by S D Simper
Oh, Dauriel—the mad woman of the castle, her lineage dooming her to a lifetime of brutality. Tallora knew she shouldn’t pity her, yet her heart ached all the same.
Damn Dauriel. Tallora had cried enough for her, yet when she was alone in her room, she shed silent tears. Once, she had prayed for Dauriel’s comfort and sanity—perhaps it had fallen onto deaf ears instead.
Or perhaps Dauriel had simply been doomed from the start.
Tallora couldn’t sleep, and so she wandered.
The halls of the castle were too silent, yet to speak to Kal felt too loud. Tallora instead entered Solvira’s Great Library, content among the quiet ambience of scholars. The sweeping walls and high windows would forever be magnificent, the knowledge harbored within perhaps limitless. She peered at figures high above, supported by lifts or ladders, admiring their contentment among the books and scrolls.
She thought of her people; she thought of all that was lost, their unwritten history vanishing with the tongues of the elderly fallen.
Sadness threatened to consume her. She left the main area, instead disappearing into a familiar hall leading to a room that filled her soul with dread for more reasons than one.
She shrunk before the ancient dragon skeleton displayed upon the ceiling, the memory of Yaleris’ death too raw. At least his gruesome death meant he would never be shown off like some lifeless puppet. A hollow victory, that.
This was Rulira, and Yaleris had spoken fondly of her. The Solviraes had the orb she had once wielded, locked somewhere away. She recalled his sorrow at her death and wondered if his brothers and sisters felt the same for his. Would they care enough to try and save the world from Yu’Khrall or would they remain in their secret caves, content to let the world drown for its crimes?
Did they even know?
Upon the wall was the ancient mural of Yu’Khrall, but the great eye at the center was nothing to its living counterpart. Still, Tallora stood before it, hatred filling her as she contemplated what this monster had stolen—and for nothing, save a sick appetite.
She shut her eyes, tears filling them as she remembered her mother and their parting words. Tallora had been helpless to save her, at best able to sing a few hollow praises to their goddess as her spirit had slipped away into the Beyond.
Oh, to hold her one more time, to be held. They had been everything to the other for so long. “Goddess Staella,” Tallora whispered, for her soul was not too jaded to pray, “I hope this is your will. I didn’t know what else to do.”
The first of her tears fell as quiet footsteps filled the room. Tallora quickly wiped her cheeks, unwilling to cry in front of a stranger, when a familiar voice said, “I thought I saw you here.”
Gasping, Tallora turned and saw a beloved face. “Mithal?”
Lady Mithal Redwood, the madam of the courtesans, wore elegant robes of silk with cascading hair of sunlight spilling down the front. The elven woman embraced her warmly when she approached. “A little bird told me that the mermaid had returned once more.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come see you yet,” Tallora said, but she saw no ire on Mithal’s elegant face.
“You’ve been busy.” If she saw any evidence of sorrow of Tallora’s face, she was kind enough to not comment. “My condolences, for your loss. I know the pain of losing your home to a monster—years ago, The Scourge of the Sun Elves destroyed my village across the sea. And the world doesn’t care. I know that pain too. I’m here if you ever tire of speaking to two-faced politicians seeking to profit from your heartbreak.”
Tallora had wondered why an elf would be so far away from her home. She offered a grief-stricken smile. “I can always count on you to know every bit of information going through this castle.”
“It’s the unspoken responsibility of my job.” Mithal’s smile matched Tallora’s—sincere, yes, but filled with sadness. “And my utmost sympathies for the death of your mother. Strange, how one tragedy among a thousand can sting the worst.”
Tallora wiped the threatened tears from her eyes. “Did you also lose your mother?”
Mithal gently shook her head. “Instead, on the ship from Zauleen to Solvira, my daughter succumbed to illness. I had to bury her at sea.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was years and years ago—well before you were born. I haven’t forgotten, but I have moved forward.”
Tallora wondered if she would someday be able to do the same. Time had been a morass these past several weeks. “Thank you,” Tallora said softly. “It’s like you said—the tragedy feels so far away, and no one here can begin to fathom it. Solvira has agreed to help, but I may very well be handing the seas to them in return. I don’t believe there’s another choice, though.”
“Solvira has always had aspirations to own the world, or so I was told once I came here. But across the sea, we’d hardly heard of them. The world is far larger than any one of us realize—larger than the ambitions of warmongering rulers and greater than even the tragedy beneath the Tortalgan Sea. I don’t say that to belittle it. I mean only that you did what you must for the moment—there is balance in all things, and fate has a way to right it, in the end.”
A small bit of comfort filled her heart. “Thank you.”
“Solvira’s gods have fought Yu’Khrall twice before. Perhaps they shall help once again.”
As Tallora gazed about the Hall of Relics, saw artwork and artifacts as ancient and priceless as Solvira itself, she realized how little she truly knew of it all. “I hope so. I’m told Yu’Khrall defeated Ilune, and now with an orb . . .” Anxiety stole her words, her hope a candle facing a flood. “Perhaps if she returns, she’ll actually kill him this time.”
“That would spark a nasty war.”
“I don’t care,” Tallora spat, bitterness staining the words. “He’s killed so many. I don’t understand why Neoma even cares to appease Onias.”
“Walk with me,” Mithal said, and Tallora obeyed, content to leave behind the filth the room brought to her soul. “There’s more to that story than I think you know.”
Mithal led her to the library’s main sector, then detoured toward a staircase leading down into the endless pit of books. “You don’t read well,” the elf continued, apparently keen to remember every piece of Tallora’s life—which she couldn’t say was a comfort or disconcerting, “but there are children’s books with illustrations that might suit your ability.”
Tallora found the thought amusing, and when Mithal led her to the first of the descending floors, she was surrounded by a small sea of shelves. It felt secluded, save for the balcony behind them leading into the great pit. Her eyes skimmed the tomes, spotting the occasional familiar word, until Mithal withdrew one particularly ragged book—the cover peeled, the pages had yellowed, but Mithal led them to a table and gently opened it.
When she said nothing, Tallora squinted as she stared at the title page. “G-God of Death,” she read aloud, pride filling her at her success.
“What do you know of Ilune?”
Tallora shook her head. “Almost nothing.”
“There are a thousand mysteries surrounding Ilune and her legacy. She is the founder of Solvira and birthed the first emperor nearly four millennia ago, yet she has never revealed the child’s father. She may be its most powerful goddess yet resides in the shadow of her mothers. But unlike the other gods of Celestière, she doesn’t need a host to manifest upon our world; she is a necromancer and can possess and mold any corpse to suit her angelic body. It’s how she got her masculine title. Morathma hates her, and he mocked her for her habit of possessing corpses of every species and gender. When he called her the God of Death, she embraced it to spite him.
“I am loyal to Sol Kareena,” Mithal continued, “but Ilune is a goddess of great interest to me, if only for her ruthless endeavors.” She carefully turned the brittle pages of the book, revealing more illustrations and words written in large text.
Tallora gazed upon the visage before her, finding it fam
iliar to the likeness she saw in the temple. Ilune was beautiful, and here she held an infant child with the first hints of fire around its form. She looked at the caption and stammered, “The Con . . . Conception of a Kingdom.”
“Very good,” Mithal said, and then she turned the page again.
Tallora frowned at the next, for it showed Ilune standing before a demonic beast, monstrous and yet familiar in subtle, undeniable ways—the horns, the tattoos, all of it she had seen before. “Who is that?” she asked, and Mithal tapped one of the phrases in the caption. “Bringer of War. But that’s not Khastra. It’s . . . beastly.”
“It is. Her blood powers allow her to turn into a great monster.”
Tallora thought of Yu’Khrall, also the child of a god, and wondered if Khastra could fight him on her own. Perhaps not, because of her hoofs.
“Ilune bargained with the Bringer of War to come to Solvira, offered her glory and a legacy greater than she could dream of in Ku’Shya’s court. She has been with Solvira ever since.”
Tallora contemplated that as Mithal turned several pages, curious to know what would coerce a being like Khastra to pledge loyalty to anything. But Mithal revealed a daunting image—of Yu’Khrall, or something like him, facing the God of Death in all her glory. “People don’t talk about grand defeats,” Mithal said, “They talk about victory, and so very few know the story. It’s said Ilune sought to slay him before he was a threat, but for reasons that are a mystery. She failed, and so she cursed him.”
“Cursed him?”
“Cursed him with an insatiable hunger. A fitting curse for a necromancer to place—no matter what he consumes, he will always be plagued with starvation. Some say it drove him to madness, and thus his rampage upon the sea.”
“And that’s when Neoma came?” At Mithal’s affirmative nod, Tallora said, “But why? Why would Ilune do that?”
Mithal shook her head. “Another of those godly mysteries we mere mortals aren’t privy to know.”
As Tallora gazed upon Ilune’s glorious image, she recalled the glee the God of Death had taken in stealing Vahla’s soul. Whatever morality she claimed, it held very different rules than Tallora’s. Perhaps she saw life from a higher plane, but perhaps it was merely the same brutal ambition as her progeny—for she was Dauriel’s ancestor, just as much as Neoma.
She remembered the dread she’d felt at Ilune’s gaze and knew it did not stem from good. She recalled what Khastra had said—that Ilune knew of the plot to free Yu’Khrall and had said nothing.
“It’s getting late,” Mithal said kindly. She shut the picture book. “Should I leave you?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Tallora said, “I’d actually prefer the company. I won’t be sleeping.”
Mithal smiled knowingly. They spoke of happier things well into the night.
Dauriel was not at breakfast, for which Tallora was relieved.
She heard nothing of the empress until afterward, when she approached the menagerie. A servant came to say her presence had been requested in the council room. Kal and Merl could wait, she supposed—Tallora obeyed, hiking up her skirts as she stepped through the hallway.
It was terribly annoying, feeling fabric brush against her legs.
In the council room, Dauriel sat slouched on the table, wearing an unreasonably attractive ensemble of black and red, her boots shined, a crown set at her hairline. Her eyes were brighter, or at least less bloodshot—perhaps she’d actually slept.
With her were a small gathering of guards and Khastra, whose face appeared unharmed despite Dauriel’s volley of punches the previous night. But she couldn’t ask of it, lest she reveal what she’d seen. Tallora merely entered and said, “I was summoned?”
Dauriel stood from the table, her stance subdued as she faced Tallora. “I wished to invite you to join me at the temple. Traditionally, when communing with the Triage for private business, one follower of each goddess is present. I do not know if Ilune or Staella will be joining, but I thought if you could plead for your people to Neoma directly, it might sway her to help.”
Standing before the Triage had been a surreal moment in Tallora’s life, to face her own goddess in all her glory—at home, they’d hardly believed it. It felt so daunting, to return, yet what was this but intercession? Tallora would be begging for mercy for her people.
“I’ll go,” she said, and Dauriel nodded in affirmation, then beckoned for her soldiers to move out.
Tallora followed, unsurprised when they were led outside. A carriage awaited at the gates.
Dauriel entered on her own accord, ignoring the attendant offering a hand. Tallora accepted the aid and muttered a quiet, “Thank you,” as she entered the carriage and sat at the bench opposite Dauriel, who had pressed herself against the far wall, eyes fixed on the window.
When Khastra peered inside, she looked apologetically to Tallora. “Forgive me, Mermaid, but I will have to sit on that bench. I am too large to share.”
Wordlessly, Tallora moved to the opposite bench, careful to avoid brushing against Dauriel. The half-demon settled as well as she could within the carriage, but she sat somewhat hunched, legs spread apart. “I am glad this is a short trip.”
Tallora cracked a smile. “Do they have carriages built to accommodate you?”
“They do. But this one draws less attention.”
The carriage rocked forward. The city approached. Tallora watched from the window, fascinated by uplander behaviors and keen to avoid accidentally meeting Dauriel’s eye.
The temple soon appeared, the very same she’d met months ago for intercession. Unity, she knew the sign said—the only temple dedicated to the entire Triage.
Dauriel kept her distance as they traversed the steps. Tallora stayed near Khastra, content in her shadow until the cathedral’s covered them. The guards at the entrance bowed deep at Dauriel’s approach, saying nothing as the three of them passed through.
The cathedral was empty. Dauriel marched to the altar, bypassing the spacious room without a glance. In her hands, Silver Fire flickered and burned; she touched them to the altar, muttering words Tallora could not quite hear.
The pedestals beyond glowed.
Three brilliant beams of light appeared, and Tallora knew them. She knew the fluid visages of the women before her, her love for the one at Neoma’s right hand personal and sacred. With her brilliant wings and kind countenance, Staella held Neoma’s hand in hers, unquestionable sorrow in her gaze as she met Tallora’s eye. Tallora bowed, and Staella’s smile was kind.
Tallora looked to the others who had descended with her—first to Neoma, whose severe gaze was reserved for the walls, contemplation in her visage. Power radiated from her stance, from every twitch of her body, the faint aura of silver around her ethereal form.
Ilune stood at Neoma’s left hand, her own wicked gaze settling onto Khastra. Her staff, however, topped with its eerie, demonic skull, stared at Tallora, who withered beneath it. She was endlessly gorgeous, the culmination of her mothers’ beauty, her sensuous form barely hidden beneath her silken dress, shamelessly teasing every curve and line of her angelic body.
Neoma spoke, her proud voice echoing across the high ceilings. “Greeting, Dauriel, and guests. There is much to speak of, yet so little to say. Onias refused to speak to me regarding Yu’Khrall. He said only that his words had been conveyed to the messenger.”
Tallora recalled Harbinger’s words and wondered if they were the same. But before she could speak, Dauriel stepped forward.
“So you do know?” the empress said, daring to stand tall before her progenitor goddess.
“My wife has heard enough pleas for help from her worshippers,” Neoma said, taking her throne upon the pedestal. “We know all. The oceans weep for Yu’Khrall’s rampage and for Yaleris’ death. Yet there’s only one who could have freed him.”
A great many things happened in a few tense seconds; Neoma’s bitter glare settled upon Tallora, who shrunk before her, but with that cam
e Staella’s own subtle glower to her wife. The Goddess of Stars whispered into Neoma’s ear, who matched her gaze instead, silent words passing between them.
In the same instance, Dauriel looked to Tallora, her unreadable countenance scrutinizing above all. “What is she talking about?”
No condemnation; merely curiosity. “Only the Heart of Silver Flame holds the power to free Yu’Khrall,” Tallora said, “and I was the heart of Neoma’s chosen upon this realm. Chemon, King Merl’s advisor, overheard your, um, mention of marrying me, and used my blood to . . . I swear I tried to fight him, but there were so many, and . . .” She frowned, suddenly cold. “H-He had a vision, or so he said. A vision that told him the Heart of Silver Flame wasn’t Staella and who to look for instead. Goddess Neoma, I worry there’s more to this.”
“Indeed,” Neoma said curtly. Yet her attention left her beloved’s and drifted to Ilune instead. “Tell me more of it, Tallora. No detail is trivial.”
Tallora said what she recalled—that the vision mentioned blood, that he’d awoken cold—what little she knew, and all the while Neoma said nothing at all; merely watched Ilune, who looked properly horrified at Tallora’s words.
It was Staella’s quiet heartbreak that spoke the loudest; she said nothing, revealed nothing, merely watched Tallora.
“I wish I knew more. If Yu’Khrall hadn’t eaten Chemon, we could question him, but—”
“Is it true, though?” Ilune interrupted, her pouted lips twisting into a wicked smile. Depthless dread seeped into Tallora’s soul, cold radiating through her limbs as Ilune looked to her. “Morathma came to meet with Yu’Khrall?”
The entire mood shifted. Confusion flickered upon both Neoma and Staella’s countenances—apparently they had not been informed. Yet Ilune had somehow, and she had asked Tallora specifically. “It’s true,” she said softly, nervous beneath the pointed gaze. “Morathma came to Yu’Khrall and offered to help him. He seemed to think . . .” She looked to Ilune, steeling her courage. “. . . that you would come to find him.”
