Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  It sickened Flowridia to see the once-beautiful dragon. Casvir’s apparent failure filled her with relief—at least Valeuron would be free of servitude.

  “Flowridia?”

  They were alone. She could speak her mind. “How could you?” she whispered.

  “Such a beast would be a waste to let go. Even without his intelligence, he is still capable of flight. He will be an invaluable asset to my army.”

  She merely stared, the desecration of this glorious creature horrifying, but nothing she could fix. With a silent apology to Valeuron’s spirit, she turned to face Casvir, the stark juxtaposition of his character wounding her, especially as she said, “What happened to Etolié?”

  “Nothing. The Daughter of Staella is safe and shall remain so.”

  “What happened?”

  “News will reach you soon, I am sure—but the Archbishop of the Theocracy of Sol Kareena has been murdered by the God of Order. His orb was stolen.”

  The terrible shock might have overwhelmed her, had she not overheard Murishani tearing into Casvir over incompetence not a minute ago. “What’s the unofficial story?”

  “Not for your ears.”

  The darkness in his tone unsettled her—she had taken a step too far. “I see.”

  It reminded her of an important truth, that Nox’Kartha, for all its splendor, was not her home, merely a place of temporary refuge.

  By the throne, Flowridia noticed a small wagon bearing a familiar coffin, a crystal emanating warmth, and a trunk as long as her arms. “You may recall your food storage from our journey together,” Casvir said. “This is the same technology, but on a more efficient scale. It is my gift to you, lest you succumb to your mortal limitations of hunger. I have also included a map.”

  She smiled, touched by the gesture despite her bitterness. “Thank you.”

  Then, he offered her a letter. “Open this when you take time to rest. Will you need money?”

  “No, but thank you,” she repeated, and she meant it.

  She knew not what he was to her—a mentor, yes, a strange and wicked sort of father, absolutely; perhaps a friend; perhaps not. But he cared for her, in his odd and foreign way, and she wondered if she were the first and only person for whom he held compassion.

  She offered a hand, and when he moved to shake it she stepped forward and stole him into an embrace, one he returned. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She pulled away and said, “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Not in detail, but it would be trivial for me to summon a portal to speed along your journey.”

  It would save her over a month of travel. “The outskirts of Ilunnes—the village where I grew up.”

  Casvir ripped his claws across the air. A portal appeared. “I have one final question.”

  She stopped before the portal, staring into the black void of space. “Yes?”

  “With the archbishop’s passing, you are the true heir to the Theocracy. Will you reveal yourself and take it?”

  She considered her future, the many paths laid before her—a kingdom she could rise to claim, a Goddess who still sought her loyalty. Perhaps she could do well. “How soon do you need an answer?”

  “Now. You have had long enough.”

  Truthfully, she had never given it more than a passing thought. She had but one dream, and power held no part in it. “In that case . . . no. Perhaps I am royal in blood, but not in spirit. I do not want it.”

  She graced him with a smile, one he returned. Then, she stole the handle of the wagon and stepped through the portal, bidding farewell to the kingdom she had come to love.

  Her stomach lurched, but she soon landed in a familiar, grassy clearing. Houses beyond glowed in the evening light, but even from a distance, she saw signs of people.

  The village of Ilunnes held memories of a lifetime past. Quaint was the kindest thing one could say about it. Yet, to gaze upon it, even from a distance, pulled a tragic sort of longing from her, for familiarity, for a family she had lost.

  You grew up here?

  Flowridia looked upon the sleepy village, the setting sun casting deep shadows. She knew it all, nostalgia welling the urge to take a walk, to visit the bakery with her favorite strawberry pies, to the orphanage she had lived her whole childhood. “I did.”

  Smells like shit.

  Aghast, she frowned at her rude familiar. “It’s the swamp. Now, take that back.”

  If Casvir did anything good, it was pulling you out of this garbage pile.

  “Listen, just because I was run out of town for witchcraft doesn’t mean it’s all bad.”

  You mentioned that. I demand this story.

  Flowridia rolled her eyes and headed for the woods.

  Realistically, she ought to have spent the night in Nox’Kartha, but she was eager to move forward.

  Well . . . not quite eager. That wasn’t the word to use when plotting regicide.

  Let me hold that.

  Demitri looked at the wagon. She offered the handle; he took it in his jaw. See? I can still talk.

  “My dearest Demitri, never change.”

  She pulled Ana from her bag, delighted as the little fox pranced around her feet. “Stay close,” she commanded, grinning as the darling thing ran circles around her.

  Once secluded in the trees, her curiosity outweighed the need for speed. Filtered sunlight from the thick trees illuminated the parchment she held in her hand, the letter from Casvir:

  Lady Flowridia, First of Her Name, Grand Diplomat of Staelash,

  You never fail to surprise me.

  I cannot begin to express my pride in your eminent victory. This letter is advice I fervently hope you shall heed.

  You are no longer answerable to only yourself. You have Demitri, Ana, and the remnants of Ayla. They look to you for guidance and protection. You are now in the position of a noble. You do not have lands, but you have subjects that listen to you and depend upon you to care for them. You must treat them with fairness and wisdom. Note that I did not say kindness; kindness has no place in the life of those who rule. The late goddesses of Solvira knew that justice and mercy are to be ever balanced; one must not outweigh the other, lest your kingdom topple. Balance should be sought after in all aspects of your life.

  Because of your privilege, you are obliged to be better than those of a lesser status. This does not mean to be cruel or arrogant, but to be better. Being noble constrains one to honorable behavior. Never shirk your responsibilities, to those who follow you or to yourself.

  The time spent with you has been enjoyable. You are young, and your potential is limitless. Never stop learning. Watching you grow and change over these last few months has been a great pleasure to me and a memory I will treasure. You have been a rare joy to have in my life.

  If you desire to return to Nox'Kartha, you will have a place here. You will be remembered as long as I live, and your family and progeny will always be welcome within my walls.

  You are counted among my friends, and if you are ever in need of aid, call upon me and I shall answer. Your presence will be sorely missed.

  May your foes cower at your passing and tremble at your name,

  Imperator Casvir, First and Last of His Name, Tyrant of Nox'Kartha and Marshall of the Deathless Army

  What does it say?

  She folded the letter, her mind reciting the words. It was so unbearably Casvir and yet not, and it touched her to her core.

  She tucked the letter away, the document something to cherish. “It says, that if I falter, there is still a place for me in the world.”

  The thick cover of trees mimicked the night as they walked. “A long time ago,” she began, recalling Demitri’s previous question, “I lived in Ilunnes. I was raised in an orphanage for little girls, and I loved them. The Matron, Willa, was strict but never cruel and merely rolled her eyes when I’d disappear to the woods for hours to ‘read.’” She smiled at the memory, an odd longing in her heart for the time before her innocen
ce had been shattered by her mother. “In truth, I met with Aura in the woods. She taught me good and beautiful things, magic any priest of Sol Kareena would condone. But it meant nothing in the end.” She kept her pace, though her heart remained wounded.

  “I pray you never know the pain of having those you love look at you like they never knew you.” She saw the faces of her loved ones from long ago, recalled the dreadful day she had been found out as a witch.

  “Witches are still feared in the southern parts of Solvira. Sol Kareena has no quarrel with demons, but even I can understand, with Odessa being the plague she was, the fear it would inspire. I was run out of town when I was fifteen. That’s when I went to find my mother.”

  And you never saw them again?

  She shook her head. “I lost a family that day, and my mother was hardly fit to fill that void. It wasn’t until Etolié found me that I felt truly accepted, but now . . .” She shrugged, her footsteps breaking branches beneath her. “I fear I’ll lose them too.”

  But even if you do, you’ll have Lady Ayla.

  Flowridia saw her impossible dream before her, the family she sought to build with Ayla. “Say those words anytime I falter, my dearest Demitri.”

  She told him stories of a lifetime ago, of she and Aura and the time before Odessa.

  The stench only grew. Soon, the ground sloshed at Flowridia’s feet, perpetually damp.

  A faint, green mist rose to engulf them. Flowridia lifted Ana from her feet, brushed the mud from her skeletal paws, and held her close. “Watch out for bogs.”

  Sorrowful, drooping trees littered the skyline, blocking the sunrise. Flowridia’s very soul reeled at the memories, the stench, the sickening hues of green and yellow.

  Are we here?

  “We are here,” she echoed quietly.

  This is much more disgusting than the village.

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  The trees grew dense as they walked, eerie signs of life crying out in the distance—birds, insects, perhaps even predators waiting for her to slip.

  When mud coated her ankles, she said, “Demitri, could I—”

  She shrieked when Demitri’s entire front half fell into a puddle. Her familiar flailed, trapped in a bog, but the harder he pulled, the suction only increased. Hopelessly smaller, Flowridia could not save him by strength alone. Magic could not help; she couldn’t control water—

  Flowridia threw her clothing from her bag as she clawed out the orb. Immediately, nature sang to her, the very condensation in the air hers to bend and weave. When she bid the water eating her Demitri to rise, it ripped out in a torrent, splattering the trees in mud.

  Demitri leapt out, having fallen into nothing but a damp hole. He coughed, mud expelling from his lungs. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this—

  He was cut off by her embrace. Flowridia clung tight, her panicked heart still thumping in her ears. “New plan,” she said into his fur. “Can I ride you?”

  She repacked her bag while Demitri shook himself free of mud—all over her. She bit back her annoyance, having nearly just lost him, and once her familiar had stopped trembling, he ducked, allowing her to climb atop his back. With Ana secure in her hand, she lifted the orb once more. An impossible plan formed in her head. “Trust me, Demitri. Start walking.”

  He took the wagon back in his jaw, but as he tugged it along, ice formed beneath his feet, the water freezing at Flowridia’s will and melting once they’d passed.

  I like this much more.

  When she deemed them far enough in, perhaps an hour of travel more, she said, “Demitri, stop a moment. I need to focus. Mother’s house is impossible to find unless you know what to look for.”

  The sky had darkened—not from night, but from the sheer density of the trees above. She slipped Ana back inside her bag and slid from Demitri’s back, the damp earth stable and cool as it solidified into smooth icicles. She sat upon a flat disk of ice, content when Demitri’s leg touched her back. Not much lived here, but things could have changed. It had been a year.

  Flowridia let her senses expand, allowing her innate connection to this place and to the magic residing within it meet. She felt some life . . . mostly plants . . . but there, not a mile away, waited a beacon of guarded magical energy. Amazing, how such a powerful vessel of magic could be hidden away underneath layers of more magic, but Mother had been thorough. She had terrorized this land for centuries, and not once had she been found; not unless she’d wanted to be and lured them in.

  “That’s the true beauty of my garden, Flower Child. My wards are as immortal as their roots.”

  Flowridia opened her eyes. “Come on,” she said, as she stood. “It’s this way.”

  She regretted her bare feet, but with the orb she crossed the water without fear, ice solidifying beneath she and Demitri as they stepped. Nothing delicate met her view; she recalled that there were no flowers here. The few in her hair would be dried and treasured.

  An unnatural wave of nausea struck her. The first of many wards, but she stepped through and pulled Demitri along. “You may feel some dread. It’s all an illusion, dearest Demitri.”

  You say Aura stalked the border?

  Flowridia nodded. “She managed to get past this one. It was the obscuring ones that stopped her. It wasn’t until I reached out that she could break through.”

  She was very committed.

  “She loved me.”

  Flowridia continued forward, letting her power reach out to touch the lingering magical wards. Time had weakened nothing; these had been meant to last for centuries. Thank the gods Odessa had not survived with them.

  She stopped. Reaching forward, she felt what could have been mistaken as a physical wall. Slowly, she pressed her hand through, like molten glass without the heat, and followed at the same pace. “It’ll let you through. Just focus on me.”

  Demitri paused like she feared he would, but then he pushed through, and though his movements were strained, he persevered. The edges seemed to tug at his fur, pushing him back, but with a tense growl he emerged.

  “Wonderful,” Flowridia said, and she turned to kiss his face. “I’ve been here. I helped install a few of them, so I’ll have a much easier time breaking through.” Her fingers gripped the fur at his neck as they continued forward.

  Another barrier ward met them, and this time Demitri broke through more smoothly. A cottage could be seen in the distance, but Flowridia prevented him from increasing his pace. “Just because you can see it doesn’t mean it’ll be easier.”

  Suddenly, from the water’s surface, an enormous, mottled, vine-laden creature burst from underneath. With its round body and attached appendages, instinctive fear filled Flowridia’s heart, but she knew it was for naught.

  Demitri immediately snarled, his pitch matched by the monster, but Flowridia cried, “Stop!” and held out a hand. Demitri continued growling. Flowridia moved toward the creature, hand outstretched, and let her arm pass right through. The illusion vanished, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re as real as you believe them to be. The victim dies of fear. It’s a simpler enchantment than placing actual monsters and keeping them stagnant until a fight.”

  Your mother had an intelligent mind.

  With one hand still on Demitri, she moved forward. “My mother was a monster. But I did learn a few useful things.”

  The house came closer, a stone’s throw away. Flowridia stopped, letting her senses reach ahead of her. “Demitri?” she whispered, her voice beginning to tremble.

  Is something wrong?

  “Promise me you’ll shut your eyes when we step forward. No matter what you feel. Just keep moving.”

  She glanced back, and the wolf had obeyed. She led him slowly, resisting the urge to vomit as the final wards pushed against them. Fear struck her. Crippling weakness threatened to end her, but she gripped his fur and pulled him forward, shaking with each step.

  There, on the porch, ethereal beings sat by the door. Eyeless, sl
owly rotting, some of them covered in fungi or hacked to pieces . . . All appeared as they had at their death. Harmless and silent yet cursed to haunt this forsaken place, ghosts watched—every victim Odessa had claimed in her cottage.

  Her stomach clenched for the infant boy laying in the windowsill, blood eternally dripping from his abdomen.

  They stood as a final warning, forever watching. Demitri’s tender heart didn’t need to see that.

  She grabbed her spear and the warming crystal from the wagon, wrapping it in her skirt to protect herself from the heat. “Leave the wagon. There are steps ahead of you, dearest Demitri. Keep your eyes closed.”

  The rotting wood—unkempt after Mother’s death—creaked under his enormous bulk. The door swung open with ease, and Flowridia led him into the dark, moist room.

  “Open your eyes,” she soothed once the door clicked shut, and she hugged him close as the shadowed room came into his view. From her skirt, she withdrew the warming crystal, letting its flickering light fill the room.

  It was as she remembered—the garden overturned, the kitchen a mess of scattered utensils, blood dried on the floor. Whether it was her mother’s or Aura’s, she truly didn’t know. She moved toward the fireplace by the door and placed the crystal within the enclosure and the spear beside it. The rounded room illuminated, but even with the artificial warmth, Flowridia felt cold. “I think I’ll clean up a bit,” she managed to say, and she stole a broom from the corner. She began sweeping the rounded front room, dirtied from upturned earth. She’d remove the raised planter boxes later, fix the floors . . .

  Demitri began sniffing around the kitchen attached to the front room. Two doors stood off to the side. What’s in here?

  “A bedroom,” Flowridia said softly, “in one. The other was her workspace, where she kept her cauldron and all her potions, supplies, ingredients—anything you might need for something nasty.”

  She swept her substantial pile of dirt toward the door, pushed it open with her foot, and then brushed it all outside. A mess still remained, but at least her feet wouldn’t grow dank simply from stepping around. When she leaned the broom against the wall, an amused smile tugged at her lips when she looked to Demitri, who stood much too large to be comfortable in the small cottage. He could squeeze through the front door, but she doubted he could do much more than peek into the others.