Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  Seventeen dissertations didn’t generally endear you to a person.

  But to Sora, he added, “You are welcome in our fair kingdom anytime. I would love nothing more than to meet with the champion of the goddess herself.”

  Etolié swore Sora blushed, but to her credit, she kept it together. “When the excitement from the wedding has died down, I will certainly make it a priority to visit.”

  Lunestra gave similar well-wishes as her brother, half-dismissing Etolié but greeting Sora as an old friend. The two women bore hair of similar styles and texture, and Etolié wondered if Sora’s human progenitor were also from the City of Light. “The children of the cathedral still speak of you and your resurrection.”

  Cute, thought Etolié. When they’d left, she whispered, “I’m sending you to negotiate next time.”

  “I’d be terrible, and you know it.”

  Etolié shrugged and shook the hand of some nice duke from Solvira.

  Nox’Kartha was not the last in line, but they were certainly a few hours in. Etolié wanted a glass of water and perhaps a hot bath, but there came Murishani and Casvir . . . and Flowers?

  And Khastra.

  Imperator Casvir said nothing during Murishani’s flowery speech about love and beauty and whatever other bullshit his mouth spewed. Khastra had never liked him during her time as general in Staelash, and while the half-demon was a far more judgmental bitch than Etolié would ever tell anyone, her opinions were never grounded in pettiness.

  So when Murishani greeted her with advances far too flirtatious to be sincere—“Your beauty out-matches the stars themselves, Magister Etolié!”—she let him kiss her hand and swallowed the weird pit in her stomach that formed any time her beauty was acknowledged.

  She nearly missed Flowers’ speech and gift—a crown of flowers she claimed would never die, that predictable little sap—but shook her hand nonetheless. “Didn’t know you were sniffing around with Nox’Kartha, now,” Etolié said, cringing at how petulant she sounded.

  But Flowers’ response was sincere. “I’ve been listed as a guest and will be seated with them. I’ll play the part.”

  The kid had learned.

  When Flowers stepped away, she hesitated in front of Sora, and Etolié could have cut the tension with a knife and used the pieces to stab it again. “Sora, I . . .” She offered a hand, visibly mulling over what to say.

  But Sora picked up the phrase as she accepted her hand. “Bygones are just that.” She smiled at Demitri and the little skeletal fox peeking out from Flowers’ bag. “You’re different.”

  “I am,” Flowers affirmed, and Etolié could have told you that, but she got the impression something monumental was happening, and so she withheld her snark.

  Casvir gave a nod to both of them—which Etolié, of course, dramatically returned, much too distracted by the sight of Marielle weeping in Khastra’s embrace to be offended at the dismissal.

  “You must never die again, you hear?” she cried, and Etolié rolled her eyes, annoyance prickling at her skin. The embrace had gone overlong.

  “Doing my best,” Khastra said simply, and when Marielle pulled away, she politely patted the queen’s head.

  Etolié quickly offered a hand. “You waited hours with that crowd?” she whispered, tilting her head toward the Nox’Karthan rulers, plus Flowers. “By Eionei’s Asshole, you’re more patient than me.”

  “Tiny one and I discussed tactics for her to practice with her spear.” Khastra’s hand was warm, but Etolié’s blood chilled. “The time passed quickly enough.”

  “Oh, well,” Etolié said, pulling her hand back. “Of course. Talk with your best friend Flowers over there. Makes sense.”

  And there it was again, that horrible choking sensation in her stomach.

  Khastra smiled, but it lacked the general sincerity of her other smiles. Etolié clenched her fists as Khastra faced Sora—because, well, there Etolié went being a bitch again.

  Sora’s countenance held warmth, and somehow that surprised Etolié. “Sol Kareena has not forgotten your sacrifice. Her people are indebted to you.”

  Khastra’s smile showed the laughter lines at her eyes. Etolié might have returned the gesture, but it was for Sora and not for her. “It was as glorious a death as I could have hoped for.”

  When Khastra shook her hand, Sora said, “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  Diplomacy at its finest. When Khastra left, Etolié whispered, “Does Sol Kareena truly think well of Khastra? I know Khastra died to protect her people, but she’s not really keen on the whole . . . undead thing.”

  “Sol Kareena condemns those who practice necromancy, but not those subjected to it. Khastra can’t help what she is, only what she does with her free will.”

  “I wish Eionei thought the same,” Etolié replied, and immediately regretted it because she’d buried those feelings pretty fucking deep.

  Sora side-eyed her for that. “Eionei doesn’t have a stance on necromancy, I thought.”

  They paused to shake hands with a baron in the Nox’Karthan outskirts, smiling and complimenting his wig, then Etolié whispered, “When they’re mindless undead, he doesn’t care, but he views necromancy as a form of slavery, if their mind is intact.” She looked to Khastra, watched her laugh at whatever charming statement her flowery ward said, as the stark reality of her friend’s new life settled in her mind. “And I suppose I feel the same.”

  Etolié complimented some De’Sindai noble—she had forgotten to pay attention—then added, “But grandpa doesn’t have many nice things to say about demons, and Khastra’s demon enough. He’s made his opinion on our friendship well known. Many times.”

  “Sol Kareena accepts all, including demons themselves, if they’ll accept her,” Sora replied, following Etolié’s line of sight. “With respect to Eionei, I can’t say I agree with his stance.”

  Etolié returned her attention to the guests, forcing her smile as usual.

  Finally, and thank every god for it, Empress Alauriel appeared, along with a portion of her royal court. She stood with a man Etolié knew well—the magister of the court, Reginal, an ancient man who dressed with all the colorful insanity of an eccentric, Celestial sorcerer—and a woman Etolié knew in passing—the slightly less ancient High Priestess Jules, envoy to Sol Kareena, as well as a few other Solviran lords and ladies Etolié couldn’t say she was familiar with.

  After Lara greeted the queen, Etolié hugged her baby empress, propriety be damned. “Gods, I’m not drunk enough,” she whispered.

  “Neither am I,” Lara whispered back. “Has Khastra arrived?”

  They’d not seen each other since Khastra’s untimely death, Etolié realized. “She’s somewhere with Nox’Kartha. Look for Flowers.”

  Lara’s hands quite suddenly began sweating. “I’d forgotten she would be here, too.”

  Etolié chose to withhold any and all comments on the matter, given that she and the empress had already had a few too many conversations on this cesspool of emotion. “Come find me in the library after this,” she said simply.

  She shook hands with Reginal, accepted his embrace when he offered one even though she forcibly fought to not stiffen. She liked the man; he just . . . itched. “What, no General Irons?”

  Reginal shook his head. “He didn’t care for the guest list.”

  Pretentious, stuffy paladins.

  “Have you met my husband, Eirlyn?”

  Etolié hadn’t, and she politely shook his hand. Though he bore the same dark coloring as his spouse, Eirlyn’s manner of dress was significantly more subdued.

  Jules embraced her next, the Celestial woman beautiful in her matronly age. “Etolié, you look well. Lara has been worried sick about you.”

  Great. People talked. “Nothing worrying here.”

  The line didn’t end until well after lunch, and Etolié’s sobriety headache pounded. The last guest left; Etolié plopped down on the floor and immediately began drinking.

 
; Sora sat beside her. “And we get to do it all again tonight, at the ball.”

  Etolié kept drinking.

  Murishani reappeared, buzzing about like a particularly annoying bee before whisking Marielle away, prattling on about flowers and shoes. Zorlaeus’ sigh as he watched them go was a little bit pathetic.

  “Join me outside?” Sora said, and Etolié tossed her flask back into its pocket.

  She was supposed to meet Lara, but what was five minutes? “For a little while.” As she sat up, her moral center began tingling. “Lae . . . us. Zorlaeus, hi.” The groom-to-be perked up. “Sora and I are gonna go outside and smoke contraband. Want to join?”

  “Sure?”

  The trio ended up at the side of the manor, largely hidden from spectators and guests. A pipe passed between them, one carved from burnt wood and etched with elven characters. It wasn’t Spore this time, but something woodsy and pleasant.

  “I hate people,” she said simply.

  Zorlaeus was no stranger to pipes, to Etolié’s surprise. The boy smoked like it was second nature. “I don’t disagree.”

  “I generally like them,” Sora replied, occasionally pressing closer to the wall to avoid being spotted. She’d stop caring for her reputation soon enough, Etolié figured. “But I can’t say I like these ones.”

  Etolié chuckled darkly. “You were never this friendly when you worked for Meira, no offense.”

  “Crippling self-confidence issues will do that. But now I can’t hide in her shadow.”

  At least she was honest. “I respect that, though my confidence is obviously through the roof.”

  “Well, being half of something makes you a pariah of both,” Sora said, then she offered the pipe again, the saccharine smoke wafting in a steady stream. “Though it seems you didn’t have that problem.”

  “Angels have their issues, but racism toward little Celestials isn’t one of them.”

  Sora glanced to Zorlaeus, offering him the pipe. “What about you . . . Lae Lae?”

  “Don’t call him that,” Etolié said.

  “Sorry. My question stands.”

  “My father was a former slave, rescued by one of Etolié’s parties,” he said, and Etolié felt mighty self-conscious at that, blushing unbidden. “But I grew up in Nox’Kartha, so I can’t say I’ve personally experienced racism.” He handed the pipe to Etolié, who savored the sweet smell.

  “My extended relatives were mostly assholes,” Sora replied, “but my parents were always kind to me. My father was my biggest supporter.”

  “Cute,” Etolié said, her bitterness quite apparent, “but can’t relate. The botched abortion known as my father wasn’t exactly an inspiration when it came to parental things.” When they said nothing, Etolié spared them a glance, realizing her companions stared in abject horror. “What?”

  “That was a very aggressive statement,” Sora replied, and that’s when Etolié realized she was being judged.

  “Listen. Not all of us had charmed childhoods.”

  “It can’t have been that bad . . .”

  Sora’s voice trailed off, perhaps in response to what Etolié hoped was a boiling glare. Etolié, who’d been a simmering pot for days, occasionally spewing words she shouldn’t, nearly blew her top. She exhaled a steadying breath, her stomach suddenly tight.

  “I’m sure your father tried—”

  “Sora, I like you, but shut the hell up.”

  When she offered the pipe, Sora accepted, but Etolié couldn’t look at her, instead hearing something contrite in the half-elf’s words. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. He’s dead anyway—I made a few extra stab wounds to make sure.”

  The half-elf, who stood easily at eye level with Etolié, looked like she’d forgotten to breathe. Etolié smiled and winked, the sort that hopefully suggested she was joking, because that was how normal people made friends—by joking about hilarious things like patricide.

  Zorlaeus gave the most obvious segue cough Etolié had ever heard. “My parents and I also had a few disagreements over the years,” he offered. Etolié was prepared to metaphorically bitch-slap him when he added, “We’re civil now, but we’ve essentially cut ties. They won’t be at the wedding.”

  Though she was curious, to pry would’ve been rude. Instead, Etolié gave Zorlaeus a conciliatory ruffle on his fluffy maroon hair, mindful of his horns.

  “My parents are both dead?” Sora offered, and Etolié felt the icy mood between them fade.

  “Who needs parents,” Etolié said, and they all nervously laughed, because, well, otherwise they’d be a crying heap.

  They said little else, and she left with only a quick farewell.

  * * *

  Lara waited, as expected, in the library.

  Solviran royals wore finery cut for angel wings in homage of their grand heritage, and Lara’s was the grandest of all. From her gold-laden pauldrons to the draped fabric revealing the bare skin of her back, she was an empress in appearance, yet her stance betrayed her nerves. When she peered behind her shoulder at Etolié’s approach, the gentle turn of her lip revealed a frown.

  She shook her head, her braided hair twisting with it. “I am a fool, Etolié. I’m a coward and a fool.”

  “You’re the empress of the fucking world—you can be anything you want to be.” Etolié smiled and hoped it was reassuring. She offered a flask, but Lara waved it away. “Talk to her. She’ll be at the ball tonight, and if you ask me nicely, I’ll pull her out of Casvir’s shadow so she’s easy prey.”

  “She’s practically a child.”

  “Not even,” Etolié replied, harsher than she meant. But she’d heard this all before, and Lara would say anything she could to talk herself out of this. “Not in age, or experience. Talk to her.”

  “And then she’ll think I’m a fool as well.”

  “No, she’ll think you’re the slightly intoxicated Empress of Solvira—forgive me, but I know you.”

  Lara looked near tears, so Etolié beckoned for her to follow, to be seated in the nest of scarves beneath the skylight. When Lara sat, Etolié began pushing and piling the blankets around her. “Be cozy. This is a safe space.” A watery sheen filled Lara’s silver eyes. “What’s this actually about?”

  Silly Etolié, asking questions she already knew the answer to. Lara knew as well. “Nothing we haven’t talked about before.” She shut her eyes. “I have a duty to my people, Etolié. As the last of my line, I must bear a child—”

  “Lara . . .” Etolié knelt beside her, remembering all those months ago after Marielle’s ball, the tearful confession and her own words of comfort: “Yes, she is of age, no, you aren’t broken, your father would not have hated you, no . . .”

  Alauriel Solviraes, bereaved and having only just lost her father not days earlier, was not in an emotional state to face a crisis of sexuality. Etolié had told her such.

  “She’ll still be here, and if not her then someone else . . .”

  And then, of course, a certain vampire bitch had mucked a few things up.

  “I like men, Etolié. I’ve been with men, and I’ve fallen for men. Someday I shall marry, and it shall be to—”

  “Lara, first of all, you’re the gods-damned empress of the world. You can do anything you want. You can pursue a man, you can pursue her, or anyone. But don’t talk yourself out of this because you’re afraid.” Then, Etolié lost any and all semblance of pandering. “Second, need I remind you, spawn of the moon and stars, that your entire kingdom exists because my romantic of a mother married Neoma and popped out the half-sister-we-do-not-name?”

  “Etolié, it’s a story—”

  “Excuse you, Alauriel Solviraes, blood of Neoma, but Staella is very much alive and real.”

  Lara pursed her lips as she glared. “They were gods. For the rest of us, babies don’t—”

  “My point,” Etolié said, “is that there’s a pretty strong precedent of lady-loving ladies in your kingdom, so be kind to yourself. They call th
em ‘Daughters of Neoma’ for a reason—because your literal ancestor goddess had a reputation.”

  A reputation for loving women and for being a total bitch, but Etolié wasn’t one to focus on details.

  Half-buried in blankets, Lara clutched the ones in reach with her small, dainty hands. “I was drawn to her the moment I saw her in the garden,” she whispered, and these weren’t words Etolié had heard said aloud before, “though I didn’t recognize the feeling for what it was. It only continued to grow. It’s at least a little bit your fault.” Confused, Etolié watched her fight a smile. “I didn’t expect to see her naked at the ball.”

  “She wasn’t naked—”

  Had the skylight shattered above them, it might have illustrated Etolié’s sudden and exquisitely horrible realization. “She borrowed my dress.”

  “Your dresses aren’t real, Etolié.”

  “So you do willfully disbelieve my illusions.” Etolié came closer but simultaneously held up a blanket to cover her naughty bits. “You waited twenty-three years to tell me—”

  “Etolié, I’ve been seeing you naked since birth. It isn’t weird to me.”

  “Fuck my life, moonbeam—”

  Of course, that was when a knock on the bookshelf signified company.

  They both looked up, surprised to see Murishani smiling brightly as he peeked around a shelf. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.” He stepped forward, looking around at the hexagonal arrangement of shelves, the treasures hiding in her trove. “This is spectacular,” he said, awestruck. “You maintain this?”

  Etolié nodded. “I spend all my time here. Work here, sleep here, forget to eat here. This is my life.”

  “Then I apologize again,” Murishani said, chuckling as he placed a hand on his chest. “It’s rude to intrude uninvited upon a lady’s bedroom.”

  “People do it all the time.”

  He swept into a low bow, his robes luxuriously billowing around his figure. “Empress Alauriel, it’s always an honor to share your presence. I hope you wouldn’t mind if I stole Staelash’s Magister?” He looked to Etolié now. “If you could spare a moment, magister, to go over a few last minute logistics of the ball tonight—table arrangements, and such—I don’t want to bother our sweet bride-to-be more than I have to.”