The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  Marielle seemed unhindered in the slightest, though the orb at her chest had begun to glow.

  “The wards here are impressive,” Flowridia dared to say, intrigue overshadowing her fear. “Did you set them?”

  The archbishop smiled at her question. “I maintain them, but the high priestess of the cathedral – my sister – set them using the orb. I’m surprised you can feel them.”

  “I have enough experience with wards to recognize them.”

  Archbishop Xoran gestured to a green couch, embroidered in gold. “Please, sit,” he said, and Marielle and Flowridia did, with Demitri in her lap. “And who is your pet?”

  “This is Demitri.” The wolf in question perked up, and he stared at the archbishop with his enormous golden eyes. “He’s my familiar,” she finished, searching for the inevitable ire on his face.

  The archbishop nodded as he sat on a chair to the side and leaned forward, noticeably intrigued. “I have never met a priestess granted a wolf for a familiar. May I ask whom you serve?”

  “I don’t actually know,” Flowridia said, feeling no need to correct the title. “Only that my first familiar appeared to me in the woods when I was very young.”

  “Interesting,” he said, and she sensed no ire in his tone, only fascination. “It tells me you were chosen. Perhaps your god has plans for you.”

  Her fears exactly. Flowridia simply offered a pleasant smile.

  “Archbishop Xoran,” Marielle began, every bit of her regal, from her posture to her tone, “as I stated in my letter, I’ve come to pay my respects for your fallen comrades. The diplomats were guests in my kingdom and in my lands during the attack.”

  “There is nothing you could have done,” he said. “You treated my guests with utmost respect when they were in your care, and while what happened was a tragedy, I know Staelash is not to blame.”

  Flowridia knew relief must have struck Marielle, but the young queen hid it well and continued to smile.

  “Lord Ashwood told us you were busy planning celebrations in honor of Sol Kareena’s child.”

  “Yes, in a few weeks’ time we will be unveiling a new statue dedicated to her and the child and hope, on that night, to be granted the knowledge of his or her name.”

  Flowridia listened with keen interest as Marielle and the archbishop spoke of more civil things – the expansion of her territory, the death of her father – and wondered why Marielle would even wish for a diplomat. She spun words as easily as she wrote songs and music, and Flowridia wondered if the two skills were related.

  But when the matter of foreign polities rose to the surface, Flowridia realized the caution in Marielle’s demeanor. “I was informed by the Tholheimer ambassador of attacks on the roads to the north. Has anything of the like happened in your borders?”

  “No, but I’ve been told similar rumors. We’ve offered numerous prayers to the Goddess for the safe return of their prince.”

  Of Nox’Kartha, when the subject inevitably came up, Marielle said, “Oh, negotiations are always under way.”

  Flowridia knew what she truly meant. Did the archbishop know of Zorlaeus and Nox’Kartha?

  “I’ve heard rumors of a Nox’Karthan Embassy being built in your city,” he said, verifying Flowridia’s suspicion. He spoke with pleasant nonchalance, but the statement was open-ended.

  “You’ve heard correctly,” Marielle replied. “Staelash has always maintained open borders, however, and not only to Nox’Karthans. We would be open to discussing the same arrangements with you.”

  “I think arrangements could be made,” the archbishop said, “though I have nothing to offer at this time.”

  The conversation began to dry, and they said their goodbyes.

  “I appreciate your visit,” Archbishop Xoran said. “The deaths of those in my service weigh heavily upon me, and your condolences do make a difference. It’s not often a ruler comes personally to offer such a thing, and it speaks of your compassion.”

  Once outside, Marielle remained silent until they stood beyond the gates. “I think it went well,” she said, and Flowridia could only agree.

  * * *

  A crowd of people blocked the entrance to the cathedral. Concerned, Marielle ran out of the carriage first, followed closely by Flowridia. Caught outside the sea of people, Flowridia’s desire to not squish her familiar heavily outweighed any curiosity she had, but Marielle’s beckoning finally pulled her through.

  “I need to be sure Meira didn’t tie herself to the altar,” Marielle said.

  The danger of leaving a revolutionary inside the cathedral, Flowridia realized.

  Marielle dragged her between the rows of pews, forcing them both past onlookers as only a queen could. Flowridia struggled to shield Demitri from the bodies surrounding them.

  The statue of Sol Kareena oversaw the scene. Flowridia could finally see what madness lay at the Goddess’ feet. She saw her offering – orange and vibrant, though perhaps a bit small – and realized the flower had taken root. It had broken through the cracked stone – stone that had to be several feet deep before touching dirt.

  How, though?

  Meira stood beside it, unimpressed. “Sol Kareena has spoken, yes,” she said to an aghast priest. “She often speaks.”

  “But it is a miracle!”

  Flowridia stiffened when a voice whispered into her ear. “Looks like Sol Kareena noticed,” Sora said.

  “What does it mean?” Flowridia whispered, staring at the flower.

  “The Goddess has claimed you. If you pledge to her, you’ll do great things in her name.”

  Despite the answer, it left Flowridia unsettled. Not for the first time, the memory of a demon in the woods with a tiny wolf passed through her mind. She held Demitri to her chest, now gazing up at the statue.

  Sol Kareena accepted all. Even those who had already been claimed.

  * * *

  They spent the night at an inn, and Flowridia wondered at what point they should be worried for Etolié.

  But the Celestial appeared the next morning, a pile of books in her hands. “I spent all night in the library. Gotta catch up on my scripture study!”

  She proceeded to fall asleep on Flowridia’s shoulder as the carriage rolled home. The Celestial rarely gave in to exhaustion, but consequentially she was wide awake when night fell.

  A sudden rustling at Flowridia’s tent caused her and Demitri to wake. “Flowers!” the whispered voice spat. “I need you awake!”

  Tangled in her blankets, Flowridia stumbled out, immediately seeing Marielle seated beside the dwindling fire and Etolié shaking the tent where Meira and Sora slept. “Rise and-”

  The half-elf burst out, knife readied. She nearly tripped when she saw Etolié, blushing fiercely as she dropped the weapon. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll know better next time. You can help by rousing Meira.”

  Flowridia moved to join Marielle. The monarch wore her nightclothes, and in her hands, she held the orb normally situated in her bosom. Flowridia realized that Marielle’s chest was red and raw. “Marielle, what happened?”

  “It burned me,” Marielle whispered. “I was sleeping, and all of sudden, it flared. It’s still warm.”

  Etolié had begun shrinking tents and plucking them from the ground. “Sora, get the horses ready,” she said. One by one, she placed the tents into the pouch on her belt.

  Sora asked no questions and went straight to the carriage. Flowridia looked to Etolié, then followed her gaze and saw something bright on the horizon. “Etolié, what’s happening?”

  In the distance, Flowridia saw the sky flash. “According to my headache,” the Celestial said, as alert as Flowridia had ever seen, “we’re going to have company.”

  Above them, Flowridia saw clouds gather. The horizon shone like the sunrise, yet daylight was hours away.

  The sky rumbled, thunder sounding, but the circle of clouds stirred only above them. Atop the distant hill, illuminated by a flash of sudden lightning,
Flowridia saw an armored silhouette.

  Etolié rushed to Marielle and stole the orb from her hands – and all at once, Etolié’s form was engulfed in brilliant red flame. Her wings, once invisible, spread wide, fire consuming the gentle tendrils.

  Gasping, Flowridia ran to Etolié, desperate to free her of whatever enchantment surrounded her.

  Lighting shot down from the sky to their camp. Flowridia fell, deafened. But death did not take them – a geyser of flame absorbed the bolt. Etolié held up her arm, the fire bursting from her hand and arcing in a perfect circle back down, surrounding their entire camp.

  Etolié, Flowridia realized, did not truly burn, though her face was etched with fury.

  The wall of fire parted for a masculine figure. Blue lightning danced along his armor, which bore the colors gold and white. He held no insignia, no seal to show allegiance, and from his helm shone a resplendent halo, one threatening to surpass even the outpouring of flame.

  He wielded an enormous sword, held in two hands, taller than Flowridia herself.

  The heat grew stifling. Flowridia coughed, finding it difficult to breathe. The armored man towered above them all, even Etolié, who spoke fearlessly as she kept her spell strong. “I’d heard rumors of a mad-man murdering monarchs for orbs,” she said coolly.

  A masculine voice spoke slowly through the helmet, stifled by his metal helm. “Give me your orb, and there will be no need for murder.”

  The fire surrounding their camp suddenly dissipated. Flowridia’s lungs welcomed the influx of fresh air. The man radiated light, and from within the slits of his helmet, she saw human eyes, the color of tilled earth, flecked with greenery.

  Etolié stood with her wings still aflame. Heat visibly radiated from her skin. “Let my comrades walk away; then we can strike an agreement.”

  Flowridia stood, realizing Marielle had collapsed, perhaps from suffocation. Sora frantically fanned her face.

  “I have no time for tricks, Daughter of Staella. Give me your orb. Then, you and your friends can walk away.

  Meira joined Sora in trying to rouse Marielle, but when Flowridia went to join them, Etolié’s arm stopped her. The Celestial spared a glance for the collapsed monarch. “A pity we can’t be reasonable,” Etolié said.

  The heat Flowridia felt from Etolié’s form suddenly radiated across her own skin. Etolié had placed the orb into her hands, and Flowridia clutched it tight, dizzy at the incursion of energy. The orb swirled a furious shade of red, clouded with vibrant orange. Flowridia felt no depth, no limit. Were magic a tapestry, she felt no edge, yet every strand threatened to ignite.

  Marielle held little talent for magic, and so the orb was merely a trinket. But in Etolié’s hand, it had become a weapon. Likewise, Flowridia felt the potential for destruction, infinite power clutched in her hand. She saw the strings, the raw power free for her to pluck and weave.

  She let them be.

  The Celestial shot forward, wings still aflame, armor coating her form as she soared toward the man. A sword appeared in her hand.

  The armored man braced for impact, swinging his enormous weapon with both hands as Etolié swooped to avoid his blow. The light from his sword glowed not from fire or lightning, but from pure holy light.

  Etolié danced across the sky with a nimbleness Flowridia had never seen the Celestial possess. When his sword met her form, she phased from sight, and it swung through clean. Etolié reappeared behind him, slowly leading him away.

  “Flowers, get moving.”

  Flowridia nearly gasped when a translucent Etolié stood by her side, tapping her shoulder. She glanced frantically between the titanic clash and the nigh invisible Celestial and realized Etolié’s trick.

  “Yes, yes – I’m right here,” Etolié said nodding at the armored figment of magic. “But I’m quite acrobatic when I imagine I can be.”

  Etolié hadn’t earned a reputation for illusion over mere conjuring tricks.

  “Keep the orb safe,” Etolié continued. “I can’t mask its aura. That should keep him distracted, but he can still feel it.” Etolié then withdrew a small, silver mirror from her pocket, one etched with a pattern of leaves. It glowed at her touch. “Lara, sweetheart, we have a problem.”

  Sora held Marielle in her arms. “Etolié, we should go.”

  Etolié held up a hand. “Find us. Get us out of here,” she said to the mirror. Then to Sora, she said, “Now, we run- Flowers!”

  Flowridia followed Etolié’s frantic gaze and saw the armored man charge toward her, weapon readied. The illusionary Etolié flew in his vision, but he stared straight past her.

  The illusion vanished. Real Etolié grabbed at the air, and in her hands appeared a quarterstaff, stars carved into the solid wood. She slammed it into the ground, splitting the earth. The cracks ran deep. A chasm lay etched into the ground.

  Not ten feet away, the man faltered, stumbling to avoid the crevice. Then, he stepped forward with caution, his feet walking across the gulf with ease. “Your illusions hold no sway to those who know you, Daughter of Staella.”

  The cracks vanished. The earth remained pristine. Cold fury shone on the Celestial’s face. “No more tricks, then,” she said, and then her body began to shine.

  A vibrant mass appeared in the sky and descended upon her. Their forms collided, the light blinding as a new figure emerged.

  Mother had spoken once or twice of possession, of how angelic and demonic entities could only exist in this world with a host. Formless and powerless otherwise, if invited to inhabit a mortal form, they possessed all the power they held in their own plane and more.

  Such power often killed the host when the summoned being was god.

  Light poured from Etolié’s form as she grew and morphed into something lithe and androgynous. Then she – he? – laughed, and the voice that spoke was both Etolié and not. Something else intertwined with the sound, something masculine – something inhuman. “Give me a moment,” he said, and when their attacker rushed forward, he held out a hand to stop him. “No need to rush in bull-headed.”

  To Flowridia’s surprise, the man slowed, perhaps confused at the command.

  From the air, the glowing figure pulled a flask, not unlike Etolié’s. He offered the flask forward but laughed when the man stared silently. “I never enter a fight sober.” The figure brought the flask to his lips, but just as he might have taken a sip, he threw it forward.

  An explosion at the armored man’s feet caused him to cry out in rage.

  The glowing figure laughed uproariously. “Not a fan of my tricks, either? You’re such a bore.” It took the quarterstaff in hand, prepared to strike. From the sky, stars began to fall, each one striking the man’s armor with perfect precision. The man stumbled back with each glancing blow, some of which dented his worn armor.

  Etolié – and whomever possessed her body – swung the staff, striking a blow to the distracted, pained man. Another swing, and this time, it met with an enormous sword. “Your kind are a plague on this world, Eionei.”

  “Oh, so you know me? Can’t say I wish to know you.”

  The man whirled around, just as a bolt of lightning shot from his hand. Eionei, the Drinking God of freedom and laughter and every sort of riotous thing, waved it aside with his staff, the discordant magic striking a tree instead. The staff morphed into a sword – a rapier – and the god darted forward.

  Nimble feet dodged heavy blows with ease. The rapier swung quickly, landing precise blows in the cracks of the mysterious figure’s armor.

  High above, clouds continued to gather. The moonlight disappeared. Flowridia heard thunder.

  The rapier’s tip waited at the man’s neck. “Just a peek,” Eionei teased. “Let’s see the face behind the-”

  From the sky, lightning split the air in a deafening bolt. It struck Eionei, his good humor morphing into a cry of pain.

  When the light faded, the laughing god had vanished, leaving Etolié on her knees. The armored man’s heavy steps t
hundered in tandem with the roaring sky.

  “The false god you pledge to is a coward,” he said, and from the ground, Etolié appeared so small beneath the towering figure. His light grew blinding, the sun engulfing the stars. Etolié tried to stand, but a mere kick sent her weakened form sprawling to the ground. “Pledge to me, and you’ll be serving the true Gods of this world.”

  Etolié’s breathing came in ragged, pained intervals. She shook her head and spat on the ground. “Better to be pledged to a coward god than to no god at all. You’re nothing.”

  “I assure you, Daughter of Staella, I am everything. The worlds will remember soon.” Lightning radiated against his armor, surrounding him in blue, crackling light. He reached into his breastplate and withdrew a blue and yellow orb, one that matched the light dancing across his armor.

  Flowridia felt the strings of magic. This time, she pulled, not expecting to feel something pull back.

  Fire erupted at the armored man’s feet. His cry echoed across the metal chamber of his helmet. Flowridia felt her body begin to burn, both within and without, the struggle to keep from letting heat consume her nearly overwhelming.

  His gaze turned to her, and from the slits of his helmet she saw those soft eyes staring back. Flowridia cowered, stumbling back when he took a step toward her.

  “A valiant attempt,” he said, voice audibly pained. “And in deference to your courage, I’ll spare you if you hand me the orb.”

  On the ground, Etolié struggled to sit up, burns singeing her form. Amidst the outcropping of trees, Sora and the rest hid, but he would find them in moments if he so chose.

  Flowridia took a step back, holding the orb close to her chest.

  She heard the armored man chuckle, half-hearted as it was. “You’re a brave little fool. What is your name?”

  Rather than answer, Flowridia yanked the strings again, this time expecting tension.

  There was none. Fire exploded. Heat seared her body, but she heard the armored man cry out in pain.