by S D Simper
“That’s the style of vestment we use in the south, where I’m from—in Vaile, by the border. Silver and gold are common colors for worship in Neolan and most of Solvira, but this represents the earth and the stars and all life in between. I always thought the sentiment was lovely.”
“It is,” Tallora said, heart swelling in gratitude. “This is priceless. I can’t possibly repay you.”
“You’re a priestess-in-training; it’s your divine right.” Toria’s smile held kindness and light. “Are you well, Tallora?”
The question startled her, though she saw only sincere concern in Priestess Toria’s face. “No,” she said honestly. She bit back the rest of her words, surprised at her threatened tears but swallowed them.
Compassion shone from Toria’s lovely features. “The world has fallen into a difficult cycle. I’m on my way to another war meeting with the council, and it’s enough to make me weep, to fathom so much death. And look at you—you’ve already been through so much.” Her voice lowered, hands clasping in front of her dress, demure and humble. “But I was quietly informed of Dauriel’s proposed plan with Neoma. I take it you’re hurting?”
Tallora nodded, yet found she couldn’t cry; she’d cried enough at the lake. The lingering exhaustion of tears remained like a fog around her. “It’s like I said—I don’t have to be with her to not want her dead.”
“I suppose all that remains,” Toria said, thoughtfulness in every word, “is what you’ll do about it. You can’t control her. You can’t control the monster who destroyed your home. But what will you do with what you can control?”
“Between you and me, I nearly swam home.” Tallora gave a scoffing laugh, false and pained. “I went to the lake. I’ve done my duty, and Solvira will help. There’s nothing more I can do here.” The hollowness in her stomach expanded; anxiety was her constant companion lately. “But here I am. I don’t know if I’m empowered or a fool.”
Toria shook her head. “Not a fool.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Tallora thought of the temple, of her confession on the steps, and felt anguish anew. She clutched the vestment close to her heart, her blinking heavy despite her exhaustion. “I told Dauriel I still loved her. I begged her not to go. I’m so stupid.”
“Sometimes, changing fate is as futile as trying to stop water from flowing through your fingers,” Toria replied gently. “But Staella teaches us to accept what we cannot change and find peace in that. Dauriel may be dead when the week is out, so what will you do about it?”
Tallora truly didn’t know.
“In the meantime, I am late to my meeting. Would you like to join me? I doubt they would dismiss you.”
Tallora nodded, and when Toria offered a hug, she accepted, struggling to contain her tears.
She was led to a spacious hall, rich in décor and priceless art. When Toria gestured to a particularly magnificent set of double doors, Tallora knocked lightly before entering.
Within, she immediately saw Khastra hunched over an expansive table covered in an enormous map of the continent. Surrounding her was the expected collection of council members who Toria quickly joined, as well as a few others—decorated soldiers Tallora did not know. The general spared her an idle glance, her words uninterrupted, but Empress Dauriel’s gaze lingered, the bitterness in her stiff jaw paling to the exhaustion in her eyes.
“. . . continuing conflict at Cain will be abandoned. I care not for the foolhardy stubbornness of a final few men at the gates. Leave them; we will fly our banner in time. We need the troops for our next target—the Fortress of Seven Sons holds an enormous supply line for Andiamen. It will be a difficult siege, but when we capture it, the capital will risk starvation when the summer heat bakes them alive in their own homes.” She looked to a well-built older man. “Colonel Joff, you will inform Marshall Helyn of this development. Send a message when the tower is in sight—then I will come to personally bash down the gates. Are we understood?”
There was a small murmur of ‘yes,’ among the crowd. Dauriel, however, spoke up. “You mentioned a message.”
“Delivered this morning,” Khastra said, handing Dauriel a scroll, tied with a small bundle dangling from the string. Tallora saw Morathma’s symbol. “Enchanted to only open at your touch, but we can undo it if . . .”
Her words faded when Dauriel tugged the string anyway. The pouch fell to the floor.
“Glad to know your safety is as important to you as it is to me,” Khastra said, and Tallora wondered if she’d ever had a fear of reprimand. The general stooped down to grab whatever odd parcel had accompanied the message.
“The first three were harmless,” Dauriel muttered as she studied the written words. Her frown darkened. The silence lingered, the whole room holding its breath until Dauriel unceremoniously handed it to Khastra. “They still want to speak.”
The general’s own stare settled upon it. “Same reasons?”
Dauriel tore it in twain, content to let the pieces fall to the floor. “Yes. And they insist on speaking to me personally, hence the sand.”
“And will you do that?”
Dauriel cast her gaze across the room, tension surmounting as she said, “Stand back against the walls. Or leave, if you value your lives. Moratham is known for honest combat, but there is always a risk. I wash my hands of your deaths, should you choose to stay.”
No one moved. Tallora shut the door behind her to punctuate her own intentions. She swore Dauriel’s frown sneered at the act, but the empress admirably kept her attention to Khastra alone. “Well. The honor is yours, General.”
Standing against the door, Tallora watched as Khastra opened the small pouch and dumped what appeared to be a pile of fine sand into her palm. She blew it forward, to the space between she and the large table—but it did not scatter into the air.
Instead, it swirled with a life of its own, this miniature cyclone of sand. Guards readied their weapons; Khastra looked prepared to pounce. Dauriel, however, stood with her hands behind her back, poised as tall as a cliff face as the sand slowly took a form.
Amidst the tumultuous magic came order as the dust swirled together into a humanoid figure. It gained small details like fingers and a nose, but then color and shape—until, standing before Dauriel was a well-muscled man, a head taller than the empress, his own posture as tall as the skies.
Tallora did not recognize him, but Khastra greeted him first. “General Shiblon,” she said respectfully, and the foreign general offered her a slight bow.
With every movement, sand filtered from his form, revealing him as a mere apparition and nothing more. “Empress Dauriel, I thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“I have not agreed to that,” Dauriel said curtly.
“Then I shall be quick, so as not to waste your time,” Shiblon replied, his dark eyes and beard marking him as a handsome figure. “Surely you have heard of the tragedy of the Tortalgan Sea? With news of a leviathan ravaging the ocean comes the question of whether or not we set aside our feud. I would propose a temporary ceasefire. Our combined might would surely—”
“Stop.”
Shiblon did, perhaps only for surprise. “Empress Dauriel—”
“What kind of simple sheep are you, to bleat into the night for my attention again and again?” Dauriel visibly seethed, and when she breathed, it was pure flame. “I will not speak with you. I do not need you. The only time we shall meet will be when I personally remove your head upon your surrender.”
Shiblon’s face twisted with each insult. “If you would look beyond your pride a moment, you would see that this is a matter that concerns us both. Staella’s people reside beneath the waves—”
“All the more reason for me to spit at your feet!” And Dauriel did so—spat upon the apparition’s shoes. “You offend me with your offer. Solvira needs nothing from you, save for your god to hang himself. I do not negotiate with Morathma or his followers—and should the world end for my pride, then I say burn it!”
<
br /> “Empress Dauriel—”
Dauriel thrust her hand into the apparition, glowing bright as it faded into oblivion, leaving only a small pile of sand. Flame flickered at the exposed pores of her skin, fire rising at her feet as she breathed smoke. She kicked the pile of sand, and said, “Lying bastard.”
The fire dissipated with each tense breath. Dauriel pinched the bridge of her nose, her continuing breaths ever deeper. “Leave us,” she seethed. “All of you—save my inner council.”
Khastra barked the order: “You are all dismissed! Joff, you have your orders. The rest of you, await my word.”
Tallora stepped aside as the room emptied of soldiers and leaders, as well as the religious members of the council—Khastra and Dauriel remained, as well as Ilaeri and Magister Adrael. Tallora lingered, uncertain of her next move, when Khastra said, “You as well, Mermaid.”
Tallora left, too exhausted to argue. The door shut behind her. She was once again left with lonely, confused thoughts.
* * *
“Neoma will fight Yu’Khrall?”
Tallora nodded, her soft smile genuine in the face of Kal’s enthusiasm.
“This is grand news! It means our home will be saved.”
“I don’t know if ‘saved’ is the word, when it’s already destroyed,” Tallora replied, her melancholy stealing the joy from Kal’s features.
King Merl watched from behind his son, contemplation on his aged visage. Kal swam close to the edge, and when he offered a hand, Tallora thrust her own through the barrier to accept it. “I’m sorry. I suppose I can’t truly fathom the horror of it. Home feels a thousand miles away.”
“It might actually be a thousand miles away,” Tallora teased, and Kal’s slight smile gave her hope.
“But you say they will not accept help from Moratham?”
King Merl’s tone immediately sparked Tallora’s fury. “Correct. The empress refused to speak with them.”
“And we’re supposed to risk certain doom all because a tyrant won’t suffer her pride?”
Glowering, Tallora withdrew her hand from Kal’s, letting water drip onto the floor rather than stain her dress. “It’s a ploy,” she said, “and you know that. Are you really so desperate to hate Solvira that you’d apologize for Morathma blatantly conspiring with the monster who destroyed your homeland?”
“Has it occurred to you that Morathma might be lying to Yu’Khrall?” King Merl’s own frown appeared permanently etched as he glared at Tallora. “Perhaps they’re simply handling this with tact instead of throwing it out the window for something so petty as pride. Perhaps if we heard them out—”
“The time for negotiations have passed! Our people are already defeated, and to even pretend to appease this monster means to insult the lives lost to his sick appetite.”
“So you would disregard Moratham entirely?”
“They wanted Yu’Khrall all along, and they still do even after he destroyed Stelune. He murdered a bastion of Staella’s people, and Morathma doesn’t care because he thinks Yu’Khrall will still help defeat Solvira. And perhaps he will, but it won’t be toppling an empire—it’ll be genocide of the entire population. Moratham’s leadership compromises their morals again and again to get what they want—”
“Assuming any of what you said is true,” King Merl said, “how is that different than what Solvira did to you? Apparently Empress Dauriel loved you—enough for your blood to be the key to Yu’Khrall’s prison—but she still betrayed your word and used you. The beast on the throne—”
“She’s not!” Tallora slammed her mouth shut, refusing to show weakness to the man responsible for her people’s doom. “She’s passionate and ambitious and misguided at times,” she continued, forcibly subdued, “but she does care. Her refusal to give an inch to Moratham doesn’t mean she doesn’t care for the sea—”
“But she—”
“She’s giving her life for us, so shut up!”
Silence settled at her outburst. Tallora clenched her fists and left them. As she walked, she heard Kal’s reprimand of, “Father, how could you—” But she shut the door behind her, rather than listen.
She leaned against a lavish wall, legs threatening to fail her. Shutting her eyes, she recalled her meeting with Staella, her words and her regrets. She thought of her momma, her soul still lost in the Beyond, and felt as aimless as she ever had.
Her mother had condemned her love for Dauriel. She had been right. Dauriel was brutal. She was everything the goddess Tallora loved was not.
Footsteps sounded. Tallora straightened her stance in time to see Dauriel herself round the corner. Alone, she still held herself like the top of a mountain—proud and daunting—yet deliberately did not look at Tallora. Not for a moment. Not a glance, even though Tallora’s gaze followed for every step. Dauriel disappeared down the hall, and Tallora knew it led to the lift.
Tallora’s shuffling steps held no pride as she walked toward the staircase. For not the first time, her aimless future lay scattered before her, a thousand different paths to take. She stopped at the floor with her guest room, yet went the opposite way, to Dauriel’s suite.
Toria had asked what she would do. Tallora could not find the words to give it shape; instead, she entered the small foyer, then knocked on the bedroom door.
No one answered. She went inside anyway.
There sat Dauriel upon a plush chair, a half-filled wineglass in hand. She studied Tallora, who lingered in the doorway. “Are you drunk?” Tallora said, and Dauriel shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Tallora shut the door behind her, hesitant as she approached.
Dauriel set the wineglass aside, her stubborn ire a distant memory upon her countenance. Instead, she looked merely weary. “What do you want?”
Tallora stopped before her, a great divide between them. With care to hold her stare, she placed her knees at either side of Dauriel’s hips, straddling her upon her seat. The empress—her empress—sunk back, breath hitching as Tallora pressed their bodies together.
It was wrong. It was wrong. It was . . .
Their lips touched. In silence, she kissed her empress within the dark room, her hands cupping Dauriel’s jaw and neck. She craved peace amidst this horrible storm, but instead, the empress shrunk back in the chair, frantically shaking her head.
Tallora sat back, then removed herself from Dauriel’s lap when the empress’ face fell into her hands. “I-I’m sorry,” Tallora said gently, watching as the empress stumbled from her chair and to the bed, clutching the bedpost like the drowning woman in a storm all those months ago. In tentative motions, Tallora approached. Her hand settled on Dauriel’s shoulder. “Dauriel—”
Dauriel shoved her hand away; Tallora flinched and held it to her chest. In Dauriel’s gaze, Tallora saw anger and anguish, the battle raging in the ensuing silence. “What are you doing?”
“I’m loving you,” Tallora whispered, praying her voice did not tremble. “Is that not what—”
“Stop.” Dauriel stole a gasping breath, visibly pained as she held it. Her eyes watered, and Tallora’s heart ached to see it. “I can’t—I can’t—” Tallora hardly had the chance to move before Dauriel released the bedpost and all but collapsed against Tallora, who managed to stand her ground and not topple. Dauriel shook as she wept into Tallora’s breast, strong arms gripping her body.
Gently, Tallora wrapped her arms around her empress holding her tight as she wept. “I won’t leave you alone,” she whispered, and Dauriel nodded amidst her tears.
Tallora pulled Dauriel against her body, their souls held apart by only their mortal forms. She led her to bed, kissing her, stroking her hair as she cried, and whispering soothing words she prayed weren’t sweet nothings: “I’m here. I have you. I won’t leave.”
And when Dauriel’s cries finally stilled, when she merely trembled against Tallora’s form, the empress whispered, “I love you.”
“I know.” Tallora kissed her hair, her own tears thre
atening to fall. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Why, though?” Dauriel looked up, eyes swollen and raw. “Why this?”
It burned Tallora to speak the tragic words. “Because I couldn’t let you die before telling you that I love you. You are so loved, Dauriel.”
Dauriel’s smile held tragedy at the unravelling seams. “By you, perhaps.”
“And Khastra. She loves you, Dauriel. People love you.”
“My people do not love me. They’re afraid.” Dauriel pressed her face into Tallora’s neck. Her hands clutched Tallora’s back, her grip nearly painful as she trembled. “Tallora, I’m sorry. This is all my fucking fault—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“If I hadn’t captured your king—”
“He’d already given the order,” Tallora soothed, though it lacerated her heart to say it. “King Merl gave the order to release Yu’Khrall if it all went wrong. His advisor overheard you and I talking and realized the truth.” It burned her to consider it, but she stomped that feeling down—right now was for Dauriel. “It was his word that released a monster onto my people. Not yours.”
“I hurt you,” Tallora heard amidst Dauriel’s tears. “I used you. I betrayed you. You shouldn’t be—”
“You did hurt me,” Tallora whispered, clutching Dauriel tight, as though it might keep her here, safe. “You used me. You betrayed me. You explained why on the shore, and I fucking hate you for it, but . . .” She swallowed her rising emotion, unable to give it a name—only that it threatened to cripple her tongue. “But as much as it hurts—and believe me, it does—I’m wondering if I’m the one who was wrong.”
Dauriel stayed silent a moment, long enough that Tallora though she might have fallen asleep. Her words broke a heavy silence. “What do you mean?”
“I was so caught up in pulling my kingdom out of Moratham’s grip that I didn’t think twice about what I was asking of Solvira—specifically, when it came to negotiating with them.” Tallora pressed her forehead to Dauriel’s hair, content to breathe in her scent. “You aren’t blameless. You’re brutal, and it terrifies me sometimes. But my kingdom was conspiring with wicked men and listening to their lies. My kingdom had the plot to free Yu’Khrall and think he would actually listen to them.” She brought a hand up to rub the back of Dauriel’s scalp. “I’m still furious. You could have told me and my kingdom to fuck off and save face; instead you lied to me. If by some miracle you live past next week, I promise to scream and let everything out at you.”