by S D Simper
“I don’t know how much they told you,” Tallora continued, wrapping her arms around herself, “but Dauriel and I . . .” She shut her eyes and released a heavy sigh. “We were dear to each other. We . . . And please tell no one, because it was never spoken of, but we had wanted to marry.” Her nails dug into her arms, staunching her threatened tears. “I couldn’t accept. Not after what she did. She was born to be an empress, but I wasn’t born to be an empress consort. My heart can’t take the cost. So I ended it.”
Silence lingered a moment before Toria’s words gently interrupted it. “Empress Dauriel is a lost soul. Staella loves her, because Staella loves everyone, but that doesn’t dismiss what she’s done—and most especially what she’s done to you. You must feel conflicted.”
Tallora nodded.
“Staella believes in mercy, but she does not believe in being stepped on. I think you’ve done a brave thing, returning here to plead for help. A selfless thing. And forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I don’t believe you’ve ever fully healed from everything Solvira did to you. Perhaps you’ve offered forgiveness, but you still hurt.”
“You’re probably right,” Tallora whispered.
Toria offered a hand, and Tallora accepted, finding comfort in the familiar gesture. “Your mind is clouded, but it is never too late to find peace. Will you be returning home or staying in Solvira?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Perhaps you might find peace among your own kind,” Toria suggested. “I’m told you were close to the merfolk prince—perhaps some time spent in his company would do you well.”
Tallora’s smile came unbidden. “I do adore him.”
“Look at you—you’re glowing,” the priestess said, a soft sort of joy in her countenance. “A bit of healing already.”
“Honestly, he might benefit from talking to you too, if you’re allowed,” Tallora said, recalling his heartbreak when she’d told him the news. “He’s pledged to Tortalga, but we’ve both just lost our home.”
“Empress Dauriel has said nothing of it, so I shall make it a priority. You can tell me of that too, if you’d like.”
Tallora fought to hide her sudden rise of anguish. “I’ve never felt so lost in my entire life. Just a few weeks ago, I had everything I could have ever wanted. I love my home, but now all I can think about is that awful cloud of blood—” She cut off her words when tears prickled in her eyes. Steeling herself, she said stiffly, “And my mom. She wasn’t eaten by the monster; she died in my arms. I don’t know which of my friends are dead or alive, except for Kal, who’s a prisoner of war. And I know it’s for the best that I left Dauriel. I hate what she’s done. But I’m hurting, and I know she’s hurting, and between you and me, I’m worried she’ll do something to . . . to hurt herself.” She couldn’t speak her true fear aloud, the reality that Dauriel had always sought a great escape. Her tears fell, and she struggled to not collapse into sobs. “And it doesn’t matter if we aren’t together; I don’t want her dead.”
When Priestess Toria stood and knelt beside her, Tallora embraced her and wept in the priestess’ arms. The last person she’d held was her dying momma . . . and oh what a sadness that was, to have no one. But Toria held her with all the kindness of her calling, and Tallora felt comfort for the first time in weeks.
“Tallora of Stelune, you are a brave and wonderful woman,” the priestess whispered, “and Goddess Staella loves you. You haven’t lost everything; you will always have her to lean on, no matter how dark your world becomes. She knows all your sorrows and will take them upon herself if you let her.”
The words were not flippant; Tallora cherished them and their truth. She remained in the embrace for a time, and Toria did not rush her, merely let her cry. When she did finally pull away, the priestess smiled and said, “You’ll come to the temple with me sometime, won’t you? I think it would do you well to be around others who believe as we do.”
Tallora nodded, touched at the offer. “I was training to be a priestess before Solvira kidnapped me. I lost my way for a while, but perhaps that’s what I need to pursue again. My vestments are gone in the destruction of my home but . . .”
Sorrow filled her at the thought, to have lost something so precious.
“I think your home could use someone like you,” Toria affirmed, and Tallora felt she truly meant it. “We write stories and songs of warriors and heroes, yet what becomes of the world when the wars end? The world needs mothers. The world needs healers. The tragedy of Yu’Khrall will pass, and when peace comes again, Stelune will need Priestesses of Staella to remind them where their humanity lies. Our calling is one of healing, and those who’ve known pain often become the best healers. You will be a great source of good.”
“Thank you,” Tallora replied, and for the first time she felt the mantle’s full weight, what her lost vestments truly represented.
Perhaps as a frivolous youth, she had taken it for granted, but now it was a blessing, a purpose.
The future was dark, yet now a small light shone.
* * *
“Solvira said they would help?”
In the menagerie, Tallora found comfort and normalcy with Kal. After a nap in her room, she counted down the time to her official meeting with the council. “They did,” she replied, and behind Kal was a rather surly sight.
King Merl hadn’t smiled since she’d shown up. “But for the price of the water orb? They’ll own us, all the same.”
“Better them than Yu’Khrall—which, I do seem to recall is largely your fault.”
King Merl’s countenance darkened. “You wanted us in Solvira’s grasp all along—”
Kal swam to float between them. “Father, Tallora—we’re all angry. But we’re our only allies here, so let’s try and be polite. No use placing blame when the matter is already done with. We have to focus on solutions, and Tallora’s is a good one.”
“I simply want to know where her loyalties lie,” Merl said, his frown ever-present, “given she seems to know a suspicious amount.”
Tallora’s fury rose, but Kal stared at his father alone now. “Stop provoking her. She came all the way here to try and save us. I’m just as guilty as she is in trusting Solvira, so if you need someone to blame, pick me. Please.” He returned his attention to Tallora, ignoring his grimacing progenitor. “If there’s anything at all we can do to help, tell them we’ll do it.”
“I will. And I’ll be certain you’re kept informed.”
“Good luck.”
Tallora left them, pretending to not hear Merl’s muttered anger behind her back.
She ran quickly down the staircase, mildly winded when she reached the council chamber on the first floor. She was early, she knew, but better to be so than late—
Except, as Tallora opened the large double doors, there was Dauriel alone in the center, in the chair where Vahla had once sat. They matched eyes, and Tallora realized it was too late to back away.
Instead, she shut the doors as quietly as possible, taking a moment too long to admire the floor—black stone that sparkled in the light—and then the ceiling, which seemed to expand infinitely upward into an abyss.
Realistically, she didn’t have a designated seat at the crescent moon table, but the impending awkwardness of standing silently before Dauriel quickly became too much. She sat herself at an end seat.
Every breath she took sounded like a tidal wave in the unnatural silence. She wondered if some spell had been utilized to prevent eavesdropping, but before she could contemplate that further, she noticed Dauriel watching her from the reflection in the shined table.
Tallora glanced to the Solviran monarch, who quickly diverted her eyes. Seated at the table, Dauriel kept a proud stance, despite the half-empty bottle between her thighs.
Rage certainly still boiled somewhere in Tallora’s soul, but pity won out today, for the empress who held the world and yet had nothing. Now, it was Tallora who stared, who studied the false pride in Dauriel’s posture. Her
silver eyes held steel, yet her hands trembled as she gripped the bottle.
Dauriel caught her eye, and Tallora didn’t bother to look away. Desperate to fill the silence, she said the least inflammatory thing she could summon. “I learned something today.”
Dauriel’s frown held no anger. “Did you?” she asked, hesitant and soft and oddly pronounced—likely trying not to slur.
“Khastra’s afraid of water.”
The frown at Dauriel’s lip twisted into an unwilling smile. “It’s because of her ‘hoofs.’”
Tallora snorted as a precursor to her giggling. “Hoofs,” she repeated, and Dauriel joined her in their tentative laughter.
The door opened. Their laughter immediately ceased as the aforementioned water-averse general entered, followed by Ilaeri and Adrael. Khastra spared a curious glance for Tallora and Dauriel but said nothing, merely took a seat between them, though Tallora suspected it wasn’t personal—it was simply the largest chair in the room, clearly designated for her.
Thank Staella for Ilaeri and his incessant chattering. He filled the daunting silence with appall regarding a recent Theocracy diplomat’s behavior, and Tallora felt free to merely exist instead of engage.
Priestess Toria soon joined them, offering Tallora a quick smile as she sat at the opposite end of the crescent moon table. Priest Rel followed shortly afterward, and when Neoma’s priestess finally entered, Dauriel said, “Greyva, were you successful in communing with Neoma?”
An accidental stand-off occurred. Greyva eyed Tallora and her seat, who, in her infinite anxiety, misunderstood for a few seconds too long. Tallora awkwardly stood up, quickly stepping aside as Greyva wordlessly took her rightful place. “Empress Dauriel, I’m afraid—”
“Did I watch you disrespect my guest?”
Greyva stuttered, visibly taken aback. “S-She was in my seat. It was surely an accident but—”
Her words ceased when Dauriel stood quickly enough to tip her chair. “And now you would disrespect me with your justification?” She held the bottle in her hand, her steps the only sound as she walked to the end of the crescent moon. Tallora watched, horrified when Dauriel sat upon the table before Greyva, an unquestionable threat in her gaze. “Did you, or did you not disrespect my fucking guest?!”
Her cry echoed across the high ceilings. Light shone from her mouth, and Tallora knew it was fire. Khastra twitched in her seat.
Greyva’s wide eyes held genuine fear as she dared to meet Dauriel’s. She whispered, as skittish as a hermit crab, “Yes.”
A crash sounded when Dauriel threw her bottle against the wall. Wine splattered, flecks of it managing to land on Tallora’s dress, leaving deep stains. She hardly noticed, however—she swore her heart had stopped.
“I ought to sack you, you sorry cunt!” she screamed, and Greyva sunk lower in her seat, terror in her visage. “You’ll give up your seat, and you’ll kneel on the fucking ground—”
“Dauriel,” Khastra said, and Tallora knew it was a warning.
“Go!”
Greyva accomplished a rather impressive feat, managing to slip out of her chair without standing and risking coming closer to the unhinged empress. She stumbled back, trembling as she walked backwards around the table, maintaining careful eye-contact as she stood before the council. Dauriel pointed at the ground; Greyva promptly knelt.
“Now, please,” she said, spreading her arms wide, bravado in every word and gesture, “enlighten us with your bad news.”
Greyva kept her gaze to the ground, fists bunching into her dress. “Neoma wouldn’t speak to—”
“Look at me!”
Greyva obeyed, eyes snapping up. “She would only speak to you.”
“See? That wasn’t so difficult.” She smiled as she looked to Tallora, her gaze withering and bloodshot. “Tallora, please, have a seat.”
Tallora looked to Greyva, the urge to comfort the poor woman nearly stronger than her compulsion to rip this stranger of an empress to shreds. Neither impulse won. Instead, she glared as she took her seat, prepared to rain hell if Dauriel dared turn her ire onto her.
Dauriel looked to her council, all of whom were apparently as shocked as Tallora. “Anyone else?”
“I spent the afternoon in the war room, writing out a plan,” Khastra said, withdrawing a scroll. “If you have finished your tantrum, I would happily explain it.”
Dauriel’s smile twitched. “Khastra, spare me the lecture.”
“For now.” Khastra unraveled her scroll, launching into her speech before Dauriel could retaliate.
As the half-demon spoke—jargon Tallora couldn’t hope to understand—Tallora looked to Dauriel, who leaned against the wall beside her toppled throne. She appeared to listen to her general’s words, even asking questions as appropriate, but a weighty mood lingered.
Tallora understood one wrenching piece—the ships would set sail in four days.
She wondered if this had been the nature of Vahla’s rule, or if Dauriel Solviraes would become her own sort of tyrant. She looked to Greyva, the priestess’ gaze back to the floor as she knelt, her hands clasped in what Tallora suspected might be silent prayer.
Half an hour passed, at least. Khastra rolled up her scroll. “So, with permission, I would send word to begin assembling supplies. It is only a few day’s journey, so less food. More room for harpoons and men to shoot them.”
“I’ll write the edict myself,” Ilaeri said, “if you can select the men.”
“We will have to work quickly; I would prefer the fleet be sent within the week. As for Moratham, this is terribly inconvenient timing.” Khastra exhaled a long breath, her frown permanently etched, it seemed. “You received another message. Greyva was able to remove the enchantment sealing it shut. General Shiblon of Moratham still wishes to speak.”
“And I shall continue to ignore him,” Dauriel replied. She straightened her stance, standing from her place at the wall. Greyva remained on the floor. “I think that concludes our meeting, then. Flitter on your way, please. I’ll be off at the temple.”
With swaying steps, Dauriel left, and Khastra followed quickly after. Tallora, however, went to Greyva, offering a hand as she stood. “Are you all right?”
Though she accepted, Greyva withdrew her hand quicker than polite. “I’m fine,” she snapped, but then she looked to the door where Dauriel had left and visibly cringed. “I’m fine,” she repeated, subdued this time. “Thank you for your concern.”
Tallora summoned a nod and saw herself out.
In the hallway, she heard the unmistakable cadence of General Khastra’s angry whisper from around the corner. Tallora crept closer, her vindictive heart curious to hear the inevitable reprimand.
“. . . think you can go see Neoma in this state? She will have you thrown out.”
“I’m the empress. I can do anything—”
“She is a goddess, and you are a drunk child. She will strike you down for insolence.” Tallora heard a quick scuffle. “Come with me.”
She heard footsteps and dared to follow, recalling both Dauriel’s meltdown and Khastra’s warning from before, to be gentle to the unraveling empress. Perhaps Khastra was exempt from her own rules.
They quickly ended up outside, for which Tallora was grateful—even in her white, albeit stained dress, the darkness would cover her. She paused in the door, however, grabbing the skirt of the garment and sparing a moment to inspect the stains, crestfallen to realize it was ruined.
She swallowed the emotion it brought, heartbroken to see the reminder of a glowing memory tarnished. She had stood at Dauriel’s side, the symbolic gesture still beyond her own comprehension, but it had meant something. But now, with the dress splattered in deep red, she worried she might forget the joy of the night.
Would all her memories of Dauriel of disappear, doomed to be replaced by the brute seated on the throne? Tallora’s skirt fell; her quarry was far ahead.
She followed them to the training ground, where the door had not qui
te shut. “Get up!”
“What in Onias’ Hell are you—”
“You want to fight? Fight me!”
Tallora peeked through the door, aghast to watch Khastra throw Dauriel’s weapons at her feet, her own sword aloft. “You are a coward, picking a fight with a vulnerable woman—prove you have a spine!”
Dauriel barely reached the general’s sternum, and Tallora saw genuine fear flash in the empress’ silver eyes. With trembling, gloved hands, she removed her cape, letting it fall into the dirt, and maintained eye-contact as she bent over to pick up her double blades. “Khastra—”
Khastra swung her weapon toward Dauriel’s neck, a blow the empress barely parried. Tallora cringed with each blow—Khastra intended to kill, from the looks of it and the panicked defense of her protégé. Silver flame rose to cover Dauriel’s swords, yet she could not come near the enormous half-demon and her longsword. When she ducked, Khastra brought her weapon down; when she came close, Khastra kicked her to the ground.
In the dirt, Dauriel spat blood, but when Khastra’s moon-cast shadow covered her, she rolled aside before the half-demon could decapitate her. But she’d lost her swords, and Tallora watched her focus turn inward, waiting for Khastra to swing before she ran in and leapt—
And, by every god—she managed to grab Khastra by the neck, her own weight toppling the general. Khastra dropped her sword. On the ground, Dauriel screamed as she delivered punch after punch to Khastra’s jaw, before she was thrown aside, landing with an audible thump in the dirt.
And though Khastra soon loomed over her, Dauriel didn’t stand. Instead, she remained on her hands and knees, crying out as she beat against the dirt, silver flame rising, growing brighter, brighter—
Until, like a match, it extinguished. Dauriel devolved into agonized sobs. Khastra knelt and pulled her into her arms, holding Dauriel’s head to her chest as she wept.
Khastra rocked her like a child, speaking gentle words amidst Dauriel’s cries. “I will not leave you alone tonight. You will sleep in my room.”
Tallora stepped back, knowing she had witnessed enough, and far more than she should have. Her soul felt raw from the display, her mind racing as she returned.
