Onward, onward, we soared, and time seemed to vanish into the tidal flow of our journey, the steady pull of movement flowing around me, over me, inside me. The sensation of speed filled me with a huge excitement that made me want to shout with joy.
Then, we spiraled into a descent, and lightly, I felt the bump of landing. I opened my eyes and saw that I stood in a large courtyard. Luminarias blazed in the dusk like stars fallen to Earth, and by their light, I saw glittering red and gold mosaic under my feet, a tall fountain, and flowering plants everywhere, climbing up the white mud walls, spilling over wrought-iron balconies: fuchsia and white bougainvilleas, yellow marigolds, blue chrysanthemums, lavender orchids, fragrant orange trees, and a dozen flowers I didn’t recognize.
“Xochiquetzal. You say Mariposa. Lord Axacaya’s House,” the Quetzal said. She released me from her embrace and led me across the courtyard, through a carved wood archway, and into a narrow gallery. Butterfly lamps hung from the vigas overhead, and more luminarias lined the walls, illuminating a fantastic mural: a ceremony in which red played a prominent role, a jade-masked priest holding a knife aloft, four eagle-headed priests stretching a screaming figure over a plinth—a Birdie sacred sacrifice.
“I have brought her to you, Axacaya,” the Quetzal said. I turned my attention from the lurid wall-painting toward the dais at the far end of the gallery, where a figure had stepped out of the darkness.
Lord Axacaya.
The Quetzal’s wings fluttered and her head inclined: I Serve You at My Own Discretion. “I am done.”
“Thank you, Axila,” Lord Axacaya said, his words slightly slurred with a low musical accent. “I shall call you back when I am ready.”
His hand flashed in a throw, and something soared through the air. The Quetzal caught the toss, glanced at her catch, and then continued the movement from her hand to her beak. When she turned back to me, I saw that both hand and beak were stained red with blood.
The Quetzal paused in her exit and stared at me with that fixed green gaze. “Go with the goddess, Flora Fyrdraaca.” And then with a flutter of feathers, she was gone. Lord Axacaya and I were alone.
FORTY-THREE
Courtesy. Gifts. Chocolate. Please.
AGLIS SABRE, Mamma’s ADC, had told me that Lord Axacaya did not have an eye in the middle of his tongue, but the Califa Police Gazette often represents him as a hideous old man who has a skull face and snakes for hair and who drinks the blood of his enemies from a jade cup. And yet the man who stood before me was in all ways just a man, as Poppy had said, not old or hideous or skull-like.
Lord Axacaya was tall, with spiraling yellow curls cascading past his shoulders. Like the Quetzal, he wore a feathered kilt, but the feathers were iridescent green and blue, silver and gold, glittering and catching the light like jewels. A jaguar skin was tossed over his shoulders; the jaguar’s head hung down over his chest, its glazed eyes gazing out at the world mournfully. A jade labret shaped like a butterfly pierced his lower lip. He held in his left hand a jade mask, the kind that Huitzils wear on formal occasions, and, in his right hand, a feathery fan, whose golden quills were fully three feet long.
Aglis Sabre had been wrong about Lord Axacaya’s eyes. They were not black voids but the galvanic blue of the hot summer sky, like the glowing heart of a coldfire spark. He looked young, in his twenties perhaps, but I knew him to be older than Mamma, and she is fifty-one.
“Welcome to my House, Flora Fyrdraaca,” Lord Axacaya said. The words were clear and loud, but his lips had not moved. He bowed his head slightly and fluttered the fan sign that meant Honor without Reservations.
“Thank you for receiving me,” I said, glad that I had gotten an all-perfect mark in the Fan Language section of Politeness and Charm class last term. I unholstered my own fan and ripped it open with one sharp twist of my wrist. I curtseyed Respect to an Elder and fluttered Gratitude from One Equal to Another.
Poppy had said to remember I was a Fyrdraaca, and I was going to remember it and hope that memory kept the trembles at bay, but it was hard not to tremble. Lord Axacaya looked human, but he also looked disdainful and arrogant, and there was no spark of kindness or compassion in his glittering blue eyes. They were as cold and calculating as the predator eyes of his Quetzal guard.
I held out the little box Paimon had given me and was glad to see that my hand did not shake. Neither, somehow, did my voice. “Please accept this token as a sign of my appreciation for your reception.”
Lord Axacaya advanced toward me and took the box, his hand brushing against mine. Even through my glove, I could feel the heat of his skin. He radiated warmth like a stove, warmth and the thick rich smell of chocolate and cinnamon. It was a heady smell, dark and musky. His wrist was encircled by an intricate blue tattoo of a curling snake whose head came down over the back of his hand, its tongue extending the length of his index finger.
“How thoughtful of you,” he said, and this time his lips did move, mouthing the words but turning slightly up in what might have been a tight smile.
When Lord Axacaya opened the box, a ladybug crawled out. It perched on one edge of the box, wiggling its antennae curiously, and then crawled down onto Lord Axacaya’s hand. The insect was larger than a regular ladybug, about the size of a glory, and it had only two black splotches on its crimson back, shiny as enamel. Surely it wasn’t really a ladybug, but what, then, was it? The bug fanned its outer shell, and a blur of brilliant coldfire light spilled out from under the red and black carapace.
“The Semiote Verb To Will, Indicative Past Plural,” Lord Axacaya said. “Isn’t it lovely?”
A Semiote Verb! Not the one we had been wanting but equally as valuable. Hardly a gift. More like a bribe. I felt a wiggle of guilt that Paimon had given away something so costly on my account, and vowed then, if I got home—when I got home—I would be sure to write him a thank-you note.
“This is an extremely generous present, Madama Fyrdraaca.” This time Lord Axacaya’s smile was slightly more genuine, though it also, unfortunately, showed me that his teeth had been filed into points. I shivered involuntarily, but if he noticed, he didn’t show it. Gently he jiggled his hand, and the ladybug dropped back into the box, which he closed.
He said, “Come, I shall offer you refreshments, and then we shall discuss your situation.”
I followed Lord Axacaya’s gesture to a brazier stove shaped like a squatting monkey, which sat to one side of the room. Arranged before the brazier were two stone stools, one carved to represent a rabbit, the other a jaguar. The carvings were the Birdie style, angular and square, and vaguely I remembered that each animal was sacred to the Birdies. I sat where Lord Axacaya indicated, upon the jaguar, my skirt poofing like a marshmallow around me, and watched as he stirred the pot on the stove, frothing its contents with a whisk he held between his palms. He poured the liquid into a cup shaped like a skull and offered it to me.
Oh dear, the cup was a skull, its top removed and its brainpan lined with gold. Don’t let them see you flinch, said Nini Mo, so I took the skull with no comment and no grimace. But this time, alas, my hand did shake.
“Love is all we Desire,” Lord Axacaya said. It’s a traditional blessing, which we never say at home because Mamma disbelieves in piety. But it precedes all meals at Sanctuary, so I knew the correct response.
“Will is all that we must Do.”
The chocolate, I hoped, was not mixed with blood. It was thick as mud, hot, and spicy, and it tasted delicious. I drank, then licked my lips, hoping that I did not now have a chocolate mustachio.
Lord Axacaya drained his own skull cup and set it aside. He looked at me coolly and distantly, as though I were a specimen, interesting but maybe not that interesting. “Now, madama. Perhaps you will tell me why you have come to me.”
Paimon had said to be clear and truthful. But where to start?
“At the beginning, perhaps?” he suggested. “That is where most stories begin.”
“Can you read my mind?” I ask
ed, startled. If he could hear the things I was thinking, he’d be even less likely to help me. “That’s not very polite.” Then I could have kicked myself. This was not the time for snark.
Now it was his turn to look startled, as though he were not used to people correcting him, which I suppose he wasn’t, being almost a god and all. For a minute I thought I had blown it completely, but then he said, “I beg your pardon, madama, you are correct, of course. In my defense I say that I was not so much reading your mind as your face. Elsewhere thoughts are as good as actions, in some respects, and your face is quite expressive.”
Then I am sunk, I thought, trying to arrange my face into an attitude of blankness.
“Go on, I did not mean to interrupt you.”
I plunged in. “Valefor, our denizen, is abrogated, you know, and I found him and tried to help him get a little energy, but then somehow we became intertwined and he infected me with his dissolution. Now he is fading back into the Abyss, and I am, too, that’s why I am Elsewhere now. I thought maybe if I restored him, then that would stop my evaporation, but Paimon says that only Mamma can restore him, because she’s the Head of our House. And he said that the only thing that would help me would be for the link between Valefor and me to be broken, and then I would not fade,” I said. And because Nini Mo said that flattery was a useful grease, I added, “Paimon said you were the greatest adept in the City and that perhaps you could break this link.”
Lord Axacaya listened to all this without comment, looking almost bored, and when I was done, he stood up and poured me more chocolate. Turning back to me, he said, “I am surprised at your magickal doings. It is no secret that General Fyrdraaca does not approve of the magickal arts.”
“Mamma says magick is a trick that the goddess plays upon us.”
Lord Axacaya answered by whispering a soft Gramatica Word. The Word danced in the air in front of me and twisted into a note of fire, then became a brilliant dragonfly that flitted away. “Magick is a trick we play upon ourselves. The only true power lies in our Will. All else is vanity and games.”
I said impatiently, “It’s a trick that Val has played upon me, and I don’t like it one bit.”
Lord Axacaya twitched his shoulders, and his movement made the jaguar’s eyes flash with life. He said coldly, “A trick? Whose trick? And whose vanity? There is much of both in your story, madama, in the details that you left out in your telling.”
He continued, “You say Valefor tricked you, yet your desire to help him was rooted in your own selfishness. You sought to spring Valefor from his prison only to relieve yourself of your chores—a mighty poor excuse to go against your mother’s dominion. You dragged your best friend, your dog, and your horse into a dangerous situation, and took little regard for their safety, and they easily could have been killed.
“But that is not all, is it? Let us see ... Oh yes, you attempted a major magickal Working, with no preparation or guidance. There, not only could you have permanently damaged yourself and your friend, but you could have torn the Current, you could have thrown the Waking World off balance. What you set in motion could have destroyed us all.
“And that stunt with the Dainty Pirate? What right had you to decide if he lived or died? What do you know of the facts of his case, the damage he has caused to Califa, to the Republic? The danger he posed to our future? Did you think you could hide your involvement? What will the Warlord say when he hears about that?”
Tears burned my eyes like acid, even as I bit my lip and tried not to blink, tried to hold them back.
“What else? Forgery, theft, and falsehood. Deception, shirking, and treason. You certainly have missed no vice, have you, madama? You have been nothing but thorough in your depravity. Why should I reward such behavior? Why should I help you?”
“Paimon said that Valefor’s disintegration affected all the Houses, that it could pull the Current off balance,” I said, very small.
“Bilskinir, perhaps, and the other Great Houses, old and decadent, but your foolishness cannot affect me. My House was built by my Will and is strong enough to withstand your games. So why, then, should I help you?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. Don't reward failure, said Nini Mo. Everything he said was true, and if true, surely I deserved everything I got. I bowed my head, feeling the tears dribble and feeling myself shiver and shrink. How could I have been so stupid? Why should I be saved?
He continued, “Your story fits well with what I have thought for years. The Fyrdraacas, as a family, have always lacked verve. Your entire bloodline is sour; there’s no hope for it anymore. Any spark that your family might have once boasted of has long since guttered out. No wonder it dwindles and dies out. Look to your mother, buried in her work, a slave to her enemies, ignoring her child, allowing her to run wild, no discipline, no guidance, no respect.”
“Hey—” My protest was a squeak.
He said scornfully, “And then there is Hotspur, reckless and indifferent to the safety of others, now boiling in his own misery. When faced with adversity, he broke, his Will as thin as a thread but not half as strong. Incurably romantic with his falsely placed love toward the greatest criminal Califa has ever known—”
“Mamma is not a criminal!” I yelped, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Not General Fyrdraaca, you little fool. Butcher Brakespeare. Cyrenacia Sidonia Brakespeare ov Haðraaða. General Haðraaða Segunda. Didn’t you know that he was her lover? All Califa knew and not you? Did he not snap after her death? Descend into madness because he could not live without her? Even the loss of his own child was nothing compared to the loss of his mistress.”
“That’s not true!” Even as I protested, doubt wormed at me. Like a flash came the memory of that empty slab in the Cloakroom of the Abyss—the whip twined with a braid of brilliant red hair. Poppy’s hair, I realized. I thought he had clipped his hair short in mourning for the First Flora, but had he? Did he wear the black mourning band for her, or for someone else?
Lord Axacaya continued on: “Look at you now—you are no better than your father. The slightest bit of pressure and you snap like a twig. You cry and you wring your hands, and you disappear. And you thought to be a ranger. Dare, win, or disappear! You have made your choice, Flora Fyrdraaca, to disappear!”
These words stung me like poisoned darts. Was I no better than Poppy? I had scorned him because he gave up. He gave in. A ranger, Nini Mo said, will never wittingly dance with death.
Dare, win, or disappear.
A red spark flared in my darkness. Anger at myself for giving in. Anger at myself for sitting helplessly while Lord Axacaya slandered my family. That spark was hot, and against the dampness of my despair, it felt good. It felt great. It felt reat.
“No, you are wrong!” I cried. “I will not go. I will not disappear. And you are wrong about Mamma—wrong about Poppy!”
“Am I?”
Ah, that sharky grin, how I’d like to smack it off his face. With each second my anger grew, and so, too, my determination to prove Lord Axacaya wrong—wrong about me, wrong about the Fyrdraacas.
“Mamma and Poppy were loyal to Califa; they fought for her honor. What did you do? You betrayed the country that took you in, and you sold out Poppy, and you would have sold out Mamma, too, if you could have! You work for Califa’s enemies—it is you who are the traitor!”
Lord Axacaya’s eyes blazed like cold fire. “You talk treason, to speak to me that way, girl. And yet, I know you are not responsible for yourself. You are a foolish child. And it is the parent who must take the blame for the foolish child. I can send my Quetzals to Crackpot and arrest Colonel Fyrdraaca. Is he not responsible for you in your mother’s absence? I can have him killed, and no one shall resist my authority. He’ll be dead by morning.”
“You will not touch Poppy!” I cried. “I will not allow it!”
“How will you stop me, madama? Are you not diminishing and fading? Are you not weak-willed?” Lord Axacaya said scornfully. “Should
I be afraid of you?”
“You pernicious pinheaded mincing malicho TRAITOR! I will see you in the Abyss before I allow you to bring the Fyrdraaca family down!” I screamed. Every drop of blood had turned to fire, and this fire was eating through my flesh, eating through my skin. My throat translated my anger into a shriek of rage that hung on the air like greasy smoke.
I was furious. And it felt good. It felt wonderful. It felt fabulous. Scalding heat flowed up my toes, into my legs, burned through my stomach, and into my mouth. Thick guttural Gramatica Words sparked and snapped in the swirling air, which now smelled thickly of my ire. Anger consumed me like a fire consumes wood, and there was no room for us both inside me.
I opened my red mouth and let out an almighty screech of fury, a screech that tore my throat and burned my ears, and seemed to last forever, a horrible sound that rent the air in front of me. My scream rose higher and higher, the noise translating from Wordlessness into the Oatmeal Word, magnified a hundred thousand times from whence I had last spoken it.
The gash became a magickal Vortex, a roiling daisy wheel of fuliginous darkness that rolled forward to envelop Lord Axacaya.
FORTY-FOUR
Will. More Chocolate. A Revelation.
THE VORTEX WHISTLED as it blurred and gave off a spiky blue and green coldfire light, like gashes of lightning, acrid and hot. Then, with a sound so loud I could not hear it, but could only feel the tremendous buzz of its vibration, the Vortex flared into a blinding burst of coldfire and was gone.
My skull rang with a noise that made my spine vibrate, my ears buzz. My vision dissolved into sparkly whiteness. It felt as though I was turning into oatmeal, melting into a puddle of starchy goo—a horrible sensation, quivering and shivery, that seemed to be getting stronger and stronger. And then suddenly the world snapped back into focus again. The awful sensation of oatmealness vanished. Now I felt heavy, not with the weight of desolation and despair, but with actual weight, the feeling of flesh and bone. I held up one hand to the light; it was plump and white, and I could not see through it. I pressed my other hand against my chest, and felt the slight bump of my heartbeat. I felt alive.
Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog (Magic Carpet Books) Page 26
