partaken the Nox’Karthan brew, but vulnerability radiated from her slumped figure. Etolié didn’t quite touch her, but she did hover like an excitable bee. “How about I talk to Flowers?”
Lara tore her gaze from the ground. “Etolié, no! You don’t need to do that.”
“Look at you,” Etolié said, and Flowridia silently shrunk back, realizing her eavesdropping would lead to trouble. “Empress of the world and insecure about—”
Ana’s spine was suddenly beneath her foot; with a yelp Flowridia stepped back and smacked into Etolié’s bookcase.
“Flowers? That you?”
Heart racing, Flowridia said, “Hi, Etolié.”
Favoring her nearly-punctured foot, Flowridia peered around the corner of the bookcase, feigning surprise at seeing Lara. “Good morning, Lara. How are you feeling?”
“Flowridia!” Lara smiled too wide, a vivid blush coloring her cheeks. She spared a glance for Ana and Demitri. “I feel fine. It’s an odd consequence of the Silver Fire, that alcohol burns quickly through my body. My memory is frazzled, but I remember you escorting me back to my bedroom.” She stood, stepping forward with noticeable hesitation. “You have my thanks. I let my inhibitions get the better of me, and I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
Despite the apology, Lara remained stiff. Flowridia said simply, “You’re welcome. It was no trouble.”
Visibly bracing herself, Lara’s blush darkened. “Did I kiss you?”
Acutely aware of Demitri and Etolié’s stares, Flowridia nodded. “A few times, yes.”
Lara cringed, smiling apologetically, then turned around to face the skylight instead. “Etolié told me about the orb and the dragon. A tragedy, to lose the last one.”
“His name was Valeuron,” Flowridia said, saddened at the reminder. “I’d never seen anything so . . . magnificent.”
“Perhaps, with your aid, I might commission a portrait of him, to memorialize him for all to see and know. He died defending both you and Casvir, making him a hero of Staelash and Nox’Kartha.”
Touched at the thought, Flowridia couldn’t help but smile, though it faded when Lara’s matched. “Be that as it may, Soliel has three orbs now.”
The resig
nation in Lara’s sigh suggested she had contemplated this many times. “Yes, he does. But because of you, we have a fighting chance. Once the wedding has ended, Etolié and I will be studying the blue orb—you are, of course, welcome to join us, assuming you’ll be staying.”
It was an offer so much as a question. “I have a few matters to take care of before I can leave Nox’Kartha—by my own choice. But I would be honored to help.”
Lara smiled, but Flowridia didn’t miss Etolié’s frown in the background. “Your insight was invaluable in deciphering the God of Order’s identity. We’ll be blessed to have you. But, tell me more about this interaction with Valeuron—he would have willingly relinquished the orb to you?”
“He would have,” Flowridia replied, the magnitude of the gesture having never faded from her memory. “He saw my life just as I saw his; and I saw his death before it occurred, though I didn’t understand it. It means he saw mine as well. He saw my whole life.”
Soliel, she recalled, had said something similar, yet ominous: “I know your death . . . today is not that day.”
But she kept that to herself, though it plagued her to consider it.
“It may mean nothing,” Lara said, though not unkindly, “except that you prove yourself worthy. I think that’s wonderful.” Flowridia nodded, though much too self-conscious to necessarily agree.
“I should go,” Etolié said suddenly, smoothing what Flowridia knew was an illusionary gown—she was impressed at her commitment to the act. “Marielle requested me at her dress fitting today. Leave it to Murishani to put the fitting and the wedding on the same day. But, uh, you two feel free to keep talking things out.”
She grinned as she left, and judging by Lara’s wide-eyed confusion, Flowridia suspected a conspiracy.
They were left alone. Silence settled once Etolié shut the door. “I don’t know that there’s much else to discuss,” Flowridia said, watching Lara curiously.
The empress remained composed, yet Flowridia saw cracks within it, subtle hints of nervousness. “I’m terribly embarrassed for last night,” she said lightly, her smile apologetic. “I don’t normally behave so untoward. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“Only as far as my worry,” Flowridia said, and it wasn’t a lie. “You’re very lonely.”
In a moment of unexpected vulnerability, Lara blushed, her stare turning to the floor. “I have a few loved ones in Solvira. But since my father’s death, it’s been a bit cold in my home, I will be honest.”
Flowridia hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I’m also an orphan,” she eventually said, soft in her reminiscence. “I know what it feels like to lose a family. And I know how dark it feels to be alone in the world.”
When Lara glanced up, Flowridia saw the faint beginnings of light returning to her eyes. “I didn’t know that.”
“I was raised in an orphanage in Ilunnes,” she admitted, though it felt odd to speak it aloud—she had said this to no one, not since Ayla. “I was discovered as a witch at fifteen and would have been killed had I not run away. But I discovered my mother was still alive. I was able to meet her before her death.”
“My mother died in childbirth,” Lara said softly, then shook her head, swallowing what Flowridia feared were tears. “I’m sorry. You hardly know me.”
“I wouldn’t be sad to, though.” At Lara’s faint smile, Flowridia regretted the words, but forced more out, knowing this was the path she must take. “May I hug you?”
When Lara nodded, Flowridia embraced her petite figure, though not so small as Ayla’s and certainly a bit softer. She was warm and soothing to touch, unquestionable life flowing through her veins. Flowridia remembered the sweet smell of her hair from the funeral, finding it just as much so now as Lara clung to her comfort.
When they parted, Lara’s blush had darkened. “I-I should go. Marielle will also be wanting to see me. And I haven’t even had the chance to meet with Khastra yet, if you can believe it. I’m supposed to be supervising this whole affair, and I’m amazed we’ve come this far without an incident.”
Flowridia couldn’t disagree with that. “Good luck. I’ll see you tonight?”
Lara’s shy joy showed in her nod.
Once the empress had gone, Flowridia lingered in the library, her guilt as loud as her thoughts.
* * *
“It needs to be bigger,” Marielle said for the umpteenth time, and the pair of De’Sindai women charged with styling her fiery locks looked nervous as they nodded.
Etolié watched them pile curl upon curl—her hair would be taller than Marielle herself at this rate. “Marielle, your hair is beautiful, so will you please chill your perky tits?”
The bride-to-be’s jaw dropped. “Etolié, forgive me for wanting to be perfect on my wedding. If you’re going to be a bitch, leave.”
Etolié deserved that, admittedly.
In Marielle’s dressing room, decorated with mirrors and at least a thousand floral arrangements, the Celestial stepped around the flock of De’Sindai preening the queen’s hair and makeup and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand all the kerfuffle. And to be honest, I’m not looking forward to making nice with more diplomats.” She sighed, the familiar visage behind Marielle’s made-up face one she’d known since she was an infant. “But I’m happy you’re happy. You deserve to feel like a princess on your wedding day, Queen Marielle.”
Marielle beamed, and were she not covered from head to toe in fluffy, stiff curls of fabric, Etolié suspected they might’ve hugged. She was relieved, because physical affection was weird. But she did care about Marielle, even if her patience ran thin.
A knock sounded at the door, and Lara came to greet her, ever the monarch with her brilliant smile. Etolié might’ve thought it sincere—and perhaps it was, despite both their misgivings about the wedding itself. Marielle was happy; therein lay the important part, at least on a personal level. Today was for celebration.
Tomorrow was for navigating the inevitable political catastrophe. “I’ll leave you two alone,” Etolié said to the chattering women.
Once alone, Etolié realized she was ignored among the crowd of servants and guests, all hastily moving toward the enormous tent behind the manor. With a single swipe of her hand, her dress was replaced with the illusion of something spectacular, her hair done up in a curled bun. Truthfully, Etolié hadn’t brushed her hair in days.
She had finally bathed, however. If there were no other victories today, she’d take that to the treasury.
She pulled her flask from the air, then said to no one in particular, “I swear on Morathma’s Whore Mother—if I’m ever daft enough to get married, it’ll be . . .” She continued mumbling as she brought the blessed flask to her lips.
“In a church on a hillside, yes?”
Etolié spat out her booze. Thankfully she didn’t spray Murishani, but it seeped through her mouth and nose, forcing her to wipe the alcohol onto her fake dress sleeve. “Good evening,” she said between stinging coughs. She sniffed and oh fuck her life she regretted that.
Well, with alcohol actively burning her nostrils, at least she’d finally hit rock-bottom. Etolié blinked back tears as Murishani said, “Sorry to startle you.” He placed a hand on his heart, his smile reminiscent of a dying calf. “I was on my way to check on the bride.”
“Well, she’s beautiful.” Etolié forced a grin, trying to hide the beer seeping from her nostrils. “Good work.”
When Murishani offered a handkerchief, she wasn’t too proud to accept it. “Duty calls. I’m off and away!”
He spread his arms rather dramatically as he ‘away-ed,’ and Etolié wondered just how much was an act and how much of this absolute fop was sincere.
Mentally preparing herself for chaos, Etolié entered the tent.
Judging by her radiating headache, she suspected some sort of extra-dimensional magic had been utilized to make the enormous tent that much larger—chairs were packed not even close to capacity, yet could have seate
d a small army. The aisle in the center held a carpet of white silk, gently sprinkled with rose petals, and not a single section of the wall was bereft of decoration.
Etolié paced around the gaudy tent, her illusionary dress sparkling as it swished around her legs. Sometimes she forgot it was fake—which was risky, given that sort of thinking sometimes led to it flickering out of existence.
She took a long sip from her flask, watching as guests slowly filtered in. She saw Flowers in the distance, watched her seat herself beside Casvir in the Nox’Karthan sector, and wondered if the prickling feeling of betrayal was real or only in her gut.
Lara had yet to arrive, and so Etolié had nowhere to sit. Well, she had her assigned seat, right up front, but assigned seating was for proletariats—not magisters in their own homes. If she wanted to sit by her little moonbeam, Etolié reserved that right.
She took another drink, but the next guest who entered caused her to choke. As she coughed out the burning liquid, Etolié glanced at the disconcerting stranger idly searching for her seat. By all accounts, the woman was Khastra—she was blue and tattooed and her biceps were girthy enough to speak for themselves—but her outfit left Etolié’s jaw hanging slack.
Perhaps she’d sipped a few sips too many. Etolié teetered down the aisle, and when Khastra met her eye, she said, “What in Onias’ Hell are you wearing?”
Khastra wore a dress, first of all, and that dress happened to be a rather dark orange and pale yellow, so while her color theory was on point, Etolié had never seen her out of brown or jewel tones or glittering stones. But the dress was sleeveless and somehow accentuated all the best of her musculature, in addition to being cut down to nearly her navel, thus showing off the rather fascinating, semi-protruding mechanical masterpiece that was her heart. The fact remained, however, that in over twenty years of knowing Khastra, not once had Etolié given a second thought to the fact that her half-demon friend had breasts.
There they were, peeking out from the fabric, more silver than blue—but paler blue, since Khastra wasn’t generally one to let half her tits out to see the sun.
