Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  “If no one’s heard from her, how do we know she’s dead?” Lara’s palpable concern grew with every question. “If she’s there and we’re unprepared, she could still be wielding the orb. We’ll have to prepare for a fight.”

  On one hand, Lara had readily agreed to the task of retrieving the fictional orb. But more people marching into the swamp meant more people to stop Flowridia from completing her grisly task. “Lara, she’s dead. The witch is dead. I’d rather this stay quiet, otherwise Soliel could be alerted to our intentions.”

  “How do you know she’s dead?”

  This was not a question she had ever thought to be asked. She had an answer—a truthful one—but could she speak of it? No lies spun in her head . . . Flowridia braced herself, and then whispered, “Because I’m the one who killed her.”

  Lara set down her fork, eyes narrowing, but not from anger. “Forgive me, but I feel there’s more to this story. Will you continue?”

  The gnawing hunger shrunk, and Flowridia turned away, letting the view of the expansive fields and the city distract her from the images passing through her head. “Four years ago,” she said softly, “I was . . . taken in by the witch in the swamp. Scarcely a year ago, I killed her. I’d rather not say much more—”

  “Magic often runs in family lines. Even witchcraft.”

  Flowridia turned, surprised when Lara leaned in and stared.

  “The witch was your mother,” she whispered—no judgement, but awe.

  Dread filled her. Flowridia leaned back, arms folding across her torso protectively. “Why would you think that?”

  Lara gently stole her hand and held it in her own. “Flowridia . . .” She ran her soft thumb along Flowridia’s callused palm. “You told me once that you were forced to run away from Ilunnes at fifteen, and that’s when you found your mother. Approximately four years ago, yes? Please, don’t feel like you have to hide your history from me.”

  Flowridia forced a joyless smile. “Her name was Odessa.” Realization appeared in Lara’s expression. “Yes, she was my mother. I only lived in the swamp for three years, but she . . . she taught me many things. Most of them, quite terrible.”

  “And you had to kill her?” Lara’s eyes grew wide at her own words, glistening as they rimmed with red. “Oh, Flowridia . . .” She clutched Flowridia’s hand, still writing those soothing lines. “Flowridia, that must have been awful.”

  Flowridia simply nodded, surprised at her relief at Lara’s unexpected acceptance. “But that’s how I know she’s dead. I threw a knife at her throat when—” The words struck her deep, even though she didn’t say them. She stiffened, and she released a steadying sight before finishing. “. . . when I called on my familiar to come and rescue me. Odessa defended herself, and I . . . had to bury both of them.” And others, she mused, but those were words she’d rather never speak.

  “Not Demitri, then?”

  Flowridia shook her head. “No, my first familiar, Aura.” Aura who had all but raised her. Aura who had loved her and taught her every good thing she knew. “But, my point stands,” she continued, shoving aside her rising emotion. To tell this to Lara, to let her in, be so emotionally close . . . Too much. Too dangerous. “The orb is in the swamp. There is no witch to defend it, but there are wards.”

  “Did you ever see your mother with it?”

  Flowridia nodded, and the lie fell seamlessly from her tongue. “I didn’t know what it was when I saw it. It wasn’t until I was journeying with Casvir that I realized what it must be.”

  Lara nodded, calculating as she stood and stared beyond the balcony. “If you couldn’t reach it, neither can Soliel. But he may still know where it is, given he has four orbs of his own—we must travel quickly and covertly.”

  “Four orbs?”

  “Staella’s Grace, you haven’t heard . . .” Lara returned her focus, steel in those silver eyes. “After my party left, I presume you left shortly thereafter?” When Flowridia nodded, she added, “Soliel came to the wedding that afternoon. He murdered Archbishop Xoran, stole the white orb, and disappeared. We don’t know how, but we have countless eyewitnesses—including Etolié.”

  Flowridia feigned aghast, recalling Casvir’s story. “Oh, how awful.” She wondered, perhaps, if the imperator now laid secret claim to the white orb as well.

  “And so Staelash has the blue orb hidden away,” Lara replied, “and the final waits in a swamp your mother once owned. The situation has become dire, but your heroics may have saved us.” She looked back to the balcony, gazed upon the beautiful kingdom she was charged to rule. Calculation hardened her soft features, signs of her quick wit and intelligent mind. “You say there are wards? Certainly not in the village. I’ll assemble a team to accompany us. We could be there and back in a day with a proper portal.”

  Taken aback, Flowridia frowned. “A team?”

  “I’m a monarch. As lovely as a vacation with only you sounds, I can’t travel alone.” Lara returned her attention to her food, thoughtful as she stole a small bite. Flowridia joined her, feeling Lara’s gaze as she picked at the offered food. Lara finally set down her fork. “I don’t mean to stare. But is the meat unacceptable? I can have something different sent up.”

  Flowridia swallowed her bite, self-conscious as she considered what to say. “I don’t typically eat meat,” she admitted softly.

  “I am so sorry,” Lara said, visibly flustered. Immediately, the plate disappeared—the vegetables with it—and she forced an embarrassed smile. “Flowridia, I did not realize. I can send mine back too, if it offends you.”

  “Lara, no. It’s perfectly fine.” Flowridia stared apologetically. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You are not a bother.” Before her, a new plate appeared, this one covered with an array of fruits, vegetables, and bread. “It’s all they had with so short notice. Dinner will be better.”

  Hunger growled in Flowridia’s stomach. Her will was set on not immediately devouring the plate. She forcibly remembered her manners, taking a slow bite before saying, “This is perfect.”

  Lara resumed eating as well, taking a few bites before asking, “I am curious, though—why don’t you eat meat?”

  The bit of bread broken in her hands was set back onto her plate at the question. Flowridia placed her hands in her lap, contemplating what to say. “Not to be too graphic at lunch,” she said slowly, bracing herself for the truth, “but Odessa had a reputation for eating her children and guests.”

  Apparently this wasn’t news; Lara watched, as though waiting for the rest, but then a slow horror descended upon her countenance. “Oh.”

  “Eating any sort of meat puts me into a panic. I can’t eat mushrooms either.”

  “I swear I’m not judging you,” Lara said, an apologetic smile spreading across her face, “but my stomach cannot continue this conversation while we’re eating.”

  Flowridia laughed nervously, relieved when Lara joined her. To speak of shame . . . did help it feel a little lighter. She resumed her eating, quickly stuffing her mouth full of fruit.

  “What I’ll do, then,” Lara finally said, “is discuss this with my council after lunch. With any luck, we’ll be ready to leave in the morning.” The food on her plate had disappeared, and Lara set down her fork. “If you think you’ll be rested by then. I don’t know how long you’ve been travelling.”

  “I’m used to travelling for days on end, at this point,” Flowridia admitted. “During my time in Nox’Kartha, Casvir kept a quick pace, and we would travel for weeks at a time.”

  A slight grimace marred Lara’s lips. “Forgive me, but there were rumors at the wedding—”

  “Entirely unfounded,” Flowridia interrupted, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Gods, this was her life now—constantly dissuading the rumors of she and Casvir’s apparent dalliance. “He sees me as a child, and I spent the majority of our travelling mourning Ayla’s death.”

  Lara’s countenance softened, her slight laughter endearing. “Yo
u’ve said those words many times.”

  Flowridia elected simply to nod as she finished shoving the last bit of food into her mouth. Her body craved more—she realized she hadn’t eaten well since the wedding—but she set that aside, for now.

  The plates disappeared. Lara stood and offered Flowridia a hand. “My day will be spent preparing for the journey,” she said, helping Flowridia to stand. She did not let go, instead holding her hand tight. “But if there is anything you need, seek me out. Nothing I’m doing is more important than tending to a guest in my home.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Flowridia whispered, smiling faintly.

  “And make yourself at home, please,” Lara implored. “I hope it isn’t presumptuous to think you might spend time here, even after we return with the orb.”

  The sincere hope radiating from her silver eyes threatened to destroy what resolve Flowridia clung to. She nodded, internally wincing at the smile spreading across Lara’s face.

  * * *

  As Etolié watched the great statue of Sol Kareena approach, she scoffed as she always did. The Goddess’ arms were held to welcome the masses, to offer a kindness balanced with justice, though selective mercy and looking the other way was something Etolié had personally witnessed. But great accolades weren’t her style; she suspected Auntie Kareena was likely embarrassed at the display.

  Not a lot of fun, but she was a good lady. Etolié knew Sol Kareena personally, a fact she loved to remind uppity priestesses of.

  Seated in the carriage, she said, “Did I ever tell you about the time I threw up in Sol Kareena’s hair?”

  Sora slowly turned her stare away from the admittedly very lovely outside world, visibly skeptical.

  “I don’t actually remember it. I was two, but Eionei loves telling the story.”

  They passed beneath the Goddess’ shadow, the glory of the city unfolding as they entered between the gate. The funeral would be held the following day, but the city moved on as though a great tragedy had not struck. Mortals were resilient—this sort of death would have kept Celestière in mourning for weeks. Years.

  That said, it was rare that a death struck the Angelic Realm. Angels so rarely died; gods, never so. Save one.

  “Eionei had taken me to Vanir Sol to stay with he and Alystra for a few days after mom had a nervous breakdown—”

  “Staella, what?”

  “—and Auntie Kareena had been bouncing tiny toddler me on her knee, forgetting that Celestial children eat and sometimes have to burp. I puked all over her gown and hair. Just a fucking mess.”

  To Etolié’s delight, Sora chuckled.

  “You know,” she continued, unable to help her smile, “with due respect to her name, you’re much more relaxed than Meira. She had a conniption when I told her that story—a quiet one, but she berated my casual blasphemy.”

  “Personally, I find it fascinating to hear anecdotal accounts of my Goddess,” Sora replied, leaning casually against the wall of the carriage. “You’re a bridge between worlds, Etolié. You ought to speak more of her and the rest. It might incite greater worship.”

  “You’re assuming I have any responsibility or care to do so.” Etolié withdrew her flask, taking a sip before adding, “Besides, it might kill the magic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People assume the gods are experts on humanity and life—but I can’t say that’s true for the angelic ones. Demon gods seem to actually have their shit together, but angels are just as shitty as any of us.” She stole another drink, noticing Sora’s interest. “All right, here’s a good one: I could say that Morathma is a misogynistic bastard, but that isn’t a secret to anyone outside of Moratham. The secret is that he’s a withdrawn hermit who apparently regrets a decent amount of his shitty life choices. You know how the Snake God got his scales, right?”

  Sora shook her head, her visible intrigue suggesting she didn’t even realize that ‘Snake God’ was technically a blaspheme.

  “He was mutilated by Silver Fire. This wasn’t long after the Convergence. Pissed off the wrong Moon Goddess. My momma said it was horrendous to witness.”

  “But why?”

  “Well, once upon a time, they said the Moon stole the Stars from the Desert Sands, because in that once upon a time era, any story that made Neoma look like a bitch was all the rage, but they never tell the first half of that tale—which is that the Desert Sands had beaten the Stars into a bloodied dick-sheath.”

  Sora looked properly horrified—nosey bastard that she was—but Etolié changed subjects. “Alystra is a tempestuous bitch.”

  Sora stared like absolute blasphemy had been spoken, and Etolié was living for it. “She hates me,” she continued, but a chuckle escaped with her words. “At least, she did when I was a kid because she hates kids, but I’m also the one woman she’ll let Eionei be alone with.”

  She couldn’t suppress her grin when Sora said, “What? Why?”

  “Because, while I love good ol’ grandpa to death, he’s a fucking floozy. Most Celestials are his progeny. Alystra trusts his dick to actually stay put with me.”

  Sora blinked for a bit before finally managing a few words. “Oh. Well. Good for him, I suppose.”

  “And Sol Kareena, because she’d have him castrated if he ever tried anything. And Momma, even though Alystra hates her too.” Etolié smiled, though it hardly hid her scoff. “Between you and me, Alystra can smell the competition, even if my momma never chose to play.”

  Sora narrowed her eyes, the gears in her head visibly turning. “Are you suggesting that Eionei—”

  “Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is ‘yes,’ but that’s an executive level secret.”

  It welled an old insecurity she couldn’t quite bring herself to say—that Eionei had loads of progeny, and he gave zero shits about any of them. Except her, his granddaughter. Etolié, in her heart of hearts, knew he wished she were his daughter instead.

  “I could go on,” Etolié continued, the introspection more than her heart wanted today, “but I think you get my point. The gods aren’t any better than us, but people need something to believe in. I won’t go disillusioning anyone of that.”

  Sora looked to the window, her voice subdued as she said, “I never thought about it like that.”

  “That’s why you don’t meet your heroes.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” Sora replied, visibly hesitant, “you’re always defensive whenever Sol Kareena gets brought up.”

  Etolié turned her attention to beyond the carriage, watching the bustling motions of people, the preparations underway for tomorrow’s solemn event. But she saw nothing of it. Etolié thought of home.

  “I’m not all-knowing, Etolié,” Sol Kareena said, holding Etolié’s tear-stained face to her chest. “I cannot say what your future would be, should you leave Celestière. I fear you would only find further heartbreak in the mortal realm, but I have made mistakes before.” She spared a glance for the great mural upon the wall, the depiction of Sol Kareena herself and a woman bearing her face and the pendant of the moon. “I know you’re guilty of your so-called crime. I cannot break my own laws, but I can offer you a comfortable life, should you confess before the people. If you go, you will be a fugitive of Celestière forevermore, but I will look the other way.”

  “That’s because every self-righteous priest or priestess to her name gets uppity when I say how I really feel.” Etolié looked to Sora, studied her curious demeanor, and stole a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve never seen her as some magnificent deity,” she said, pulling out the words like molasses. “She’s Auntie Kareena, and I wouldn’t say we were ever close, but she saved me when the rest of my life fell apart. She’s strict, but she’s good and understands that justice can’t be truly perfect, despite what people say.” Etolié looked to Sora, bitterness released as she continued. “I resented her when she saved you and not Khastra, and I’m sorry for that. But I couldn’t stay angry; it’s because of her that I ha
ve a life at all. Plus I’m realizing I do kinda like you.”

  Sora smiled lightly, and Etolié hoped the half-elf accepted that this would be the closest she ever got to a declaration of affection.

  “But I’ve seen what people have done to her teachings,” she continued. “Anti-De’Sindai sentiment is high here in the Theocracy because Nox’Kartha embraces necromancy, but even before that it was still a crock of shit. With Casvir, they finally have an excuse other than ‘oh, no demons—dark and scary.’” Etolié bit her lip, remembering when even a little human girl had nearly been turned away from the cathedral just for the crime of having a wolf for a familiar.

  Etolié recalled Flowers’ innocent offering, even now surprised at how vehemently it had been accepted. She watched the flock of people beyond, studied their finery. “Meira was annoying as shit, but at least she wasn’t a hypocrite,” she whispered. “There are good people in the Theocracy. Archbishop Xoran was one of them. Lunestra reeks of politics, but she’s done wonders for the orphans in her care. So many people are awful, though. Sol Kareena is one of the few genuine beings in the realms, but most De’Sindai fear her because of what her followers have done. I never sent freed slaves here because I’d seen how people have turned her teachings of justice and mercy into a mantra of ‘convert or die’—unless you’re demon-descended and then it’s often just ‘die.’”

  Silence settled in the carriage as Sora visibly contemplated Etolié’s words.

  Preparations for the funeral were underway. Etolié watched as a path was set, various streets slowly cleared and closed for the procession the next day.

  She thought of Lunestra, a woman who had lost her brother, and wondered how she fared.

  They reached an inn, wherein a room had been designated for the Staelashian Royalty. Marielle enjoyed her honeymoon; Etolié wasn’t even certain she knew about the tragedy, to be honest. She hadn’t heard anything of her, Murishani’s insistence on post-wedding secrecy aggravating and frankly a violation of basic safety procedure.

  Marielle placed an alarming amount of trust in him, and Etolié realized she resented her for it. She should be here. Her wedding was over; her luxury did not outweigh the importance of this. Thalmus had been left alone to survey the affairs of home—a task he’d begrudgingly accepted, understanding the importance of it.