The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  A chess piece. The black queen.

  “It seems I nearly walked out with that,” Ayla said as Flowridia picked up the small, stone figure. “A pity to have nearly lost it.” Flowridia met her gaze, intoxicated when Ayla smiled, wicked as it was. But she made no further comment, though her fingers caressed the wooden chair as she passed.

  The door clicked shut. Flowridia realized she still hadn’t breathed.

  “So, Flowridia,” Marielle began, suspicion lacing each word, “where exactly did Lady Ayla lose the chess piece?”

  “We couldn’t find it anywhere,” Flowridia said, picking the queen up from her lap. She ran her fingers along the cold figurine – colder, it seemed, in Ayla’s possession. “After one of our sessions, we had to pause so I could dig around for it. Ayla proposed we stop, but we ended up using a candlestick instead.”

  Marielle raised an eyebrow and sat back in her chair. “Oh, did you?”

  Flowridia nodded. “We went for a couple more hours, until the rest of you came home from the hunt.”

  “And, dear Flowridia,” Marielle continued, “is this the first time you’ve . . . played chess?”

  “You know Thalmus was the one who taught me how,” Flowridia said, her tone growing wistful at the memory of her day with the sultry elf. “But it was Ayla’s first time. I don’t have much experience, but she performed excellently by the end. Beat me almost every time.”

  Then, she looked out and noticed the horrified stares that met her own. The only exception was Marielle; her slack-jawed expression was aimed solely at Thalmus.

  And then it hit her.

  “I did not have sex with her!” Flowridia exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “You can ask Demitri; he was there the whole time.”

  “Demitri isn’t really suited to testify on your behalf,” Marielle said, grinning wide as she chuckled.

  “No, we played chess!” Flowridia held the black queen forward, increasingly flustered. “She knocked it off the table after I captured it, and we couldn’t find it.” Her eyes met Thalmus’, her reserved, horror-stricken friend, and Flowridia wished she would be struck down by whatever god she might pray to for lightning.

  Khastra stood, laughing with her deep, feminine voice. “Rather than watch the tiny one suffer, I will adjourn this meeting.” She continued to chuckle as she left, followed by Meira and Sora.

  Marielle stood and approached Flowridia. “Next time say so.”

  “You want me to tell you every time I don’t sleep with a diplomat rather than take my words at face value?” Flustered, Flowridia pouted, then noticed Thalmus attempting to sneak out. She brushed past Marielle and blocked the door. “Thalmus,” she began, biting her lip, “I-” Embarrassment choked her words.

  Thalmus smiled faintly. “I know. And it’s all right.” She stepped aside so he could leave and stared at the ground until his steps were out of earshot.

  Marielle followed, and soon only Etolié remained. “You really only played chess?” she asked, disbelief clear in her tone.

  Fresh exasperation pulled an angry groan from Flowridia’s throat.

  “And you expect me to believe that Lady Ayla Darkleaf, high-class, hoity-toity elven asshole of Nox’Kartha, had never played chess?”

  “That’s what she said-”

  “Do you know the rules of chess?”

  “I, an elf raised in high society?” Ayla remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Chess, a game lauded for centuries as a simulation for warfare? Never heard of it.”

  “Oh, it isn’t too difficult,” Flowridia said as she set up each piece. The glass pieces, each one lovingly molded by Thalmus, brought with every tap on the stone board a memory. “Thalmus taught me to play when I first came to live here. He and I would play for hours . . .”

  Flowridia, standing in the council chamber, brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror. “She knew how to play chess,” she whispered. “Oh, I am such a fool.”

  Etolié began to snicker. Soft fur against Flowridia’s legs caused her to jump. Is that why she beat you every time?

  “I did win!” Flowridia let her hand drop as she pouted. “Once.”

  “What I’m hearing,” Etolié said, visibly struggling to not cackle, “is that Ayla took pity on you and let you win the first game.”

  “It was a few hours in, actually. The mood took a strange turn . . .”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to relieve myself.”

  Flowridia smiled brightly, already reassembling the board for their next game. “I’ll be waiting!” The door shut, and she released a long sigh. “Oh, Demitri,” she whispered, breathless, and she lifted the little wolf onto her lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such fun playing chess.”

  She keeps beating you.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not having fun. It means I’m a good teacher.”

  When Ayla returned, hardly a minute later, she slinked inside without a sound. Her eyes held a vicious glint, like a lion about to rip out the throat of its prey, but her grin – oh, that grin – made Flowridia’s cheeks grow warm. “I appreciate you waiting,” Ayla said, the slight drawl of each word utterly mesmerizing. Her long hair seemed . . . different. Disheveled slightly, in a way that made Flowridia’s heart flutter.

  Flowridia adjusted her posture as Ayla sat, crossing her legs to squelch the discomfort brewing between them. Demitri jumped off and settled by her foot. “Think nothing of it. We have been here a while.”

  “Yes, we have,” Ayla said, and Flowridia sensed a certain menace behind the statement. But Ayla’s smile widened, and she turned her attention to the board. “So, another game, is it? I’ll start this round.” Her fingers caressed the black queen’s pawn as she lifted it, biting her lip when she set it down.

  That was different.

  With a shy smile, Flowridia moved her king’s pawn two spaces forward.

  “Have you been a diplomat for long?” Ayla asked, leaning forward. Her white teeth gleamed in the natural light.

  Ayla hadn’t been quite so talkative before. “I haven’t,” Flowridia admitted and prayed she wouldn’t pry. “Have you?”

  “Five years now, so no. Hardly a blink in my lifespan.”

  Ayla, being an elf, had probably outlived Flowridia’s natural lifespan already, perhaps twice over. Her face held sharp lines, but nothing marred her pale skin – no wrinkles, no scars, nothing to signify her age. Not even a blush colored her chiseled cheeks. “How old are you?”

  Ayla’s grin turned awfully coy. “Age is simply a number, Lady Flowridia,” she said, echoing her previous sentiment.

  Flowridia turned her attention back to the board, determining her strategy until a brush against her leg caused her to stiffen. Demitri snoozed at her feet. That meant it was Ayla’s foot leisurely dragging down her bare leg.

  Theoretically, the gesture held a specific and undeniable implication, but Flowridia’s shy heart shut down the thought immediately. She quickly moved her piece – the rook – and pulled her leg back, crossing her ankles underneath her chair. “Your move.”

  Victory etched itself across Ayla’s face as she casually lifted her queen and moved it across to capture Flowridia’s piece. “Check,” she cooed, her eyes never leaving Flowridia’s.

  The knight moved to defend its king, sacrificed in the onslaught of the black queen. Watching Ayla’s calculated smirk drew heat to Flowridia’s cheeks, and she silently thanked the gods that Demitri was asleep. Next fell the bishop, and Flowridia braced herself for disappointment when Ayla inevitably slaughtered her pieces yet again.

  But when Ayla’s queen moved back, Flowridia’s moved forward, and she studied the board, realizing she might have a shot if-

  “Have you had to spread your legs for Marielle yet?”

  Ayla asked with the same nonchalance you might ask someone about the clouds, or if you wanted sugar with your tea. Flowridia reasoned she must have misheard. Hesitant, she glanced up as she moved her pawn forward. “I beg your pardon?”r />
  “Oh, my apologies; on her behalf, I mean,” Ayla clarified, her demeanor the same as she moved her queen forward. “Though if that’s your taste . . .” When Flowridia didn’t immediately answer – too stunned to form words – Ayla tilted her head. “No? Oh, but it’s practically the job description-”

  “Hold on,” Etolié interrupted, leaning back in her chair. In the council chambers, Etolié lounged as Flowridia paced. “Ayla spent the afternoon bragging about how many ways she had spread her legs for Casvir?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Oh, but it’s practically the job description. I’m prepared to offer a few favors here in Staelash, if it comes to it. All for my kingdom, of course.”

  Flowridia stared, praying that the horror she felt didn’t convey quite so obviously on her face. And, of course, any intrigue that came with it. Against her better judgement, she spoke. “Is Nox’Kartha wanting something from us?”

  Ayla pursed her lips. “I have a letter from Casvir for your queen. Not much more to say than that, not without some . . .” The way her hand wrapped around her king was nothing less than obscene. “. . . convincing.”

  Flowridia watched as she set the king down, one space forward, and realized Ayla had left her queen vulnerable to the attack of an otherwise forgettable pawn. “I’m not sure what I could offer you, not without Marielle’s approval.”

  Ayla hardly seemed to notice the assault on her queen; she merely laughed and tossed it aside as she said, “Who says Marielle needs to know?” She didn’t even look at the board as she idly moved to steal a pawn. “Oh, but I jest, I jest, Lady Flowridia. I have never slept with anyone for Casvir.”

  Flowridia eyed the board, realizing Ayla had failed to notice the pawn not a space away from becoming queen. She reached to steal it, prepared for eminent victory, when Ayla’s grin twisted into something murderous. “I only do that for me.”

  Tap. Ceramic on stone. “Checkmate.”

  “She stopped being quite so friendly after that,” Flowridia said. “I also never won another round.”

  “What I’m hearing, is that after an inspirationally aggressive attempt to seduce you, you used her own attempt to distract you as a distraction to her and managed to thwart her?” Etolié rested her head on her fist as she leaned to the side. “Clever,” she said, and she held out her flask.

  Flowridia hardly noticed, too aghast at her own blatant denial. “So, she was trying to seduce me?” Etolié dangled the flask like a carrot for a donkey, but Flowridia waved away the offer, horror settling at her own idiocy . . . along with disappointment.

  “That, or trying to make you royally uncomfortable so you would leave,” Etolié said. “Either option is viable. After a few hours of chess, I’d whore myself out to get a break too.”

  Glass seemed to shatter in the back of Flowridia’s mind. “Was I annoying her?”

  “No one plays chess for eight hours willingly, Flowers.”

  “When Thalmus and I first started-”

  “Let me stop you right there,” Etolié said, holding out a hand. “Thalmus watches the sunrise. Every morning. For fun. He’s a statistical outlier and should not be counted.”

  “Oh, gods . . .” Flowridia covered her face with her hands as she collapsed into Khastra’s seat. “I am such a fool.”

  After some dramatic moaning, she felt Etolié’s hand pat her on the back. “First dates often go poorly, Flowers. I would let it, and any hope you have of sweeping Ayla Darkleaf off her feet, go.”

  This time, when offered the flask, Flowridia didn’t say no.

  When not weighed down by a mountain of paperwork, Thalmus could be found at his kiln, working silently among molten glass. Separate from the manor, the kiln kept its distance from everything surrounding it, much like the man who worked there. The entrance faced Flowridia’s garden, and she would often wave if she caught a glimpse of the man working inside.

  Today, with her satchel hung over her shoulder, and Thalmus’ own on the other, she came with a purpose. She steadied it with her arms, aware of the fragile contents, all the while dodging Demitri as he stepped under her feet. She peered inside the stone building and knocked on the doorframe when she saw Thalmus near the back, standing beside the furnace.

  Thalmus smiled when he saw her. “Give me a moment,” he said, and with care he withdrew a rod of glass, the far end a violent, luminous red. She watched him place the fiery end within a designated mold – one designed to come apart when coaxed – and gently blow at the hollow top. In his infinite patience, he had once explained the process, that the glass would expand to fill the ceramic mold and take on the pattern within. She’d seen the results of his craftsmanship countless times, as shown in the half-finished projects lined across the walls and the chess set she kept in her bedroom.

  The withered lines of his face and quiet disposition spoke of maturity, more than the fraying grey lines growing through his hair, like silver streaks through onyx. Often, they would dwell in silence together as he created and she read, or as she gardened and he watched and learned. Something heavy, even beyond his size, rested behind those kind eyes, and while he served as an advisor to the queen, his devotion to healing and art set him apart from the others in her service. He would lift an axe in defense of his loved ones, but Flowridia suspected a violent history colored his view, the scars on his body writing a story more poignant than words could tell.

  Thalmus looked up from his work and beckoned her forward. As she approached, she watched him kneel – though he was still nearly her height – and carefully removed the mold, revealing what Flowridia suspected was the beginnings of a vase. “I brought you healing salves,” Flowridia said, holding out the open bag.

  His hands could have easily engulfed her entire head, but with as much care as one might use to hold an infant, Thalmus withdrew a single, clear container, all while gently rotating the glass rod in his opposite hand. “Perfect as always,” he said, inspecting the innocuous paste. His voice rumbled softly, deceptive of his size, like a thunderstorm miles away. “Someday I’ll have you teach me to do this myself.”

  Flowridia took the vial back, and Thalmus set the shaped glass into the kiln. “You have so many responsibilities,” Flowridia said, shaking her head. “I don’t mind helping. Synthesizing my plants into something useful isn’t difficult for me.”

  “You said your mother taught you?”

  Flowridia nodded, unwilling to elaborate. From her other bag, she withdrew a small bowl filled with muffins. “I also thought you might be hungry.”

  Hardly a surprise – Flowridia made an effort to deliver pastries as often as she could to the residents of the manor – but Thalmus smiled, and Flowridia sat on a bench – far enough away to avoid being scorched with molten glass – with the bowl and Demitri in her lap. Thalmus withdrew the glass rod from the kiln, and Flowridia watched in rapt amazement as he stole an innocuous tool from the wall – like an oversized piece of surgical equipment; something her mother might’ve used – and let the blown glass rotate around it, creating a lip.

  It took time, but she never grew bored in his companionable silence. She steadily gathered her courage and finally dared to voice what haunted her thoughts. “Thalmus, am I selfish to say I don’t want to be a diplomat?”

  “I don’t think you’re selfish.”

  “I’ve only lived here a few months. I don’t know anything about politics or diplomacy.” Flowridia let her head fall into her hand. “Is this really only because I lied? Or is there something I don’t know?”

  “The risks of promoting someone young and under-qualified are still far lower than the threat of being caught lying to Nox’Kartha, even innocently,” Thalmus said. Satisfied with his work, it seemed, he returned the cooling glass to the kiln, all while steadily turning it over and over. “You won’t be left to the wolves.” He cracked a smile, glancing down at Demitri. “So to speak. What I mean to say is Marielle and Etolié handle most diplomatic endeavors, and you will merely be acc
ompanying them from now on.”

  When Demitri leaned up to steal a muffin from her bowl, she let him. The pastry filled his entire mouth. “I’ve spent more time living in a swamp than in a city-” She shut her mouth, having never spoken openly of her life before Staelash before.

  Perhaps her panic showed. Thalmus did not press for details. “Every day you’ve been here, you’ve worked to better yourself,” he said. “You’ve more than proven your worth to me.”

  Touched by the compliment, Flowridia felt a blush blossom onto her cheeks. She cursed her open heart, but of all the residents in the manor, it was Thalmus she trusted above the rest. “You think I’ll do well?”

  “I do. They know nothing about you. Keep it that way, and they’ll have nothing to hold against you.” Thalmus’ expression hardened into something thoughtful. “A bit of history for you. Nox’Kartha and the Theocracy of Sol Kareena have been at odds for as long as they’ve been established. Staelash lies in the middle, and both would have us as their allies. We have a complicated relationship with Solvira, given that we’re funded by their treasury but technically our own territory. Marielle’s father elected to stay neutral and remain close to Solvira, but this hasn’t been the first attempt to initiate a treaty between our kingdom and Nox’Kartha.”

  The pieces settled into a messy but coherent puzzle in Flowridia’s mind. “So, you think Marielle was unwise to accept Nox’Kartha’s proposal for an embassy?”

  “Only because she has not considered the consequences of insulting the Theocracy. Allying ourselves with Nox’Kartha could be beneficial, but she hasn’t weighted the implications. She accepted out of hand, without consulting Etolié or Khastra, because they offered her Zorlaeus on a silver platter.”

  “They did give her a rather ‘handsome’ proposal.” Flowridia quirked a smile at her own jest.

  Thalmus gave a grave nod, however. He had withdrawn the vase and now she watched him dab a second, smaller, searing rod onto the artwork of the first. “They manipulated her. An engagement between Zorlaeus and Marielle would be a happy one, but Nox’Kartha will now have a piece of themselves in our kingdom.” He turned his scrutiny directly on her. “You’ll be accompanying Marielle to the Theocracy tomorrow. Keep this in mind.”