by S D Simper
I would be more comfortable keeping you safe.
Flowridia stood on her toes to kiss his nose, meeting him when bent his neck down so she could reach. Glancing around, she saw her beloved chess set, the cracked wardrobe, and upon the windowsill . . . twelve roses in a vase, wilted and dried, yet as precious as gold.
She swallowed the rise of feeling in her throat, instead kneeling beside her discarded bag. She pulled out her nightclothes, quickly changing into the soft fabric.
Once in bed, Flowridia stared silently at the ceiling. Demitri snoozed on the floor, but his gentle breathing did nothing to soothe her. She clung to Ana, the affectionate little skeleton content in her arms.
The reality of her quest and intentions slowly settled like a shadow over her heart.
If she rolled over, she might see Ayla, silent as a shadow as she placed a rose on her table. If she shut her eyes, she might feel cold hands run against her skin. The window stood open; Flowridia longed to see that lithe silhouette, illuminated by moonlight.
Try as she might, though she had embraced her dreams, the nightly presence of her love, they were elusive and frustrating more often than not, leaving her frozen half to death with the memory of a ghostly touch on her lips.
Loneliness seeped into her heart. “Demitri,” she whispered, and in the faint light she saw a golden eye open. She sat up. “Would you like to try sleeping in my bed?” Desperation bled into her words, and though she cringed, to deny it would mean to lie.
Demitri stood and placed his head on the side of her bed, illustrating to both the problem of his size. What’s wrong?
Flowridia’s hands came to rest in her lap. “You’re wonderful company, but . . .” She shut her eyes. “It’s difficult to be here. More than I could have imagined.”
A large paw settled on her leg. You miss Ayla.
“So much, yes. But it’s more than that.” She thought of Thalmus and his silent dismissal; she thought of Etolié and her blind trust. “You’ve grown too big for this room, Demitri. And I think I may have too.”
Do you think you might stay in Nox’Kartha?
“I don’t belong here,” she whispered, and she let her head fall into her hands. “In Nox’Kartha, I would be able to fully grasp my talents. But that still isn’t what I want.” Her entire body grew lax as she released a defeated sigh. “I have no goals, save Ayla’s return.”
The bed creaked as Demitri’s paw pushed against it. Another paw appeared next to the first, and suddenly a mass of dire wolf hoisted itself onto the bed. Flowridia grabbed Ana and rolled over to make room, even as the wood groaned and sagged. He curled up beside her, as well as he could. Once she’s back, you can decide where to go.
“I certainly can’t bring her here.” She pressed her body against his warm, thick musculature. “But I don’t think I can bring her to Nox’Kartha either—”
With a crack, the bed collapsed. The center hit the floor with a splintered crack. Yelping, Flowridia clung to Demitri. Her eyes snapped open. “Are you all right?” The mattress remained intact, but it dipped.
Perfectly fine. He stood, Flowridia moving with him. Beside her, Ana shook, bones clattering as she righted herself. But it seems I’m too big for the bed.
Flowridia quirked a smile, despite her racing heart. “Now you’re too big?”
I’m offended at your wording. Too big for the bed, yes. Not too big. Never too big.
“Let’s find somewhere else to sleep, then.”
I will accept the floor, wherever that may be.
The library seemed the best option, but Etolié was more emotionally draining than she could handle. Truthfully, she could go to any available guest bed, though she sincerely doubted whether any remained unoccupied.
Save one. And it might be the one place in the manor where she felt truly safe. “Would you be angry if I asked to sleep in Casvir’s room?”
She didn’t have to see his sneer to hear it. I’ll join you tonight. I may find somewhere else if this continues.
“I’m sure we could find you somewhere.” When she opened the door, Ana skittered out, nearly bumping into the far wall before veering dangerously and arcing to reappear at Flowridia’s feet.
As she took steps down the hall, she cringed at the thought of Casvir’s judgment. Would he think her codependent? Unable to spent a night away from familiarity?
Yet, had he ever judged her before? If she kept quiet, she would be met with indifference, and indifference still meant sleep.
Passing the enormous golden arch of Murishani’s tent brought some amusement, but she continued on without investigating. At Casvir’s door, she knocked quietly before peeking her head inside.
Casvir sat, as expected, at his desk. His eyes narrowed when he looked up, though not from any apparent anger. “Good evening, Flowridia,” he said, a question in his tone.
She opened the door further, revealing her bedclothes and Demitri’s disapproving stare. Ana skittered around her feet. “This won’t help the rumors,” Flowridia said curtly, matching his eyes without fear, “but I know you won’t be using that bed. Can I sleep in here?”
“Yes.”
Wordlessly, she went to the untouched bed, helping Ana leap up beside her. Demitri curled on the floor, and she gave him an affectionate pat on the head before lying down and pulling Ana into her arms. Once settled, only her head peeked out from the blankets. “Demitri broke my bed,” she whispered, and she smiled at Casvir’s quick scoff of a laugh.
The light dimmed. Finding comfort in Casvir’s familiar presence, she drifted into a light sleep.
In the early morning, Flowridia stood before an armored, demonic attacker.
Once, on a day that lived in vibrant, gory detail behind her eyelids, Flowridia had lost a precious gift to the God of Order’s power—a spear of infinite worth, hand-carved by a man she adored.
She missed it. Instead, she sparred with a discarded spear from the Staelashian armory.
Casvir was relentless, despite the frosty, biting chill. “Back in your stance.”
Any hope Flowridia held of impressing anyone with her spear had long ago escaped, like the strands springing from the unruly tail of hair behind her head. Now, she hoped only to survive—
Pain suddenly radiated from her calf. Her grip on her spear tightened as she stumbled.
“You still put too much weight on your right side,” Casvir said, and then he lunged. He came at half speed, if not slower. She knew this. Casvir’s size did nothing to hinder his speed. Still, she barely managed to parry. She lunged in return, and he swatted her again. Same side; same calf. Brilliant red blossomed along the tender skin.
Cold stunted her motions. Sunlight barely glinted across the landscape. “You have a talent for making me regret every decision I’ve ever made,” she whined, and another whack against her leg caused her to yelp.
Casvir stopped, passively studying her trembling figure. “Should we be done for the morning?”
She managed to nod, putting her weight against her spear. With her eyes shut, she released a breath, and with it came the steady release of healing magic, immediately soothing her brutalized calf.
Her eyes shot open when a weight landed on her head. Casvir’s hand lightly ruffled her sweat-soaked hair, a bemused expression on his features. “If you were as useless with magic as you were with weapons, I would not have taken an interest in fostering your talents,” he said softly. Glancing above her head, he continued. “You are being watched.”
She followed his gaze; at the sidelines, Thalmus watched, too far away for her to see what sort of expression rested on his face. “Thank you,” she said, smiling briefly at Casvir. She nervously walked toward her audience, using the spear to support her tired body.
As she approached, she saw a worried smile spread across Thalmus’ face. “You look like you took a beating to your leg.”
“I already healed it. I’m simply exhausted. And sweaty.”
With some hesitation, he looked back
to Casvir. Flowridia followed his gaze and saw that the imperator had begun practicing his own stances, his movements perfect, fluid, precise. “Where is Demitri this morning?”
“Still asleep, silly thing. I told him to keep watch of . . .” She let the words trail off, hiding the rest behind a forced smile. To mention Ana would be too much.
If he noticed the slip, Thalmus hid it well. “I’ve missed your company,” he said kindly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Will you come eat breakfast with me?”
Flowridia leaned into the touch, realizing how desperately she craved affirmation of his affection. She nodded and followed by his side, letting her arm rise to settle at the small of his back. “How was the sunrise this morning?” she asked sincerely.
“Perfect,” he replied. “But marred by Murishani’s tents.”
Flowridia followed the half-giant’s gaze and saw an enormous, decorated tent obscuring the horizon. “Is it permanent?”
“I don’t know. I told Marielle to ask more questions, but she seems to trust Murishani.”
“That’s a mistake,” Flowridia mused, and Thalmus nodded in response.
De’Sindai servants bustled about at the early hour, carrying a legion of trays to an array of tables, no doubt preparing breakfast for the Nox’Karthan guests and residents of Staelash. But Thalmus led her to the manor, for which Flowridia was grateful. They walked the familiar path to the kitchen. “I know little about him, but he seems to know an awful lot about us.”
“He’s under threat of death to never speak to me,” Flowridia admitted. “Casvir doesn’t trust him.”
“Something he and I might agree on.”
Thalmus said nothing else, not until they reached the private kitchen. Flowridia instinctively moved about to prepare food, but Thalmus shook his head. He gestured to the table, where she saw a small cake.
Astonished at the sight, she placed the spear against the table and joined Thalmus when he sat. “What is this?”
“The joy of your return has been lost by the celebrations. I wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t forgotten.” His smile was unbearably kind, the aging lines of his weathered face deeper than they were in her memory. He was far from elderly, but hints of silver streaked his onyx hair, braided and falling to his belt.
As she cut herself a slice, she watched his gaze flicker to the spear. Guilt filled her, knowing what he must have thought. “I need to confess something,” she said as she placed her piece upon her plate. “Your spear . . . It was ruined when Casvir and I confronted the God of Order in Verity Forest.” She still recalled the charred remains she had been handed, remembered her tears when she’d run her hand across the delicate remains of the carvings. “I’m sorry.”
“Did it help you?”
No, but she couldn’t admit that. It had been strapped to the horses, useless as the battle had waged. “It saved my life,” she lied, the words as easy as the smile on her face.
“Then it served its purpose.” His expression held nothing but sincerity; relief washed over her like a cold bath. She took a bite of the cake, the taste sweet but not too much so—as she preferred. “I can’t say I was pleased to watch you fight Imperator Casvir,” Thalmus continued. “He clearly thinks very highly of you. High enough to expect you to parry within six months of learning how to even hold a spear.”
“Less than that,” Flowridia admitted, but she stiffened nonetheless. “He’s more patient than you think.”
“Would he come to your defense the way you come to his?”
“If I deserved it, yes.”
Thalmus said nothing, only cut a slice for himself. But his bristling mood was palpable.
“Thalmus,” she began, more aggressive than she felt, “what are you thinking?”
His attention remained on the cake. “You would prefer to not know.”
“I think you’re trying to protect me,” Flowridia said, the biting words escaping before she could stop them. “Though I think I already know what you’re protecting me from. Say it, please.”
He placed the slice on his plate, miniscule crumbs collecting beneath it. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, something wistful in his countenance. “I’ve never forgotten the image of that little girl dressed in rags, who cradled a wolf pup like he was her only lifeline. But even though you were afraid, I saw light. I saw a little girl who had been through hell and still managed to see hope. I found that inspiring. You inspired me.”
It wasn’t the speech she expected. She watched, searching for any explanation in his tired features.
“You are older than I think, and it’s my fault for holding that against you. I am younger than I feel. But it doesn’t change that I despise how he watches you, how he’s changed you.”
There could be only one ‘he.’
“I hated Ayla because she hurt you,” Thalmus continued, the soft rumbling of his voice juxtaposing the anger in his words, “but at least, in her twisted mind, she wanted you as you were. I hate him because he’s molded you into something else—” Thalmus’ fist clenched, then. His voice shook, and Flowridia shied at his efforts to steady it. “Necromancy is evil, Flowra, and despite whatever words he’s twisted to convince you otherwise, Imperator Casvir is evil—”
“You don’t know him,” Flowridia said, angry tears welling in her eyes.
“Everyone knows him. Study his history, Flowra. The kingdoms he’s leveled and the monarchs he’s burned to instill fear into his citizens are documented in every history book, and the magic he utilizes spits in the face of everything good and right in the world. For him to take you, someone gentle and good, and twist you into a pawn—”
“That’s not what happened!” Flowridia steadied her tears, swallowing back the horrid lump in her throat. “I’m good at necromancy—better than good. In six months, I’ve accomplished what takes most years to achieve. And I’ve used it for good, Thalmus. I’ve saved lives. I fought off the God of Order. Skeletons raised from the dead are one thing, but imagine if I could restore life entirely. It’s within my grasp. Why should I not pursue it?”
“What’s the cost? Is it damnation to yourself and those you claim to save?”
“Do you understand what I’m doing? Yes, it’s a responsibility, but I can handle it. You know I’m capable.”
But Thalmus shook his head, his mouth trembling as he fought to control his voice. “When you left here, you were gentle. You were meek. What happened to my little flower girl?”
”She grew up,” Flowridia whispered, the words lacerating her heart. She stood from her seat. “Thank you for the cake. But I think I need to be alone for a while.”
Thalmus followed and reached toward her. “Flowra—”
“You’re not my father, Thalmus,” Flowridia said, her words trembling, eyes misting. “I think sometimes you forget that.”
Visibly crestfallen, Thalmus let his hand drop. Flowridia slammed the door behind her.
* * *
In the late morning, guests began arriving. Etolié hadn’t slept, but that was nothing new. Instead, she’d spoken to Khastra until the sun had risen, finding it a much better use of her time, anyway.
“Time to smile and wave,” she mumbled to the only sane person in the room.
Beside her, standing as straight as a rod while her hands fidgeted behind her back, Sora Fireborn gave a quick nod. The long ropes of her stark blonde hair were neatly plaited into an impressively massive bun atop her head. The half-elf wore a tabard bearing Sol Kareena’s sigil, but beneath it were breeches and a pressed tunic more suited to her outdoor tastes. Upon her shoulder, the little bird looked as uncomfortable as she did. “And hide our knives behind our backs, yes?”
Etolié grinned, her oft-quoted advice apparently well-received. The guards moved to open the doors to the small throne room, and she slipped a flask into the half-elf’s twitching hand.
Sora turned away from the guests, indulgently gulping the offered liquid courage. “Bless you,” she said, hand
ing it back. “I’ll be smoking a pipe after all this. Feel free to join me.”
The mass of people entered, and Etolié’s gut squirmed.
Marielle practically glowed as she stood before her throne, graciously accepting gifts from the endless line of well-wishers. Zorlaeus looked faint, but he did manage to smile. Meanwhile, Etolié and Sora greeted them after, thanking them for coming, asking about their children, complimenting their shoes, and so on . . .
Mostly Solviran nobles, but Nox’Kartha had invited nearly everyone in the realms, it seemed. The princess from Tholheim gifted a pair of ornate shoes, crafted from gold and spider silk—over which Marielle positively gushed, as she should because they were pretty fucking neat—and even the Iron Elves, some of the most standoffish people in the realms, sent an ambassador and a gold-plated firearm.
Most exchanged pleasantries, and Etolié responded to them all.”
“All the way from Zauleen? It’s a delight to have you join us.”
“Why, yes, my hair is naturally silver. No illusions here.”
“My mother is doing well. I took a trip to see her not a week ago—she’s absolutely delighted by this union, of course!”
Sora side-eyed her for that last one. “Did you really visit Celestière last week?”
Subduing her momentary panic at being caught in a blatant lie, Etolié shook her head, grinning pleasantly to an approaching Tholheimr noble. “No,” she said behind smiling teeth, “but sometimes I lie about shit mom says.”
“Why?”
Nosey Sora, asking more questions. “People thought my momma was dead for a thousand years. I’m doing what I can to dispel that.”
No, she hadn’t visited home in a long time.
Gold and clothing and inventions, invitations, promises of land—all of it piled behind the meager Staelashian throne. When the Theocracy of Sol Kareena stepped through the doors, Etolié was surprised to see both the Archbishop and High Priestess Lunestra—with the orb on its staff, no less—and hoped, however irrationally, that might be their gift.
Alas, they gave a priceless pendant instead. “Always an honor to meet with you, Magister Etolié,” Archbishop Xoran said. Etolié knew a dismissal when she heard it and smiled nonetheless. Perhaps she’d annoyed him, constantly peppering him with queries about the orb.