by S D Simper
“You may.”
With her head lying on the bench, she gathered courage enough to ask, “You said something before, on the night of Ayla’s death—‘Her spirit lingers.’ What does that mean?”
“Precisely what I said. Her spirit cannot move on, and so it remains among mortals.”
Casvir was a necromancer. She knew this from Ayla herself and from Etolié’s drunken ramblings. “If you were to will it, could I—” Flowridia cut herself off, too shy to speak. “Never mind.”
She shut her eyes, content to simply feign sleep, but Casvir said, “Ask.”
As though iron clasped around her chest, Flowridia struggled to breathe, much less speak. She managed a nigh inaudible mumble. “Could I speak to her?”
“No.”
Gods, her stomach ached. Casvir’s stare, even behind her closed eyelids, bore a hole through her courage—it seeped out in droves.
“Were she a mere ghost,” he continued, though not unkindly, “it would be trivial, assuming we held whatever object anchored her spirit to this world—in her case, her body. But she is something different, risen by The Lurker himself and so unique. It would take someone with more finesse than I to grasp her soul.”
“But you could feel her?”
“I feel her now.”
The words pulled a gasp from Flowridia’s throat. She dared open her eyes, realized he stared not at her but at Demitri, asleep in the curve of her bent knees.
“It is faint, but her presence was always unmistakable. Did you keep the ear with you?”
Too shocked to speak, Flowridia managed to nod. Head swimming, she pulled the chained ear from her bodice, letting it dangle just above her face.
“A future with Ayla is still within your grasp. You know what you must do to enlist my aid.”
He returned his attention to the work before him. Flowridia slipped the ear back into her bodice and let it settle against her heart.
Ayla was not gone. But did she hold awareness? Flowridia shut her eyes and thought of Ayla, of her visage and smile, clearing her mind of all else. If Casvir, as renowned a necromancer to currently walk the realm, could not touch her, she held no hope. Yet, the thought was enough to staunch her tears, even if memories of Ayla came with brutal screams as she watched the Goddess’ spear penetrate her undead body, infusing her with holy light.
Again, that quiet baritone filled the carriage. No words, but Flowridia clung to the unknown tune, allowing it to distract her troubled heart.
When unconsciousness finally did steal her away, she awoke at sunrise to the memory of an airy alto voice and Demitri pawing at her thigh. I need to go out.
Flowridia ran a hand across the soft fur of his head. She sat up, suppressing a giggle at the desperation in his young voice. “Can we stop for a minute, please? Demitri needs to relieve himself.”
Casvir nodded. The carriage pulled to a smooth stop. He stood and opened the door, stepping aside when Demitri darted out.
A stunning scene surrounded them. The smooth dirt road met her feet as Casvir helped her out, but the luscious grass caressed her once she stepped away. She smiled, invigorated by the cool breeze blowing through her hair. In the far distance, a mountain range divided the sky and the land. Casvir inspected the horses, and Flowridia noticed, for the first time, a hooded figure driving the carriage.
She scanned the meadow, thrilled when she noticed patches of violet pansies dotting the scene. She knelt before a particularly vibrant series of flowers, plucking the prettiest from the root and weaving the stem into her hair. Though no magic imbued the bit of life strung through the thick locks, feeling the lingering energy in the bud drew a sincere smile to her face.
In the distance, she could see Demitri running back toward them. Tongue hanging out, he fell at Flowridia’s feet and rubbed himself against the grass. We should never go inside again.
“I agree,” Flowridia said, her smile widening at Demitri’s childish statement. “But the carriage is much faster than walking.” Despite the risk of grass stains on her knees, Flowridia knelt and rubbed the soft fur of his stomach.
“Are you hungry?” Casvir’s voice felt out of place in the bright sun.
She nodded, noting the hollow in her stomach. In the numbness of her sorrow, she realized she had not eaten since Ayla’s passing.
Casvir went to the carriage and returned holding a chest, one that fit well enough in both his hands. Angelic runes—coordinates, for a place Flowridia could not guess—were inscribed into the polished wood. He placed it at her feet. “I understand you have a special diet. I hope I have accommodated you well enough.”
When he returned to the carriage, Flowridia lifted the lid. The contents—fruits, bread, and vegetables, some of which she hadn’t seen before—were fresh and moist, and Flowridia realized this was the most practical and innocuous use of an extra-dimensional space she had ever seen.
When Casvir emerged with a second chest, similarly inscribed with runes, he sat a few feet away. Flowridia dared to ask the question dancing on her tongue. “How did you know?”
From the second chest, Casvir withdrew some sort of raw meat. He tossed it at Demitri, who pouted as only the little wolf could. But he took a small bite and glared as he swallowed.
“Ayla spoke of your diet in passing, once,” Casvir said. “There had been speculation of inviting your ruling council to visit Nox’Kartha, and she insisted I accommodate for you, specifically.”
A quiet smile tugged at Flowridia’s lips. She imagined how her first glimpse of the beautiful city might have been entirely different, how Ayla herself might have given her a tour, bashfully shown off her room and all its glowing, stolen trinkets. Absently, she touched her bodice, where Ayla’s ear rested beneath. “She was always thoughtful.”
“Thorough, perhaps. She was never thoughtful without an underlying motive.”
The words stung. Flowridia hid her hurt behind a slice of fresh bread.
But perhaps it showed. “I apologize,” Casvir said, the words startling Flowridia from her distracted state. “It is improper of me to speak ill of someone you care for.”
Flowridia swallowed her bite, uncomfortable meeting his eyes. “You and she had a tumultuous relationship.”
“We often fought, yes.”
“I don’t need you to lie for my comfort,” she said softly, hoping the words weren’t rude. But another question tugged at her mind, and she pulled a pink apple from the chest. Its shined surface turned nearly blinding in the sun. “Why did you keep Ayla around?”
Casvir, large and imposing with his fierce armor, so out of place sitting serenely in a green meadow, said, “Ayla’s skill set was unique. Her usefulness outweighed her capacity for tantrums.”
Ayla’s skill set . . . Flowridia wondered if she needed to feign oblivious. She knew the truth, that Ayla’s talent for charming foreigners held naught a candle to her skills with a knife. “She was a diplomat,” Flowridia said, wondering if he would correct her. “Those are replaceable.”
When he said nothing, Flowridia faced him directly, realizing he studied her with scrutiny. “I cannot tell if you are being purposefully opaque or simply a poor liar.”
“A poor liar.” Flowridia’s blush burned hotter than the sun on her cheeks.
The disappointment in Casvir’s normal stoicism quickly faded to indifference. “Ayla was a ravenous wolf kept on a very short leash. A diplomat, yes, and unquestionably brilliant at maintaining facades. All that paled to her talent for stealth. While I do not mourn her death, I do begrudge the loss of her talents.”
Flowridia took a bite of her apple, unsure of what to say, but to her surprise, Casvir continued speaking. “Her efforts to subdue me became an annoyance, and when I finally reprimanded her, she began making attempts on my life. At first, she aimed for subtlety, but when she continued to be thwarted, she turned to shock and awe.” His armor clinked as he brought his hand to his chest, just below his neck. “She once ripped a tree out by the roots and
smashed it into my collar bone.” With his hand, he followed the line of his chest and shoulder, then down his arm. “The force broke it in two. The rest of my arm was shattered.” He nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere. “An impressive blow.”
“That’s blatant treason,” Flowridia replied, distracted at the thought of Ayla heaving a tree large enough to break Casvir; a comical image, truthfully, given that Ayla was considerably smaller than even she. “How big was the tree?”
For the first time, she saw genuine confusion on Casvir’s face. She prayed she lived to regret her next comment. “Large,” he replied, the words slow on his tongue.
“High tree-son, then.”
The confusion faded into a blank stare.
“. . . with heavy infan-tree?”
Casvir quirked an eyebrow. Flowridia thought she might wilt into the ground when he said, “Congratulations.”
Flowridia, still wary, said, “For what?”
“Typically I revel in the challenge of wordplay, but you have me stumped. I shall leaf you to your victory.”
Flowridia bit her apple to curb her beaming smile. He said nothing else, and when she finally swallowed, she asked, “But, really, why would you keep her around?”
“Because I still won that fight.”
Casvir, she realized, thought more highly of himself than any man she had ever met. Yet, unlike most others, Flowridia suspected he had earned every ounce of greatness he held to.
So how long are you kidnapped for?
Flowridia rolled her eyes, and outside the carriage rolled along. “We aren’t kidnapped, Demitri,” she said aloud, uncaring if Casvir heard.
He stole you. You’re kidnapped. But I’m bored; when do we go home?
Flowridia sat up, the book in her hand all that entertained her on the long journey. The prospect of speaking to Etolié had become a temptation as the days dragged on, both for boredom and for worry for her Celestial friend, but her resolve stood firm. Best to let Casvir think she had no contact with her kingdom. “Imperator, Demitri would like to know how long we can expect to travel.”
Casvir didn’t look up, his focus kept on whatever scroll his red eyes poured over. “I do not know.”
She looked to Demitri. “He said—”
I know what he said.
She returned to her reading, and Demitri to his pouting.
“Can you not feel it?”
Surprised at the inquiry, Flowridia glanced up from her book and to Casvir’s scrutinizing countenance. “Feel what?”
“The artifact. The draw grows stronger as we move forward, but you feel nothing?”
Flowridia shook her head.
“Try.”
A memory tugged at Flowridia’s mind, that of a young girl compelled to wander far away with no identifiable aim. She never had forgotten how her soul had yearned and drawn her toward the horror she had been searching for. If she dug into her core, she could still feel that pull to her mother, to the swamp. Perhaps this was something similar.
“What does it feel like?” she asked, setting her tome aside. “You said you feel it resonate with me. What does it feel like?”
“Following the initial burst of energy, the power has waned but never weakened. It’s a dark thing. An absence.”
An absence . . . The memory of Ayla’s death was something she refused to entertain, yet the emotional rupture had been unparalleled. Flowridia remembered her fear, her rage, anguish . . .
But before there was pain, there came grey, a void of feeling. Before Flowridia cried out, the world had grown silent, static.
Now, seated safely within the carriage, Flowridia forced her eyes shut. With the memory came a rising swamp of feeling, the anguish she forcibly fought down. She understood, however, what Casvir meant.
It took a few steadying breaths, but her emotions settled, and with a final sigh, she let them fade away. Eyes shut, she lingered in that moment of weightlessness, that void of feeling, and from within her core she felt a presence—something far away—beckoning her to come closer.
Flowridia opened her eyes. “I can feel it.”
“Good.”
He said no more. They lapsed into silence.
Every night, she focused on Ayla’s memory, mellowing her senses to center on her immediate surroundings. She daren’t ask for help, lest Casvir think her foolish. But she searched for Ayla—
Instead, she would fall asleep to tender dreams. At least somewhere there was peace—and when there was not, she mellowed her thoughts, grasping onto the void of feeling, as Casvir had taught, marveling at the call she felt radiating from far away.
Days passed. A morning came when the carriage rolled to a stop. When Casvir moved to open the door, she followed, curious, and accepted when he offered a hand to help her step out.
The road had ended days ago, the sturdy wheels of the carriage more than capable of crossing rougher terrain, but now the trees thickened. An ancient forest spread before them.
Casvir moved to unhitch the horses. “Do you ride?”
Flowridia was remiss to shake her head. “I’ve never learned.”
“Then you will learn now.”
Flowridia stared up at the massive skeletal mounts. They seemed docile, yet substantially larger than they had ever looked before.
Casvir brought a saddle, and Flowridia watched helplessly as he latched the various leather straps. Feeling lost, and thus rather foolish, she asked, “Should I unload the carriage?”
“It would be useful.”
She grabbed her bag, her spear, her chest with food, and set them carefully onto the grassy terrain. When Casvir came to join her, she watched him strap their belongings to the skeletal creatures. At times, she caught sight of their legs beneath the armor—pure white bone, the skin clinging to it in rotted shambles.
Flowridia stepped forward and extended a hand. It gave no recognition, no response when she gently rubbed her hand against its armored nose.
Dizziness struck. Flowridia stumbled forward, nearly falling against the skeletal beast as a rip in space appeared beside Casvir. The carriage rolled through, along with the hooded figure seated atop. The portal sealed shut behind it.
Faced with a saddled horse, Flowridia swore the beast grew larger with every moment she studied it. She lifted her arms, hesitant as she reached for the saddle, then brought them back down, unable to quite fathom how in Onias’ Hell she was supposed to scale this gargantuan creature. It might as well have been a cliff face, and as she nonchalantly went to the other side—perhaps it would be shorter there?—she heard a familiar rumbling ask, “Do you need help?”
She couldn’t help her sheepish grin. “I . . . do.”
Casvir showed her where to place her hands, how to slip her foot into the stirrup, and when she struggled to pull herself up, with permission held her waist and helped her rise. Even with his aid, her muscles strained, but it was far less humiliating than she’d anticipated.
Demitri stared from far below. And what will I do? Walk?
“I can hold you, if you want to join me.”
But he snarled when Casvir faced him, bristling his fur as he poised himself for attack.
Flowridia glowered, unimpressed at his antics. “Demitri, stop being so dramatic.”
Demitri relaxed his stance, but his growl remained until Casvir set him upon Flowridia’s lap. If he does that again, I will bite him.
“I suspect he’ll bite you back.”
A shadow covered them. With his sweeping horns and clawed hands at the reins, Casvir cast an ominous presence, the very vision of terror atop his skeletal, armored mount. “Your horse will follow; all you need to do is hang on.” His horse stepped away, Casvir perfectly serene.
Flowridia’s horse trotted along, and she tightened her hold on both the reins and Demitri. He grumbled against her chest. I don’t like this.
“You’re complaining an awful lot.”
Wolves weren’t meant for this.
“Well, if you get an
y bigger, I’ll simply ride you.”
Demitri’s fur stood on end, but Flowridia planted a kiss on the back of his head.
Shadows caressed her skin as they disappeared behind the tree line. Though daylight shone high above, the thick cover of trees cast them into darkness.
Demitri began sniffing the air. Something lives here.
“What do you mean?” Hints of daylight flickered about, but the cacophony of sound reminded her of night. Insects screeched. Birds cawed eerily in the distance.
I wish I knew. But it’s infectious. The land is sick, like a plague.
Flowridia increased her grip on the horse’s reins. “Imperator Casvir? Demitri senses something.” Casvir’s horse came to a stop, allowing them to ride up beside him. “He’s not sure what it is,” Flowridia continued, glancing about the shadowed woods. “But it’s something . . . something dark.”
“Animals sense what we often cannot.” Casvir slowly let his eyes scope the terrain. “There is a strange feeling in the air.”
“Is it the artifact?”
“No. Our prize lies elsewhere. Keep your wits about you.”
The dense forest grew darker, though evidence of sunlight splattered onto the leaves. Flowridia’s hold on Demitri remained tight. The pervasive feeling of eyes watching behind the trees lingered, drawing a chill to her spine.
Something lived here. She prayed simply that Casvir’s own ominous presence was enough to drive it away.
In the evening, when the rare spots of sun began fading, Casvir proclaimed they would set up camp.
The weight of Casvir’s clawed feet on the forest floor snapped twigs and crushed the littered pinecones. Yet, he moved with a smoothness he should not have possessed, not a man of his stature and bulk. Though armor covered the majority of his sickly-blue skin, Flowridia saw hints of bulk underneath, the thin skin stretching to encompass his musculature.
Demitri jumped down before Casvir could touch him, but Flowridia accepted the offered aid and allowed him to lift her off the great beast.
Sharp twigs snagged at her skirt. The dense trees stood as sentinels around them, though the feeling of dread had yet to dissipate. “Why here?”