by S D Simper
It would hardly endear her to anyone, for them to know she loved Ayla still.
A knock echoed across Ayla’s door. Flowridia stuffed the ear back down her dress. “Come in,” she said, and Casvir himself entered.
The faint light from the globes cast his skin in luminous hues of blue—much livelier that the sickened, drowned grey his skin generally adopted. His armor shifted as he stepped inside. “Are you ready?”
The rest of Nox’Kartha, those who would be attending the wedding at least, had already left. But she and Casvir needn’t walk. “I am.”
“Shall we—”
Another knock surprised them both. Flowridia opened the door.
There stood Khastra, forced stoicism on her countenance and a bag swung over her shoulder. “Forgive me. I have changed my mind, Imperator. I would like to attend, if you would allow me to come with you and the tiny one.”
Casvir gave a mere nod of acknowledgement.
Flowridia beamed. “What changed your mind?” she dared to ask.
“I should see my friends,” she said cryptically, but Flowridia understood.
Casvir ripped his claw through the air. Vertigo struck, nauseating her as a tear appeared in space, widening to accommodate their sizes. Casvir stepped through.
Flowridia grabbed Ana and her own bag, watching as Demitri went through with Khastra. She spared a final glance to Ayla’s bedroom, praying all would be kept safe until her return.
Within her bodice, the ear remained. She supposed her choice had been made.
She slipped her hand inside her bag and gripped the bracelet of maldectine, silencing its power before she stepped through—lest its magical nullifying abilities ruin the portal. She stepped through. Her stomach flipped as she floated through space, weightless for a heartbeat before her feet touched grass.
They appeared in the midst of a splendid cacophony. Dancers adjusted their costumes, entire orchestras rehearsed their tunes, and chaos abounded as people—mostly De’Sindai—ran about. It stretched as far as her small stature could see. Flowridia held Ana close to her chest and stepped into Casvir’s shadow, knowing she might never find him if she lost sight. Demitri stood close, watching the scene with intrigue.
She released the maldectine, the orb’s power subduing once more. “All this for a foreign wedding?” she yelled, though her voice barely carried.
“Zorlaeus was one of Murishani’s favorites before I claimed him.” His lips barely moved, yet she heard his voice clearly. “More importantly, Murishani will take any excuse to plan an event.”
A voice suddenly boomed through the crowd. “Friends, I do believe it is time to begin.” High above, a cloud rose, and draped upon it was a decadently dressed individual, one with flowing, golden hair. He was beautiful, perfectly chiseled, his eyes gleaming with life.
Two eyes. Apparently the one Kah’Sheen had stabbed had healed. Pity.
Murishani laughed, musical and pleasant. “Khastra! Wonderful to see you. I have a surprise for you—something to accommodate your size.”
A servant, at those words, gestured for Khastra to follow. She disappeared among the throng of De’Sindai.
“Just as we rehearsed—into formation!”
Immediately, the crowd scattered, and Casvir gripped Flowridia’s shoulder. He pulled her into his side just as she might have been trampled by a man balancing a lit torch on his nose. “You and I shall be near the back,” Casvir said. “It is safer there.”
“Casvir, don’t be such a bore!” Flowridia glanced up and saw Murishani staring directly at them from his perch. “I’ve a special place in the center for you.” He pointed, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Casvir sneered, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the Viceroy. “You will ride by my side, on Demitri.” As he spoke, he moved to mount an armored, skeletal beast. He painted such a picture in his full armor, his magnificent horns adding to his substantial height. Silhouetted by the sun, he cast an ominous shadow, a subtle menace amidst an otherwise amiable crowd.
Flowridia nodded, eyes wide as she watched the chaos swirl into something precise. Demitri bent his front legs, allowing Flowridia to sit side-saddle atop his back. She realized, as Demitri stood, that she nearly matched Casvir in height. She gripped his fur and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “I think you’ll impress everyone with your growth spurt.”
I’d better. You think this was easy?
She giggled and returned her attention to Casvir, each imprinted detail of his blackened armor burned into her memory. “Are you going to wear your armor for the entire wedding?”
“Why would I not?”
“It looks so cumbersome. “Does it get heavy?”
“No,” he said simply.
Demitri’s enormous feet padded along behind Casvir’s horse. Amidst performers and dancers, acrobats and fire-eaters, a plethora of guards interspersed themselves among the Nox’Karthan citizens. A circle of them stood near the back, the space in the center just large enough for a giant wolf and an armored horse. Flowridia took her place beside Casvir, and as she stared forward, high atop Demitri, she realized she could just see the towers of her kingdom appearing in the distance.
The parade began moving.
* * *
By Alystra’s Supple Ass—Murishani knew how to stage a parade.
Etolié sat on the manor’s roof, perched above a balcony, her translucent wings listlessly floating behind her. The parade had burst through the gates like a shattered dam, flooding the city in Nox’Karthan revelers.
And, well, joy too, Etolié supposed. She stole a sip of her flask, willing her annoyance to settle. She searched the crowd for familiar faces. One in particular. Her gut clenched at the thought of the half-demon-who-would-not-be-named, but her mind was a nervous buzz.
Music played, steadily increasing in volume as the parade wound through the streets. In the distance, she saw dancers twirling in time, watched acrobats enthrall the masses with their tricks. Gold littered the streets—party favors, she supposed, those pompous assholes—and she saw it glittering in the hands of children and adults alike.
Radiant above all was Murishani, unmistakable atop a carriage gleaming from literal gold plating, mingling with the crowd and smiling with easy charm. He kissed their hands and tossed out trinkets like seeds to a crowd of pigeons.
Etolié took a long sip of her flask, then suddenly smelled something . . . oddly familiar and gut-churningly sweet. Not a scent to fear, no—it was the smell of peaceful nights, when the monster was docile and Etolié knew her momma was safe instead of—
Breathe . . . Just breathe.
But though Etolié’s stomach suddenly knotted, her curiosity remained the stronger force.
She scooted herself toward the edge of the roof where a small stream of smoke wafted up from the balcony. Peering down, she saw Sora casually puffing little circles into the air. If Etolié stared carefully at her impressive mane of rope-like hair—stark blonde despite her amber skin, which Etolié had never bothered to ask about—she could see a little bird happily snoozing on her head.
“Why are you—”
Sora gasped, visibly startled, which was odd given the half-elf was notorious for having the reflexes of a fucking lion. “Etolié! I didn’t see you there.”
“This isn’t my normal perch, but it’s doing its job. I’ll float down once Flowers reaches the front.” Speaking of, Etolié glanced up, just able to spot a gigantic wolf in the distance. She spread her wings wide, hoping they were shiny enough to attract attention; when she waved, the girl atop the wolf waved back.
“I’m nervous,” Sora admitted, the pipe in her mouth muffling her words. “You seem to be too.”
“True.” Etolié stole another swig of her flask, savoring the burning ale and the muted sensation it brought. “But I drink my weight to stay functional in mortal society.” When Sora furrowed her brow, Etolié realized they hadn’t had this talk yet. “The curse of my lineage—it’s pretty damn difficult for
me to actually get drunk, though not impossible. But the curse of just being me is that the world screams in my ear like a bitch I can’t break up with. Booze keeps it at least a little quieter.”
When Sora took another puff on that pipe of hers, Etolié raised an eyebrow. “But this is just another day for me. You’re taking the prize, smoking that shit. Chaos’ Spore, right? I’m fairly confident this is illegal in Zauleen.”
Sora’s smile was uncharacteristically nervous for the former stablemaster. “Most people here don’t know what this is.”
“The dick momma should have sucked instead of fucked basically wore that shit like perfume. I know a few things. You diluted it with something else, something sage-y, by the smell of it, which is for the best considering we’re supposed to be on our best behavior in front of the scary undead kingdom.” Etolié reached down. “Share, and I’ll keep your secret.”
Sora’s grin was more amused than relieved. She offered the pipe up, and Etolié sat back, lounging on the roof as she breathed in the sweet, noxious vapors.
Immediately, she felt her agitated nerves begin to mute. “By Ku’Shya’s Loose Cunt, you’re a fucking hero.” Rather than transcend to any so-called higher planes, Etolié offered the pipe back down, already less anxious. “Where do you even find this shit on this continent?”
“I grew it. No one’s using the garden right now.”
Etolié raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying that you grew mushrooms in our resident Flowers’ garden?”
“I think I collected them all, but . . .” Sora took a puff, apparently unwilling to answer the rest.
Etolié chuckled. “Don’t come say hi until you smell less blasted.”
“I wasn’t going to come down at all until you made me.”
In the few months since Sora had accepted her promotion to ‘third in the kingdom that’s supposed to be an oligarchy, Marielle,’ she’d done a damn fine job of following in an unmentionable half-demon’s footsteps by saying absolutely nothing in meetings and agreeing with everything Etolié said—which she was grateful for. “Stay out of trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow at the meet-and-greet.”
Etolié shot up into the air, her wings little more than pure light, but truthfully, so was she. Though she descended slowly, she narrowly avoided ripping herself open on the corner of the roof—perhaps the Spore had been a mistake—but managed to land on her feet beside Thalmus, who smiled only because Flowers actively approached.
He’d gone greyer in the last six months; Etolié suspected he worried more than he showed, that gods-damned mom of a man.
Shadowed by the imperator, Flowers dismounted Demitri—who was holy shit levels of huge—and ran up the steps, followed closely by the aforementioned huge wolf.
Marielle stole her first, and Etolié suppressed a grin as poor Flowers tried to not get lost in that impressive cleavage. From her pouch peeked that strange little fox thing, which Etolié still wasn’t entirely convinced wasn’t just a wind-up toy.
When Demitri approached, her heart soared, gleefully bombarded by a mound of coarse fur. “I missed you, you good boy.”
Flowers, freed from her prison, looked prepared to speak, but Thalmus stole her then—for the best.
Etolié was well aware of Thalmus’ real feelings regarding her drunk-ass self, but they’d shared quiet glances affirming their common goal of keeping that flower girl safe—he as a stable, fatherly figure, and she as a drunk aunt of sorts.
Etolié released Demitri at Casvir’s approach. Even in the shadow of the manor, the world darkened around him. His stone stare studied them all, lingering a moment on Thalmus as his eyes glanced to the enormous hand engulfing Flowers’ shoulder.
Their ensuing stare-down, brief as it was, held more tension than Alystra and Eionei on a good day.
But when he met her own gaze, he stared a bit longer, and Etolié hoped he didn’t see past her literal illusion of elegance, given she hadn’t washed her hair in six days. In times of stress, basic hygiene was often forgotten. His stare was alarming in ways far different than most men—he gave no care to beauty, or so she’d heard. He looked more like he plotted her death.
Funny. She preferred that.
But then he looked down at Marielle, impartial and polite. He nodded. “Queen Marielle.”
Etolié could feel the fiery annoyance radiating from Marielle and frankly found it gratifying. “Imperator Casvir,” the queen said, standing tall.
Zorlaeus visibly shriveled and dropped to one knee. Casvir barely mumbled, “Zorlaeus,” and returned his stare to herself. “Magister Etolié,” he said, nodding in deference. “It is refreshing to be in the presence of true power.”
From anyone else, she’d call it blatant flattery. Casvir was far too deliberate a bastard, in his speech and actions both. “It’s a pleasure to be hosting you and yours in our kingdom, Imperator Casvir,” she said, her grin as sincere as she could manage.
She spared a glance for the continuing parade, uncertainty welling in her stomach as she sought a familiar face—and quietly cursed herself for it. She stole Flowers into an embrace, her touch less itchy than most—she gave nice hugs, all right? Oddly tight for someone of her size—and said, before she could swallow back the sour taste of the words, “Where’s General Beefcake?”
Flowers pulled back, those large eyes as lovely as ever. “She’s farther back in the parade.”
So Khastra was here.
Like a sunrise over the mountaintops, Viceroy Murishani burst onto the scene. He stood atop a decadent throne, supported by four shirtless, well-built De’Sindai men, and beamed to those in attendance. “Oh, what fun that was.” He laughed, joyous and boisterous, before descending from the throne, bits of swirling clouds cushioning his feet like steps.
Etolié fought to keep her mouth shut at the outlandish display. From his luscious clothing to those bright green eyes, practically glowing as he smiled, this man bore the stench of absolute insanity.
“Queen Marielle, it is a joy to finally meet you!” He ran forward, taking both of her hands into his, and kissed both her cheeks. “What a wonderful kingdom you have! And such a marvelous home. I look forward to your hospitality more than I can express.” Sincerity dripped from every word. His eyes fell upon Zorlaeus, who still trembled on one knee, and laughed. He offered a hand and kissed Zorlaeus’ as he rose. “And Zorlaeus, he who breaks my heart! You’ll be leaving us for good this time, I suppose.” He placed a dramatic hand on his chest but beamed nonetheless. “This shall be the send-off you deserve.”
Marielle beamed. “It’s wonderful to meet you too, Viceroy Murishani.”
“Oh, titles are so pretentious,” Murishani said, scoffing. “Marielle, I have so much to discuss with you, but first . . .” His eyes traveled to Etolié, and he grinned with obvious interest. She smiled back, resisting the urge to cringe. “I should be bowing to you, Daughter of Staella.” And he did, crossing his arm over his chest and bowing deep. “To stand in your presence is an honor. Your courageous exploits against slavery are the stuff of legend.”
Etolié accepted his hand when offered, fighting a grimace when he kissed her knuckle. “You are too kind, Viceroy.”
He looked up to Thalmus, and Etolié, as much as she didn’t care for him, nearly stepped between them, prepared to prevent a fight. “Sir Thalmus, is it? Goodness, your hair is gorgeous.” With a dramatic flourish, his hand gestured down the braid flowing down Thalmus’ back. “An honor to make your acquaintance. I’m told you are a working man, and a skilled one. Is it true you make weapons from glass?”
Thalmus hesitated, tentatively accepting Murishani’s offered hand with the one not clinging to Flowers’ shoulder. “It is.”
“Fascinating. I would love nothing more than to view a sampling of your wares.”
His eyes fell upon Flowridia only a moment, but he turned aside. Weird, but fine in Etolié’s book. Instead, he directed his attention to Zorlaeus and Marielle. “Dear Zorlaeus, if I might, I’d love to have a
moment alone with your intended. Nothing untoward; there is so much to discuss!” He took Marielle’s hand and led her away, a whirlwind personified.
The parade continued in the foreground, and from the throng came a glittering rainbow of grandeur and . . . fuck.
Well, atop what appeared to be an undead elephant, General Beefcake wore glittering, gem-encrusted armor and a grin much happier than Etolié would’ve cared to see.
Her gut clenched. Fury rose from the depths of who the fuck knew where and she said, “Nice horse,” as the half-demon approached. “Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen you ride.”
Khastra smiled, perhaps more radiantly than Murishani, blinding to Etolié who could see nothing else. “Not the strangest creature I have mounted, but certainly a treat.” Etolié expected a hug; not a surge of anger when Khastra slighted her by having the audacity to greet other people. “It is wonderful to see all of—”
“Well, damn, you blunt-eared whore. A few months in Nox’Kartha, and look at you cutting loose.”
Khastra didn’t laugh, which made the ensuing silence that much more awkward. Worse, her smile faded, but Etolié stood her ground—until Flowers stammered, “P-Plenty of things to bone in the city of the dead.”
The uncomfortable silence shattered at that absolute abomination of a jest. Khastra’s smile returned to her eyes, and, even weirder, Casvir slowly reached up to cover his own flickering grin.
Etolié was then ignored as Khastra looked to Thalmus instead. “I presume Etolié told you.”
“She did.”
His curt response was unsurprising, but it certainly illustrated their many many disagreements. Etolié recalled when she’d told the council the news of Khastra’s continued existence. He’d said nothing at all. His face had spoken louder than words.
Perhaps noting his stark disapproval, Khastra instead turned to Flowers. “Murishani has already stolen Marielle, yes?”
Etolié couldn’t stand to look at her. “Zorlaeus, kindly escort Imperator Casvir to his room.” She spared a glance for the half-demon and her stupid, infectious grin. “Your old room awaits, Khastra.”