by S D Simper
“This isn’t political,” Etolié interrupted. “These are slavers. We’re not discussing trade agreements; we’re debating how to best smear them across the walls of their own encampment.”
“The last time you were on the road, you were attacked by a mad-man,” Thalmus said to Marielle, shaking his head. “Their request is out of bounds.”
The orb at Marielle’s chest began to shine. “And risk starting a war with Tholheim? Let’s at least consult Lara-”
“A compromise,” Etolié said, still staring daggers at the document. “We go to King Thovir. We tell him our intention to decimate the camp and ask if he’ll help. And if he objects, then we involve Solvria. Khastra?”
The general glanced up, the shine of the metallic handle enough to easily reflect her countenance. “If you think it is wise, I will agree. But I would rather not waste time talking when murdering is more effective.”
“This is why I keep you, Khastra,” Etolié said, her good humor returning, and with a wink, she added, “in the back, far away from foreign monarchs.”
Khastra merely chuckled.
“Tholheim will be insulted!” Marielle said, voice rising. “They asked for Queen Marielle.”
“I’ll play Marielle.” Etolié’s form melted away, revealing a perfect doppelganger of Marielle Vors. “If anyone can negotiate with a bunch of angry drunkards, it’s me.”
Seething, Marielle turned to Thalmus. “Well? Will you send Etolié to take the axe for me?”
“She volunteered,” Thalmus replied. “And I will accompany her for protection. Khastra will stay with you.”
Marielle’s knuckles had turned white as she gripped the chair. “Fine,” she spat. The orb in her bosom glowed at the word.
“Flowers will come with me, in case I need to make any decisions. We’ll pretend she’s me,” Etolié said with a wink.
Flowridia’s fingers delicately stroked against her sternum, the chain around her neck barely exposed. Eyes wide, she said, “Are you-” She bit her tongue, gently amending with, “You aren’t joking.”
“I’m quite serious, Lady Diplomat.”
“How far do we have to travel?”
“It’s over a week’s ride to Molt,” Etolié said. “We’ll need everyone ready to leave by tomorrow morning.”
In a week’s time, a dozen roses would be blossoming on the windowsill, and Ayla would be waiting. “Etolié, I-” I can’t do my duty because of a date? Ayla Darkleaf, distrusted diplomat of Nox’Kartha, requests my time? Nothing she could say would change this. Still, her heart felt it might seize. “. . . I’ll be ready,” she finished, voice quiet.
“Khastra, send your best to accompany them,” Marielle said.
Khastra’s grandiose smile revealed white teeth. “Marielle, I am the best.”
“Yes, but they insist you stay here in case it’s a trap and Etolié ends up dead. Send your other best.”
Marielle huffed, and when she stood, Flowridia noticed that the edges of her hair seemed to flicker with flame. “Are we done, then? We’re done. Meeting adjourned. For those of you going, meet here tomorrow at sunrise with everything you’ll need.”
Marielle left with no further comment. As the rest cleared out, Sora hesitated at the door. “I-I know I work for Meira, but with her permission, I could accompany your party. I’m good with a sword, and I can hide if I need to.”
“We may have to disguise those ears of yours,” Etolié said, a defensive hand raised at the statement. “Don’t take it personally; you know how dwarves are.”
Etolié said more, but Flowridia was slowly losing the fight to remain composed. Rather than burst into tears in public, she quietly stood and slipped away, then ran to her bedroom.
Once the door shut, tears began to flow. Oh, Ayla would be so angry. Flowridia slid down the wooden door, letting herself crumple. The nine roses fell to the ground in a heap.
Her entrance had awoken Demitri – the little wolf crawled in between her knees. What’s wrong?
Flowridia sniffed, still forcing back the rush threatening to overwhelm her. Only a few tears leaked out. With forced composure, she relayed the tale.
It isn’t your fault you have to leave.
“I know, I know, but I don’t want to disappoint her.”
Ayla had duties. Ayla was a diplomat. Ayla would understand.
But, oh, how Flowridia wanted to stay.
She wandered to her desk and sat, grabbing a paper and pen before scribbling:
Ayla,
I’ve been called away to assist my kingdom in diplomatic negotiations at our northern borders. It pains me to say I will be gone for the twelfth night and those leading up to it. Upon my return, I will do all I can to fall back in your favor.
I’m so sorry.
Yours,
Flowra
Why did this have to cut so deep?
* * *
That night, the bouquet upon the nightstand held a passionate display of red. A dozen roses bloomed, and with the accompanied letter, Flowridia hoped it served well as an apology, and perhaps as a bit of humor.
Demitri lay by her side. Do you really think it will work?
“No,” Flowridia said. “But it may make her laugh before I disappoint her.”
A clever solution. Creative, even, yet something icy stirred in her gut. As Flowridia settled in to sleep, she tossed and turned. What sort of reaction would it invoke?
She remembered her last bit of ‘creativity’ regarding Ayla – creativity that had gotten Ayla disfigured and Flowridia thrown across the room.
With care to not jostle Demitri, Flowridia sat up. A walk to clear her head, a drink of water, or something. Living with Mother had taught her all sorts of coping mechanisms.
“Still awake, Flower Child? Well, make yourself useful. Grab a mop before the blood dries-”
In the dark, her reflection cast an eerie doppelganger, of herself and of the meticulously clean room. The hazed shadow, barely lit by the celestial lights outside, followed her movements in perfect sync.
Beside her wardrobe, her treasured chess set stood ready to play. A beautiful work of art should not be hidden, she had long ago reasoned. The sight brought comfort, memories of afternoons spent with Thalmus learning the intricate rules of warfare.
But as her fingers skimmed the pieces, one lay missing. Frowning, Flowridia realized an empty square rested where the white queen should be. Had she never returned it after her game with Ayla?
The display on the nightstand no longer filled her with joy, but dread. She approached the moon-lit bouquet, the silver wisps gently caressing the fragile flowers. Her hands shook as she moved to rearrange them. A better presentation would endear to Ayla more, perhaps.
In the dark, she flinched, a sharp pain piercing her finger. She shot her hand back, the skin tearing against the thorn. Blood, dark and rich, seeped from the puncture and dripped onto the windowsill.
Tears welled. Flowridia withdrew the nine roses with infinite care and held them a moment to her nose, the alluring fragrance distracting from the pain they had caused.
With a gasp to mask her sob, she stepped toward the window, prepared to throw them out-
But a touch on her waist froze her to the core.
“Clever girl,” came a smooth voice from behind. Flowridia’s breath hitched as chilled hands slid around her waist.
The flowers fell to the floor. Flowridia trembled as she reached down, her hands settling over Ayla’s as they continued to caress her form. They trailed along her stomach, her sides, settling on her breasts where they lingered, taunting at the unfulfilled promise. At Flowridia’s sigh of want came a chuckle. “Real life so often interferes with games. Twelve flowers in a vase is all I ask. Once it is accomplished, I’m yours for the night.”
Such tantalizing implications in that single promise. Flowridia’s body craved contact. Desperate, she squeezed, Ayla’s hands under her own moving in tandem.
One hand broke away, sliding down her
stomach as the other continued its pleasured massage. It teased over her skirt, lightly touching the heat between her legs.
Then, both hands pulled away. “I don’t break my promises, Flowra,” Ayla cooed, then teeth tugged at Flowridia’s ear. Gasping, she turned, finally able to look down and see the fierce, coy figure standing before her.
Her breath caught at the sight of Ayla’s face, the charred skin still fierce and exposed. No hints of her skull but blacked, ruined skin, shriveled and raw around her ear, spread out to her hairline and to her eye.
Flowridia’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Your face,” she managed to say, guilt drowning her lust.
“It will take time to get used to,” Ayla cooed, and Flowridia swore she heard sardonic teasing in her tone. Her lip twisted into a cruel smile, the lines of her mouth marred from disfigurement.
Speechless, Flowridia slowly let her hand fall.
Ayla’s predatory smile looked capable of tearing out Flowridia’s throat. “You precious thing.” She licked her lips, leering as she withdrew a single red rose from behind her back. She pressed it between Flowridia’s breasts, perfectly centered.
Flowridia wrapped her hand around Ayla’s and the rose stem, gripping tight when Ayla moved to pull away. “Ayla, I am so sorry.”
Ayla’s eyebrow flickered up dangerously as she slid out of Flowridia’s touch. “Best keep my flowers safe.”
Ayla stepped backwards into the dark shadow of the dresser, waving as she did, and vanished, her form fading into blackness.
Breathing heavily, Flowridia waited a moment for her head to stop spinning before investigating the shadow.
Ayla truly had disappeared.
* * *
“There’s an intruder in our swamp, Flower Child. I’ve let him in as far as I can, but I’ll need you to coerce him inside. Use whatever means necessary.”
‘Whatever means necessary’ meant very different things to the two of them. But with Mother’s womb beginning to protrude, Flowridia would do what she could to help.
Outside the cottage, the evening light barely filtered through the trees, heavily shadowed through the thick foliage. Noxious odors met her nose, and by the door, the usual array of ghosts watched as she left. Harmless, but not illusions – most were men, brutalized in their final moments, some missing heads. A few were little girls, younger than she. A warning, with their bloodied clothes and dismembered limbs, to what fate might await Flowridia should she step out of line.
But she braced herself, already hearing footsteps through the bog that weren’t her own. The young man appeared from the trees, eyes darting all about but never settling on the shrouded cottage. He would never see it, not if Mother’s wards willed it, but Flowridia stepped forward, and the startled man gasped and drew a sword.
“Wait,” she said, holding out a hand. “Please, don’t hurt me. Will you hear me out?”
The man – though he appeared barely older than she – kept his sword aloft as he took a step forward. He said nothing, but what did one say to a mysterious young woman in a swamp?
She smiled kindly and offered a hand, practiced charm in every word. “You’re very brave to find your way here.”
Like threading a needle, all it took was a bit of finesse. She recalled Mother’s words – that to kill with only a touch was beyond even she, but that eternal sleep was nigh indistinguishable and trivial to cast – a matter of simply knowing which strings to twist and pull.
The moment their hands touched, the boy collapsed, asleep before he hit the water.
Flowridia shuddered, scrubbing her arms with her hands, unsure of what she even wiped away. She bent over to lift him before he drowned and pulled him through the murky water and up the stairs, the damp wood snagging his shirt and trousers, ripping into the worn cloth.
When she finally dragged him through the doorway, she heard mother’s voice. “Flower Child?”
Flowridia gasped, turning to see Mother in a loose-fitting gown waiting in the doorway of her bedroom.
“He’s a handsome man. I was going to say to enjoy yourself before you killed him.” She raised an eyebrow, a slight frown at her lip. “Though you’ve made a mess of swamp water on my floor.”
So much of Mother’s words touched her soul as invariably wrong, but Flowridia managed to smile and shake her head. “He’s not dead. Only sleeping.”
In the doorway, Mother chuckled darkly, placing her hand on her swollen stomach. “You darling thing. Have your fun, then clean up and take care of him, will you? The child is starved, and so am I.” She disappeared behind the door and shut it behind her.
Flowridia looked down at the prone boy. She wondered his name, and she knew she could wake him and ask him, then ask of his family, his life, what foolhardy quest had brought him to the swamp with a sword. His clothing didn’t speak of riches. Perhaps someone he loved sat on the doorstep, ethereal and cursed to haunt their place of death.
It mattered not. He would join them. Flowridia grabbed the carving knife from the wall, her tears splattering the shined blade.
They left in the morning. Flowridia sat in the carriage with Thalmus, and Etolié rode at the back, as usual. Sora rode outside with the guards, each among Khastra’s elite, who surrounded them on horseback.
In her hair were fresh flowers. Her hands fidgeted, even though she and Thalmus spoke of pleasant things, the urge to distract herself by picking apart those protective buds a constant temptation. Flowridia’s heart lie elsewhere – worry for their safety as they travelled this worn road, and worry for herself, Ayla’s talk of games confounding her mind.
Out the window, she stared, the blinding sun bringing reminders of armored monsters in the night.
“Flowra?”
Startled, Flowridia turned at Thalmus’ voice.
“Perhaps there is reason to worry, but there’s still so much we don’t know.”
With her hand resting on her fist, Flowridia asked, “Do you think we’ll run into him again?”
“I don’t know,” Thalmus replied, understanding in his distant gaze. “Leaving the orb behind means he has no reason to trail us, but I won’t pretend to understand it.”
Flowridia gave a curt nod but said nothing else, content to slip into companionable silence and stroke soothing lines against the wolf pup in her lap.
At night, they camped.
All was silent around the fire as Flowridia chewed on her dinner. Sora sat by her side, silent as she sharpened her dagger, the flickering fire reflecting against the polished blade. Guards scattered around them, some relaxing by the fire and others put to work. Thalmus stood among them, directing and helping to assemble tents.
“Etolié,” Flowridia said, observing the quiet scene around them, “won’t you tell us a story?” Memories of her travels with Etolié, Marielle, and the rest floated through her head. “I always love hearing about your adventures.”
Etolié shook her head, staring down at an unraveled scroll. “There’s a time and place for tales of revolution, Flowers.”
Surprised at the rejection, Flowridia studied the Celestial’s jittery demeanor. “Are you sober?” she asked curiously.
Glancing up from her book, Etolié quirked an eyebrow. “That’s offensive to presume,” she replied with a wink, and then she returned to her reading.
“I apologize,” Flowridia whispered, and she returned to eating her dinner.
Alone with only Demitri, she later lay wide awake in her bundle of blankets. She had been offered a tent, yes, but the promise of a thousand glittering stars to soothe her to sleep had been too perfect an offer to dismiss this time. High above, galaxies swirled, stars providing light the new moon could not, while the Daughter of Stars sat only a few feet away, taking first watch by the fire.
Sleep evaded her, thoughts of angelic goddesses drifting, instead, to her own ever-present goddess. A few more nights under the stars, but then what? Another night of pleasure? Ayla’s game prickled at her nerves, and Flowridia had never act
ually chosen to play. She found herself smitten, but for what?
To think of Ayla, of her grace and power; Ayla’s allure came from intoxicating words and a proud, dominating presence, one that dared you to approach, to plead for the honor of her company. Too fierce to be beautiful, yet Flowridia thought her the most perfect creature she’d ever seen.
But while Ayla had claimed her, Flowridia knew she herself held no sway. To think of Ayla tamed and docile . . . bent over for Imperator Casvir-
Flowridia flinched at the horrid thought.
An odd comfort, but Flowridia let her hand slip into her nightgown and grip the ear resting between her breasts. Three wishes, and if the worst came of their quest, a wish for the safety of her companions seemed a worthy endeavor.
Exhausted from travel, but more exhausted from her thoughts, Flowridia dared to brave the chill of night. She stood, leaving Demitri bundled among the bedspread. Etolié smiled as she approached, patting the space beside her. “Come to join the thrills of first watch?”
“I’m having trouble sleeping,” Flowridia admitted, hoping Etolié wouldn’t press for details.
Fortunately, it seemed Etolié had her own inner turmoil. “I’m sorry for depriving you of the epic tales of my slaver-crushing adventures,” Etolié said, subdued. “I do love telling stories, but . . .” Etolié shut her eyes, the firelight luminous against her delicate features. “For all my victories, there are so many more failures.”
Confused, Flowridia said, “But, Etolié, you’ve done so much good-”
“I’ve done good, yes, but now what? I’m caught up playing a political game, caring for the people I’ve freed, but what of the rest? For all the progress I’ve made, there’s still slavery. There will always be slavery.” Etolié stared up, past the fire, into the dark night. “People are free because of me, but people are also dead. Some of my failures hit closer to home. I try not to gloat when he’s around.”
Flowridia followed her gaze, realizing there was only one ‘he’ Etolié could be referring to.