by S D Simper
“Did she?”
“She did.” Flowridia looked up, regretting her words but realizing she had no choice but to continue. “She’s been so good to me, Thalmus. She cares for me very much-”
“Did she give you that dress?”
Flowridia gave a self-conscious tug on the long sleeves. Slouching would only amplify her cleavage – as unsubstantial as it was – so she stiffened instead, cursing the blush on her cheeks. “She’s letting me borrow it.”
The grip on her shoulders grew strong, protective. She braced herself for reprimand, vowing to remain non-combative.
Instead, it grew loose. Then it fell away. “You’re growing up,” Thalmus said, finality in his tone. “I don’t like her at all; you already know that. But I’ll stay quiet if she’s sincere in her affection.”
“She is,” Flowridia replied. “Thalmus, she truly is. And if there’s anything she can do to prove herself to you-”
Thalmus held up a hand, glowering as he looked down. “Flowra . . .” He sighed, resigned. “Ayla could be a shining paladin of Sol Kareena, and I would still have reservations.”
Flowridia chuckled. “I don’t think I’d know how to get along with a paladin.”
“What I mean,” he continued, expression softening, “is you’re my little flower girl. I’ll always be protective of you. But you have to make your own choices.”
A smile pulled at Flowridia’s lips. Instead of a reply, she nudged him with her hip.
It hit above his knee.
He nudged her back, an affectionate smile on his face, and it landed at her back.
* * *
For as lovely as the reception hall was, one particular sight outshone the rest.
The room seemed out of a storybook, decorated with draped fabrics and glittering lights. Candles lined the walls, and at the ceiling shone globes of light – summoned by Etolié, Flowridia guessed. Tables lined with food skirted near the entrance, and a dance floor dominated the room, though not so large as Marielle’s ballroom. Outside, a glass door led to a balcony where stars gleamed, scarcely visible in the soft lighting.
But in the center, Ayla awaited, a picturesque island of blue and black in a sea of glowing lights. Her gentle smile juxtaposed oddly with what Flowridia had so often seen, that of predator about to consume its prey, but the effect was the same: Ayla beckoned, and Flowridia followed.
The guests, the food, and even the music seemed to fade when their hands touched. Ayla placed Flowridia’s on her shoulder. “Allow me,” Ayla said, a bit of amusement in her tone. “Follow my steps. You’ll do well.”
The smaller woman led with one hand on Flowridia’s hip and the other clasping her fingers. She moved effortlessly, smoothly, and Flowridia clumsily followed, half a beat behind.
“If you keep staring at the ground, you’ll never improve.”
Flowridia looked up, meeting Ayla’s expectant eyes. “I’m afraid of stepping on you.”
“I promise not to bite if you do,” Ayla replied, teething showing as she chuckled. “Be brave, my darling. Eyes on me; your feet will follow.”
Flowridia matched her stare, realizing she did, indeed, move easier if she focused on her partner.
A master of her craft, Ayla twirled in time and helped Flowridia to do the same. Fast or slow, the songs would change, and Ayla instructed her steps. It seemed she was a master of all arts, from lively jigs to sensual ballads, or perhaps simply talented enough to make it up as she went. Flowridia listened, following closely with the rhythm, and at times letting Ayla pull her around. Sometimes she stumbled, but Ayla simply laughed and helped her to stand.
Ayla laughed so prettily. When Ayla danced, she looked so carefree, genuine joy in her smile. Never had she appeared so at ease, and Flowridia wondered where she’d learned.
A question for another night. Flowridia was content to bask in Ayla’s radiating light.
Marielle socialized when she didn’t play, but when she joined the band, Flowridia thought her harp a perfect addition. Thalmus only watched the partygoers, a visible void of guests around him. Etolié and Khastra chatted in the corner, and somewhere in her head, Flowridia wondered what the Celestial thought of the scene.
But her focus remained on Ayla. In the blur of lights and music, Ayla’s face shone brighter than them all. When exhaustion pulled at her eyelids, Ayla’s laughter kept her moving on.
And for hours, she danced.
The party dwindled. The lights began to fade. Her head rested against Ayla’s shoulder, and a voice cut through the music. “Let me take you home, Flowra.”
Despite Ayla’s diminutive size, she scooped Flowridia up, her unholy strength funneled into the tender gesture. Flowridia rested her head against Ayla’s shoulder, cradled as she stepped past the guests and out the door. Once alone, she slipped into a shadow, the familiar, fogged landscape too stimulating for Flowridia’s tired eyes. Instead, she looped her arms around Ayla’s neck, curling into the protective embrace.
Soon, a plush bed met her back. Flowridia opened her eyes and realized they had returned to her room. Demitri’s tongue met her cheek. Did you have a nice time?
“I had a wonderful time,” she whispered, both to her familiar and to the breathtaking woman standing beside her bed.
A hand caressed her cheek. “Perhaps I’ll stay a little longer,” Ayla said, and Flowridia felt her light weight press against her in bed. Cold, caring arms tucked the blankets around her and then wrapped around her body.
Flowridia fell asleep.
Flowridia awoke alone.
But there, on the bedside table, a scripted note and a single, red rose:
The dance was sublime. I love you, Flowra.
The festival at the Theocracy of Sol Kareena awaited.
With her head resting against Etolié’s thigh, Flowridia slept on the bench for most of their first day of travel. Exhausted from a night that shone in her memory, the afterglow managed to cast out the looming fog of loneliness threatening to descend and drown her. She clutched a hand to her chest, drawing what comfort she could from the accessory resting between her breasts. A piece of Ayla, morbid or not.
There weren’t many steeds capable of supporting the robust general, so Khastra rode in the carriage with Meira and Sora, her massive weapon strapped to the roof. Flowridia was awoken by bombastic, familiar laughter, along with an accompaniment of chuckles.
Beside her, at the back of the carriage, content to sit in the sunlight, she heard Etolié scoff. “I think Khastra is the only one capable of making Meira even crack a smile.”
“She’s quite charming, in her own way,” Flowridia said, and she felt Etolié shift as she looked down at her.
“She’s hoping we run into trouble. You wouldn’t believe how petulant she was after the Skalmite incident. She insists she could have handled it.”
Flowridia saw her scan the horizon. With Khastra out of Staelash, it left Marielle vulnerable, even with her intended’s doting presence, as Etolié had explained. Instead, Marielle’s orb lay sequestered on Etolié’s person, hidden within a box crafted from the crystal Etolié lovingly studied.
“I suppose she and her hammer would have been useful.”
Etolié chuckled. “She has a few more tricks up her sleeves than just her weapon. If fate has a sense of humor, this will be the safest trip we’ve ever been on.”
The conversation drifted off into idle things. Flowridia questioned the wisdom in tempting fate, but her worry was for not. A few boring days of travel passed, and the towers of the Theocracy appeared on the horizon.
The statue of the Goddess rose to meet them, her arms outstretched and a hood shading her benevolent smile. Flowridia had remembered to change her outfit this time, and with shoes on her feet she watched Theocracy citizens from the carriage. A strange sort of confidence flowed through her veins, helping her to sit tall. In the weeks between now and their last trip, Flowridia felt as though the shifting sands beneath her feet had finally started to settle.
So much had changed.
Including the inside of the carriage, which had substantially shrunk. Seated between she and Etolié, Khastra’s bulk took up a significant amount of space; with Demitri on her lap, Flowridia pressed herself against the door to avoid invading anyone’s personal space. Etolié had no such qualms. Half-asleep, her thin arm settled around Khastra’s forearm, her head resting against the general’s bicep.
Excitement radiated from the city. Flowridia watched it bustle and move, preparations for the evening’s celebration finishing up. The statue would be unveiled in the cathedral itself, and as foreign guests, her council had been promised entrance. But parades and festivities would be conducted outside. Flowridia watched booths be assembled, the beginnings of spectacular costumes donned, and various art celebrating the Goddess displayed.
She heard Meira scoff and mutter, “All ritual. No substance.”
They stopped outside the cathedral. “So, you’ll be joining us?” Etolié teased as Meira stepped out.
The High Priestess glowered but nodded an affirmative. “I have put off the inevitable long enough.”
Demitri walked beside Flowridia, standing at her knee as he absorbed the sights with his curious eyes and nose.
A familiar pair of guards straightened at their approach. The two of them spared a quick glance to Demitri, before darting to Khastra, and then Etolié, who spoke. “We have a meeting with Archbishop Xoran.”
“Wait in the chapel,” one of them said, his nervous eyes now falling onto the sizeable weapon strapped to Khastra’s back. “Someone will inform him of your arrival.”
The grandeur of the cathedral’s chapel still struck a chord deep in Flowridia’s soul. Stained glass shone a rainbow of colors onto the floor, and candles lit the corners and the altar. The familiar statue – the one Etolié claimed survived the same fire that long ago devastated the building – stood before the altar of candles, but behind her, something larger, covered in a sheet. This must have been the new statue, Flowridia reasoned, but that wasn’t what stole her attention.
At Sol Kareena’s feet was the offered flower from long ago, carefully preserved with a dome of glass. Flowridia stepped past Etolié and the rest, Demitri at her heels, and nearly ran toward it, stopping only to stare at the accepted offering.
Perhaps miracles didn’t happen as often as she thought. The flower thrived despite the platform of stone.
When Flowridia looked up, the Goddess’ gaze bore into her. She shied away, wondering whether there were boundaries to her unconditional acceptance. Flowridia loved a woman too dark for this world, one who stood at ultimate odds with the Sun Goddess, yet Sol Kareena loved Flowridia still.
“Consider what you could do in her name,” said a voice, and Flowridia saw Meira come to stand beside her, staring down at the offered flower. “True greatness is achieved when you give the Goddess your heart.”
Greatness, yes, but Flowridia’s heart was no longer hers to give.
“You gonna pledge to the Goddess’ kiddo, Meira?” Etolié asked, her impish smirk betraying her jest.
Meira, however, looked merely annoyed. “My loyalty is to Sol Kareena. I will celebrate her joy, but her child must prove itself before it earns my respect.”
A door opened, creaking wood echoing through the aged cathedral. A small girl, seven at most and wearing the garb of a priestess, approached. She smiled with her eyes. “Archbishop Xoran is ready to see you. Will you please come with me?”
Etolié smiled kindly at the little girl. “Of course,” she said, and all followed as the girl escorted them to a door at the back wall.
Flowridia whispered, “I didn’t realize you could train to be an acolyte that young.”
“She’s unquestionably an orphan,” Etolié replied, just as softly.
Flowridia’s bleeding heart ached, her eyes growing wide as she watched the girl who led them.
“She lives a happy life here, Flowers. There are other children like her who are well-cared for under the Goddess’ watchful eye.”
They were taken to a meeting room, one with a single rounded table and the archbishop himself seated at the far side. In his hand, he held the staff topped by the white orb. Beside him sat a woman wearing similar garb as Meira, save for the crown woven into the thick, black locks of her hair, not unlike the archbishop. She could have been his near mirror, both in her kind smile and deep-hued skin, and at her shoulder, a small bird sat perched.
Archbishop Xoran stood at their entrance. “Magister Etolié, a pleasure to meet with you again,” he said, and he immediately went to shake her hand. Then, to Flowridia, he smiled. “Lady Flowridia, it is wonderful to renew our acquaintance.”
She shook his hand, struck by his sincerity.
To Khastra, he said, “I’ve heard of your legend but never had the pleasure of meeting you. General Khastra, is it?”
Khastra nodded. “I could say the same.”
And to Meira, simply, “Priestess Meira, I appreciate you taking the time to come.” He made no effort to shake her hand. Then, he turned to Sora. “I’m afraid we haven’t met.”
“Sora Fireborn,” she said, and she offered a hand. “I serve under High Priestess Meira.”
The archbishop accepted the gesture, and once he’d shaken her hand, he pointed at the woman seated at the table. “Joining us today is the High Priestess of the Cathedral – my sister, Lunestra.” The woman smiled, the lines of her aged face growing deep, and Flowridia found her stunningly lovely.
“Please, sit,” the archbishop said, and after a slight push from Etolié’s hand, Flowridia obeyed. Demitri circled the chair before settling his small body at her feet.
High Priestess Lunestra spoke up from her seat. “Before we begin,” she said, “I would ask your permission to cast a ward of secrecy. What we say at this meeting must not be overheard by foreign parties.”
“Who would want to eavesdrop?” Khastra asked.
Etolié looked pained at Khastra’s interjection. “Cast what you’d like,” she said. “We’d prefer to keep our quest quiet as well.”
“I appreciate you accommodating my need for security,” the archbishop said as Lunestra stood. From him, she accepted the staff with the orb. It glowed at her touch.
What began as a white light, near blinding, became a circle that expanded to fill the room.
Flowridia reached out to touch the magical light, intrigued at how it tingled against her fingers.
A burning pain suddenly seared her chest. Flowridia gasped, clutching her dress as the pain subsided, the circle forcing past her to surround them all.
“Flowers?” Etolié said, and Flowridia realized they all stared.
“I-I’m fine,” she said, patting where the ear lay between her breasts. “Startled, is all.”
The archbishop and Lunestra seemed to accept this, but Etolié’s smile grew increasingly forced as she followed the movement of Flowridia’s hand.
In her head, she heard a young voice. What happened?
“Later, Demitri,” she mouthed, and she realized Sora, too, had followed Etolié’s gaze.
Archbishop Xoran spoke, the staff now back in his hand. “Your kingdom still seeks the orbs.”
“We do,” Etolié said.
“I will keep our proposition simple and transparent. You received a gift from Nox’Kartha. Bring it to us, and we will give you the orb.”
Immediately, Flowridia sat up. Heart seizing, she said, “What? Why?”
Never in all her months residing in Staelash had she seen so vicious a glare on Etolié’s pointed face. A warning, directed at her, but before Etolié turned back to the archbishop, her face returned to something more serene and less sober. “I would prefer to not involve other countries in this discussion.”
The archbishop shook his head, gripping the staff tight. The orb glowed under his hold. “This is a matter more pressing than diplomatic relations.”
“The ear was a gift,” came a voice from beside them. Meira spoke, maki
ng no attempt to mask her suspicious gaze. “What use have you for an artifact of pure necromancy?”
“We wouldn’t use it. We would put a leash on the monster it was severed from.”
The word ‘monster’ drew heat to Flowridia’s face. “What’s your interest in Ayla Darkleaf?” she dared to ask. Etolié fists clenched under the table, but Flowridia found she didn’t care.
“Ayla Darkleaf is a monster only barely caged. Under the thumb of Imperator Casvir,” Archbishop Xoran said, slowing his words, “she is at least held accountable for her monstrosities. But the ear is a way for her to funnel her chaotic streak unhinged. What happened to the Skalmites was a terrible tragedy, but it’s only a taste of the potential for danger.”
“It is,” Etolié said, her tone cool. “There is great potential for danger. It’s why we’re protecting it.”
“It doesn’t need protection,” the archbishop said, frustration growing with each chosen word. “It needs to be destroyed. Do you realize the power you wield? Do you realize the legacy of the monster you claim to control?”
“I know she is no monster,” Flowridia said, and the scraping of her wooden chair against the stone floor startled all but her as she stood. Instinctively, her hand flew to her sternum, the weight of the pointed ear soothing to her livid soul. “What would you do with her?”
The archbishop took a breath to speak, but High Priestess Lunestra held up a hand and spoke instead, her words calm and kind. “She is no friend to Sol Kareena, Lady Flowridia, but it seems she is a friend to you.”
Flowridia’s lip trembled, though from rage or tears, she did not know. Perhaps both.
“Let us explain ourselves,” she continued, “because while I respect your wish to not involve foreign parties, Nox’Kartha is already involved. The orb fuels protections set around my brother’s home. Were we to give it with no recompense, they would dissolve. Not two weeks ago, another attempt was made on his life.
Archbishop Xoran stared between Etolié and Flowridia, but Flowridia reserved her shock for Lunestra.
“Something scratched at the wards around his home but couldn’t break in. Holy magic only detours one sort of creature.”
