by S D Simper
Ilune’s expression didn’t change; she kept her smile, her silver eyes wide and innocent.
Fury filled Tallora. “You knew,” she whispered, deciding she didn’t care if she were struck down for insolence. “Khastra spoke to you and told you what Harbinger said. You must have known this would mean his return.”
Ilune placed a hand upon her heart, her gaze drifting from Tallora to the goddesses beside her, and then back. “Certainly not.”
“You . . .” Tallora said, struggling to keep her voice subdued as realization struck her. Her jaw trembled; her blood pulsed hot. “You told Chemon about the Heart of Silver Flame. This is your doing.”
“Tallora, you poor heartbroken thing,” Ilune interrupted, her tone as sweet as sugar and utterly patronizing. “That’s a nasty accusation. Whatever my ambitions, do you truly think I would condemn my mother’s people?”
“I . . .” Her words failed her; her breath did too. “But then who else? No one else knew; no one but—”
She was stopped by a large, blue hand on her shoulder. Khastra leaned down and whispered in her ear, the subtle threat apparent: “Take care how you speak to my goddess.”
“Ilune and I shall speak of this in private,” Neoma muttered, disapproval etching itself into her beautiful face. “The affairs of Gods shall be handled in Celestière. Furthermore, if I must take this matter up with Morathma myself, I shall.”
“Goddess Neoma,” Tallora said, “I think I know the messenger of Onias.”
Even seated on her throne, Neoma towered over her supplicants below. “Well?”
“Harbinger is the daughter of Yu’Khrall, and she’d been doing all she could to stop his return. When he did, she communed with Onias for a month to hear his will. All he said . . .” She searched in her memory, then spoke the words. “‘My word is law, forever and always.’ That’s what he told her, when she asked how to defeat him.”
To Tallora’s relief, Neoma actually looked pleased. Her expression softened as she said, “Simple enough. It seems our old bargain remains. I cannot kill Yu’Khrall. That was Onias’ demand from long ago. But I can subdue him as before.” She looked to Dauriel, her stare nothing less than withering. “Dauriel Solviraes, blood of my blood, there is a way, but you must know the risks.”
“I know the risks,” Dauriel replied, willful and stupid enough to tell a goddess she knew best. “And I know the way.”
“Do you know anything of my previous battle with Yu’Khrall?”
“You were channeled by Izthariel Solviraes, my ancestor of long ago,” Dauriel said, reverence in her tone. “Together, you locked Yu’Khrall into his prison.”
“Izthariel’s godly blood was far thicker than yours, Dauriel, and he still succumbed to my presence.”
Tallora’s gut clenched, realization slowly settling within her. She looked to Khastra, whose demonic visage also held subtle horror. Mortals could channel gods. But Dauriel would only last so long.
“I know the cost, Goddess Neoma. But I, too, have a Convergence Orb. If I absorb its power as I channel you, perhaps I might have the stamina of my forebearer.”
Tallora wanted to scream, to run to Dauriel and slap this insane notion from her head. When she might have voiced her objection, she saw Staella catch her eye and shake her head.
“It is not the fight itself that would destroy you—it is the power needed to place him back into his prison. You would agree to this?” Neoma asked.
“I would.”
No, no, Tallora’s mind screamed, tears filling her eyes when she blinked.
“Khastra has already orchestrated a plan without godly intervention,” Dauriel continued, “but the promise of your aid would ensure victory.”
“Actually,” Khastra said, calculation in her words as she addressed Neoma, “with the promise of your aid, I can certainly make a few changes. Reduce the risk to all parties—including Dauriel.”
“Forgive me for voicing what we’re all thinking,” Ilune said, leaning lazily upon her staff, “but the presence of Convergence Orbs does significantly raise the stakes. I do believe there was some mention of ice covering the ocean floor? It would be an absolute disaster if that were to spread, don’t you think?” Tallora swore she saw the shadow of a smile upon the wicked deity’s countenance. “Or worse—with every passing moment, who knows what mystery Yu’Khrall has managed to unlock. How soon before he floods half the continent or freezes the entire sea?”
Heat rose in Tallora’s blood, Ilune’s apparent amusement utterly appalling. And so she spat the words, “What’s your point?”
Ilune looked directly to her, surprise in her glowing eyes. Just as quickly, it settled into vicious intrigue. “Only that perhaps I might be of assistance as well.”
Khastra stepped forward, a warning in the brief glance she spared for Tallora. But skepticism raised her eyebrow, and Tallora wondered if she had any fear of godly authority. “Might you?”
“Come to Celestière and tell me your plans,” Ilune said, conspiracy in her wicked stare. “I have a few of my own.”
To Tallora’s surprise, Khastra shook her head—which was nearly odder than the invitation. “If I were to spend a day in Celestière, nearly a week would pass here. I have much to prepare, Goddess Ilune.”
“A fair rebuttal. Await my messenger, then—”
“You can’t allow this!” Tallora cried to Neoma. Her anger spiked, and she no longer cared that Khastra loomed nearby, that she was about to lose her temper at a goddess. “Goddess Neoma, there’s no one else but Ilune who could have done this—”
“Tallora,” Ilune interrupted, saccharine and mild, “your outburst is very unbecoming. I understand you’re mourning, but—”
“You awful, evil bitch!” Tallora marched forward, fully prepared to strangle a literal deity—and only stopped when Khastra physically held her back. “You did this! I don’t know why, but you wanted this!”
Ilune merely smiled and shrugged. “If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, you’re wasting your time.”
“How could you do this? To your mother’s own people!”
“The vast majority of those killed were Tortalga’s people. But I don’t know, Tallora—why would I ever do anything so awful?”
There was an answer; there had to be. But faced with Ilune’s indifferent mockery, the weight of her godly presence, Tallora’s mind was empty of anything but rage.
“Tallora.”
Tallora turned at the voice. Staella watched, her soft, knowing gaze cutting as deep as her soul. “Khastra, release her.”
The half-demon obeyed; Tallora stumbled forward, nearly losing her balance.
“Tallora,” Staella continued, “I feel your conflict. I know your pain. I want to assure you that I have heard every prayer you’ve sent and those of your people. My heart weeps for what has befallen Stelune. My deepest regret in this time of tragedy is that I know not where Yaleris’ soul has gone to; he is a martyr for my people. I’m searching for him, but I fear the search will be fruitless. The dragons are from the time before, and there is so much even we in Celestière do not know.”
The words reopened a wound only barely closed. Tallora blinked, her eyes growing misty.
Staella released Neoma’s hand and stepped down from her pedestal. On equal ground, she barely stood taller than Khastra. “My heart aches with yours, for the tragedy of your people. They are mine, and they are Tortalga’s, who I call my friend. And it burns me, down to my very soul, that what is mine and what is my wife’s must be at odds.” Staella’s soft words held a poignant rage, and Tallora understood—she and Staella held the same hurt for Solvira’s betrayal and the capture of Tallora’s king and prince.
She couldn’t face Dauriel. She knew the empress had heard it as well.
“And it burns me just as much,” Staella continued, her voice as small as a mouse, yet impossible to forget, “that my own blood would take such amusement from the slaughter of so many.” She looked up at Ilune, whose pouted
lips revealed no remorse.
“I am simply here to find the hope in such tragic circumstances,” Ilune replied, her smile sanguine and vile all at once.
Staella’s form became smaller, until she was little taller than Tallora herself. She swept her up into a warm embrace, and Tallora held her tight, the feeling exactly as it had been in her dream a lifetime ago. Tallora’s tears fell, but Staella enveloped her in her wings, blocking the world. “My heart weeps for your loss, Tallora,” Staella whispered in her ear. Tallora’s breath caught in her throat. “Your mother’s soul awaits in the Beyond. I seek her still, and I shall not rest until I find her.”
Staella pulled away only enough to face her, her countenance radiant yet not so blinding as the sun. The stars above beamed a gentle light and so did she. Tallora lingered in the embrace, for it was the motherly love she had missed so dearly.
“You shall have my blessing for this battle,” Neoma said to them all. “And I shall await your prayer, Dauriel. I have not abandoned you.”
Staella returned to Neoma’s right hand. The Triage glowed like the stars before they vanished from the plane.
* * *
Dauriel was nearly out of the temple by the time Tallora’s heart started once more. She ran, racing to catch up to the empress.
The shadow of the cathedral covered them. In the street, citizens went about their morning, some stopping to stare at the idle carriage before the temple steps, but Tallora paid them no mind as she cried, “Dauriel, you can’t do this!”
She stood at the top of the steps, gazing down at Dauriel, standing at the crux of the shadow and the sun. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t sacrifice yourself for this.” Tallora hiked up her skirts as she marched down the steps. “Khastra’s plan will work. You can’t—”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
She knew that look—Greyva had been on the receiving end the night prior, but Tallora would not be so easily subdued.
“I seem to recall you having no sway on my life,” Dauriel continued, “by your own admittance. Don’t you dare pretend to care now that—”
“Oh, fuck you, you arrogant ass!” Tallora felt eyes from the street but fury won this day. “I hate you. I hate you down to the core of your stubborn, self-destructive soul, but don’t you dare say I don’t care. I wish so badly that hating you meant I didn’t care, but I do. I do, Dauriel. I care, because I hate you, and I love you, and watching you implode is more than I can take—” A sob stole her words; Tallora shut her eyes, but tears streamed down her face nonetheless. She inhaled a shaking, painful breath. “I love you,” she said, softer now. When she opened her eyes, Dauriel’s watered. “I love you so much. Please don’t do this.”
Dauriel’s gaze fell to the ground, quickly wiping her own tears with her sleeve. “I’m the empress of the world,” she said, subdued and pained, “and with that comes the responsibility to defend it. Yu’Khrall is a threat to us all, but I can stop him.”
“No,” Tallora said, though it was barely a word, more an inaudible plea. “No. Your father could—”
“Eniah needs him. I won’t take two parents from him.”
“Dauriel, I’m begging you . . .”
But Dauriel held up a gloved hand, and Tallora’s words faded away. “Izthariel Solviraes is a legend in my lineage. He lived over a thousand years ago, and his name is still revered. My name shall be even greater.”
“A legacy isn’t worth—”
“Isn’t it though?” Dauriel’s voice rose, that stubborn tone returning. “I shall have no children; I can’t. I will abdicate my throne when my brother is of age and then live out my life as a forgotten advisor. But this . . . This is greater than a war against Moratham. This is greater than slaying a dragon. This is defeating a monster who nearly destroyed a faction of Staella’s people—I’ll be a legend. I’ll be revered instead of pitied. People will speak my name in a whisper, lest they blaspheme a hero.”
“Or you could live.” Tallora bridged the gap between them, standing level on the steps. “You could live a full and beautiful life and be happy.”
“Do I look happy, Tallora?” Dauriel let the phrase settle, its weight dampening the joy of the sunny day. “Don’t berate me now—”
“Dauriel, please,” Tallora pled, though it was far more a sob.
Dauriel shook her head and went to the carriage, leaving Tallora behind.
Tallora stayed on the steps, her composure hanging by a frayed thread. A shadow covered her—Khastra stood beside her. “This is her choice.”
“She’s reckless. She’ll let herself burn out on purpose. You can’t possibly be supporting this.”
“The greater good demands it,” Khastra said, as soft as Tallora had ever heard the general speak, “even though it shall break my heart.”
She beckoned for her to follow, but Tallora shook her head. “I need to be alone. Let me walk.”
Khastra gave a curt nod and ducked into the carriage. Tallora stood upon the steps as it rolled away, vision misting one more. She wiped her tears on her wrist, then took the final steps down, ignoring the stares of people on the street.
Damn Dauriel, and damn Tallora’s admittance—it had been a revelation to them both. Her heart ached, but this was not the place to cry. Not here. Not with the hundreds of eyes watching as they passed.
Tallora swallowed her tears and disappeared into the crowd.
Her path meandered, though it maintained its course. Tallora thought of the past, of the day her destiny had been irreversibly changed, when a storm had hit the sea and she had saved the life of a princess. Fate decreed they should have never met, being born of land and sea, yet that impossible collision had occurred. They had hated each other. But slowly they had seen the souls behind the masks they wore, and while Tallora could not speak for Dauriel, she had seen something impossibly beautiful.
Somewhere, the gates to Neolan stood open. Tallora could leave. She could go home, for they needed all the help they could get. Toria had said her calling to be a priestess was a noble one, and Tallora felt the truth in that. She owed Solvira nothing; she could go.
And so, she ran. With hurried feet, she raced through the streets of Neolan, dodging people and horses and carriages, apologizing when she came too close but never slowing. The guards at the gate made no move to stop a single woman making an escape, and soon Tallora stood before a beautiful field.
At one spot beside the massive lake lay the skeletal remains of the amphitheater, where Dauriel had enacted her great betrayal. It lay partially disassembled, apparently taking far longer to take down the build. How Tallora hated it, hated Dauriel for building it, hated Solvira for utilizing it for so wicked a cause.
Tallora let it be, instead running to the lake’s shore.
The breeze caressed her, offering freedom. The morning air was still fresh, and it was far more comfortable to run across a field of frost with boots. At the lake’s edge, she stopped and gazed upon its beautiful surface, longing for what lay beneath.
She could go home.
Dauriel was going to die.
The mere idea crippled her, and Tallora sank to her knees and wept. Upon the lake’s shore, she succumbed to anguish—Dauriel would die, and she was one of the few pieces of Tallora’s heart that remained.
All the world was in disarray, her future a sandy shore smoothed by the tide, bearing no evidence of what it was before. Gods, she hated Dauriel. Tallora’s anger had only grown in their time apart, to think how her life had fallen to pieces since. Yu’Khrall was not Dauriel’s doing, but here she remained, holding to a grudge no one would fault her for. It was not a small thing, what Dauriel had done, but it felt so trivial compared to the loss of Stelune and its inhabitants, of her momma, even Harbinger . . .
Tallora decided she was a fool—a fool who craved normalcy and comfort.
A fool who desperately loved a condemned woman, destined to burn brilliant and bright—and die just as grand, for whom books wou
ld be written, songs composed, whose people would speak of her in a whisper.
With swollen eyes and misted vision, Tallora gazed upon the lake, still choking on her sobs. She could go home.
Every fiber of her being screamed to run and leave it all behind. The smallest whisper in her soul said to stay.
Tallora wept, yet the world continued.
When her tears had dried, Tallora returned to Neolan. The sun remained low in the sky, not quite nearing noon.
She passed shops, all surely full of trinkets she’d adore, but she had no money, and her heart was too heavy to appreciate even looking. She wished she knew where there was a temple to only Staella, so that she might pour out her heart and feel her goddess’ comfort. She thought of her six months of loneliness, when Kal had become her only confidant and friend and her heart had rejoiced at the reunion between she and Dauriel.
“I would have made you my empress.”
The castle approached, and she entered its gates unhindered.
She traversed the stairs and saw the entrance to the menagerie. Kal and Merl were there, testament to Solvira’s betrayal. She thought to speak to her dear friend, ask for aid in sorting her tumultuous thoughts, but as she lingered at the doorframe, a stranger said her name. “Lady Tallora?”
Not a name she’d ever been called before. When Tallora peered down the hallways, she saw a familiar face—High Priestess Toria, wearing robes of light blue. “Yes?”
“I brought you something,” the woman said, and as she approached, she withdrew what appeared to be a long, beaded necklace. “I went to lead a worship service at the temple last night, and I recalled what you had said about losing your vestment; it broke my heart, to think how lost I would feel if I were you. This isn’t quite the same, but I think it might help.” She offered the necklace to her, and Tallora accepted, her heart already soaring.
It was entirely different, yes—not pearls and sea stars, but carved stars of polished green stone and little white beads between them. Yet it bore the weight and the message of what she’d lost, and Tallora clutched the gift to her heart. “Thank you.”