The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  Flowridia’s fingers stroked against the soft fur of Demitri’s neck as she considered this. “I will.”

  With his tools, Thalmus turned the dab of molten glass into a loop, creating a handle on his piece. “And in the future, be careful you don’t fall for such manipulations yourself.”

  A frown pulled at Flowridia’s mouth. “What do you mean?”

  Thalmus’ gaze stayed on her as he considered his next words. “You’ll be meeting with Nox’Kartha often.” On instinct, Flowridia bit her lip, and Thalmus nodded knowingly. “She’s beautiful. And she looks fully capable of ripping your heart from your chest.”

  Was that a statement to be taken literally? Sensuous words could turn biting, but when she thought of Ayla, how she danced in the darkness, moved with the grace of a knife, perhaps there was a warning to be had. “There’s nothing between us,” she said, cursing the heat rising in her cheeks. “We played chess. I brought her tea.”

  “And that’s all?” Thalmus asked, suspicion weighing each word.

  She nodded nervously, more skittish than an unearthed crab. If Ayla had once held intentions for her, it was best for Thalmus not to know.

  Relief filled his features. “I had wondered. Forgive me; I find myself protective of you. Perhaps it tainted my perception. Lady Ayla watches us all like some sort of snack.”

  To be eaten alive by Ayla . . . A macabre thought, but metaphorically speaking, the idea caused her heart to race. However, Thalmus had spoken a warning. She whispered, “I’ll be careful.”

  When he approached, his rod held straight up into the air, forever spinning, she held a muffin forward, one he accepted with his enormous hand. Calloused fingers brushed hers; stone-like skin covered the man’s frame. An entire muffin would have been merely half a bite to the enormous man, but Thalmus ate slowly, eating what might have equated to crumbs for someone of his size. “Please, join me,” he said, gesturing to the bowl, and they returned to companionable silence as Flowridia began to eat.

  * * *

  “Have you ever met the Goddess, Sol Kareena?”

  The carriage rolled along the worn road between Staelash and the Theocracy of Sol Kareena. Marielle, Meira, and Sora all sat inside, but Etolié had insisted on sitting at the back of the carriage on a smell bench meant for servants. Flowridia preferred the outdoors, so the sun beating down upon her skin felt like a blessing as she enjoyed the quiet company of Etolié – quiet only because Etolié was engrossed in a book.

  Angelic writings, the same language as the wards written into the plants of Flowridia’s garden, caught her eye, but Flowridia respected Etolié’s privacy enough to not read over her shoulder. Demitri snoozed between them, jostled slightly when Etolié shut her book. “Once or twice. Technically, she’s my aunt.”

  Whatever Etolié’s eccentricities, Flowridia forget that true power flowed through the Celestial’s veins. “You’re related?”

  “By marriage.”

  “Sol Kareena is married?”

  At that, Etolié chuckled. “No. Marriage is generally a mortal concept. The only angels who engage in something so sentimental are the hopeless romantics, such as my mother, who was married to Sol Kareena’s sister.”

  Etolié took a sip from her flask, but the story still bespoke a few questions. Sol Kareena was the Sun, and her sister was the Moon; that much Flowridia knew. “Forgive me for asking, but if your mother is married to a woman, how were you conceived?”

  “Neoma’s been dead a thousand years. My father is the half-angel son of Eionei, hence, the god of drunken debauchery is my grandfather. I was an accident-” Etolié held up a hand, her words more subdued. “‘The sweetest accident in the realms,’ as my mom put it. She loves me very much.”

  The carriage hit a bump, and Flowridia instinctively scooped Demitri into her arms. The sleeping puppy melted into her embrace. “Is your mom a goddess?”

  “Goddess of Stars. But Staella doesn’t talk to mortals anymore. I’d call her a demi-goddess now, at best.”

  Flowridia said, “I’d never heard her name.”

  “She hasn’t touched your world in a thousand years; her memory has largely died out among mortals. Sailors will pray to her, with hopes the constellations will keep their paths clear. I’m told the sky was once her palette. Eionei says she used to grow stars in a garden, like you grow flowers, and that she’d devote constellations to great heroes of the era. But . . .” Etolié’s radiating light faded to a mere glimmer. From the air, she pulled her flask and took a long sip. “I never knew that side of her.”

  Flowridia had always thought Etolié’s godhood came from her grandfather; it seemed it was an even shorter rope. Still, Flowridia realized she had stumbled across some private thing and chose to not press.

  The idea that gods could procreate was not an unprecedented concept, and it made Flowridia wonder about the news regarding Sol Kareena and the child she bore. So instead, she asked, “Has Meira deShamira really spoken to Sol Kareena, then?”

  Etolié glanced toward the carriage, conspiracy written all over her face. “Between you and me,” she whispered, “Meira Schmeira is loose a few screws. Sol Kareena is kind of the big cheese among angelic gods. Maybe she’s spoken to an oracle of Sol Kareena – they’ll speak to mortals. But Sol Kareena hasn’t appeared on the mortal plane in thousands of years.” Etolié frowned, her words fading away. “That said, Meira creeps me the hell out.”

  Meira was perfectly normal by appearances, though perhaps a bit stout, except for her eyes; white as milk and glowing faintly, holding no pupils yet missing absolutely nothing. “I suppose she can be a bit off-putting.”

  “A bit? Oh, Flowers, you are precious beyond all reason.” Etolié kept her smile, but the joy in her eyes faded. “Fortunately, international incidents are more difficult to cause than you’d think. Otherwise, we wouldn’t bring Meira Schmeira within a hundred miles of the Theocracy.”

  “But she’s our High Priestess.”

  “She doesn’t like the archbishop. I’m not sure why; he’s not a bad guy. But she’s always at odds with the church. Bit of a revolutionary, that one.” Etolié’s smile softened into something sincere. “I’m one to talk, but still. Staelash’s brand of Sol Kareena worship is much more in line with what Meira wants. And in her defense, it’s why our kingdom isn’t chomping at the bit to fight Nox’Kartha, despite a number of our citizens being pledged to the Goddess.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Sol Kareena isn’t keen on necromancy, something the Theocracy actively preaches against. Meira focuses more on ritual behaviors and worship. That said, Nox’Kartha has a religious freedom policy that puts any Sol Kareena worshipper on edge. They have temples to every god in their city – demon gods even. If you’re a cultist for The Lurker, you’ll find friends. Sacrificing for Onias? As long as you aren’t hurting other citizens, do what you will.” Etolié stopped, thoughtful. “I ought to go there. I’ve heard there’s a temple to Eionei that puts any party to shame.”

  Though shy at the idea, Flowridia said, “I’d love to go with you, if you do.”

  “We’ll make it a diplomatic mission, then. I’ll go party with the acolytes, and you can play chess for eight hours.”

  Flowridia blushed. “Oh, Etolié-”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Etolié said, laughing, “you can go to church, too. Ayla looks like she knows a few things about idolatry; I’m sure she could get you to cry out to a few gods-”

  “Etolié!”

  Etolié’s laughter only increased, and Flowridia wished for nothing more than to sink into her seat. The open road mocked her as it echoed Etolié’s amusement.

  The carriage continued moving, but one of the doors opened slightly. Marielle’s voice rang out. “And what are you two talking about?”

  Etolié continued cackling. “How to get Flowridia to touch her goddess. Get in touch with her goddess, sorry.”

  Etolié was not sorry.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, an
d Marielle herself appeared from around the corner, hands on her hips. Her expression said annoyance, but her whispered words implied something else. “Your conversation sounds much more interesting than theirs.” She tilted her head toward the carriage. “Can I sit with you?”

  “We’ll make room,” Flowridia said, and she scooted her bottom over as far as the bench would allow. Marielle was hardly small, but between Flowridia’s dainty frame and Etolié’s near emaciation – starlight did not provide more than a bare minimum of nutrition – they managed to squeeze the buxom queen between them. The carriage continued rolling forward.

  “Sora and Meira were discussing temple rituals for Sol Kareena,” Marielle said, pursing her lips. “All very important in the grand scheme, I’m sure, but I’ll be holy-ed out by the end of our visit.” She then glanced up toward the sky and spoke loudly. “Not that holiness isn’t important.”

  Etolié nudged Marielle with her elbow. “Sol Kareena doesn’t care. She has better things to do than take offense to a bit of harmless blasphemy.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Marielle said. “I was a bit worried, given I agreed to a trade agreement with her chosen kingdom’s sworn enemies.”

  “So you do have a sense of self-preservation.” The ice in Etolié’s words could have frozen Onias’ Hell.

  “They’ll hate me anyway if I marry Zorlaeus,” Marielle continued, perhaps purposefully ignoring Etolié’s slight. “I might as well be allied to Nox’Kartha before that.”

  “A girl and her demon – a love story for the ages,” Etolié said, her bright words marred by bitterness. “Can’t think of anything cuter.”

  Marielle, staring out into the field surrounding them, apparently missed the obvious wink Etolié gave Flowridia.

  * * *

  “We’re stopping. If I don’t walk around, I’ll die.”

  Etolié proclaimed them done for the night, and Flowridia was inclined to agree. They would reach the Theocracy within the week, but in the meantime, they would camp.

  Flowridia relished the chance to stretch her legs and followed Demitri as he hopped through the tall grass, the little wolf frolicking as he chased down whatever vermin he found scavenging. Flowridia kept a close watch, following him when he ran too far.

  Sora stepped up beside her. “Do you have experience tracking wild animals?” the half-elf asked. Flowridia was small, but she was hardly short – average perhaps – yet Sora stood nearly a head taller, surpassing even Etolié in height.

  “I spent hours in the woods as a child following animals.” Demitri pounced at what she realized was a cricket, and she giggled as it jumped away, narrowly missing the snap of her wolf’s jaws. “I’d like to think I know how their minds work.”

  “Catching predators and catching prey are two very different things,” Sora said. “Prey animals leave little marks, footprints, trails. They might even help their killer out, leave accidental invitations and such if they don’t know they’re being hunted. To catch a predator though . . .” Sora watched Demitri as he pounced again, this time successfully ravaging the cricket with his teeth. “Sometimes, the best way to catch a predator is to follow the prey.”

  “I’ve never been hunting,” Flowridia admitted. “I only ever followed for fun.”

  “I haven’t done it for survival in years. I’ll only do it for fun, or to stay in practice.” Sora smiled, sincere as far as Flowridia could tell. “But you know about surviving in the woods, right? That’s where you lived before Etolié picked you up.”

  Flowridia forced a smile, unwilling to elaborate. “For a time, yes.”

  Sora studied her, visibly intrigued. “But you’re a child.”

  Flowridia shook her head. “I’m older than I look. And I wasn’t alone. When I was a child, my familiar, at the time, taught me how to survive in the wild. She was larger than anything else in the woods, so that kept me safe.”

  “Was she also a wolf?” Sora asked.

  She realized she hadn’t spoken of Aura to anyone since her passing. It felt odd, the memories dusty on her tongue. “She was. Her name was Aura.” Demitri came bounding up to her then, and Flowridia knelt to greet him. “Those crickets don’t stand a chance against you, dearest Demitri.”

  Someday, I’ll be able to fit a whole horse in my mouth.

  “I believe in you.”

  “Whatever my talents,” Sora said as she watched the exchange, “I can’t actually talk to animals.”

  “I can only talk to one,” Flowridia said, squeezing the wolf tight to her chest.

  “Flowers!” Etolié called from beside the carriage. “Help me with the tents! You’ll want to learn this.”

  Flowridia expected poles and tarps. But Etolié held only a small box in her hand. Curious, she followed the Celestial to the far end of their chosen clearing. From within she withdrew what Flowridia could only describe as a miniature tent. Etolié set it on the ground and took several steps back. Fingers placed together, she stared at the tiny object, and when her fingers pulled apart, the tent grew.

  From the size of her palm to larger than the carriage in seconds, the tent was extravagant. Etolié ran toward it and opened the flap, revealing a small bedroom, bookshelves, and other finery. Flowridia stared, struggling to articulate a response to the bit of sorcery she had just witnessed. “So,” she finally mused, “you set it up at home, and then you shrunk it. You put it in a box, and now we’re here?”

  “Close, but I didn’t set it up. That’s what servants are for. Now, come on. There’s one for you too.”

  A bit of a mad genius, that Etolié.

  * * *

  A tent for each of them surrounded the perimeter of camp. Darkness had descended, but in such warm company, there was no fear. Etolié regaled them with tales of revolution.

  “Oh, it took practice, sure,” Etolié said, taking a sip of her flask. “I’m Celestial, not infallible. But, and I hate to say it, once you’ve liberated one slave camp, you know how to liberate them all. It isn’t complicated.”

  . . . Said the near demi-goddess.

  Demitri sat in Flowridia’s lap as she chewed on her dinner of dried fruit and nuts. All sat by the fire and watched as Etolié stood, her eyes reflecting the firelight as she continued her tale.

  “I remember once,” she said, holding out her flask, “after using my feminine wiles to stab the leader of the camp forty-seven times with a paring knife, it took some convincing to get the slaves to actually leave. I was new – I didn’t speak many languages of your realm yet – so it took a bit of shock and awe for them to understand I was their savior-”

  On cue, Etolié’s ethereal, tendril wings suddenly flashed, spreading wide from her back. They reminded Flowridia of some undersea creature, the way they floated, how she could just barely see the outline of the forest through the shimmering of silver light. The Celestial often kept them hidden through illusion; she had more than once decried them as a nuisance. “But all was well. No casualties. I shipped them off to Solvira and went on my way.” She took a long sip from her flask, grimacing when she put it down. “Until, of course, I’d freed approximately a kingdom’s worth and Solvira came after me. Do you know that story, Flowers?”

  “You tell it at least once a week,” Flowridia said demurely.

  “Well, time to fill my quota,” Etolié replied. She took another sip, then tossed the flask away. A faint sparkle in the air, and the flask vanished. “Cue me, Etolié, Daughter of Stars, Chosen of Eionei, Savior of Slaves, and bane of the emperor’s sensibilities – blamed for the influx of uneducated, ‘lesser’ races to the hoity-toity Solviran Empire.”

  Flowridia had heard her tell the tale, verbatim, countless times. It seemed the others had as well, as demonstrated by Marielle busily wrapping her hair around strands of cloth – her head would be a mass of curls by morning – and Sora carving a stick with her knife. Meira’s white eyes made it impossible to say if she were paying attention, but her head was turned toward the night sky.

 
So Flowridia, pitying Etolié’s drunk, one-woman show, kept her attention sharp, occasionally mouthing the words with her.

  “. . . years tracking me down. But Emperor Malakh Solviraes placed a pen and a contract in my hand and bound me to co-rule the plot of land – a client kingdom, one could say. With me-” Etolié gestured to Marielle. “-Clarence Vors, brother-in-law to the emperor, and the most insufferably dull man I ever had the pleasure of calling my friend. They wanted me as queen, I said no, Clarence was crowned king, etc, etc . . .”

  Etolié waved off the words, dramatic in her stance, her wings actors of their own with how they shone and posed with her body. “With the impossible, experimental task of turning an eclectic group of former slaves into productive members of society came the necessity of keeping the co-rulers safe. Cue, my absent friend, Khastra – legendary war-hero, general, and friend to the Solviraes. They pay her a substantial amount of gold to be here. Way more than they ever offered me.”

  “How much?” Flowridia asked, and in tandem with Etolié said, “Half our taxes!”

  “Thank you, Flowers. You pass with flying colors.”

  Flowridia applauded, smiling as Etolié bowed.

  “You still leave to liberate slave camps, though.” Sora’s voice surprised them both; she had been listening, apparently.

  “I . . .” Disappointment swallowed up Etolié’s previous enthusiasm. “I occasionally scout them out, but then I point Khastra and the provided Solviran soldiers in their direction. Though, with the emperor’s recent death, perhaps I’ll have a bit more freedom under Lara’s reign.” Etolié’s smile radiated conspiracy, but the half-elf kept peppering her with questions.