The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  “Make up a title and find some friends.”

  This might end poorly.

  “Flowridia,” she said. “I am . . .” She smiled wide as she brought the teacup to her lips again, miming a sip to buy herself time. “. . . the Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”

  Later, alone, she would kick herself for being a sore liar.

  “Grand Diplomat?” Ayla said, sounding impressed, but Flowridia sensed a bit of force behind it. “You’re awfully young to be a Grand Diplomat.”

  “I’m older than I look,” she said quickly. Hopefully not too quickly.

  But Ayla chuckled, and a vicious grin spread across her lips. That smile, directed at Flowridia alone, pulled a blush to her cheeks. “Age is simply a number, Lady Flowridia, Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”

  Ayla’s voice made the title sound so much more notable. Words became a difficult thing, but Flowridia managed a shy smile.

  “I must ask, Lady Flowridia,” Ayla continued, each word absolute pleasure to Flowridia’s ears, “why is there a wolf in my room?”

  She had entirely forgotten about Demitri. Ignoring the question, Flowridia took the third teacup and saucer and placed them onto the carpet. “Here you are, dearest Demitri.”

  Demitri licked her hand as she pulled away. I didn’t want to bother you.

  “You’re always so thoughtful,” she said, and when she stood back up, Ayla watched with a grin too wide to be sincere – and understandably so, given that a girl who talked to her pets had invaded her space. “Demitri is my familiar.” At those words, Flowridia hesitated, watching Ayla’s reaction carefully. “I apologize. Are you bothered?”

  “No, I’m not,” Ayla said, and her expression grew less severe. Talk of familiars often ended conversations; Flowridia fought to hide her relief. “Never apologize for what you are. Though I wouldn’t have picked you out as a witch.”

  Ayla had guessed the logical conclusion – that no acolyte to an angelic being would have a wolfish familiar. “It’s a path that picked me,” she said, and when her hand brushed against the plate of muffins, she nearly jumped. “I made these.” She picked up the plate and offered it to Ayla. “I figured you didn’t make it to breakfast if you were unwell.”

  To watch Ayla inspect the pastries tied her stomach into knots, but the woman smiled and accepted one nearest to her. Instead of taking a bite, she sipped her tea, immune, it seemed, to the burning water.

  “I’m feeling much better already,” she said, practiced charm in every syllable. “Must be the tea.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Flowridia said as she set the plate back down. “Can I get you anything else? Water?”

  Ayla raised an eyebrow, and Flowridia’s words died on her lips. “Most diplomats don’t wait on their guests.”

  Flowridia spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. “It’s my duty to foster relationships between kingdoms,” she began, “and since you’re staying behind, I’ve been instructed to entertain you.” Another lie, and still she couldn’t tell if Ayla accepted any of it.

  “I have no wish to impose.”

  “It’s no trouble at all!” Too eager, Flowridia realized, and she snapped her mouth shut. “I’m happy to entertain you. I do know a few games.”

  She hoped Ayla couldn’t see her blush. But the way Ayla licked her lips as she sat up certainly darkened it. “Games?”

  Flowridia nodded slowly, mesmerized as Ayla leaned forward. “I could show you some.”

  Ayla’s eyes looked down to Flowridia’s lips, sliding closer. Seduction bled into her hungry gaze, lashes fluttering when she met her eye. “Then entertain me, Lady Flowridia.”

  * * *

  “You played chess for eight hours?”

  An enormous skylight lit Etolié’s underground library, a convenience given that the Celestial required only starlight to live. At night, when she was most active, various crystals hung from the walls and ceiling illuminated her reading and research. Shelves lined the walls of the hexagonal room, most with books sequestered into every corner, but a few were devoted to odd little inventions Flowridia had dared to investigate once or twice. Miniature trebuchets, forever spinning tops – most crafted from some sort of gemstone – and when she asked where Etolié had stumbled upon such a strange collection of trinkets, Flowridia was told they were gifts.

  The shelves layered each other as they progressed toward the center of the hexagonal room. There, blankets and scarves lay in a pile, where Etolié could collapse once the sun began to rise.

  Flowridia nodded, her back to a shelf as she sat near the center.

  “And what in Eionei’s Asshole causes a self-respecting woman to play chess for eight hours?”

  “It was nice,” Flowridia said with a shy smile. Demitri lay cradled in her arms, her fingers idly stroking his soft puppy fur.

  Quick as lightning, Etolié suddenly knelt beside her and stared. “Eight hours?”

  The bookshelf cushioning Flowridia’s back now betrayed her an escape. She nodded as she sunk into the floor.

  “Multiple games, or one long session?”

  “Multiple.”

  Etolié leaned forward, the faint lavender of her eyes oddly penetrating. Flowridia somehow managed to create distance between them. “Were your, uh, victories balanced?”

  She brought Demitri up to cover her face. “I only won once.”

  Etolié began to cackle, standing as her laughter echoed across the high ceilings. “That’s just not fair,” she said, and from the air she pulled out a flask. After taking a sip, she handed it to Flowridia. “You’ve earned it, Flowers. Nice work.”

  Confused, Flowridia made a show of tipping the flask but blocked the entrance with her tongue. She handed it back, the tip of her tongue burning slightly from whatever devil-brewed concoction Etolié had offered her.

  “I do have a problem, though,” Flowridia said, preparing for another assault on her personal space.

  “Was she weird down there?”

  “What?”

  Etolié waved a hand, dismissing her own comment. “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Well, I may not have mentioned I was your ward,” she began nervously. “Instead, I may have said I was the Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”

  Etolié’s good humor suddenly vanished. “You said what?”

  “I panicked! I wanted to impress her.”

  “So, your method of impressing her involved lying to the representative from the scary undead superpower-” Etolié cut herself off, looking pained as she said, “Can’t be caught in a lie if it’s not a lie.”

  “Etolié-”

  “There’s a meeting with Nox’Kartha once Marielle is done with the Tholheimer ambassadors,” Etolié said, but then an exasperated grin spread across her face. “You’d better come, since you’re the new diplomat.”

  To her horror, Etolié offered a hand to help her stand. With Demitri secure under her arm, she accepted, and when Etolié pulled her out of the library, Flowridia wondered how far this joke would go before they kicked her out of the manor for good.

  The ruling council chambers held a circle of small thrones. Marielle was queen, but Staelash had been founded as an oligarchy, with three council members reigning above the rest. Marielle sat at the head, face in her hands, but she perked up when the door opened. To her right, an empty seat, one meant for Etolié.

  To Marielle’s left, General Khastra lounged against the strong wood of her own throne, inspecting one of the many elaborate, silver tattoos embedded into her skin. A shining beacon in gem-carved armor, with her sweeping horns she made a comparable match in size to Thalmus, but the enormous weapon propped beside the chair made for an imposing sight – a crystal hammer, one Flowridia had not yet seen in action.

  She bore unquestionable femininity in her high cheekbones and coy smile, her lavender hair always aloft in some elaborate tail. Beautiful, in a different, striking sort of way, and with her blue-tinged skin and hulking physique, Flowridia had always presumed she was demon-descen
ded, with her hooves and tail. But she cast a different aura, nothing human in her glowing, blue eyes.

  Thalmus sat beside Khastra, his own chair rivaling her throne in size. He slouched, pouring over a document. Meira deShamira, the High Priestess, sat to his left, surveying the scene with pupil-less eyes. A human by appearances, she rarely spoke, but her words were often condescending at best. She had visions of Sol Kareena herself, or so they said, and Flowridia wondered if she truly were a speaker for the Goddess or simply mad.

  Sora, the stablemaster, stood by the High Priestess’ throne. Not a council member but taken under Meira’s wing as an acolyte for Sol Kareena, she followed wherever the eerie High Priestess went.

  “Etolié!” Khastra said, glancing up at the magister’s entrance, though it sounded much more like ‘Eh-toe-lay,’ rather than ‘Eh-toe-lee-ay.’ She bore an odd lilt to every phrase, her deep, throaty accent more suited for Nox’Karthan territories than Staelash.

  Still, every word she spoke held the hint of a laugh. “Late as usual. Come and listen while Marielle tries to sell my soldiers off to the highest bidder.” Then, with one eyebrow quirked, she stared at Flowridia. “Why did you bring the tiny one?”

  Khastra’s accent also prevented her from properly pronouncing Flowridia’s name, the first syllable always catching like a frog in her throat. Flowridia typically avoided the bombastic woman, knowing she was pleasant but petrified in her presence nonetheless.

  “Apparently being ward to one of godly lineage wasn’t good enough,” Etolié replied as she pushed Flowridia forward. “Flowers, here, told Lady Ayla Darkleaf she was our Grand Diplomat. We can’t make a liar out of the tiny one.”

  Marielle glanced at Etolié, then at Thalmus, and finally to Flowridia. “We’ll make it official.”

  Flowridia’s limbs seemed to inexplicably lose all feeling. “Marielle, you don’t have to-”

  “Oh, please,” Marielle said, waving off the objection. “It’s practically what you’re training for anyway. You’ll be our official representative for Nox’Karthan affairs.”

  Flowridia turned toward Etolié. “Etolié, I can’t-”

  “There are consequences to lying, Flowers. Fortunately, we don’t have to find out what they are, because now you aren’t lying.”

  “People have been promoted in stranger ways,” Khastra interjected, looking bored as she inspected her nails. “Meira took Sora from one of Etolié’s rescued slave parties.”

  At Meira’s side, the half-elf blushed fiercely, forcing her stare to the floor.

  Etolié placed her hand on her chair, a bit of glitter shimmering from her form. Beneath her opposite hand, an identical chair appeared. “Your throne awaits, Lady Flowridia of Staelash.”

  With each passing moment that they didn’t reveal the jest, Flowridia inched closer to the chair. When she sat and they said nothing, she hugged Demitri tight to her chest.

  The wolf licked her hand. You’ve been promoted.

  “Not my intention,” she whispered.

  “Khastra, my most tactful friend,” Etolié said, “did you scare off the Tholheimer ambassador?”

  Marielle cut in instead. “No, but she refuses to even consider helping them.”

  Khastra scoffed. “I train soldiers for Solvira. Not for dwarves.”

  “You also train them for me, and if we sign a treaty with them, you’ll have to send a few.”

  Etolié held up a hand. “Someone reasonable explain to me what happened in the meeting.”

  When no one immediately responded, Meira shifted in her seat. “The ambassador offered a warning about attacks near our shared northern border.” Deep and near monotone, as she spoke, Thalmus offered the paper to Etolié. “King Thovir sent an envoy of soldiers led by his own son, but they’ve disappeared.”

  “And Marielle offered to send a battalion of my soldiers to aid in the search party,” Khastra said. “They can have them, if they pay for them.”

  Etolié, with her eyes on the paper, frowned slightly. “Marielle, this is a letter. Not a treaty. Did he ask for help?”

  “No,” Marielle replied, fingernails clicking nervously on the arm of the chair. “But it was kind of him to warn us of danger.”

  “Not kind,” Etolié said, still studying the letter. “Intelligent, perhaps. He’s saving his own skin if anything does happen to one of our own. He’s denying all involvement in advance.”

  Marielle frowned. “Be that as it may, he appreciated the offer and wants to discuss it more in the morning, before his envoy leaves. And after what happened to the ambassadors from the Theocracy, we’ll also need plausible deniability.”

  Flowridia wondered at the statement, especially when Etolié grimaced and let her hand fall. She looked to Flowridia, still curled in her doppelganger throne, and said, “I think you heard that the representatives from the Theocracy of Sol Kareena left last night after the ball. During the hunt, their remains were found in the woods, as were the spies sent to follow them.”

  Marielle had asked for such, for spies to keep on the Theocracy’s trail. But for them to be killed with the rest meant they, too, had been spotted.

  “There are no survivors and no witnesses,” Marielle added. Etolié moved to sit beside Flowridia as the queen spoke. “I have plans to personally pay a visit to the archbishop of the Theocracy and pay my respects. But if there’s any connection to this and the disappearance of the Tholheimer Dwarves, this might mean something bigger.”

  Something bigger. Flowridia hadn’t thought of the prospect of ‘something bigger’ in months, focusing all her energy on enjoying her freedom, content to ignore the greater evils of the world.

  “That’s all,” Marielle said, turning Flowridia’s attention back to the present. “The investigation continues. Maybe Nox’Kartha will have something to add. We’re meeting with them next.”

  Nox’Kartha? A blush rose to Flowridia’s cheeks. She braced herself when she heard the door open and sat up straight, smoothed her hair, but froze when she realized Sora had been watching her primp.

  With her head held high and haughty, Ayla entered, Zorlaeus trailing demurely behind. She stepped right past Flowridia, hair free and flowing, her dress tight where it mattered, loose enough to tease, and long enough to cover her shoes. She stopped in the center of the room, her unsettling stare fixed on Flowridia as an amused grin twisted her lip. “Hello, everyone,” she said, her tongue drawing out each syllable. “I come with a gift for your queen.”

  Flowridia watched as those lithe fingers reached into Zorlaeus’ trouser pocket and withdrew a letter. Only then did Ayla tear her eyes away, and Flowridia felt as though a piece of her were ripped away with it.

  With Ayla’s focus now on Marielle, Flowridia could see the thinly-veiled rage brewing within her queen as she watched those fingers – fingers that had all but groped Zorlaeus – offer her the letter. A wax seal closed the front, bearing the official seal of Nox’Kartha. Marielle ripped it open and began to read.

  “The letter dictates his terms,” Zorlaeus said stiffly. Did Ayla really make him so nervous? Or was it Imperator Casvir? “But his Highness, Imperator Casvir, wishes to establish trade in your kingdom. He offers the construction of a Nox’Karthan Embassy on the outskirts of your city and requests use of your waterways. You’ll receive ten percent of all the gold that passes through your kingdom for his use.”

  “Your imperator wants our waterways?” The question came from Thalmus, and Flowridia could already see him calculating the increased income in his head.

  Nox’Kartha’s trade empire dominated the land, but the small river running through Staelash connected the seas.

  “Casvir requests use of them,” Ayla said, charm lacing every word that tumbled from her lips, “and offers an alliance in return. The embassy would be an offering of friendship. And Zorlaeus would be your representative.” At the mention of his name, Ayla let her hand rest a moment on his back before pushing him forward. He stumbled, nearly falling at Marielle’s fee
t.

  Marielle stood and offered a hand to steady him. “You would be stationed in our city?”

  Sincerity crossed his features for the first time since entering. “I would,” he said softly. All eyes rested on him, and perhaps he realized it. “For business, but you and I could still . . .” He hesitated, fighting the smile that pulled at his lips. “. . . have meetings.”

  “I would love to have meetings,” Marielle said, regal in every way. “Tell Imperator Casvir that I accept.”

  Etolié whirled her head around. “You accept?”

  Thalmus stole the letter from Marielle’s hand and began to read.

  “I’m certain we can discuss the details later,” Marielle said. “Our diplomat and I can meet with you once the embassy begins construction.”

  Flowridia perked up at her newly bestowed title. “Yes, we can meet again,” she said, eyes wide. “But tell Imperator Casvir that Queen Marielle accepts his offer.”

  Ayla stared at her again, leering like a snake about to strike. “I will tell him. Personally.” Flowridia prayed she misunderstood the lecherous undertone. “Come, Lae Lae,” Ayla continued, grabbing his forearm. She nearly wrenched him back. For as small as she was, she stood as though twice his height. “Our carriage awaits. We return home tonight.”

  “So soon?” Marielle said. Flowridia wondered if the queen purposefully avoided looking at Ayla.

  Zorlaeus nodded, disappointment clear on his face. “Tragically, yes. Imperator Casvir will want to hear the news immediately.” He made no attempt to hide his longing. “Farewell for now, Queen Marielle.”

  He bowed, and Marielle said, “Safe travels.”

  Perhaps he would have said more, but Flowridia saw Ayla’s nails dig into his arm as she dragged him away. With a nod, he turned to leave, Ayla by his side.

  But Ayla lingered when she passed Flowridia’s chair, her hand flicking out and dropping something into her lap.