by S D Simper
Only a creature held together by necromancy-
Ayla had admitted to embarking on ‘espionage’ for Casvir-
“Y-You have no proof,” Flowridia said, stuttering in her panic.
“The only thing standing between the stability of our kingdom and Casvir’s subtle knife is the orb,” Lunestra said, finality in her tone. “Unless we have a way to fight back, we cannot consider-”
“So, you would murder a foreign dignitary-!”
“Flowers!”
Etolié’s sharp reprimand caused Flowridia to shrink. The glare she gave, once meant for the archbishop, withered as she turned to Etolié. The Celestial turned, her fist settling against the table. “Flowers,” she said, stern but subdued, “I need you to leave this meeting.”
“Etolié-”
“I won’t ask again.”
The archbishop and Lunestra kept their gazes to the ground, but all the rest watched her. In the ensuing silence, shame brought heat to Flowridia’s cheeks, and she trembled as she turned on her light feet.
She stepped past the barrier of light with no trouble. The door clicked shut behind her. Tears streamed down her face as she brought her ear to the door, desperate to hear something, anything of Ayla’s fate.
Nothing.
Flowridia stood, realizing she had left Demitri behind in the meeting. Perhaps he could relay what his young mind held to.
At her chest, the ear had burned when seared by holy light. The barrier, it seemed, allowed one to exit, but not enter – easier that way, to protect a one-way street – and alone, she slipped her hand into her bodice and gasped when she withdrew her prize. Her own sternum was red and raw, but the ear had burned, the once sharp edges shriveled. If she stared, she could see the burns slowly smoothing, the skin sealing and patching.
This was but a glancing, accidental blow. Were the Theocracy to acquire their prize, Ayla’s pain would know no bounds.
Flowridia stepped out of the hallway, following the path back to the chapel. Abandoned, closed to the public for the evening’s preparations-
But, no. A lone figure stood before Sol Kareena’s statue, quiet acrimony on her sharp features. Flowridia knew that stance, Ayla’s proud poise. Lithe, pale fingers brushed against the altar, and when Ayla knelt, it was not before the Goddess, no, but by the altar. She peered inside the hollow opening, even her small stature too much to fit underneath.
The elven characters written inside had been too faded for Flowridia to decipher, their cadence bespeaking a time long past. But perhaps Ayla could read it, her age granting wisdom Flowridia could never understand.
When she turned to face Flowridia, a burn radiated from the hole of her missing ear, nearly healed, but not quite. Ayla ran at her approach, her cold hands a comfort as she dug into Flowridia’s skirts. “Sweet Flowra, do not fear,” Ayla voice soothed, but Flowridia could not help her tears.
“Ayla, your face-”
“Yes, it was terribly uncomfortable.”
But Flowridia shook her head. “They’ll have you killed, Ayla. They’ll kill you in exchange for the archbishop’s orb-”
“I know. I heard everything.”
Flowridia gasped, daring to match eyes with Ayla’s icy stare. “But, how-”
Ayla’s finger on her lips caused her breath to hitch. Her finger gently trailed down her chin, her neck, finally pausing at the collar of her dress. Ayla withdrew her own severed ear. “Don’t act surprised. Casvir has madness to his methods.”
Flowridia felt her face pale. “This whole time-”
“Except in your garden. Your protections are stronger than even the archbishop’s.” Ayla let the ear fall and land on Flowridia’s chest. Then, she stroked the soft contours of Flowridia’s face, standing on her toes to place a kiss on her lips. “Gods, I’ve missed you,” she whispered, and for a moment, Flowridia forgot the horrid reveal. She savored those lips against her own, reveled in the soft fabric of Ayla’s dress bunching in her hands as she pulled her closer.
The world grew soft, a fog of tentative peace.
Flowridia’s body craved contact, but more pressing matters stole her attention. Etolié’s reprimand, the archbishop, the meeting . . . All of it simmered in her mind until she finally dared to say, “Ayla, I’m so afraid-”
A door echoed across the cathedral walls, interrupting her words, and when she turned, she felt Ayla disappear from her grip. Into her shadow, it seemed. Ayla vanished as Etolié entered the chapel.
The Celestial came alone, Flowridia realized, the others still in their meeting or perhaps having gone a different way. Did Demitri still listen?
Silent, Etolié stopped beside her, her gaze drifting from the flower at Sol Kareena’s feet to the Goddess’ smiling face. Flowridia wondered if Ayla watched. “Pretty stupid of you, bringing something like that into the meeting.”
The ear, Flowridia realized, dangled outside her bodice. She stuffed it down her dress. “Etolié, it’s burned from the high priestess’ spell. If we give it to them-”
“Relax, Flowers. I turned them down.” Ire laced Etolié’s tone, her bitter gaze resting on the Goddess. “And Khastra agrees to everything I do.”
Relief threatened to bring fresh tears. Flowridia released a shaky sigh. “Etolié, I’m sorry-”
“Stop,” Etolié said, her words sharp. “Flowers, even when we disagree with what our political counterparts say, we at least grant them the respect of listening. We might have been able to sway them to a different offer, but because of your tantrum they’re soured against us, perhaps for years to come. Rulers hold grudges, like everyone else. The orbs transcend politics, but convincing them this is anything but a political ploy will be all but impossible now.”
Flowridia had nothing to say, shame filling her at Etolié’s words.
Etolié stood silent a moment, nothing but the faint sounds of radiating excitement from outside filling the tension. “Love so often damns otherwise good people,” she finally said. “Marielle’s engagement to Zorlaeus has doomed the future of our neutrality in ways she’ll never foresee. And your love for Ayla has struck another nail into the coffin.”
“What they asked for-”
“Was entirely inappropriate, yes. And on those grounds alone we could have rejected it. But now they know of your affection, Flowers. Why would the Theocracy ever try to consult with Staelash on political matters when its queen is married to a former Nox’Karthan ambassador, or when they know our diplomat will topple an entire discussion off the table because they called her ‘friend,’ Ayla, a monster?
“For now,” Etolié continued, “we set this orb aside and accept that it’s safer than any of the others. We turn our focus to finding the ones in the wild. But remember, Flowers, that sometimes we have to set duty before our hearts.”
Flowridia forced a stable composure, and when she said nothing, Etolié turned. “Tell no one you have that thing with you,” she said, and her clicking heels echoed through the chapel as she stepped down the aisle and disappeared out the door.
Flowridia was unsurprised to feel a soft touch skirt across her waist from behind. “No need for fear, Flowra,” came the whisper, and Flowridia turned into the touch, desperate for Ayla’s hands. The burn on Ayla’s face had all but faded, only a single singed circle around the eerie hole when Flowridia brushed aside her hair. Their lips pressed together, Ayla moaning at the contact.
Flowridia’s hips touched the altar when Ayla pushed her, legs splaying as her bottom sat atop it. Ayla’s touch grew less innocent, her hands groping Flowridia’s thighs, pushing aside her skirts. “Ayla,” Flowridia said, already breathless, “we’ll be caught-”
She was cut off by Ayla’s mouth on her lips, stealing any objections from her tongue. Ayla’s hands tugged at her collar and tore the fabric, enough to reveal the chain and slight cleavage hiding her ghastly accessory. She gripped Flowridia’s breasts and withdrew one from her dress, the cold air touching Flowridia’s sensitive skin only a moment before Ay
la’s mouth settled to warm it.
Fingers skirted up her thighs, beneath her clothes, and before Flowridia could speak, Ayla’s fingers thrust inside her.
Flowridia’s hand fell to the altar, the stone a support against Ayla’s pleasured touch. The other, she tangled into Ayla’s hair, where she cradled her face against her breast. Each thrust tore pleasured cries from her throat, ones she stifled, lest they echo through the abandoned chapel.
Before her, Ayla all but knelt, worship on her tongue. Sol Kareena stared, her stone visage ambivalent to the sacrilege on her holy altar; the prayers Flowridia sang were for Ayla alone.
When her pleasure peaked, Flowridia shuddered and sobbed, the rush of emotion bombarding her frazzled mind. All the relief, all the hurt ripped away, leaving her raw. But Ayla held her, moving from her breast to her mouth where she kissed Flowridia’s full lips. Flowridia ached, her seeping warmth swelling against Ayla’s fingers. In gentle motions, Ayla withdrew, and Flowridia mourned the loss.
She gasped, her hand wrapping around Ayla’s body as the undead woman straddled her on the altar. A comforting embrace held Flowridia tight.
Flowridia opened her eyes, and through her blurred, tear-stained vision she saw a figure standing by the wall. She stiffened, recognizing Sora, her heart seizing at what the half-elf held in her arms – Demitri, caught in his espionage.
Ayla must have sensed the change. She turned, her soft demeanor twisting into something coy and wicked. “Sora Fireborn,” she cooed, “nosy little tartlet, aren’t you? Curious how your bastard parents conceive you?”
Ayla stepped onto the floor. Flowridia immediately adjusted her clothing, hiding her exposed breast and dripping vulva. Panic filled Flowridia and Sora both, it seemed; the half-elf stepped back at Ayla’s approach, keeping Demitri in her arms.
Flowridia matched Demitri’s golden eyes. She heard his voice. Mom, she has a knife.
“Ayla, stop,” Flowridia whispered, staring now at Sora.
But Ayla sauntered forward. “Little blunt-eared bastard, trying to be a hero. What’s your plan? Going to tattle to Sol Kareena that I wiped my lady’s pleasure on her altar?”
Ayla’s smile revealed teeth. When she didn’t stop, Sora withdrew a knife and held it to Demitri’s throat.
Ayla stopped, her humor vanishing. Flowridia gasped as her hands flew to her face. “Sora, please, don’t-”
Mom, she wants the ear!
Sora’s hand trembled as she glanced between Flowridia and Ayla.
She told the archbishop she would give it to him in exchange for the orb.
But Flowridia hardly heard it. Her own heartbeat threatened to deafen her. “Sora, don’t do this.”
Sora glanced between them, hands shaking as she dared to match eyes with Ayla. “Don’t you dare take a step.”
There was no knife to grab and fling, no weapon to wield, save for her words. Fear stole her breath, and she barely managed to plead, “He’s only a child. He knows nothing of any of this; he’s innocent.”
Flowridia swore she saw the knife press against Demitri’s throat. Her little wolf gave a whine, one that ripped into her motherly heart. She screamed, “Ayla, do something!”
When Ayla leapt, Sora dropped Demitri, her silver knife glinting off the candlelight before the statue.
The knife plunged. Silver embedded into Ayla’s sternum.
Flowridia’s gasp ripped from her throat, pained and rough. Demitri’s claws skittered across the ground as he bolted toward her. She fell to her knees and gathered him into her arms, felt his racing heart, and saw Ayla glance toward the knife protruding from her chest.
She laughed.
It echoed across the high ceilings, the apparent hilarity at what would have been a killing blow to a mortal too much to bear.
In Flowridia’s arms, Demitri squirmed, a pitiful trill leaving his throat as he attempted to bury himself in her embrace. She touched his neck and realized blood seeped from a thin line at his throat.
For as quickly as Sora managed to strike, Ayla leisurely wrapped her fingers around the blade and pulled it downward, skin and fabric ripping to the chorus of snapping bone. “Your ancestors tried and failed a thousand times to slay me. Did you think it would be so easy?” When the blade reached her navel, she withdrew the shined weapon, hardly a hint of red staining the tip. Before Flowridia’s eyes, the skin stitched itself together, bone reformed, and Ayla’s smile grew wide as her teeth elongated.
Her sweet Demitri’s precious blood stained Flowridia’s hands, even as a fog of red clouded her vision. A healing spell began to tickle her bloodied fingers, but as she leaned over her dearest companion, from her torn bodice, the ear slipped out and dangled on its chain.
The half-elf held her hands up, slowly backing away from the knife Ayla held. Enmity pulled Ayla’s lips into a sneer. “Whatever I do to you, Casvir will surely do to me, tenfold. But keep skulking around my Flowra and her familiar, and I will be very tempted to strip the flesh from your bones-”
“Unless I wish you would,” Flowridia heard herself say. She clutched the ear in her hand, blood staining the pointed tip. Perhaps she had no knife to throw, but to save her familiar, there was still a weapon to wield. To the ear, she whispered, “Kill Sora.”
The earring cracked. Ayla immediately whirled around, startled, it seemed, by Flowridia’s words. Her grin revealed fangs. “With glee.”
Sora stepped back. “Wait, Flowridia-”
“But no one can know,” Flowridia said, louder now as she stared into Sora’s wide eyes. She could summon no remorse. “Not of this wish, and not that it was you.”
Ayla’s predatory smile turned to Sora scarcely a moment before she pounced. The knife fell from her hands, but before it could clatter to the floor, Ayla’s hands reached Sora’s neck. They thrust into her mouth-
And tore out her tongue.
Blood sprayed. Ayla’s arm wrapped around Sora’s neck and covered her mouth, a gurgling, horrified cry escaping the half-elf’s throat as blood poured from her mouth. Ayla held the dismembered organ in her hand. “Sweet Flowra, do not fear. A slip of the knife, and we celebrate our victory soaked in Sora’s blood.” Seeping from Sora’s lips, blood stained Ayla’s fingers. With a sickening crack of bone, Ayla broke Sora’s jaw open. “Hold this, please,” she cooed, and she forced the tongue back into Sora’s mouth, ignoring how she screamed and sobbed.
Flowridia clutched Demitri to her chest, head light as blood drained from her face. “I’ll make short work of this one,” Ayla continued. “Distract yourself until tonight, Flowra. Bother your Celestial counterpart until the ceremony. Neither you nor I will be implicated in any crime.”
Numb hands caressed the wolf pup in Flowridia’s arms. Though her head swam, Flowridia said, “Go,” and prayed she would live to regret her wicked deed. “I trust you. Go.”
Ayla smiled, and despite the tortured half-elf trapped in her arms and the blood staining her body, her face conveyed adoration. “I love you, Flowra. I’ll be watching all night.”
“I love you, Ayla.” She meant it. She prayed it was enough.
Into the shadow of a doorframe, Ayla and Sora vanished.
A healing spell finally met Demitri’s throat. The tiny wolf made no attempt to escape her embrace when she stood up. Mom, are you all right?
Casvir’s subtle knife, as the high priestess had said, and as Flowridia stared at the splattering of blood on the floor, she wondered how many had fallen to Ayla’s blade. Contemplating her familiar’s question, she pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and quickly wiped the droplets from the floor. The white cloth spoiled, but the smeared, deep red blended with the stone floor.
There was no remorse, no hesitation in Ayla’s action. Clarence Vors, the Theocracy’s envoy, now Sora, but surely there were others – an entire country, if Sora was to be believed – and there would be more to come. Ayla stretched her leash longer each day, and Flowridia was certain it would someday be enough to wrap arou
nd the imperator’s neck.
But, no. Sora’s death was not on Ayla’s hands. Ayla twisted the knife, but Flowridia had wielded it.
“I fear,” she finally said, sparing a glance for the blood-stained handkerchief, “that Sora’s death won’t be the last.”
* * *
“Did she say anything else?”
On the steps of the cathedral, Flowridia sat apart from the crowd fighting to enter. Sunset neared, and the unveiling had surely already occurred. Lines of worshippers had gathered, most with candles lit in the child’s honor, prepared to be place at the statue’s feet.
No, Etolié left like she said. That was when Sora decided to talk to the archbishop and hurt Lady Ayla.
Guilt had descended, but the time had passed for regret. Sora was surely long dead, and soon the rest would discover whatever morbid mess Ayla left behind. Sora’s fate would draw no sympathy from Flowridia; not when Demitri had so nearly met his end.
“Flowers?”
The familiar voice and pet name bespoke only one person. Flowridia looked up and saw the Celestial grab her illusionary skirts and dart up the stairs. “I would have thought you’d go in without me. What happened to your shirt?”
“Tripped. Are we late?” Flowridia asked, and she accepted when Etolié offered her a hand to stand.
“Khastra’s already inside. Meira’s furious – seems Sora ran off somewhere. No one’s seen her.”
Flowridia simply nodded and followed Etolié to the entrance of the cathedral. “Do we need a candle?”
“Only if you’re pledging. Each candle is a prayer to the new god.”
“God?”
“Not every angel is a god,” Etolié said. “Not even close. But with as many followers as this kid already has, he or she certainly has a bright future.”
At the door, the guards nodded at their entrance, allowing them to bypass the lengthy line of worshippers.
The archbishop stood with the orb and staff in hand, surveying the crowd of onlookers. People clumped together in a mass as they filed through the line, the cathedral bright from candlelight. But standing tall behind the ancient statue, the unveiled Goddess smiled at all in attendance. Cradled in her arms, a small baby, one with alert eyes and a halo outlining a full head of hair. Carved in white stone, the robes fell lifelike across their bodies, their eyes vibrant and kind.
