Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  “Oh, please no,” Lara said, squirming. “I know enough about traditional witch spells to know I’d really rather not see spiders crawling out of your mouth.”

  “I can’t do that, but I can summon the ones already around me.” Lara grimaced and shuddered; Flowridia giggled. “Casvir taught me that one.”

  “Here’s me swearing to never find myself in a duel with Casvir, then.”

  “I doubt he would do that,” Flowridia said, a conspiratorial grin twisting her lip. “More than likely he’d cause horrendous boils to burst from your skin—” Lara squeaked, and Flowridia laughed as she continued, “. . . and slowly eat at you. He’s awfully proud of that one. Used it to ward off a rather famous half-demon.”

  “He should be proud.”

  “I’m sure you have a few nasty spells up your sleeve as well.”

  “Of course I do,” Lara said in mock offense. “But my nasty spells aren’t literally nasty. They’ll make you do perfectly normal things, like spontaneously combust.”

  Flowridia laughed. “Perfectly normal, yes. Most of mine are actually normal. Healing is my best talent.”

  “And necromancy?”

  Flowridia hesitated, pursing her lip as she decided how to answer. “It’s not something I truly understood until recently.”

  Lara knelt, apparently over her panic. Her hand moved to cover Flowridia’s. “As I said before, if I were to trust anyone with those talents, it’s you.” Those silver eyes suddenly seemed distant, unfocused. “Our magics aren’t so different. The Silver Fire and necromancy aren’t opposites but two sides of the same coin—one dealing in life and the other in death. Just as you can create a false semblance of life, I can create a permanent, irrevocable death.”

  Flowridia spared a glance for their companions, busied with tending to the horses, paying no mind to the two women sharing a moment of peace. “Tell me more,” she said, curiosity and genuine concern filling her at Lara’s change in tone.

  “As you know, it’s an inborn trait in my lineage,” Lara said, shrugging slightly, “to absorb pure energy and to release it again, to control the Silver Fire. We’re each taught as children how to slowly expand the pool of magic we can safely hold—by pushing our bodies more and more, beyond capacity. My father explained that it’s like a well; it slowly grows deeper, wider, but then it takes more and more to fill it. It’s why magical addiction is a fear of mine.”

  Flowridia recalled Casvir’s warning, that necromancers often fell prey to addiction, and saw how she and Lara’s powers ran parallel.

  “But that’s simply fact and history,” Lara continued. “It doesn’t give gravity to what unhinged, uncontrolled power can do. And it doesn’t explain the consequences of long-term drainage. Life is magic—the Silver Fire can destroy a person’s soul.” A slight rim of red surrounded Lara’s bright eyes, but no tears fell. “You told me of your mother; may I tell you of mine?”

  Flowridia gave her a slow nod, patient as she waited for Lara to continue.

  “Her name was Ralaena, and she was a noblewoman who hailed from the outskirts of Solvira. It’s a simple, but beautiful story; my parents fell in love, and they were married. My father was the second child, never expected to take the throne, and so was free to marry whomever he chose—but when his brother died and he was crowned emperor, he and my mother had to bear a child.”

  Lara stared at Flowridia’s hand as it rested on hers, her posture slipping. Her opposite arm moved to cover her chest. “I never met my mother,” she whispered. “I killed her. Solviraes pregnancies can be dangerous for the mother, unless she is a Solviraes herself. Our talents are inborn, and they are powerful. The fetus can drain energy, and my mother had little energy to drain.”

  Flowridia’s hand tightened around Lara’s. “Lara—”

  “I know, I know—it isn’t my fault,” she said, still avoiding eye contact. “My father never blamed me either, instead vowing to love me twice as much, for both she and he.” The hand underneath Flowridia’s tightened into a fist. “But I’ve never forgotten, and I’ve always lived in fear of what my power can do.”

  Flowridia lifted Lara’s fist and took it in both hands, gently stroking it, coaxing it to relax. “And yet you do not fear necromancy?”

  Lara finally looked up at her, vulnerability in her stare. “I do fear it. I also respect it. I’ve vowed to use my powers for good, though so many of my ancestors were known for madness. Our destinies are our own.”

  Flowridia slowly leaned forward and pulled Lara into an embrace. The slight woman in her arms felt so warm, so small. Ayla had been small, but her cold form never could be held for long. Always twitching, always calculating—to have a moment alone, serene and still, had been so precious a thing.

  Lara seemed content to melt into her and settle in her skin and bones. Flowridia breathed deep, smelling the floral scents woven into Lara’s hair, memorizing how it mingled with her natural aura. Ayla had smelled clean like the rich soaps she used, or the earth and blood if she were dirty, or even slightly floral if her skin had lingered against Flowridia’s for long.

  When Lara pulled away, no tears had spilled, and she smiled faintly in the brilliant sunlight. “It’s not a story I tell often,” Lara admitted, taking Flowridia’s hands in her own. “Thank you for listening.”

  Flowridia looked down at their hands and whispered, “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

  Their fingers interlaced. Any joy in it was marred by guilt.

  * * *

  The next day, a somber mood settled in the Theocracy of Sol Kareena.

  Clouds had gathered, as was both fitting and not. Of course Sol Kareena could be metaphorically present without the actual sun shining upon them, but the omen was not a good one, and Etolié saw a crowd of citizens looking dismayed.

  She itched; the world was too loud, too grating on her senses. The large procession walked through the crowded streets, a clear path marked for the pallbearers to take. A closed casket passed Etolié and Sora by, decorated in flowers, but all Etolié could think about was Xoran’s gruesome end.

  Khastra’s hands had shattered and crushed his skull, the same hands that had touched Etolié like she was an idol for worship.

  The memories of the apparent God of Order’s appearance and the archbishop’s subsequent murder had paled to the events of that night, but now, faced with a procession carrying a good, innocent man, Etolié’s gut clenched. She recalled his horrid scream, the blood seeping from cracked bone, the taste and smell, the warm spray as it coated her naked body—

  “Breathe, Etolié . . . Breathe with me.”

  Etolié shut her eyes and released a pained breath, methodically rubbing her hands. Then, she took out her flask and drank.

  Etolié saw her majestic friend’s defeated stance behind her eyelids, the regret in every silent gesture. Khastra had done this; Khastra had done this for her.

  “I would have been content to perish with that as my final duty.”

  A ghost touched Etolié’s back. It sent a jolt up her spine, and for a brief and beautiful moment, it was Khastra, here to hide her and soothe her sensitive nerves.

  “Etolié?” Sora said, and Etolié opened her eyes. “A line is forming, if you want to pay your final respects.”

  They wouldn’t be showing the body itself. The corpse had met a gruesome end.

  “No,” Etolié said, watching as the crowd steadily approached the cathedral. “I saw him die. It’s . . . It’s too much. I do wish to give Lunestra my condolences after, though. Xoran is dead, but the rest of us have to keep living.”

  Sora nodded, understanding in her gaze. Etolié watched her go, then walked opposite the crowd.

  The sky held all the gloom of evening, despite being midday. Shadows blocked the sun, and Etolié feared it would rain. As she wound her way through the crowded streets, her soul felt as weighted as the clouds, pregnant in their mourning.

  At her finger, she spun her puzzle ring. Damn Khastra and her
charming engineering skills. In a week’s time, she’d yet to solve its mystery.

  Tears filled her eyes, the weight of the day too much.

  Etolié’s wandering feet had taken her to a secluded district of the city. Typically, the marketplace would be bustling, but today the doors and windows were shut, closed for business in light of the terrible tragedy. She heard nothing, except some idle scratching from the alley—when she peered inside the darkened space, she saw rats munching on garbage.

  Alone, Etolié revealed her impressive wings, allowing them to stretch in the vacant space. She flew up, the ethereal appendages carrying her to the rooftops, and higher still—she set her course for a watchtower beyond, presumably abandoned for the mournful event.

  The circular tower ended in a flat roof, and Etolié settled atop the cold stone, wrapping her wings around herself in an illuminate blanket. Something was different—rather, something different was different, but she was less remiss to actually hold a mirror to herself now, because although introspection was scary, she had at least a taste of the depth of it and what it meant even if a thousand questions remained unanswered, and even if Etolié wanted to puke from nerves at any given moment, at least she could breathe because something in that night had pulled out the stopper for a thousand different feelings that Etolié still struggled to understand.

  She recalled the boundless passion when Khastra had returned Etolié’s tentative butterfly kiss, saw the unquestionable adoration in her glowing gaze, her tears as she held Etolié after their tender affair.

  It was sacred.

  It was beautiful.

  It was . . . goodbye.

  Loneliness welled tears in her eyes, but when Etolié might’ve succumbed to sobs upon the watchtower, she noticed an oddity on the horizon.

  Something flickered upon the landscape, and were she not a master of her own illusionary talents, she would have dismissed it as a trick of the light or a mirage displaced from its desert home. But Etolié frowned, knowing that illusions were only as real as she believed them to be.

  The lush green of the fields and the flowing river flickered in her vision, revealing monsters in the sky, silhouetted against the clouds. A sea of undead rapidly approached, spreading a field of blight wherever they stepped.

  Shock stilled her limbs. How no one had seen this, she could not say. Perhaps portals. Perhaps some secret of necromancy. But rapidly approaching the City of Light was an army of death, led by two enormous dragons.

  Etolié spread her wings and dove from the tower, shooting toward the cathedral.

  Buildings rushed past. Etolié’s heart pounded in her ears. In the air, she quickly reached her destination, ignoring the mourners who stared at her presence—as one of the only known Celestials with wings, she made for a sight.

  As she soared down, she tucked her wings to her back, shooting through the ajar doors of the cathedral. People gasped as she dove above their heads, but the expansive cathedral easily accommodated her need for space.

  She spread her wings as she came toward the archbishop’s casket, causing a rush of air to billow against Lunestra and the other citizens politely paying their respects. The new archbishop, to her credit, looked appalled but didn’t immediately snap at her.

  Etolié’s feet touched the ground. “Archbishop Lunestra, you have to clear the city!”

  She ignored the gasps around her. Lunestra frowned and said, “Magister Etolié, what are you talking about—”

  “Nox’Kartha is here. They’ve brought an army.”

  Audible panic rippled through the citizens at the front of the cathedral. Lunestra’s frown melted into fear. “What?”

  “They’re on the horizon—”

  Etolié felt a great boom rupture not her ears but her soul. She looked to the window and saw that all daylight had vanished. Screams from beyond met her ears.

  Eionei, tell Sol Kareena—

  She was merely thinking to herself. She felt nothing—no connection to Celestière. When she glanced to Lunestra, she saw the archbishop look in horror at her familiar on her shoulder—as though the little bird were nothing, as though she felt nothing too. Lunestra stared at her hands, and Etolié saw other priests and priestesses do the same.

  Those with a godly connection had felt it sever. But how?

  Lunestra cried, “Guards! Sound the alarm. Every citizen must go underground immediately!”

  “What can I do to help?” Etolié said, but Lunestra shook her head.

  “You owe us nothing—”

  Etolié snapped her fingers, and an illusionary flock of birds burst from her hand, flying up to the rafters of the building. “I can’t speak to Eionei, but I’m not crippled. Let me help.”

  A set of guards approached Lunestra as she nodded. The panic in the room rose as people ran away. “Archbishop, we must get you to safety—”

  Another great boom, but this one reverberated against Etolié’s entire body. A great roar echoed from beyond.

  Dragons.

  “Your duty is to protect my people,” Lunestra said to the guards. “Get everyone underground.”

  Etolié felt Sora’s presence as the half-elf suddenly appeared beside them. “They’re crawling over the walls—the dead!”

  How they had come so quickly, Etolié feared to guess. “Your people need their archbishop,” she said. “Let your guards protect your own, but let me protect you. I say this not as a foreign magister, but as a citizen of Celestière, as the Chosen of Eionei, and as one of godly lineage—I swear you will leave this alive.”

  Lunestra accepted her outstretched hand, and Etolié prayed she had not condemned a woman to die. “My city holds catacombs, specially warded to protect from undeath,” Lunestra said. “During the Civil War, Sol Kareena feared the violence would bleed into her borders and so created them specifically for detouring the God of Death’s forces—and thus the forces of the dead.”

  The great bells of the cathedral rang, rousing the city from its lethargy and into action. “And they’ll save us?”

  “They will.” Lunestra beckoned for her and Sora to follow and led them to the doors behind the great statue of Sol Kareena. “During the war, it was a race to collect allies—Ilune against Neoma, and each of them frantically grabbed those who would join their respective causes.” Through the back hallways, she led, not running, no, but hurried. “When Ilune enlisted the demon god Onias, so too did Neoma and Sol Kareena plead for Demoni intercession—Ku’Shya joined in Neoma’s cause. I say this because it was Ku’Shya who aided in creating the underground caverns, offered wards written in Demoni tongue, for Ilune could not speak it and deactivate them. They are impenetrable to undeath.”

  Lunestra knocked upon a door and peeked her head inside. “Children, take nothing. Come with me now.”

  Etolié peered past her and saw a bunkhouse full of children—eight in all, each wearing the robes of Sol Kareena. Her gut clenched as some sought to grab blankets or toys despite the archbishop’s reprimand. Etolié saw the stakes before her, the lives of these children now held in her unworthy hands.

  Sora, too, visibly steeled her courage, but her gaze had hardened, cold calculation in her words. “Where do we go?”

  “There are five catacomb entrances scattered throughout the city, all of which lead to a central cavern. We must direct as many citizens as possible as we run—the undead cannot pass the threshold, so once they’re underground, they’re safe. The nearest is north of the cathedral, in the artisan’s district.”

  Sora stepped forward, beckoning to the children. “Everyone, find a friend and hold their hands with all your might, all right? Don’t let go for anything. We’re going to see some scary things, but I promise if you stay with us, Sol Kareena will protect you.”

  One little girl said, “Are you the priestess Sol Kareena brought back to life?”

  “I am. So you know my promises mean something.”

  Another child, a little boy of no more than five, looked to Etolié and her
wings. “Are you an angel?”

  Etolié shook her head. “Almost, but not quite. My mother is Staella, Goddess of Stars.”

  All the children flocked to inspect her wings, and though Etolié flinched at their grabbing hands, her heart ached. She had little understanding of children, but nearly cried when the same boy said, “You’ll protect us?”

  By Morathma’s Whore Mother, she was leading children to the slaughter—

  Etolié smacked that thought from her head. Let this be her great work. “Absolutely, but we’d better get moving.”

  Lunestra and Sora each carried one of the smaller ones, but Etolié elected to merely hold their tiny hands. “Remember what the half-elf said—hand holding.”

  They obeyed. Lunestra led them out. Not to the front, no, but to a door at the far back, one that showed the outside world.

  Etolié’s grip on the tiny hands tightened when she heard pained screams from beyond. The sky had darkened, black clouds blotting out the sun. People ran. She saw no dead—not yet.

  But in the dank, heavy air, Etolié saw a great skeletal dragon hovering above the city, clutching a gigantic box pulsing with dark energy, lightning in hues of purple and black radiating in erratic waves. Etolié’s head revolted at the feeling, the power unparalleled, the box serving to magnify whatever dark artifact lay within.

  She, who had once wielded an orb of fire, realized she knew its kin.

  “Etolié, let’s go!”

  Sora’s voice pulled Etolié from her horror, and the Celestial ran to keep up, dragging the three children clutching her arms along. More than once she nearly lost Lunestra in the crowd, the open area and stone streets surrounding the cathedral soon narrowing into organized, grid-like alleyways.

  A great thud shook the earth behind them. Etolié dared to look back and gasped. The second of the dragons had landed, not a hundred feet away, uncaring of the people it squashed beneath its now bloodied limbs. It roared; the children screamed, but Etolié ran and pulled them along.