by Aaron Crash
The Cult of Chaos and Desire was no more. For a while. Then the gossip rose that other elves were taking off their cuffs, were coming together under full moons to delight in their sexuality. And so it had gone for millennia.
Lillee suffered through months of silent fury. Her sisters avoided her. Her mothers were cold to her. And her father stopped speaking to her.
It was then that Lillee decided to go to the Majestrial Collegium Universitas. To start a new life, to flee the quiet rage of her family, and to perhaps finish The Crippled Cicada.
And maybe she’d be able to escape her lust—that had been such self-delusion, she understood that now. Her lust was a part of her. Ymir called it a gift. Jennybelle called her an instant orgy, the Homme word, which Lillee didn’t like as much as the Gruul word. Ttoog.
Lillee stopped sketching Tori, let out a breath, and touched her essess. She focused on her breathing, letting go of the hurtful memories. Those decades were gone. She had magical decades in front of her. It would be foolish not to enjoy them.
She glanced around the feasting hall from her favorite spot, watching the scholars drift in for kaif, or the workers arriving to start dinner. Water streamed down the windows from the ever-present rains. Ymir hadn’t been able to light his fire down on the beach for his weekly ritual. He did it in Lillee’s sea alley cell, with a candle. In the flickering light, he recited the names of his ancestors, living and deceased. It was sad that for the remainder of his life, he’d speak the names of people who loathed him because of his dusza.
Lillee felt bad for him, but she loved the rain. It gave her a cozy feeling, when she was in Jenny’s apartment, in front of the fire, singing. Even in the feasting hall, with the lingering smell of lunch in the air, she liked hearing the wind and the rain while she was warm and dry, a cup of hot kaif near at hand.
Tori sank down next to Lillee. “Whatcha drawing, Lil?”
Lillee moved away to let the dwab see.
“That’s not me, is it?” Tori’s nose wrinkled with the question.
Lillee nodded. “I hope it’s okay.”
Tori frowned and shook her head. “It looks like me. I should know. Bless my stone bits, but I’ve spent too much time in this life in front of the mirror.” She stabbed a thick finger at her visage on the paper. “Look at that...I should have a bigger nose than that. And far bigger ears. Not that your picture is wrong. You got my dumb tiny nose and my stupid tiny ears just right. Gosh me underground, it looks just like me. Which is a shame.” She traced her chin and jawline and didn’t say more.
Lillee felt the change in the little woman. She knew she had to be careful with what she said. Any question might be rude and potentially devastating. “I think you’re beautiful,” Lillee said softly. If she’d been free of her cuff, she might’ve told Tori that she thought of her when she masturbated. Wearing her cuff, that was easy to keep to herself.
“Of course you think I’m beautiful,” Tori said with sudden bitterness. “You elves are nearly hairless, even your men. You don’t appreciate a full beard, long and thick and luscious. A beard you can braid. A beard you can celebrate. A beard so thick you can weave things into the curls. Why, I grew up with a friend, and she could carry tools in her beard. It was like a second pocket.” The hurt on her face was devastating. “Not me, though. Not me.”
Lillee didn’t know what to say. Before she knew it, she let a platitude slip. “Everyone is beautiful in their own way.”
That made the dwab spit out a harsh laugh. “What if you were bald, Lillee? What if you had a beard? What if you were horribly scarred from a fire? Would you be pretty?”
Lillee felt slapped. This was all falling apart around her. She thought of collecting her paper and pencils and fleeing. Then she thought of Ymir. Ymir would stay and fight. He would stand up for himself. And so would his women. Heaven knows, Jennybelle would’ve lashed back and probably made the entire situation much worse.
She turned and looked at Tori. “You and I aren’t scarred from fire. You and I are as different as can be, but still, Ymir looks at both of us with such passion in his eyes. You and I are pretty, if not to ourselves, then to Ymir.”
Various emotions spilled across Tori’s face. She looked mad at one point, then hurt, then happy, then shocked. “What do you mean Ymir looks at me? He doesn’t look at me.” She snorted.
Lillee felt the familiar frustration rise in her. The essess just didn’t stop her from being sexual, it also kept a bit of her passion locked away. She made the reckless decision to slip her cuff off her arm and laid it on the table. “He looks at you, Tori. I look at you. Other people do too, boys and girls. You have such lovely tits. And your ass is so curvy. I don’t know about the aesthetics of your culture, but from what I’ve gathered by watching the Ironcoats, Ibeliah and Brandmunli, and from what you’ve said, beards are obviously important. You don’t have one. I’m sorry. But I still think you’re gorgeous. I know as an elf, what I say doesn’t mean much to you, but I’d strip you down and kiss you all over if you’d let me.”
It was a big confession, and Lillee thought she might regret saying all that, but it had to be said.
A look of utter delight swept over Tori’s face. “Lillee Nehenna, bless my stone bits, but that was a lot to say! And very personal, and, uh, your cuff is on the table. Which I thought meant you’d become a sex maniac. Are you a sex maniac?” The question was innocent and good-natured.
“I probably am,” Lillee admitted. “But we are in public, and I have some self-control.”
With the cuff off, the tension of the day, of this difficult conversation, turned into a knot of lust filling her belly. Yet, being turned on, being near Tori, felt natural. A wave of love and admiration filled her. This poor girl, growing up beardless must’ve been torture. Lillee wanted to hug the dwab to her and caress her fiery hair.
Tori dipped her head closer to Lillee. “I know Ymir and I flirted, but I figured it was just because, you know, he liked to eat.”
“I think he wants to eat you,” Lillee said. Saying that got her heart beating faster.
“Well, bless me,” Tori said. “You know, it would never work. It just wouldn’t. The Morbuskor are...complicated...when it comes to sex. To say the least. Yes, as complicated as you, Lillee.” The girl paused. “You’ve thought about me?”
Lillee knew it was time to rein in her more prurient instincts. She slipped the cuff back on. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. But, yes. I keep saying you are pretty and sexy, and you don’t believe it. I guess I wanted you to believe it.”
Tori plucked at the apron covering her blue dress. “My kitchen garb can be the new lingerie. Sure, don’t put on the teddy, darling, put on the apron. Boiling lard has become the ultimate perfume. Now, I think our boy Ymir wouldn’t mind if his women smelled like bacon. He does like the pork bellies.”
Lillee giggled. “I don’t think he knows it’s called bacon. It’s funny and sweet, the words he doesn’t know.”
Tori put her hand on Lillee’s arm, on her essess. “Lil, thanks for being so honest with me. Leaving home, being out here, it’s been hard. I was kind of invisible in Ruby—that’s what we call Ruby Stonehold. Oh, gosh, but you don’t want to hear about me and my dumb little life.”
“I do,” Lillee protested. “I would.”
“Girl!” Tori said. “We can gossip all we want once we get that xocalati made tonight. We need to concentrate on that. You see, us Morbuskor, like you Ohlyrra, know when it’s time to work, which is most of the time. We work and work, and say what you will, but our races get shit done.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Probably shouldn’t cuss. Only I did. Only I shouldn’t. Anyway, so I got things set for us.”
“Are you afraid they’ll notice the missing cream, vanilla, and beet sprinkles?” Lillee asked.
Tori rolled her eyes. “Francy Ballspferd—that’s the lady running the kitchen and my boss. Francy is many things, but a keen inventoryist she is not.”
Lillee felt the d
opey grin on her face. “Inventoryist isn’t a word.”
“Well, Lil, I’m the Knowing Loremaster, what us Morbuskor would call an engineer, not a poet. Sometimes the righter word is the wronger one.”
“Poets are famous for making up words,” Lillee said.
Tori chuckled. “Probably not like I do. Anyway, I’ve been doing some juggling with our inventory, ordering and re-ordering from our suppliers. Math can be so much fun because the more you make it complicated, the more people you can baffle. So, yep, I’ve been fudging the numbers.”
The little woman waited for a reaction.
Lillee was perplexed. “What?”
“Fudging the numbers. We’re making xocalati. Fudge is a kind of xocalati.” Tori laughed. “Oh, that’s right, you overtoppers are new to the xoca bean. Well, that’ll change.”
Lillee liked Tori’s language for them: overtoppers, bigguns, uppergrounders.
“Still, what if Francy catches you?” the elf girl asked.
The fire-haired dwab shrugged. “I’d get in trouble, probably get fired, but I don’t need the job, don’t need the money, and here’s the thing. The Princept wouldn’t expel me. Not me and my special status out in the world with you bigguns. But that is another story for another time. Suffice to say, I’m in this for the xocalati, I’m in this for the excitement, and I like you, Lil, and that big dumb barbarian of yours.” She patted Lillee’s hand and went to stand.
Before Tori could leave, someone joined them. This new woman walked over from the kaif urn, a steaming mug in her hand. It was one of the new professors vying for the Moons Studia Dux job. She was tall, graceful, with slightly pointed ears and such interesting hair. It appeared black at first but deepened to scarlet the longer you looked. Her dark eyes were similar, deepening to a dark violet. She wore a delicate white gown under her Moons robes.
“Ladies,” the new professor said, “I saw you over here chatting. Do you mind if I sit and ask you a question? I’m Hayleesia Heenn. I know I’m supposed to be Professor Heenn, but I feel more like a Haylee, to tell you the truth. I know Toriah from the imprudens Moons class she’s taking.”
“Still can’t believe they stuck me in Moons and not Form.” Tori shrugged. “I like that lightning stuff, though. We’ve done some sparking, but not nearly enough. I can’t wait until we really get the current going.”
“We start slow for a reason, Ms. Welldeep,” Haylee said.
Tori nodded, smiling. All that pain, the little bit of anger, seemed gone, lost in her irrepressible cheer.
Lillee felt a sudden fear. She didn’t see this woman by her first name. She saw her as Professor Heenn, and a threat. She was half-elven, probably, and that normally meant a certain amount of tolerance but wasn’t always the case. The professor wasn’t wearing her essess. That could mean any number of things. Lillee was curious, but she didn’t feel free enough to ask.
“Actually,” Professor Heenn said, “I have a question for you, Lillee. You’re Jennybelle’s friend. Is that correct?”
Lillee nodded, turning her head so the professor couldn’t see her tattoo.
“Is she all right?” the professor asked. “I’m worried for her. I spent some time in the Swamp Coast queendoms, in several Josentown counties. We’ve heard that Jennybelle might be breaking from her family. That could be dangerous for her.”
Tori stopped smiling, a look of concern on her face.
Lillee didn’t like the intrusion, and she didn’t like the question. It seemed too forward. “Jennybelle is fine. We’re fine. We’re together, and yes, we’re with Ymir. He didn’t want to become a king.” Had she said too much? Jenny was the one who could lie and play games. Lillee found most conversations difficult. She’d rather write dialogue since then she could control both sides.
The professor frowned. “I came to you because I know Jennybelle has a princess’s pride. I couldn’t go to Ymir, not with what happened before. That left you. I know this is strange, Lillee, I do, but I want to help if I can. I do, and the other new professor, Linnylynn Albatross, does as well. She has some experience with the Swamp Coast as well. She’s from Williminaville, like Mimilynn Banette in your class.”
Lillee wasn’t sure what to say. Tori was quiet, but the elf girl was glad her new friend was there.
“I guess I wanted to listen if Jennybelle wanted to talk, or maybe offer some help if she thinks her life is in danger.” Professor Heenn stood. “Can you just pass that along?”
“I can,” Lillee murmured.
The half-elven professor nodded. “Very good. See you in class, Toriah.”
“See you then, Haylee,” the dwab said enthusiastically.
When the professor left, Tori winced. “That was uncomfortable. Do I want to know what kind of trouble Jennybelle might be in?”
Lillee shook her head.
The little woman laughed merrily. “Ah, more secrets. We all got ’em. Kinda scary. Kinda fun. You know, Lillee, you might learn one of my secrets here soon. I might need a favor.”
“I’d like that,” Lillee said quietly, though she had no idea what kind of a favor it might be.
Chapter Sixteen
YMIR KNEW LILLEE WAS in the feasting hall, drawing and drinking kaif. He saw her on his way up to his table in the Librarium. Sunday afternoon, Della Pennez wasn’t in her mezzanine office. He’d been thinking about the Princept, how uneven she’d been that night. Something was bothering her.
Ymir grimaced, sighing, shaking his head. All of these women had something bothering them. With battle brothers, if emotions were simmering under the surface, you either drank it away, fought it away, or, if it was particularly bad, talked about it, right away, to be free of it. However, most of the time, there were no such emotions at all.
How these southern women boiled in their own angst frustrated him. When he couldn’t take Lillee’s sighs, or Jenny’s chatter, he escaped to his table to study. Other than that night’s cooking session, he’d been working on three things: the Midnight Guild, those strange words, Akkir Akkor, and the documents he’d gotten from the Scrollery that might be close to the works of Octovato.
He was paging through another dictionary, this one from the Wootash College in Panseloca, on the eastern edge of the Holy Theranus Empire. The dictionary was written at the very end of the Age of Withering, the year when the Holy Theranus Empire was founded, in 5450. That also officially marked the beginning of the Age of Isolation, which they were currently in. The new empire had no real power, and the foolish new vempor kowtowed to the guilds. This was so unlike the Vempor Aegel Akkridor, who had ruled all the races with a hard fist. He crushed any army with his armies and his magic during the last half of the Age of Discord.
After Aegel Akkridor’s death, The Age of Withering began—both the Akkridorian empire and the birth rates withered. Less boys were born and the races kept to themselves, mostly, in the current Age of Isolation.
Ymir chuckled. He had learned something in Nile Preat’s history class.
His thoughts returned to the dictionary, written to celebrate the opening of Wootash College, an old school but only half as old as Old Ironbound. The Majestrial would be celebrating its one thousandth year the same year Ymir graduated.
Flipping pages, Ymir found the first word: Akkir. It meant royal or kingly. That made sense. Aeno Akkridor had been born Aeno Asraelus but later renamed himself Akkridor, in 2486, when he made it clear he wanted an empire. That was the beginning of the Age of Discord. Aeno had been hungry for conquest, and with his descendants, the wars waged back and forth until, thirty generations later, Aegel Akkridor was born in 3910. He would rule for a thousand years, as a human, until his death in the year 4914, on the mysterious Night of Fire. Well, depending on which history you read, which all varied greatly based on who did the writing. No one could agree on what happened on the Night of Fire, if Aegel wasn’t an Ohlyrran, and how he’d been killed. Or if he’d been killed. Some said he still wandered the world, retreating to his favorite fortress,
on the Sorrow Coast, near the small fishing village of StormCry.
That was unlikely. Ymir had walked every hall, been in every room, and he’d never seen the grand Vempor. The clansman laughed at the idea of the vempor’s ghost haunting Old Ironbound.
Suffice to say, translating akkir was easy. Akkor was more difficult to decipher. This dictionary said it meant “other-spirited.” Did that mean angels, demons, or something else? You could argue that the clans of the Ax Tundra were other-spirited, since they didn’t have magical cores.
What if akkor meant demon? Was it like the thing that had attacked them on StormLight Island? That had been a summoned creature, and the summoner had to be close. Yes, the assassin could be in StormCry, but Ymir was certain it was someone at their school.
Ymir frowned and found himself reading other ancient Homme words before Jenny caught him.
“May the seven devils lick me,” Jennybelle gasped, flopping down in the chair next to him. “I knew it. I caught you reading the dictionary. Now, that’s just embarrassing. You’re embarrassed. Aren’t you?” She wore a tight black shirt, cinched to show her cleavage, and silken black pants, tight at the hips but loose at the legs over her black boots. She was getting ready for their night’s work.
Ymir closed the dictionary. “There. I have memorized every word.”
She smirked. He did too.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Jennybelle Josen?”
She pulled down the skin under her blue, blue eyes. “Tried. Then I figured no one else was sleeping, and we’d stay up all night together. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be last. That’s why the old gods watered the Tree of Life with kaif, to keep us all awake forever.”
“That’s not how I understand the story.” He frowned to let her know he didn’t like her keeping secrets from him. “What is fucking bothering you, Jennybelle. My Grandmother Rabbit said—”
“Ugh!” The swamp woman let out a cry. “Yes, I know, Grandmother Rabbit would say we heal through our mouths. Talking is the salve we put on our butts. Yes, Ymir, I know.”
