by S D Simper
Ayla’s stance relaxed, and Flowridia joined in the rich applause. “That was beautiful,” she said, to no one in particular.
“She thinks very highly of her talents,” she heard a man say; she realized Zorlaeus had spoken. “But she is quite accomplished, yes.”
For a fleeting moment, Flowridia wondered what it might be like to share a dance with Ayla, realizing she blushed at the idea.
Ayla herself bowed again to Marielle, not a hair out of place and no hurry to her breath. “I hope you enjoyed the performance,” she said, charm in her smile. But when she looked to Zorlaeus and saw their touch, ire marred that splendid grin.
Marielle nodded, as mesmerized as the rest. “Absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” she replied, words curt. She lingered a moment, staring between Zorlaeus and Marielle. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve heard that your kingdom is famous for its specialty alcohol.”
“Oh, yes! Our Magister, Etolié, is a descendent of the Drinking God himself. Her brews are here for sampling. And, of course, I have my vineyard. There is a selection of wine from my personal stores.”
“How generous of you,” Ayla said, standing tall. “Excuse me, then. I would love a sample.” She turned, dress swaying with each minute, haughty motion of her body.
“Lady Ayla is somewhat of a connoisseur of alcohol,” Zorlaeus whispered, once she had disappeared into the crowd.
“Good to know,” Marielle said, “if I need to strike up a conversation with her.”
Flowridia watched the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the entrancing diplomat. Compelled by a force she could not quite name, she stepped forward, the quiet fear that she might speak to Ayla overshadowed by pure intrigue.
Distracted, she gasped when Etolié suddenly grabbed her arm. “Now that was some sorcery! Did you see that stunt, Flowers?” A half-full stein threatened to spill from Etolié’s hands, but the frothy liquid did not splash out even once. Instead, Etolié grabbed the collar of a well-dressed woman beside her. “Flowers, meet Lara.”
The Lara in question was, in fact, Alauriel Solviraes, Empress of Solvira, heir to the Silver Fire, benefactor of their territory, and the same woman Flowridia had seen in the garden.
She remembered, then, that she wasn’t even wearing shoes.
The woman offered her hand along with a knowing smile. The other held an empty wine glass. “So, you’re Etolié’s gardener?”
The words slurred slightly. Flowridia accepted the hand, quest forgotten as Lara’s soft, silver eyes glanced down her form. “I am,” she said, and she bowed, still holding Lara’s hand. “Flowridia-” She stopped, a blush filling her cheeks. “I don’t have a title.”
Lara laughed, her volume amplified by the presence of alcohol. “Etolié dressed you, didn’t she.”
“I don’t own many nice things of my own.” Then, realizing she still held hands with a woman capable of leveling the building with a mere thought – or so rumor said – Flowridia wrenched her arm back.
“I’ve known Lara since she was a tiny little moonbeam,” Etolié said, affection in her drunken stare. She ruffled Lara’s immaculately braided hair, and Flowridia wondered what degree of insanity one had to reach to touch an empress without permission, much less ruin her hair. “Practically raised her.”
The empress in question simply smiled, her gaze set to Flowridia. “For Etolié to show interest tells me you’re something special.”
With her hands held behind her back, Flowridia smiled curtly. “All I really do is hold books for her.”
“Lies, Flowers,” Etolié spat. “That’s like saying Khastra sometimes punches things with her personality, or that her hoity-toity diplomat of Nox’Kartha-ness avoids tanning.”
“Speaking of whom,” Flowridia said, uncaring of her wistful tone, “did you see where she went? I wanted to compliment her.”
Etolié shook her head. “And good luck finding her.”
Flowridia felt her cheeks color. “Etolié, do you know if Nox’Kartha is staying in our kingdom for long?”
“I know Marielle certainly hopes so. And I know they’re invited to the royal hunt tomorrow.” She nudged Flowridia with her elbow. “Are you coming?”
Flowridia frowned and shyly shook her head. “I told you-”
“You think it’s awful – I remember. But the rest of the castle will be there. And Demitri might enjoy himself.”
There mere thought turned her stomach. Instead of responding, she glanced at the crowd. “Where is the alcohol?”
Etolié pointed to a table at the wall. “Off to try a sip?”
“Looking for a friend,” she said, and before Etolié could question her, she turned to the intoxicated Empress. The wine glass had mysteriously refilled. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Lara replied, and Flowridia darted away before they could say more.
Guests crowded the tables, but the elf was nowhere to be seen. Even with her diminutive size, Ayla would be difficult to miss.
But there was no sign of the elven woman among the party revelers. Flowridia stood invisible among the sea of important strangers.
She could socialize, as Marielle had suggested, find the so-called ‘Theocracy boys,’ but instead she glanced back to where she had left Etolié. The Celestial woman would hardly notice if she disappeared, drunk and content among her royal companions. Perhaps the party was over.
Relieved at the thought, Flowridia quietly slipped through the double doors and into the hallway.
In her bedroom, Demitri burst from the bedsheets. His voice mingled in her thoughts as the door clicked shut. How was the party?
“I’m not a fan of crowds,” Flowridia said, but a smile spread wide across her face. “I met someone. Sort of.”
Demitri crawled over to the edge of the bed and licked her hand. Sort of?
“I didn’t talk to her. I couldn’t find her.” Demitri began sniffing at her dress. Flowridia collapsed on the bed next to him, shutting her eyes as she replayed the scene inside her head, that of Lady Ayla and her dance. “But she was something.”
What was her name?
“Ayla,” she whispered, the name a pleasure on her tongue. “Lady Ayla Darkleaf, Grand Diplomat of Nox’Kartha. And she could dance.”
Why didn’t you talk to her?
“I doubt I would be of any interest to her,” Flowridia said, but still her smile remained wide. “But I might be able to introduce myself, at least.”
Bring me along. I think I’m a great conversation starter. Demitri’s tiny claws caught themselves in the lace of her dress as he attempted to climb up her torso.
Flowridia freed his paws and settled him onto her chest. “Perhaps Ayla likes wolves,” she said, and she planted a kiss onto his nose.
Were actual smoke rising from Marielle’s footsteps, it might give justice to the anger visibly stirring within the newly crowned queen. Flowridia and Demitri, descending from their room to find breakfast, slowed when the seething queen stopped her pacing and said, “You haven’t heard, have you?”
Flowridia shook her head.
“My wine cellar has been ravaged!” Marielle said, and Flowridia did not presume to imagine the heat radiating from her form. At her bosom, the orb glowed to match her fury.
Nervous, Flowridia’s posture caved as she mumbled, “I’m sorry. Do we know who did it?”
“Ayla Darkleaf. That’s what Zorlaeus said. And now she’s too hungover to join the hunt. The audacity!”
“Ayla is hungover?”
“Zorlaeus said she was impulsive. But how does a person that size drink an entire wine cellar?”
Gears began turning in Flowridia’s mind. “Ayla isn’t going on the hunt?”
“No, she is not.” Marielle folded her arms, a ‘huff’ escaping her lips. “But maybe that’s for the best. Zorlaeus seems nervous around her.”
Flowridia nodded, slipping past as Marielle continued her ranting. Instead of entering the kitchen, she took
a detour outside, running across the stone steps until she reached the small patch of land she had claimed for her own – her garden.
The stone steps led to a grassy path, decorated at each side by expansive, colorful greenery. Trees shaded the entrance, patches of flowers and bushes creating a pathway. Flowridia slowed her steps as she entered her space, the only sounds the faint singing of birds in the trees and Demitri’s soft steps beside her. Her senses lit as she breathed in the clean air, the sweet scent of flowers filling her nose. A gift from Etolié and Marielle upon being brought to Staelash, the plot of land had been meant to help her feel welcome in the strange kingdom. Flowridia had turned their gift into a sanctuary.
A particular root drove her quest – a common one, but infused with energy beyond its natural state. Mother’s advice given long ago wove through the tangle of knowledge in her head: “Soak the listrous root, Flower Child. Seems I drank a bottle more than I’d intended last night.”
So many herbs and medicines grew within the plot of land, and Flowridia knelt in the dirt by the listrous flower – a jagged, orange-colored blossom – and carefully plucked three, roots intact. She removed the buds and wove them into her hair, practiced fingers easily braiding them into her thick curls.
The protective wards written into the ground permeated the blooming petals. Every morning, she wove fresh ones into her hair and stole a few for her pockets. Near the listrous flowers, a patch of bluebells flourished, and Flowridia stole a tiny bud, one that had barely poked its head from the ground. With care to preserve the roots – ones that bore sigils of protection – she braided it into her hair.
Moon lilies, nearly in full bloom, pulled her attention. Such a vibrant blue, she thought. Icy, almost like-
A mar on the petal caused her to frown. She reached out and let her fingers gently rub against it, breathing out a sigh and allowing a healing spell to pass through. Demitri placed his head against her knee, and she knew he felt it too – the draining of energy, and with it the course of adrenaline that came from using magic.
When she removed her hand, the petal shone pristine and no blemish met her eye. Smiling, she stood, taking the listrous roots and heading back toward the castle. The noise of the world bombarded her as she left the protective wards.
With Demitri close behind, she darted straight to the kitchen.
The small kitchen, reserved for the royal council and, due to Marielle’s affection, herself, kept a decent stock of ingredients for all Flowridia’s purposes. The kitchen itself held countertops and an iron stove near a large window to prevent the room from becoming a boiler. Beside the kitchen area, separated by a half wall, a plain table and several chairs sat. Typically, Thalmus would be found reading as he ate his breakfast, or Etolié might wander up, in a rare appearance, before continuing her typical pattern of sleepless days and nights.
This morning, however, all were assembling for the hunt. It begged the question – had Lady Ayla eaten breakfast? Flowridia sparked the fire within the great iron stove and set a kettle of water on top to boil.
From the cupboards, she withdrew ingredients for baking, and soon a concoction of flour, water, seeds, and more filled her bowl. Demitri stood on his haunches, barely reaching above her knee. Do I get some tea?
“Would you like some?” she asked, motherly affection in her smile. In her arms, she mixed the bowl with practiced movements. “I have enough water boiling.”
Yes, please.
Flowridia beamed, his peculiar tastes a joy to her heart, before setting down the bowl and rummaging through the pantry to find dried raspberry leaves.
She withdrew three tea cups, two of which bore lavender buds painted onto the glass. Soon, they sat in a row, one with listrous root and the others with raspberry leaves.
Once the muffins were in the oven, Flowridia slid down the side of the counter and sat beside Demitri. “Is this a bad idea?”
Why would it be bad? The tiny creature climbed onto her thigh, and Flowridia stole him into her arms to cradle him.
“I don’t want to bother her. What if she doesn’t like tea?” The mere idea pulled a frown to her face. “Who doesn’t like tea?”
Even I like tea.
“Etolié said I shouldn’t speak to anyone with a title higher than my own.” She had no title, unless ‘Ward to the Magister of Staelash’ counted for a title. ‘Flowridia, Daughter of Odessa’ was a name she had resolved to let die, a secret she kept to herself.
As merely ‘Flowridia,’ her name meant nothing, but better to be thought of as nothing than to inherit a legacy of fear.
“Everyone is gone, though,” Flowridia mused, “I might have the highest title of anyone in the manor.” Flowridia stroked the fine hairs along Demitri’s neck. “And it would be rude to leave a guest all alone.”
Very rude.
Footsteps from the hallway gave her pause. She pulled Demitri closer to her chest. Hadn’t everyone left?
“Smells good in here,” said a voice, and then a half-elf rounded the corner into the kitchen. Flowridia recognized the stablemaster in passing and had always found her lovely, her stark blond hair difficult to miss. It fell in long, matted ropes down her back, always pulled into a tail, and beautifully juxtaposed with her darker, earth-toned skin. Whatever blending of heritages had culminated in Sora spoke of comradery between the two of them, for while Flowridia claimed a human bloodline, their skin shone in comparable shades of ochre and amber, neither dark nor light.
“Hello, Sora,” Flowridia said, relaxing slightly. “I thought everyone had left for the hunt already.”
“We’re assembling the stragglers,” Sora said, glancing between Flowridia and the oven. “Are those going to be done soon?”
Flowridia peeked at the stove. “Twenty minutes. Maybe more.”
“I’ll be gone by then.” Sora stepped through the kitchen and to the pantry. “Were you at the ball last night?”
“I was,” she replied, shy at the thought. “Were you?”
“No interest,” said the voice behind the pantry door. “Meira and I were visiting the Temple of Sol Kareena.” Sora reemerged with a bag of dried meat. “Marielle mentioned that the representatives from the Theocracy didn’t stay the night.”
Flowridia gave her a small nod. “Lord Ashwood said he didn’t want to sleep within a hundred miles of . . .” Her? “. . . Nox’Kartha.”
“If they’re going to cause trouble, let them go.” Sora stopped at the doorframe. “I’ll wait until your muffins are done, if you want to come.”
Flowridia shook her head. “Thank you, but no thank you.”
“You don’t eat meat. Right.” Sora’s quirked eyebrow conveyed some judgement, something Flowridia found odd, considering elves were often vegetarian. But it made no difference to her – Sora was visibly only half-elven, with her softly pointed ears, and Flowridia had long ago stopped taking such scrutiny personally. “Have you ever eaten meat?”
“It’s been a long time,” Flowridia replied truthfully, and she hoped Sora couldn’t sense her discomfort at the query.
“Why did you give it up?”
Mother had pushed her similarly, as testy as any parent granted a child with a picky palate. “Oh, try another bite, Flower Child. Elves are a delicacy, difficult to come by in a swamp.”
Flowridia kept her plastered smile. “I don’t like it.”
“Whatever you say. I’m off to begin the hunt.” Before Sora rounded the corner, she pointed her finger directly at Flowridia. “Save me a muffin.”
Flowridia nodded as Sora disappeared.
* * *
Soon, with a plate of muffins in one hand and a platter of teacups balanced on the other, Flowridia made her way to the guest quarters, where she knew Nox’Kartha would be staying. If she listened carefully, she could hear the crowds outside; soon, the hunt would begin.
Lady Ayla’s room waited at the far end of the hall, nestled between Zorlaeus’ quarters and the window. Court gossip was hardly Flowridia’s
business, but she did wonder whether or not Marielle’s affection had actually spent the night in his room.
Flowridia balanced the plate of muffins on her forearm – the same one holding the tea – and quietly turned the doorknob.
The curtains were drawn, but Flowridia could easily make out the details of the guest suite. Guest rooms had been built to be the same, with a mirror, a wardrobe, and a large bed in the center – a bed Ayla herself sat at the side of, watching. She wore the same dress from the previous night, but her hair fell in gentle waves, like an ocean on the darkest night.
To have those blue eyes turned directly onto her nearly caused Flowridia to falter. But she forced a smile and took the plate of muffins back into her free hand. “Lady Ayla, I . . .” She stepped forward, her courage steadily depleting. “I heard you were unwell.”
Ayla tilted her head, her eyes fluttering, sensuously half-veiled. “Oh, yes,” she said, slowly sliding back down into the perfectly made bed. The pillows propped her up, even as she lounged. “I have the most terrible headache.”
Though diminutive in size, Ayla’s voice held luxurious depth, dark waters Flowridia could have soaked in for hours. “I made tea for that,” Flowridia said, perhaps brighter than Ayla appreciated. She stepped toward the bedside table next to Ayla and set the platter of teacups down. Demitri’s tiny feet disappeared into the plush carpet as he walked. “It’s a bitter tea, but it will help your hangover.” Supported by the saucer, Flowridia picked up the specially-brewed tea and offered it to Ayla.
The woman sat up to accept the teacup, fingers brushing against Flowridia’s. The sudden temperature shift gave her pause; those lithe fingers were ice.
Ayla held eye contact as she sipped the steaming tea. Her demeanor made no change as the bitter liquid traveled down her throat. “And what is your name?” she said, the words impossibly smooth as they slid off her tongue.
Lady Ayla Darkleaf, with her illustrious titles and responsibilities, would not be impressed by someone who hardly merited a ‘lady’ in front of her name. Flowridia took a breath to speak, but instead she grabbed her own teacup and brought it to her lips. The water burned her tongue, but she swallowed her pain as she recalled Marielle’s words from the previous night.
