by S D Simper
Ayla didn’t take them toward the road but to the dark shadow cast by the temple. “Hold tight to me, Flowra,” Ayla warned, and she slipped her arm around Flowridia’s waist, keeping their bodies flush together. “Whatever you see, nothing can take you unless I let it. Let me lead you.”
They stepped into the shadow, and the entire world shifted. Flowridia saw jerking, muted shades of grey; manifestations of the cathedral, the road, and all of Staelash. Like an underwater scene, but in a colorless blur, and Flowridia saw beauty in the dark, ethereal ambience. She only had a second to glance, a moment to memorize the glowing eyes staring from the dark – formless creatures, ones that whispered and beckoned for her to follow. Ayla took a single step, and the scene changed. Suddenly, the gates of the manor stood before them.
The white skin and black hair of Flowridia’s companion blended with perfection into the shifting environment. Only her eyes, still a brilliant blue, revealed her as an interloper. Another step, and the scene whizzed past, that of the halls and the stairs. Ayla navigated with ease, leading her past the twisting hallways. No door stopped them, but living creatures moved as colored blurs when they passed, their features hazy, words muddled.
Ayla and Flowridia stepped from the shadow of a bed, and the world grew sharp. No more whispers; no haze of shadow or dark creatures. Only Flowridia’s bedroom, the gentle breeze from outside, and a small wolf pup fast asleep on her pillow.
“Sha’Demoni is a broken world, forced to share a space with the inhabitants here but stretched impossibly thin,” Ayla said, leading her to sit at the edge of her bed. “Time flows differently; a day in Sha’Demoni might be an hour here, or less. Most demons were destroyed in The Convergence, like the angels, but unlike Celestière, Sha’Demoni remains a perilous world. Only the ruthless survive the eternal battle between the gods residing there. But it did adopt me when I had nowhere else to go. As a child, I saw the thin lines separating the planes and begged to join the inhabitants within. I hid in the shadows, and the shadows comforted me, helped to raise me when I had no one.”
“It sounds like a beautiful tale,” Flowridia said, but her voice faded away when Ayla slowly shook her head.
“No, but to trade the knowledge it gave me for a happier childhood is a sacrifice I would not make. Instead, I travel between planes with the ease you walk through a doorway.”
“Is it magic?” Flowridia asked, but even as she spoke, Ayla shook her head again.
“I’ve no talent or patience for magic. To dance in shadow is a matter of learning to see the cracks between worlds.”
“And those creatures watching us, those were demons?”
Ayla nodded. “That is the colloquial term, yes. Most are as benign as you or I.”
Neither of them were particularly benign. Flowridia knew beings like Etolié could ask for passage to the angelic realm of Celestière, but she was a near demi-goddess. For Ayla to consort freely with demons meant to stand tall among gods. “Have you met many demons?”
“I have. Like I said, most are benign, ambivalent to my presence. And the few I’ve met who aren’t let me pass after some convincing.”
“Like the one you let possess you? The Endless Night?”
Ayla chuckled, her brilliant smile revealing slight, pointed fangs. “And how did you figure that one out?”
“Khastra said that’s what is was, when Etolié described it,” Flowridia replied, hoping she had said nothing damning.
“Dangerous knowledge, to recognize demonic possession.” Ayla brought her hand forward to stroke the hair from Flowridia’s face, letting it linger as she said, “The Endless Night is a title; not a demon. It is also a question for another time. I’ve tarried here too long.”
Flowridia turned into the touch, her cheek rubbing Ayla’s hand. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
Tension settled. Flowridia feared she had overstepped her boundaries, until Ayla’s expression softened. “Until you fall asleep.”
Flowridia stood and quickly stripped from her day clothes, self-conscious when she felt Ayla’s gaze on her bare back. A silly insecurity – Ayla had seen much more of her than this; Ayla gave no care to her scars – yet the gesture was so familiar, so comfortable. She slipped on her nightgown, silent as she climbed into bed.
Flowridia took care to not jostle Demitri. Ayla settled behind her and pulled her against her chest. Flowridia breathed alone, no heartbeat or other sign of life to soothe her. Until, suddenly, Ayla began to hum.
Airy and somber, the familiar tune lilted into Flowridia’s ears, the very same that had damned Sora. She whispered, “Ayla, what song is this?”
The humming stopped, replaced by Ayla’s soothing voice. “It’s an old tune, written by one of my first lovers as a birthday gift. She was a minstrel-” Ayla stopped, and Flowridia felt the arms across her body grow slack. “I never did get to hear it in life. Instead, it echoed through my mind as I crawled from my grave.”
“She sang it at your funeral?”
“She did.” A kiss brushed the back of Flowridia’s head. Then, Ayla slowed her tongue, thoughtful with each word. “Much of my life before death is a distant, shattered thing. I don’t recall the words. But I remember her voice. Even in heartbreak, it was as pure and beautiful as the sunrise.”
Flowridia wondered at Ayla’s reminiscing, her dreamy tone as she spoke of the past.
Ayla said nothing more. Instead, her humming once again softly stroked Flowridia’s senses. Lulled by the sweet sound, Flowridia fell asleep.
Flowridia awoke to gentle breathing against her side. Demitri had spread out along the length of her torso; he grew with every passing day.
Her baby Demitri, aging right before her eyes. Flowridia placed a kiss at his nose, giggling when her companion squirmed. “Good morning, Demitri.”
Demitri opened one eye. Did Ayla leave?
So he had heard them enter, or perhaps smelled her in the night. “She did. But she’ll be back, remember? Two weeks.”
Two weeks, and hopefully the hot temperaments of her council would die down. Etolié had made her feelings quite clear, Sora plotted her death, and Thalmus . . .
The sun already shone above the trees. Flowridia rushed to put on day clothes and ran outside, Demitri at her heels. If she hurried, Thalmus would still be watching the sunrise.
No such luck. But smoke from the chimney of his workshop became her guide, and Flowridia ran inside with no hesitation. Thalmus stoked the fire, his black hair braided down to his belt. Flowridia’s voice came out in a flurry. “Thalmus, I still love you. Can we talk?”
The half-giant turned, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I love you too. Would you help me with something first?”
Flowridia stepped up to Thalmus’ side, confused to see an enormous spear resting in one hand – one with no head.
“Hold this,” Thalmus said, and Flowridia frowned. A gorgeous piece, carved with vines across the wooden handle and rose petals embedded into the sturdy wood, lovingly polished to perfection, but it stood taller than Thalmus himself.
“I don’t think I can lift that.”
“The wood is nearly weightless – there’s a tree found across the sea called a tsipouren that grows hollow branches as strong as steel.” He offered it forward, and Flowridia hefted it high above her head with ease. “I’m still working to finish the blade.”
She giggled. “Where did you get something like this?”
“Khastra has connections across the sea.”
With care, Flowridia set the wood back onto the table. “Never thought I’d have potential with weapons,” she teased.
“It’s for you.”
Flowridia frowned, taken aback, and said, “Thalmus, I can’t ask that of you.”
His hand appeared at her back and pulled her into his side. She breathed in his warm, smoky scent, relief coursing through her as she reached her arms as wide as they could go. “I sincerely want you to have it.”
Flowridia’s embrace g
rew tight. “Thalmus, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you’re worried. I don’t . . .” She hid her face in his shirt, refusing to shed the threatened tears. “I don’t want to lose you over this.”
“You will never lose me, Flowra.” Coals crackled in the kiln, the only sound aside from the faint singing of birds from outside. “Though I will struggle to remain composed if I’m forced to see Ayla Darkleaf again.”
“I’ll keep her away from you, if it’ll help,” Flowridia whispered, and she stepped back when she felt him shift.
He looked down, the first hints of fury simmering beneath his composure. “My comfort isn’t what I want you to worry about.”
“Thalmus, I swear to you, she’s not what you think,” she pled. Flowridia squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for backlash. “Ayla came to see me again last night.”
Thalmus’ stare was suddenly stone, and Flowridia’s words flooded the rocky shore. “Nothing untoward; merely to say she wouldn’t be back to see me, not until the completion of the embassy. Casvir has sent her on some sort of mission.” She released a sigh, praying her next words were no betrayal to Ayla’s trust. “She can cross into Sha’Demoni. It’s how she can sneak into the manor without anyone seeing.”
“Is she a demon?”
“No. She didn’t say much, only that she slips through the cracks between worlds.”
“Interesting,” Thalmus replied, his deep voice reverberating between them. “It raises as many concerns as it soothes, but I thank you for telling me.”
“I don’t understand.” Flowridia tugged at his hand as he stood up.
Thalmus turned toward his work. Flowridia saw an array of half-finished projects: pottery, a tea set, a spear-head, and many more. “Our library holds next to nothing on elven history,” he said, studying the wall. “I’ve often wondered what merit Ayla has to Imperator Casvir. If she can slip between worlds, that’s a valuable slave to keep. And with her penchant for knives and stealth, it makes me wonder if ‘Grand Diplomat’ is her only title.”
A fact Ayla had all but confirmed the night before, with her amusement at her own ‘espionage,’ but Flowridia said, “I feel like you’re hinting at something-”
“Clarence Vors was found with a single stab wound, slipped perfectly at the back of his ribcage. No struggle; an instant death, and no sign of anyone breaking in or out.”
Flowridia recognized the implications and said, “Thalmus, that’s not-”
“What I’m telling you will have me arrested if anyone finds out,” Thalmus said. Flowridia’s face grew pale. “His murder was shortly after it came to light that Marielle, Clarence’s daughter and heir, fancied the Nox’Karthan recruiter, Zorlaeus. Clarence had rejected numerous offers from Nox’Kartha for an alliance; convenient, then, that within months of his death, Marielle was made queen, and Zorlaeus was promoted to ambassador.”
There were leaps in the story, but nothing Thalmus said was wrong. Flowridia whispered, “So you believe Imperator Casvir told Ayla to assassinate Clarence Vors?”
“I don’t know what I believe, only that the timeline calls for suspicion.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Etolié and Empress Alauriel first made the connections. Khastra agreed and keeps a guard stationed at Marielle’s room every night. Marielle knows of the assassination, but none of our suspicions.”
Each day, it occurred to Flowridia more that Marielle was merely a figurehead.
Still, an implication had been made that raised Flowridia’s hackles. “Why blame Ayla? If she’s Casvir’s knife, he still wields it.”
“Even if Ayla is a slave to Casvir, she’s done enough on her own accord for me to hate her. The envoy from the Theocracy, the ones found torn apart, held evidence of bite marks. We have no true proof, but we know they insulted her before they left for the night. Strange that Imperator Casvir would apologize when his kingdom wasn’t to blame.”
The word ‘slave’ would have meant nothing, but Thalmus had used it twice, and Flowridia was acutely aware of the scars on his arms, his face, the violent history haunting his weary countenance.
Flowridia swallowed and dared to ask, “But weren’t you forced to do awful things when you were a slave?”
Nothing in Thalmus’ demeanor changed, but he grew stiff, and Flowridia realized she’d cornered him.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, shame causing her cheeks to grow hot. “I shouldn’t have assumed-”
“Did Etolié tell you?” She’d never heard Thalmus speak with such ice.
Flowridia shook her head. “Etolié didn’t have to. It’s not surprising. Many citizens of Staelash are freed slaves Etolié sent-”
“Etolié didn’t free me.” Thalmus moved to step out of the workshop, his hand gripping the opposite forearm, thick muscles flexed as he fought for composure. Flowridia dared to follow. She stepped in front of him, gazing up with wide eyes, and placed a soft hand over his own, his dark skin pale from tension.
But under her touch, she felt him relax, and then he whispered, “As a child, I sent prayers to Etolié every night. I heard whispers of her, the so-called ‘Savior of Slaves,’ and asked her to save my mother and I before I could be taken from her and sold.” Thalmus’ jaw grit, and he gently shook his head. “I was never taken and sold. Instead, my mother died from a miscarriage, and I was kept, deemed valuable because of my obvious giant lineage. In the end, I saved myself. I don’t need the indulgent benevolence of drunk Celestials.
“Yes, I did terrible things as a slave,” Thalmus continued. “And terrible things were done to me.” He shut his eyes, and Flowridia felt her face pale when she realized her error. “I would prefer my history not be compared to Ayla Darkleaf’s.”
Flowridia stared at her own small hand covering his, the deep hue proof of his desert-dwelling heritage. Thalmus’ words stung, but not for malice. Flowridia had overheard Etolié once, in a state far more drunken than Flowridia had ever seen, cry to Khastra about a liberated camp of broken men and women, most with giants’ blood in their veins – “forced to fuck and make the perfect monsters, otherwise they’d be beaten. The price for running was severed limbs, Khastra. The women didn’t need those-”
One camp liberated meant a hundred others still flourished.
Thalmus remained kind and good despite his rage, and gentle despite abuse Flowridia couldn’t begin to comprehend. With care, Flowridia slipped her fingers between the rough skin of his forearm and hand to try and hold it. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. I forgive you.”
She squeezed his fingers, realizing he trembled. “I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
A smile, sad as it was, replaced Thalmus’ frown. “You haven’t hurt me, Flowra. It’s a joy to share your company. But let me keep my secrets, and I’ll let you keep yours.”
She wondered what he knew, what he’d heard when she muttered in her sleep. Flowridia simply nodded. Her hold on his hand became her only support as she rested her head against his thick forearm.
* * *
“Slow, Flowers. Slow!”
In the library, Flowridia kept her focus on the small crystal in her hand.
“You’ve got a fist-sized shield of useless-ness,” Etolié said, her bloodshot eyes staring at the crystal. “See if you can’t make it bigger.”
Before shipping the enormous crystal off to the Solviran Empire, Etolié had surreptitiously carved small pieces off and distributed them as she saw fit. She’d gifted one to Flowridia, and with practice, Flowridia had managed to expand a field of anti-magic large enough to engulf her hand.
“Push it, Flowers.”
“I like drunk Etolié better,” Flowridia muttered.
“So do I, Flowers. So do I. Now, expand the damn thing.”
Flowridia pushed, feeling sweat drip down her forehead. She felt herself meld with the odd trinket, felt her own influence begin to expand.
The faintest hue of green created a sphere as wide as her elbow. Flowridia grinned an
d let it shrink back.
“Flowers, you had it. You had it, and you let it go.”
“I thought it was good progress,” Flowridia said, wounded at the reprimand. With a pout, she expanded the crystal’s radius yet again to the length of her elbow. She let it expand and decrease, expand and decrease-
Etolié groaned, looking nauseated. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Etolié, the world gives you a headache.”
The sober Celestial could only nod.
A creak at the door signified an intruder. Etolié perked up when Khastra, eight feet tall and grinning wide, appeared from behind the shelves. “I’m assuming the appearance of your lovely self in my domain means my project is done?”
Khastra chuckled. “Admire my work.”
Etolié stumbled forward, her hands fluttering excitedly like a little bird. She plucked a small, green object from the blue woman’s palm. “Your generosity is outmatched only by the girth of your biceps. Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Etolié gushed. “Flowers, did you know Khastra has lapidary tendencies?”
Perhaps Flowridia’s confusion was obvious, because Khastra clarified with, “My fifth husband was renowned for cutting gemstones and taught me his trade. It is a relaxing pastime.”
“Stop being modest. You elves are all the same,” Etolié said, holding her hand up toward the light. Speckles of glittering, vibrant green sparkled against the floor. “Beautiful.”
The new knowledge that Khastra might hold an elven heritage paled to the realization that she had lived long enough to be married at least five times. But for fear of being rude, Flowridia held her tongue.
“May I see, Etolié?” Flowridia asked, and Etolié held her hand forward. Several metal rings were joined together by green crystal, the sharpened points forming a dangerous weapon should Etolié decide to punch an attacker. A larger chunk of crystal attached at where the palm would grip, giving the weapon support. A practical and dangerous creation, Flowridia held it in her hands, marveling at the design and the weight. “How did you craft this? I wouldn’t have thought you could use magic on something like this.”