by S D Simper
“Have you ever had any major casualties?”
Etolié’s wings faded from view. With the disappearance of her wings came a downtrodden expression. “Yes,” Etolié replied, and the flask appeared back in her hands. “Many times.” She shot back another gulp of ale, then turned her sights on Flowridia. “Tell us a story, Flowers. Cheer me up.”
“What sort of story?” she whispered, shy as her companions’ attentions were turned to her. Her fingers dug into Demitri’s fur, his steady breathing a comfort to her agitated soul.
“Hero stories. Join our party.”
“I’m not much of a hero.”
“They don’t have to be real,” Etolié continued, nudging against her. She handed Flowridia the flask. “What sort of tales did your mother tell you as you drifted off to sleep?”
“Trouble sleeping, Flower Child? Let me tell you the tale of your father . . .”
“A paladin,” Flowridia began, shutting her eyes as she reminisced, “heard tales of a kidnapped maiden during his travels. He hailed from the Theocracy of Sol Kareena, a champion of her holy name, and he was a decorated warrior, skilled in combat, but his prowess in battle paled for his penchant in healing magics. They say Sol Kareena herself laid claim and infused him with power.”
“He sounds like a bore,” Etolié said, chuckling to herself.
“This is how my mother told it.”
“Carry on.”
“The paladin rode through a village on the edge of a swamp where a demon told him the harrowing tale of a brutal kidnapping – a beautiful maiden, stolen in the night by the hag who resided there. The hag had terrorized the village for decades, stealing children and coercing men to her home where she slew them and ate their entrails.” Flowridia paused, unsettled at her own words. “But the paladin had fought worse in the name of righteousness. He rode into the swamp, resolving to save the maiden and slay the beast.
“They said the hag had drawn wards to keep visitors away, but with Sol Kareena’s aid, he was able to burst through the enchantments and find the cottage in the center of the swamp. When in sight, his horse was suddenly struck dead by a spell – a spell meant for him. Standing at the door, the most hideous and wicked of creatures met him – the Swamp Witch, Odessa.
“She cackled, and his blood turned to ice. But his sword shone with holy light. He swung; she dodged, but her laughter only increased. Over and over, he swung and missed, and Odessa swiped at him with her claws. Her hair took sentience and grabbed him, tossing aside his sword as a child might toss a stick.
“His blood soon gushed like summer rain. The battle seemed lost as she drew him close, but with a prayer to Sol Kareena on his lips, he blasted her with a spell of light. Overcome by his power, the hag fell, twitching, trembling, until the paladin removed her head with his sword.
“Injured but standing, the paladin entered the cottage and saw the fair maiden. She praised his bravery, her tears falling in gratitude, and kissed him chastely, for she was virtuous and good above all else. The paladin, struck by her beauty and innocence, allowed her to remove his armor and dress his wounds. But with every touch, the paladin felt his heart succumb to the maiden and . . .”
At Flowridia’s hesitation, Etolié nudged her yet again. “They lived happily ever after, right?”
“. . . she, sweet and shy, let him claim her for his own. Lost in their lovemaking, he never did see the dagger coming . . .” Mother’s smirk twisted her beautiful visage. “One swipe, and he was dead, but his purpose was fulfilled. She ate him raw, content at the fullness in her belly . . . and in her womb.”
A pause, and then Flowridia whispered, “Until the end of his days, yes.”
Etolié immediately broke out into applause. “Ten points to our shy little flower.”
“Wasn’t Odessa an actual legend?” Marielle asked. “I swear I’ve heard stories before.”
Flowridia managed a nod.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one. Is that really how she died?”
This time, Flowridia managed a shy shrug, staring down at the sleeping wolf in her arms. “It’s one my mother told me,” she echoed, acutely aware of the warm flame against her face. “I think it would have been trivial for someone like Odessa to have faked her death, so perhaps not.” Definitely not. “But it’s nothing to worry about. Who can say what’s real and what’s legend?”
“Well, being a witch, you must know lots of stories,” Marielle pushed, and Flowridia sensed sincerity behind her earnest expression. Perhaps she thought she was helping by coaxing Flowridia to speak.
“I haven’t really met any others.”
An awkward silence settled, one Flowridia refused to fill. “Sora!” Etolié suddenly explained. She stole the flask back from Flowridia and tossed it over the fire toward the half-elf. “Tell us a story.”
Grateful for the shift in attention, Flowridia heard little of Sora’s tale – some story about an elf trapped in a library. Instead, her eyes squeezed shut, the burning of her tears against her eyelids enough for her to flinch.
She willed them away, focusing on the soft fur against her fingertips.
An enormous statue of the Goddess gazed down to greet them, forever guarding the gates of the city. She towered over their carriage, her great wings spread wide and her face covered in a cowl. Still, the artist had done well in conveying her benevolence; she smiled with her eyes, and Flowridia felt compelled to smile back.
Sol Kareena accepted all, and those who accepted Sol Kareena were held to a high standard of righteousness. But her rewards were great, or so they said, and Flowridia wondered if Meira truly had been enlightened for her devotion.
As they passed the gates, they stated their purpose, and Queen Marielle presented a royal seal to prove herself. They were allowed inside, past the stone walls, over the moat, and beyond the statue of the Goddess.
A certain richness pervaded the city, shown in the paved stone roads and impressive statues. Ancient stone made up the buildings, and Flowridia couldn’t begin to guess their age. She thought each citizen must be truly blessed, with their elaborate clothing and smiling countenances.
Seated within the carriage, she turned to Etolié. “Are there peasants? Everyone I’ve seen looks wealthy.”
“This is only the capitol city, Flowers. Peasants wouldn’t be rich enough to afford living here. Undesirables are booted out to maintain appearances.”
Flowridia recalled seeing miles of farmland, but she still frowned. “I’m not sure if I believe that.”
“Everyone in this city,” Meira said, staring blankly through the window, “is a hypocritical sheep.”
Flowridia peered out the window, watching to see if what they said was true. She, in her simple shirt and skirt, would be severely out of place among the populace.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a spiraling cathedral, pure white and gleaming in the sunlight. Meira and Sora moved to exit, but Marielle, it seemed, noticed Flowridia’s admiration. “Do you want to go inside? We have some time before we’re meeting with the archbishop.”
Flowridia whipped around to face Marielle. “Are you sure? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“We came all this way,” Marielle said, practically pushing her out the door. “We might as well sight-see.” Once she had stepped out, she turned to Etolié, still sitting in the carriage. “Are you coming?”
Etolié bit her lip, staring at the enormous, wooden doors resting at the top of the stone steps, carved in Sun Elven characters. “I suppose I am.” She stepped out, her dress swooshing around her legs in a sea of glitter. Flowridia swore she hadn’t been wearing glitter a moment ago. “Eionei’s temples aren’t quite so pretentious.”
“There are no drinking gods in this city, Etolié,” Marielle said, nudging her in the ribs. “Come on – Flowridia wants to see.” Marielle’s boots clicked along the stone steps. She placed a hand at Flowridia’s back and pushed her forward.
Flowridia realized she was sti
ll barefooted. At least her skirt would cover that.
Two guards stopped them at the door. “No pets inside the cathedral,” one stated, and Flowridia pulled the small wolf tight to her chest.
“He’s not a pet,” Marielle said. “I am Queen Marielle Vors of Staelash. This is my diplomat, Lady Flowridia, and her familiar.”
The guard hesitated, glancing between the wolf and the foreign monarch. “Forgive me,” he said tentatively. He settled his gaze on Flowridia herself. “I’ve never seen a priestess of Sol Kareena with a wolf for a familiar.”
“I’m not a priestess to Sol Kareena,” Flowridia replied, shy in her words, “but I hold an enormous amount of respect for the Goddess and her followers.”
The guard looked torn, and he turned to his companion who seemed equally perplexed. The young man spoke again. “Allowing animals into the cathedral is against policy, except for those who serve the Goddess.”
Flowridia nodded, unwilling to risk trouble, but Marielle had no reservation. “Her wolf is as intelligent as the birds who sit on your acolyte’s shoulders. Flowridia has as much a right to be here as anyone.”
“She does,” the guard muttered, facing the floor, “but the wolf will have to wait outside.”
Marielle nodded, and for a moment Flowridia thought she might accept the explanation. “We’ll be moving on then. I have a meeting with Archbishop Xoran, and I’ll be sure to commend you and your attention to the letter of the law. All are welcome to worship Sol Kareena, except for witches, because they have to leave a piece of their soul behind to enter the cathedral.”
The orb in her bosom glowed as she spoke, betraying Marielle’s anger. When Etolié suddenly popped up behind Flowridia, the guards visibly paled.
“Hello, Magister Etolié, Chosen of Eionei, here. Will you please let the diplomat in before my queen throws a tantrum?”
The guards stepped aside, heads down as they held the doors open.
Flowridia kept Demitri in her arms, protective as she stepped through the illustrious doors. Inside, she nearly gasped at the grand display. Sweeping ceilings held pockets of stained glass, illuminating the floors in bright colors. Candles sat by the windows, unlit for now, and pews lined the floor leading up to the altar.
She saw Meira bowing and praying before a statue of Sol Kareena. Unlike the hooded depiction welcoming all at the gate, this one’s hair flowed long and free, her eyes sparkling in splendid stone. Hundreds of candles flickered behind her, each one a prayer from a devoted servant.
The polished floor made little sound as Flowridia stepped forward, basking in the grandeur. “A bit of trivia for you,” Etolié began. “This city is ancient. Magic has kept it looking young, but it was founded by Sun Elves some two thousand years ago.”
Flowridia glanced at her a moment before returning her sights to the altar. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“However,” Etolié continued, “this cathedral is considerably younger. A few hundred years after it was built, it burned to the ground. To this day, no one knows why. The only thing left standing among the ashes-” Etolié gestured to the statue of the Goddess and the altar before her. “Only Sol Kareena herself knows the mystery. Who knows what that statue has seen.”
“That statue is two thousand years old?” Flowridia said, jaw gaping.
“Likely more.”
Marielle muttered as she approached from behind. “. . . bigotry at the steps of the Goddess’ cathedral. I’ll have their necks wrung for-”
“Marielle,” Flowridia said softly, Demitri’s weight in her arms a reminder of the exchange, “don’t be angry on my behalf. They only did their job.”
Marielle’s lip twitched as she gave a curt nod. They continued forward, Marielle’s hand gently pushing on Flowridia’s back.
The word ‘witch’ came with a legacy of fear, and there was no other explanation for Flowridia’s powers, and for such an odd choice in familiar. Serving angels and Celestials, and being granted a familiar by their power, bestowed the title of ‘priest.’
Those who served demons and their ilk were deemed ‘witches.’ Flowridia had vowed to forget the wickedness she’d learned in her mother’s home, instead resolving to be the rare witch with good intentions.
They reached the altar – she, Etolié, and Marielle. A simple stone table served as the altar, covered in the front and hollow within, large enough for a small child to hide inside. Inscriptions along the side – some ancient form of Sun Elven, Flowridia was certain – were the only decoration.
Meira knelt at the side, muttering as she hid her face. Flowridia looked up, shying away from the Goddess’ stone gaze. She hid Demitri in a protective stance as she whispered, “Hello.”
“Polite, but I don’t think she cares.” For the second time, Flowridia jumped at Etolié’s words.
“Why wouldn’t she care?” Sora appeared from beside the statue, eyebrow raised. “She can see everything that goes on in here. Maybe a simple ‘hello’ would break up the monotony of prayers and begging.”
Etolié looked up at the statue, the preamble to her eye-roll. “Hello, Sol Kareena. Hope the baby’s well. Give my best to mother.”
“Isn’t it customary to leave a gift?” Flowridia asked, hesitant under the watchful gaze of Sora and Sol Kareena.
When Sora nodded, Flowridia removed one of the flowers tangled in her hair and knelt to place it at the Goddess’ feet. “It’s all I have with me,” she whispered, and then she stood and turned to Marielle. “We don’t need to stay long. I don’t wish to keep the archbishop waiting.”
Marielle looped her arm around Flowridia’s and began to escort her out. “Etolié, are you coming?”
Etolié’s stare remained on the Goddess. “No, I’ll stay. I’ll find you when you’re done.”
In the carriage, Flowridia sat Demitri down on the seat beside her. “Am I allowed to bring Demitri with us?”
With a permissive glance to Flowridia, Marielle gently ran her hand through Demitri’s soft fur. “He isn’t your pet. I would hope the archbishop would be held to a higher standard than ignorant cathedral guards.”
Self-conscious fear threatened to choke Flowridia’s throat. Sol Kareena accepted all, or so they said. Witches who accepted wolves from demons in the woods could be considered outliers. “I can leave him in the carriage.”
Reassurance manifested in a beaming smile across Marielle’s face. “Bring him. He’s a part of you. If you smile wide enough, no one will notice him.”
Flowridia nodded, distracting herself by staring out the window as the street rolled by. All along the road, people moved in droves, and Flowridia questioned why she had ever bothered to leave the woods.
When the carriage pulled to a stop, Flowridia wondered if there had been a mistake. A gated, brick home stood before them, but the size and grandeur were nothing of note. Still, Marielle swung open the carriage door, and Flowridia followed. She set Demitri at her feet, listening intently as Marielle presented herself to the guard at the gate.
The gate, metal and spiked, rolled to the side, and the stone path leading to the home itself wound and weaved through a lush garden. Greenery, shaded by the trees and surrounding homes, kept the area cool and moist, and Flowridia dared to step off the path and toward a patch of berries.
She sensed a sickness in the plant and ran her fingers across a leaf. A rot gnawed at the roots, and instinctively Flowridia let a healing spell cross through her skin and into the bush, her strength depleting in tandem with the plant’s growth. But the root rot remained. She felt a curse dance across her tongue, but her mouth remained shut. To act so impulsively would undoubtedly harm the plant further. And what use was there in attempting to curse a fungus?
“You would use your spells on plants?” came a masculine voice, and Flowridia, having done what she could, removed her hand and faced the aging gentleman. The man approaching her wore simple robes of gold and white, the only bit of grandeur a gold crown braided into the thick, black locks of his hair
.
She felt her chest cave from embarrassment. “I would. It’s what I often do at home, for my own garden,” she explained, but she caught herself before she began to babble.
Behind her, she felt Marielle’s presence. “Pardon us, sir, but we seek Archbishop Xoran. Do you know if he’s home?”
The man nodded and smiled as he approached. “You must be Queen Marielle Vors.” As the man came closer, Flowridia noticed the richness of his simple robes and pristine shoes, despite the mud clotting the hem. In his hand, he carried a staff – a staff topped with a white, gleaming orb – and on his shoulder sat a small bluebird. “Forgive me. I often lose time in my garden. I am Archbishop Xoran of the Theocracy of Sol Kareena.” He gave a respectful nod in response to Marielle’s sudden, deep bow, then turned his attention to Flowridia. “And who are you, child?”
“Flowridia,” she said, and she bowed before realizing she had given no context or title. She quickly straightened herself, panicked as she said, “Lady Flowridia, Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”
“In training,” Marielle added.
Relief coursed through Flowridia. “In training.”
“We must all begin somewhere,” the archbishop said kindly. He offered a hand, and Flowridia shook it, his umber skin rough from age and work. “Please, let us go inside.” He escorted them toward the brick cottage and even held the door.
Charmed by the gesture, Flowridia took two full steps inside before bothering to realize the magical presence tingling against her senses. A modest home, comfortable, but the wards surrounding the house itself and emanating from within churned her stomach – the sheer magnitude of it nauseating to anyone with a shred of magical sensitivity. She glanced down at Demitri, only to see him stumble and nearly fall. She scooped him into her arms. “Are you all right?”
There’s powerful magic here.
It invigorated her as much as it was overwhelming. Pure light surrounded this home. Protective wards established by something powerful and ancient, yet she and Marielle had crossed the threshold with no trouble. What this protected against, Flowridia could not say.
