Death's Abyss

by S D Simper

  She nodded, though visibly confused. “Give me a moment to put on my proper garments. I’ll return shortly.”

  She disappeared through the door.

  Dauriel immediately swooped in and dipped Tallora down into a kiss, genuine joy in the gesture. “You’re certain about this?”

  “There’s no one else, Dauriel.” Tallora brushed aside her empress’ lengthening hair. “There never has been and never could be.”

  Dauriel carefully lifted her back up, then stole her hands and led her to the altar. Tallora realized they stood in a wedding pose, with a depiction of Goddess Staella to watch them. “Vows, then?”

  “Go ahead,” Tallora said, giggling at Dauriel’s grin.

  “Tallora of the Tortalgan Sea, citizen of Stelune, and captor of my heart—the splendor of your breasts is matched only by the magnitude of your love—” Tallora swatted her chest; Dauriel burst into a fit of laughter as she shied away.

  “You’re the worst,” Tallora teased, grabbing her ass when Dauriel dared straighten her stance.

  Their hands clasped once more, and Dauriel’s countenance softened. “I’m not good at expressing my feelings, but I adore you. You are the cleverest, wittiest, most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. We never should have met; we only did because I committed an unspeakable crime against you, yet you found it in yourself to forgive me.”

  “You were willing to destroy your life to undo your crime,” Tallora said, and Dauriel’s eyes watered. “You’re correct. If all were right in the world, we never would have met, but here we are, and by the Triage, Dauriel—I love you with everything I am.”

  The priestess returned, wearing a garb of pure white, gold embroidery at the edges bearing stars and filigree. “I can wait, if you’re still—”

  Dauriel shook her head. “Priestess, I don’t want to waste a moment more of my life without her.”

  “I can skip the frills if you’d prefer, then.”

  Dauriel caught Tallora’s eye, their silent exchange resulting in Tallora falling into giggles. “Yes, please.”

  The priestess smiled as she withdrew a silver thread from her pocket. “What’s your name?” she asked Tallora.

  “Tallora. They don’t have surnames where I’m from, so it’s only Tallora.”

  “For now,” Dauriel said, her wistful smile melting Tallora’s heart.

  The priestess looked between the pair of them. “Taken from Goddess Neoma’s robe, this thread shall bind your hearts, as it binds your wrists.” She gently stole their hands, bidding them to clasp the other’s wrist. She wrapped the string loosely around them, finishing it with a bow. “Dauriel Solviraes,” she said, forgoing the title—for here, beneath the goddess’ gaze, they were equals, “and Tallora, Mother Staella blesses your union. I pronounce you wed upon this beautiful night. Kiss, and seal your love.”

  They did, and it was as tender a kiss as they’d ever shared.

  They bid the priestess farewell, their hands clasped as they left the chapel. Tallora could not speak for Dauriel, but her heart fluttered, her mind in a daze. They held each other in the cold, peace between them even in the emptying streets.

  And when they returned to the castle, finally alone in Dauriel’s room, they laid innocently in the other’s arms, too exhausted to consummate their marriage.

  Instead, Dauriel clung tight to Tallora’s form, the words, “Goodnight, Tallora Solviraes,” nearly evoking a sob.

  Tallora kissed her wife—by Staella’s Grace, she had a wife—and held her until they fell into a serene sleep.

  Tallora awoke to knocking and a blinding line of sunlight streaming between the curtains. Disoriented, she frowned when the bed shifted, unsteady as she sat up and saw Dauriel stomping toward the door.

  She slammed it shut; Tallora cringed and rubbed her eyes, exhaustion weighing down her eyelids.

  From beyond the door, Dauriel seethed the words, “This had better be important.”

  “M-My apologies, your majesty. But the hour is nearly noon, and General Khastra has called a council meeting. They are waiting on you—”

  “Tell them I’ll be there when I damn well want to—”

  The words were cut off by her banging her outer door shut. Dauriel reentered the bedroom, ever the dragon as she breathed out the barest hints of silver.

  Tallora beckoned for her, smiling faintly when Dauriel climbed back into the bed. “Good morning—”

  Dauriel’s lips stole her words. When she pulled back, her head fell upon Tallora’s shoulder. A slight, yet constant trembling shook her hands. “Why must life move forward? Is it too much to ask for one quiet fucking morning with my new wife?”

  “Considering none of them know yet? Yes.” She placed a kiss on Dauriel’s neck, running a soothing hand against her back. “Calm yourself, my dragon empress. One little meeting, and then we lock the doors and fuck the day away as wife and wife.”

  Dauriel looked up, her disheveled hair hilariously juxtaposed with her mischievous eyes. “Goddess’ Grace, you’re perfect.”

  Tallora placed a kiss on her mouth, content to savor her touch. When she pulled away, she whispered, “Let’s get changed. Just imagine the scandal when you tell them the news.”

  Dauriel’s grin conveyed nothing but fervent anticipation.

  When they’d donned their day clothes, Dauriel led her down the hallway, her hand at Tallora’s waist. Something different shone in her stance, a protective instinct that hadn’t been there before—or, rather, it had exponentially increased. Dauriel looked prepared to pounce on anyone who so much as spoke to them, and Tallora wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t stupidly attractive.

  Dauriel was an ass, but Tallora knew it and loved it so.

  They reached the council chamber; Dauriel threw open the doors, letting them bang haphazardly against the walls. Those at the table looked up—and among them was someone new standing before the crescent moon.

  Unabashedly beautiful, this person held no clear race—she appeared human, yet her pale skin bore a lavender sheen, her eyes the same shade, yet as sharp as a knife. Her dark hair held an elaborate bun atop her head, revealing pointed ears, and her robes were as opulent to match, yet held no distinguishing marks of loyalty. Perhaps she was De’Sindai, but she was surely no mere visitor, and as she spared a glance for the general, Tallora held a few suspicions.

  “My friends,” Dauriel said bombastically, then she nodded to the interloper, “and guest. Before we begin this meeting, I have an announcement—or, rather, a reintroduction.” She released Tallora, instead gesturing to her with pride. “I would like you all to meet Tallora Solviraes, my wife.”

  Tallora wouldn’t say it was horror she saw, but varying degrees of shock met their gazes and no smiles—save one.

  The mysterious woman laughed and clapped her hands. “Congratulations, Empress Dauriel. And you, Empress Consort. There are few mortal institutions finer than matrimony. I wish you many years of joy.”

  Many years of joy. Tallora swallowed the emotion those words wrought. “Thank you, my lady,” she said instead.

  “Who are you?” Dauriel asked, always straight to the point.

  “My apologizes.” She offered a hand, which Dauriel accepted. “My name is Maysonge deDieula, Herald of Ilune. I’ve come to explain a few . . . addendums to Khastra’s plan. We’ve discussed it at length, she and I.”

  Tallora looked to Khastra, saw the fondness in her gaze as she looked to Maysonge, and wondered how much of the half-demon’s inner life anyone truly knew.

  “We’re always happy to hear Ilune’s will,” Dauriel replied.

  Ilaeri coughed expectantly, his smile all but painted on. “I suppose we should all give our congratulations on your matrimony, though perhaps with a few days’ notice we could have provided an actual celebration.”

  “We’re at war.” Dauriel’s hand crept back to Tallora’s waist, trembling as she gripped her dress. “Sometimes things must be done quickly.”

  “Of course, of c
ourse. Once the issue of Yu’Khrall is dealt with, we can introduce her to the populace, though she might be infamous enough without that.”

  “Any person who takes issue with my wife can answer to me,” Dauriel said, an unquestionable challenge in the words. “Whether they be from my own people or Moratham or the Tortalgan Sea—let them come.”

  Heat rose against Tallora’s back and instinctively stepped away—Dauriel glowed from within, silver flame apparent in her mouth, smoke escaping her nostrils when she breathed. Tallora frowned, then dared to grab her arm despite the heat, her thumb soothing gentle circles against her sleeve.

  “We’re not here to discuss matrimony,” Dauriel all but spat. “Lady deDieula, please, you have the floor.”

  Dauriel’s grip on Tallora’s dress remained possessive. She gestured to her seat, but Tallora shook her head. “Take it,” she whispered. “I’d rather stand.”

  Truthfully, Tallora feared another outburst like the one she’d seen two days prior, so she let Dauriel sit and hopefully be calm. Instead, Tallora stood behind and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Dauriel’s own snaked up to grasp it.

  “Solviran Council,” Lady deDieula said, grinning as her sharp gaze scanned the room, “Ilune is pleased. She sends her regards and her utmost praise at both your eminent victory in the desert as well as the handling of Yu’Khrall. She prepares to celebrate with you, but in the meantime, she offers aid.”

  “Aid?” Dauriel said, her interest apparently caught. “Do explain.”

  “Assuming you have no objections, Empress, I shall accompany your ships. Khastra and I have already discussed the intricacies of the journey, but once we arrive, I shall serve as the envoy of Ilune, wielding her designated power.”

  Dauriel’s grip on Tallora’s hand tightened. The council watched with intrigue, the words perhaps unexpected. “We would be honored to accept her aid,” Dauriel said, “though while I don’t question your power, Ilune does not even need a host to appear, so why would she not come herself?”

  “There is contention in Celestière, regarding her offer of aid,” deDieula replied, her grin conveying amusement. “Neoma does not disregard the usefulness of necromancy but has proclaimed that Ilune shall be absent from the fight. And so I, her most accomplished, shall be there instead.”

  “I’m curious, then,” Dauriel replied. “What aid can a necromancer provide upon the seas?”

  “Oh, a disgusting amount, I assure you. Khastra and I have discussed the necessary supplies, which we would happily relay to you alone.”

  “Oh?”

  Lady deDieula’s smile twisted, an ineffable wickedness in her countenance. “I would not insist if it weren’t important.”

  Tallora felt a faint rise of heat in Dauriel’s hand. She brought her own down to touch the back of Dauriel’s hair, willing her to calm. The empress gave a brief, affirming nod. “What of the rest?”

  Khastra answered, again devolving into jargon Tallora hadn’t a hope to understand, but one thing did stand out as clear, as she went over numbers and plotting and such, that there was no consideration to collateral damage, and Tallora feared for what was left of her people.

  And so, when a lull appeared in Khastra’s words, she raised a tentative hand. Lady deDieula smiled brightly. “Empress Consort?”

  All eyes turned to Tallora. “Forgive me, if it isn’t my place to speak,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand from Dauriel’s, “but I do need to ask—what of my people? Will they be warned of the attack? So many have died already. I don’t know if they’ll be in Iids or by Yu’Khrall or if they ran or . . .” Tallora swallowed, the sudden rise of her tears unexpected. She warded them away, but deDieula filled in the silence.

  “An excellent question, and it sparks a few more,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Was I properly informed that Yu’Khrall has an appetite for merfolk?”

  The question revolted her, and deDieula’s smile suggested she already knew the answer. “Yes,” Tallora replied, but appall stilled her tongue.

  “An addendum,” deDieula said smoothly, looking at Khastra with intrigue, and then to the rest of the council. “We send two fleets.”

  “You are vastly overestimating my numbers.” Khastra’s words were nothing less than unimpressed.

  “General,” she cooed, and it all but confirmed Tallora’s suspicions regarding her place in Khastra’s life, “I’m wounded. Hear me out. Two fleets. The second is all that you’ve brilliantly planned. The first is small. Pitiful. A legion of unseasoned heroes meant to foreshadow the coming storm. Perhaps they succeed; more likely, they fall, but Yu’Khrall has a taste for humanoid flesh. He consumes them, falls into a lull—then Solvira’s true might crashes upon him from without . . . and destroys him from within.”

  Silence settled upon the room, the horrific truth of what deDieula suggested a poisoned cloud around them. Tallora’s stomach sickened, and without thinking she said, “What?”

  The woman frowned, though not unhappily—confusion marred her beautiful face. “Was I not clear? I will give undeath to the dead inside him and they’ll—”

  “You were crystal clear, don’t worry.” Tallora’s fist clenched, jaw grit. “Lady deDieula, with due respect, that’s barbaric.”

  “From a certain viewpoint,” deDieula replied, apparently unoffended.

  Tallora turned to Dauriel, desperation on her tongue. “You can’t condone this.”

  Dauriel said nothing, merely stared thoughtfully at the table.

  “Mermaid,” came Khastra’s voice, calm amidst Tallora’s storm, “we cannot let emotion dictate our actions. War is not the business of soft hearts.”

  “She’s proposing sacrificing these people! They won’t even be warned—they’ll simply be fuel for your fire. This isn’t about emotion. This is about what’s right and wrong—”

  “You’re a fitting follower of Staella,” deDieula interrupted, no ire on her tongue; merely amusement, and Tallora couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being mocked. “Full of dreams. What would you propose, Empress Consort?”

  A cruel question, and Tallora felt the veiled insult in her words. She said nothing, because there was nothing she could say—she was no tactician, nor a warrior, not even a leader. Empress Consort—not a title of greatness, only proof that she’d married well.

  “You’ll be brilliant in peacetime,” deDieula continued, her countenance almost kind. “You have the makings of being beloved in ways Solvira desperately needs—breathtakingly beautiful, charming and assured, a figurehead to adore. But in times of war, kingdoms need a stronger hold. You’ll learn this in time.”

  Tallora’s better judgement screamed to back down, but from a place beyond fear came the words, “Your title leads me to wonder what you’d possibly know of military tactics either. ‘Herald’ isn’t synonymous with ‘monarch.’”

  Lady deDieula laughed, nothing of offense in the sound, despite Tallora’s spiteful words. “All right, I suppose you have me there. Though I do have a few thousand years’ worth of experience advising the goddess who founded the kingdom you’ve asked for help in dealing with your little tragedy—which, if I recall correctly, has the greatest military in the world.” Her smile remained kind, which was somehow the greatest insult of all. “Why don’t you leave the discussion to the adults, hmm?”

  Given the choice between bursting into angry tears and leaving, Tallora forced a smile and walked out.

  “Tallora?”

  That was Dauriel, she knew, but she left the council chamber, nevertheless.

  A horrible, crippling truth descended upon her; Tallora fell upon a pillar and wept in the hallway. Staella’s Grace held no power here. Tallora held no power here. She feared she’d salvaged her heart in exchange for her soul.

  She gripped the pillar, forcing her legs to support her. She stumbled as she walked, her eyes spilling tears. With no aim, she ended up outside in the garden. The snow had settled into a soggy path, ridden with dirt and deprived of the magic o
f a fresh falling. She wore no coat; the chill cut deep, but she couldn’t say she cared.

  Dauriel alone was who her heart craved. Dauriel Solviraes, empress of the fucking world, was the shadow Solvira lived beneath, and Tallora was a fool to forget it. Last night, all had seemed limitless, eternal, but the sun had risen and shined light upon her foolishness. Her momma had warned her of this; Tallora had left Dauriel because of this—

  “Tallora?”

  Tallora gasped at the name, surprised to see Dauriel approaching, her boots crunching against the dirty snow. She removed her cape in a single motion, immediately wrapping it around Tallora’s shivering form. Dauriel embraced her, pulled her against her chest, and Tallora clung to the sound of her heartbeat. “I rejected the plan.”

  Tallora immediately pulled back, though she kept the cape secure around her shoulders. “You what?”

  “You were right,” she said, her words as soft as her silver eyes. “War begets unspeakable crimes, but the enemy is not my own people. I am here to lead; not to betray them for their loyalty. There is no justice in that.”

  Tallora studied this stranger’s face and saw beauty unparalleled—both inside and out. Her tears fell quickly but she smiled.

  “You mustn’t cry in the snow,” Dauriel chided, her own smile shy and tentative. “The tears will freeze against your face.”

  “Dauriel . . .” Tallora swallowed to mask her sob.

  But Dauriel shook her head. “My mother’s shadow lingers. It’s a plague upon my people. She was willing to sell them to Moratham for power, and she would have done the same here—sacrificed her own to gain a small advantage. I’m not her. I’m better and will be remembered as such.”

  Tallora’s lip trembled as she came forward again, accepting the offered embrace and warmth.

  “You were right about warning your people. It would be a waste to defeat Yu’Khrall, only to have the denizens of the ocean die in the collateral damage. I would propose sending Prince Kal with a message and allow time for evacuation.”

  Tallora brought her face to meet Dauriel’s, their bodies still touching with only the fabric to separate them. “You’d release him?”