The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  Flowridia finally set Demitri down. “Does Meira bother you often?”

  “Less than she used to. I think Sol Kareena picking you as a champion rekindled her anarchist flame.” Etolié’s hands shook as she set them on her hips. “Pledge to Sol Kareena if you want, but don’t do it because her puppet asked you to.”

  Concerned at those dark-rimmed eyes, Flowridia asked, “When was the last time you slept?”

  “A few days ago,” Etolié admitted, and Flowridia didn’t question her honesty. “Don’t make this about me. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I slept. When did you last eat?”

  Etolié scoffed at the question, brushing past her and moving to stand beneath the skylight. “I don’t need to eat. I subsist off starlight, remember?”

  Etolié’s near-emaciated form had always drawn questions from Flowridia. “Be that as it may, I think it’s been too long since you last had something other than alcohol in your stomach.”

  “I haven’t had a drink since last night.” With her back to Flowridia, Etolié stared up at the hints of light, arms crossed. “Too worried for you. I needed to think clearly.” A pause, and Etolié gave a humorless chuckle. “Thinking clearly hurts sometimes.”

  Guilt clenched Flowridia’s stomach, especially when she looked down at the rose in her hand. She said nothing, instead disappearing behind the nearest shelf both to hide and to inspect the books.

  “Listen, Flowers,” Etolié’s voice said, emanating from the center. “I’m sorry. I pushed you to pursue her.” Flowridia pulled out a copy of Eleven Elven Elegies and peered through a hole in the line of books at the aggrieved Celestial. “This is my fault. I put you in danger.”

  “She would have pursued me, either way.”

  “Still, I’m sorry.”

  When Flowridia reappeared from the bookshelves, Etolié stared at the ground. “You don’t need to be,” Flowridia said, holding the rose behind her back. “I’m still processing last night.”

  “And that’s fine,” Etolié replied. “Processing is good. But don’t justify it.” Etolié’s bloodshot eyes turned to her, sallow skin highlighted in the light. “What Ayla did was wrong.”

  “Etolié, it truly was an accident-”

  “Yes, you burned her. I understand that. But if I were to swat a mosquito on my arm, it’d be no effort on my part to leave nothing but a puddle of blood.”

  Flowridia said nothing, unwilling to puncture the morass steadily filling her chest. A confession tingled at her tongue, burning to be spoken, of Ayla’s return that night and her words, but . . .

  Whatever fear Flowridia felt, she dared not cast it onto Etolié, whose bloodshot eyes bespoke guilt. Instead, she offered a smile and nothing else, weaving her way back through the shelves and to the door.

  She turned the doorknob, startled to see a familiar half-elf waiting behind it. Flowridia nearly dropped her book, but Sora’s hand caught the heavy tome before it could crush her small familiar. “Careful.” Sora glanced down and raised an eyebrow. “Elven literature?”

  Flowridia shrank slightly at the question. “I don’t know much about elves, so-”

  “Is that for Ayla?” she asked, gesturing to the rose.

  “Yes,” she lied, and then recalled that Sora didn’t know the extent of their flirtation. “How did you guess?”

  “Etolié said the name. And I think we all had our suspicions, after the chess incident.” With a smirk, she handed the book back. “Poetry. Smart. Elves love pretentious stuff.”

  Sora’s words brought up an excellent point. Ayla might be undead, but she was unquestionably an elf. And Sora, being half-elven, might know a few more things about elves than Flowridia. “What else do elves tend to like?”

  “Well, they don’t eat meat, so you’ll be among friends. But poetry, art, engineering, invention . . . their culture values creative endeavors and science. It’s how they survive without magic in a magical world.” Sora shrugged. “I grew up with an education of both worlds; I was raised by my Sun Elven mother, but my father visited as often as he could.”

  An intriguing thought – Flowridia had never considered that Sora’s parents might not have raised her together. “Your parents aren’t married, then?”

  “Elves are racist bastards. My relatives weren’t too keen on my father, and my mother told me later that he was some high-ranking official in his homeland – apparently, news of an illegitimate, half-elven daughter would have hurt his political standing. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve both since passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Everything that happened has led me here,” Sora said. “Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you. I know Meira can be off-putting at times.”

  Flowridia held the rose and book to her chest, as defensive a gesture as she dared to show.

  “She really is the wisest woman I know, though,” Sora continued. “You don’t have to pledge to Sol Kareena, but promise me you’ll consider it. Think if what’s holding you back is worth it.”

  Though her tongue grew dry, Flowridia said, “I will,” and knew it was a lie. She hoped Sora didn’t.

  Sora’s smile grew as she gestured to the flower held to her chest. “How are you going to get it to her?”

  “I was thinking of drying it,” she said slowly, hoping if she spoke articulately enough she wouldn’t be caught in her lie. “Then mailing it to her through the embassy. When it’s complete,” she added, realizing the event was weeks away. “I’m planning ahead.”

  “Have you heard from her since the embassy unveiling?”

  “Nothing more than dinner,” Flowridia said, her nervous laugh surely betraying her lie.

  “Whatever your goals, good luck.”

  Sora left her alone, and Flowridia took her book outside.

  * * *

  That night, Flowridia lay in bed, a sweet, sleeping puppy at her side and a small pile of withering flowers – those worn in her hair – by her bedside table.

  The open window invited the night air to caress her face, along with the gentle singing of wind rustling the trees. Silver wisps of moonlight illuminated the covers of her bed, and when she stared out, Flowridia could see faint speckles of starlight.

  Etolié had said the Moon and Stars were wed and had spoken the sacred name – Neoma. Legends said a thousand years ago, Neoma, the Moon Goddess, had fallen at the hands of her own child, the first of the Solviraes. But there were many stories of gods and goddesses, most untrue or embellished. The Solviraes bloodline was moon-touched, never diluting despite the passing generations. The empress was Flowridia’s only face for Neoma’s progeny, and despite her power, Flowridia couldn’t imagine her murdering a goddess.

  Besides, the stars were Etolié’s mother’s domain, and though Neoma and Staella were wed, no child could be born between them. The story held a few holes.

  Still, Neoma’s legacy touched the world, if only by the silver light caressing Flowridia’s face.

  Never in her life had Flowridia thought to pray sincerely to any god. Instead, she had spent years searching for something far more precious.

  * * *

  The light never breached through the misty cover of trees. For two years, Flowridia had not felt the sun.

  All night, Flowridia cowered in her bed, the occasional echo of a knife thumping bluntly against wood and the memory of emulsified gore jarring her from vain attempts at sleep. Someday, she knew Mother would disown her and feed her to the garden, bury her barely alive and let the fungi consume her breathing body. That, or chop her into pieces and use her entrails for spellwork. Mother threatened it often enough.

  For now, Flowridia survived.

  When the outside world grew silent, Flowridia dropped from her bed to the floor and set her hands against the wooden walls. There were no windows in her bedroom, but if Flowridia shut her eyes and focused, she could feel where the dead wood mingled against the earth and touch her senses against the plants caressing the outside walls.
Though sickly from no sun, the plants lived and breathed. She felt the trees, ones that managed to breach above the shadows and feel the sun.

  But walls prevented her from searching too far. Mother’s wards stopped her from looking out, just as they prevented anyone from looking in.

  Did Aura search for her? Every night, Flowridia asked the trees if they had felt a wolf in their midst.

  The static of magical wards muted the answer. Perhaps, someday, she could breach it.

  “Flower Child?”

  The voice at the door came so softly, yet Flowridia’s heart immediately seized.

  “Come out, my sweet girl. I have a surprise.”

  Fearful, Flowridia trembled as she turned the doorknob.

  Mother stood with a gentle smile, one Flowridia waited to twist and sneer. But the words were sweet, and behind her, Flowridia saw no evidence of corpses or blood. “Come and sit. I’ve made you some dessert.”

  When she offered a hand, Flowridia’s blood-stained one accepted, and she let Mother lead her through the mushroom garden and to the kitchen.

  It was the only room untouched by fungi, with a wooden table and two chairs in the center. A small pile of muffins sat arranged on a plate beside a kettle of tea.

  Behind the quaint scene, in the sink lay evidence of blood and entrails, separated from the carved pieces of raw meat on the cutting board. Strips of flesh lined the walls, drying and awaiting enchantment. Over the fire, a cauldron boiled, filled to the top with a stew Flowridia knew better than to ask the ingredients of.

  Everything Mother created was perfect, infused with magic and horror.

  Mother, with her lace-lined dress, beckoned for her to sit. Flowridia obeyed, skin crawling as she awaited reprimand.

  But Mother smiled, her teeth pure white, and both her hands rested gently on her stomach. “Flower Child, my sweet, something wonderful has come from all of this.”

  * * *

  In the morning, the flowers had gone, replaced by single, red rose.

  Flowridia immediately rolled over and grabbed it, this time a frown pulling at her lips. Why had Ayla returned?

  Demitri yawned as he opened his large, golden eyes. His clawed feet padded against her nightgown and covers as he came to sniff the gifted rose. It smells like Ayla. But why didn’t she say hello?

  “I don’t know, Demitri,” Flowridia said, truthful as she mulled over what strange and intricate flirtation Ayla seemed to be concocting.

  If she can be bothered to leave gifts, she can bother to say hello.

  His petulant little voice drew a smile to her face. “Perhaps if we catch her,” she teased, kissing his cheek, “she’ll tell us.”

  But Demitri, it seemed, was utterly serious. If we catch her, don’t you have to tell Thalmus?

  “Demitri, Thalmus doesn’t like Ayla.”

  But he made you promise.

  “I know,” she said. “But telling him would only worry him.”

  Because Ayla threw you across the room?

  “Yes, and other reasons,” she said, flinching as the memory of hateful words – ‘Look at me!’ – brimmed to the surface. “But Thalmus wasn’t there. He doesn’t understand.”

  You should probably stay away from him. You’re a terrible liar.

  Flowridia could only nod. “I’m aware.” She stood up, her feet chilled when they touched the thin rug protecting her from the floor, and placed the gift into the vase at her windowsill – one housing the rose from the previous night.

  * * *

  The construction of the embassy was underway. Zorlaeus, having been named the official ambassador between the two kingdoms, often visited Marielle, who personally dealt with the day-to-day affairs of Staelash. And though Flowridia was, at Etolié’s insistence, the official liaison to Nox’Kartha, why send Flowridia to negotiate with Zorlaeus when it would mean less time for Marielle?

  Instead, Flowridia spent her morning alone in her garden, gently touching marred petals and wilting flowers, infusing them with healing magic. She wore only her nightclothes and a robe to ward against the morning chill, and underneath a willow tree, surrounded by patchy grass, an idea prickled in her mind. “Should I leave something for Ayla?”

  Demitri ceased rolling his scent into the dirt long enough to reply. Covered in dust, the young wolf looked like the wild animal he truly was. It might slow her down enough to catch her.

  Flowridia bit her lip, nervous at the thought. “But what would Ayla even want?” She released a heavy sigh, slumping over. “I don’t know anything about flirtation.” Grimacing, she turned to face the little wolf. “What would you do, Demitri?”

  Again, Demitri stopped rolling around, this time turning over onto his feet. He shook his fur, and Flowridia ignored the specks of dirt flung onto her dress. Wolf mating rituals aren’t too different from yours. Keep touching her and kissing her to show you’re interested.

  Taken aback, Flowridia said, “Is that all it takes?”

  There’s more, but I don’t know if Lady Ayla wants you to lick her bum, even if it would show you whether or not she’s ready to mate.

  Flowridia wasn’t sure what worried her more – tiny Demitri using words like ‘mate’ or the fact that acquainting herself with Ayla’s posterior actually sounded appealing. Flowridia cringed, however, ignoring the heat that rose to her cheeks. “She’s already leaving me flowers.”

  Mother had always said that roses symbolized love, and that different colors conveyed a different tone. The darker the red, the more beautiful the recipient, and the deep maroon of the rose in her hand was as romantic a gesture as Flowridia had ever received. But there were other meanings in floral spellcraft: a sprinkle of white roses petals for purity, lavender for love at first sight, pink for innocent friendship, and so on. The language of flowers held important meanings in both romance and magic.

  “You use your own blood to feed the roses?”

  “Yes, Flower Child. The deeper the stain of red, the deeper the affection, as well as the depth of power it holds.”

  Flowridia shoved the eerie thought from her head.

  The moon lilies gave her pause. So vibrant and icy a blue, but they were much too large to be useful in her hair. Lilies were a funeral flower, and this particular breed only grew naturally across the sea in Zauleen – elven lands. The first of her seeds had been a gift from Etolié, a welcome present to help her feel at ease in Staelash. In only a few months, the sprouts had blossomed into an expansive garden, fueled by devoted care and a substantial amount of magic.

  Etolié had succeeded. Having a space of her own had helped Flowridia feel at home.

  She knelt and plucked a single stem, roots and all, and twirled it between her fingers, wondering if this might be what she left for Ayla that night. But a bit of engineering and magic mulled through her head, and when she passed the gardenias, she stopped and plucked a single bud from the bush.

  Breeding inter-species plants was something she had learned from Mother, though she had taken to it much more quickly than her progenitor. Weaving roots together was a matter of detail and, if she were entirely honest, a labor of love her mother held no patience for.

  In a small patch of empty earth, Flowridia placed the chosen flowers – the gardenia and the moon lily – and let her magic blend and seal the roots. Now to wait and let nature and time do the work she could not.

  * * *

  “What’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?”

  Etolié, from her corner, snacked on a fresh muffin as Flowridia posed the question. No one knew of Ayla’s nightly visits, for now. Flowridia would keep that a secret.

  Demitri sat by Etolié’s side, picking out pieces of fruit from the muffin balanced between his paws.

  “No offense, Flowers, but I have yet to meet anyone from the mortal realm who makes my heart flutter.”

  From the opposite corner, Flowridia had her nose buried in Thespian Vampires: A Powerplay of Art and Horror. The odd retort gave her pause.
She set the book down into her lap. “Have you ever been in love?”

  Etolié shook her head. “Not among my interests. Mom always said I’d find someone if I spent more time partying with the angels, but I think she’s projecting.”

  Gaze narrowing, Flowridia set the book aside and stood. “Have you ever . . ?” To say the word felt daunting. To mime an obscene gesture seemed more appropriate.

  “Of course I’ve done the dirty,” Etolié replied. “How else do you break into slave camps, isolate the leader, and stab them in their sleep? I’m gorgeous, Flowers, and men are weak.”

  Mother had shared similar sentiments. “Let him in, won’t you, Flower Child? Seems we’ll be having a guest for dinner tonight-” The laughter at her own morbid jest filled the cottage. Mother stared out the window, her coy smile turning lurid. “But an appetizer first. I’m starved.”

  “You’d sleep with them, and then you’d kill them?”

  “Sometimes during. Sometimes before. They’re slavers, Flowers. Getting their rocks off wasn’t exactly priority one. But I was a young revolutionary, then. I have more class to my methods now.”

  Flowridia smiled, as though what Etolié had said wasn’t deeply concerning. “But you haven’t pursued a relationship?”

  Etolié shook her head. “Could I? Sure. But who, Flowers? Who is more interesting than knowledge itself?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Absolutely, because the answer is no one. Mortals don’t lubricate my gears.” Etolié stole another muffin from the plate and took a small bite. “Circling back to your original question, though, I think the most romantic thing that ever happened was when a man offered to sell his wife at the next slave auction if I’d agree to take her place.”