by S D Simper
“She’s heartbroken,” Flowridia whispered, and when Khastra didn’t interrupt, she pulled the mirror from her pocket and added, “I spoke to her, not an hour ago. She’s wasting away, and perhaps if you would talk to her—”
“She is not my responsibility anymore,” Khastra said, finality in the harsh words. Flowridia flinched when Khastra stepped around her, not daring to tell her to stop.
The betrayal of Khastra’s character stung, but then the woman stopped, and at her sudden gasp, Flowridia feared she was crying.
Khastra clutched at her chest, falling forward but catching herself on the carpeted floor. “Damn it,” Flowridia heard her mutter, and then she rammed her fist against her chest, her bicep expanding from the force.
“Khastra, what’s wrong?”
Between the thumps against her chest, Khastra stammered, “My heart is failing.” On her hands and knees, she lurched, coughing as she gasped for breath.
Panicked, Flowridia said, “I’ll find Casvir—”
But a hand against her ankle gripped her tight; even with Khastra’s subdued strength, Flowridia had no hope to escape.
But then the grip grew entirely slack. Flowridia knelt beside her, fear in Khastra’s gaze as their eyes met. “What can I do?”
“Burn my body so I can be at peace?” Khastra released a pained chuckle, and in her eyes welled tears. Her fist clenched around her chest, the one arm supporting her trembling as she hyperventilated.
Flowridia could not heal her, no—healing magic harmed the dead. Her hands shook as she ran her fingers through Khastra’s hair, desperate to convey what comfort she could. “Has this happened before?”
Khastra managed to nod. Her face paled.
“What happens when—”
The unmistakable sound of metallic steps approached, as well as muted footsteps beside it. Flowridia kept her gaze on Khastra, stroked her anguished face with her gentle fingers. In her peripheral, she saw sweeping robes, heard frantic jabbering she barely understood, and then the unequivocal sound of Casvir’s voice. “Disappointing,” he rumbled, and then Khastra’s head fell slack into Flowridia’s arms.
The rest of her body remained tense, however, her fists tight and losing color. Her breathing stopped, but still she moved. Flowridia’s breath caught as she listened to the commotion around her.
“The probes should have worked,” said the unfamiliar voice beside her. Flowridia looked up to see a rather frazzled De’Sindai man staring at the half-demon corpse. “We will, of course, remedy this immediately.”
“The cost quickly outweighs her use,” Casvir said, the undercurrent of ire unlike what Flowridia had ever heard him use before. “Fix it.”
More people joined, all swarming the fallen general. A cold, clawed hand on Flowridia’s arm helped her to stand—Casvir pulled her back and away, protective as he loomed over the scene. “What’s going on?” Flowridia asked, trembling against his side.
Amidst the flurry, she saw Murishani watching, his gaze drifting casually between Khastra and herself.
“Nothing you will want to see,” Casvir said softly, the deep, underground echo of his voice soothing amidst the panic.
The De’Sindai present worked to lift the hefty woman to her hooved feet, whose eyes had glazed and stumbling steps swayed. With four servants, two clutching her forearms and two at her waist, they led her out. Khastra said nothing, merely held the resignation of the damned.
Casvir moved to follow, releasing his grip on Flowridia’s shoulder. But she grabbed his hand, preventing his exit. He turned to meet her eye. “Casvir, will she be all right?”
“As well as she can. I will deliver news when I have it.”
She released his hand, and Casvir disappeared down the hallway.
The crowd cleared; only Murishani remained. When Demitri began licking Flowridia’s hand, he smiled and said, “A touching display.” He stepped forward, curiosity in his gaze. “In all my years of knowing Casvir, I have never known him to be so . . . gentle towards another person. I say this out of all the kindness of my heart—be wary, Flowridia.” Sincerity shone in his mesmerizing eyes. “Your love for him is innocent. I only hope his is the same.”
The words unsettled her, ice seeping into her veins. “I-I don’t think—”
“Such a tragedy, what has befallen your friend,” Murishani said, stepping forward. He offered an arm, one she hesitated to take. “Let me assure you, she has gone through as much before and survived. Would you like to see?”
Casvir had warned her away, yet she saw earnest kindness in Murishani’s offer. Something in her stomach clenched, but fear for Khastra caused her to nod.
With her arm around Murishani’s, Flowridia was escorted down the hallway. Demitri followed, as did Ana, trotting along, oblivious to the tension in the air.
“Nox’Kartha leads the world in biological science, did you know?”
Flowridia shook her head.
“Casvir believes in wasting nothing—including citizens. Once they’ve shed their mortal coil, their bodies are donated to experimentation. Only their bodies; their souls move on to whatever afterlife awaits a loyal servant of Casvir. Lawbreakers, however, are often met with a different sort of fate. Many criminals lost their lives in the endeavor to keep your dear friend alive.”
Flowridia frowned, unnerved at the remark. “Khastra?”
“Casvir won’t risk damaging useful goods. It’s why the continued failure of her physique is so frustrating to him. And it’s such a pity; Lady Ayla might’ve had the intellect to save her on the first trial.” Murishani smiled brightly, slowing his pace. “Such a genius woman, that one. May she rest in peace.”
“What do you mean, she might’ve saved her?”
Murishani stopped entirely. “Didn’t you know? Your Ayla was quite the scientist of her own field. Some of her technology has been employed in Casvir’s experimentations on Khastra. A tragedy, her passing.”
Somehow, his glowing words did nothing to soothe her. “She was very intelligent, yes,” Flowridia said simply, sorrow filling her—because she hadn’t known, and there was so much of her love she might never know now.
With a kind smile, Murishani released her arm and instead placed both of his hands on her shoulders. “And how are you faring, in light of Ayla’s passing?”
Flowridia shook her head. “I try not to think about it.”
“You’re awfully young. Was she your first heartbreak?”
She nodded, breath hitching.
“You’re so very brave, Flowridia,” Murishani said, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “To face this tragedy with such dignity, to go off on a quest to serve your kingdom when you should be mourning your great loss—inspiring, truly. And with such a brutish man; Casvir is hardly civil company. You must miss your home greatly.”
Sorrow mounted onto Flowridia’s already waning resolve. She managed a nod, forced a smile, and said, “But it isn’t forever.”
“You courageous little girl,” he said, and with a reassuring squeeze, he released her shoulders. Then, he placed a hand at the small of her back and gently led her forward. “Are you certain you’re brave enough to see what fate befalls your friend?”
His beguiling words rang some alarm in the back of her mind, of the warning from Casvir, but Flowridia nodded nonetheless.
Murishani smiled, charm in the gesture, and led her onward. Everything about him, from his fine robes to the exquisite rings on his fingers, spoke of luxury and beauty. His hair fell in graceful waves, and he watched the world around him with fervent, bright eyes. All of it stood in stark contrast to Casvir, whose very aura radiated menace and, oddly, utilitarianism.
Perhaps it was why Casvir kept Murishani, yet while she could not deny his charisma and goodwill, she wondered at his teasing, his pet names. Never would she have imagined Casvir standing for any degree of disrespect.
Yet Murishani was second of his kingdom. There must’ve been something more to him.
They wound
down a hall, up and down stairs, and when no light came from the windows—only the sconces on the walls—Murishani placed a finger on his lip. “He mustn’t know you’re here,” he said, and then he placed a hand on the doorknob.
Whatever spell the door held, it broke the moment it swung open. Screaming filled the hallway. Flowridia gasped, brought her hands to her face, and when Murishani beckoned her forward, she ran inside, Demitri close behind.
They stood upon a railing, high above whatever atrocity awaited below. The richness of the castle vanished, leaving only stark metal and stone. An iron balcony supported them, a banister there to block the feebleminded from toppling down. The floor clung to the walls, wrapping around two entire laps before it reached the bottom.
Bright lights illuminated the scene below, leaving Flowridia and Demitri in shadow. De’Sindai rushed about, some wielding tools Flowridia had never seen—some burning, some crackling with energy. Casvir loomed beside them, watching with his arms held behind his back. Flowridia smelled fire; she smelled blood and chemicals too vile to name.
Centered, lay Khastra.
Flowridia heard her gasping, though she knew not how, for she held little of her chest cavity. She knew the color of torn skin from within, recognized the colorless mass of organs, and saw them place, from where she could not say, a heart into her chest-
And then an explosion. A scream. A De’Sindai touched two of the crackling instruments to her exposed heart, the sparks from which were blinding.
A sob escaped Flowridia’s throat, but she nearly shrieked when a hand touched her shoulder. “Ghastly, isn’t it,” Murishani said, shaking his head. “This is the fourth heart that’s failed her. They keep her lucid so they know it’s taken. Once the blood begins pumping, she’s stitched back together.”
Gasping, Flowridia could not tear her gaze away. Her knuckles turned white on the railing as she watched Khastra’s muscles tense against their bonds.
“Oh, this one does appear promising,” Murishani cooed, palpably intrigued. “What I mean is, perhaps this will be the last of her pain. I cannot begin to imagine her agony.”
Flowridia felt herself crumble, her knees suddenly weak. Khastra’s screams shifted from agony to something barbaric, and Flowridia watched as her body transform to match her screams—expanding and shifting, her bonds stretching to match. When she had last seen Khastra’s monstrous form, it had been in triumph, the Bringer of War coming to stand against the God of Order.
Here, her tattoos glowed, her musculature expanded, threatening to split her skin, veins popping, but it bespoke nothing of majesty—only survival. She saw Casvir withdraw the black orb from his armor, and when he glowed in ghastly shades of purple and black, he touched the transformed monster’s forehead, and somehow her screams grew louder.
Flowridia ran from the room.
Demitri and Ana followed. As soon as the door shut behind Murishani, the screaming stopped. The ensuing silence rang loudly in her head, her own sobs all that filled the hall.
A presence knelt beside her. Murishani’s hand landed lightly on her shoulder. “What is this place?” Flowridia asked between sobs.
“A city of death, Flowridia,” Murishani said gravely. “At least Khastra’s pain might have an end. Some of our criminals live out eternity in much worse states. Casvir is a man of brutality unparalleled.”
Flowridia shuddered, forcing her breathing to steady. When she moved to stand, Murishani offered a hand, one she accepted. “Will you take me back to Ayla’s room?”
Murishani offered his assent and led her through the halls.
When they reached her room, Murishani placed his hand upon his mouth, his gaze lingering at each and every drawing and glass globe, flittering about excitedly as though they were something new and wondrous to behold. “What a spectacular display! Truly, this is remarkable. Ayla’s talent for art was always unparalleled, but this is absolutely darling. Innocent, even.” He raised an eyebrow at a nude piece, though Ayla had tactfully chosen to cover Flowridia’s breasts with a blanket in the recreation, even if scandalous details hinted beneath the sheet. “In a manner of speaking.”
Flowridia ignored her rising blush. “Have you not seen this before? I thought you delivered the dresses.”
He waved off the words. “I have servants for that. No, I hadn’t the pleasure. Ayla was very secretive when it came to you.” Murishani placed a hand on his heart, his excitement fading. “And how are you, my dear? It was a ghastly display. Are you all right?”
Truthfully, Flowridia’s felt prepared to sob anew, but she forced a smile, though her eyes bore evidence of tears. “I’ll be fine.”
From the pocket of his lavish tunic, he withdrew a small pink bottle, emblazoned with gold. “I feel terrible on your behalf. Your tender heart has already gone through so much. Take this; perhaps it will help you relax.”
Flowridia plucked the offering from Murishani’s hand, realizing it held liquid. “What is this?”
“Nothing fancy. Merely a bit of lavender for your bath, to help soothe your body and soul. It is the least I can do.”
Guilt filled her at the suspicious weight in her gut; Flowridia let a bit of energy flow from her hands and felt, as sure as she felt her own breath, that Murishani spoke true—there was nothing magical here to be found.
“Ayla Darkleaf had a truly impressive washroom.”
“I’ve seen it,” Flowridia whispered, and the viceroy smiled.
“Did she take you there? Oh, of course she did; she did as much for all her conquests. Though you may be the only one who left alive.” Murishani’s wink brought the return of the weighted pit in her stomach.
“N-No,” Flowridia said, her head suddenly light. “It was earlier today. One of the hooded figures escorted me. I—” She steeled her jaw. “I wasn’t aware there were others. Or that—” She swallowed the rise of emotion, feeling suddenly sick. “What?”
Murishani’s hand flew to cover his mouth. “Lady Flowridia, I am so sorry. I assumed you knew.”
“Knew what?” she whispered, already dreading the truths she might learn.
“No, it is better that I say nothing. Look at all this beauty around you,” he said, sweeping his arms out. “Best it not be spoiled with . . . inconveniences.”
“I want to know the truth.”
Murishani pursed his lips and shook his head, his long, luxurious hair sweeping around his shoulders. “Absolutely not. This is a crime I cannot be complicit in.” He tossed his golden locks aside, then placed a hand on his hip as he released a sigh. “But if you insist on seeking out the truth for yourself, I will not patronize you by standing in your way. Go and take a bath. If you know the path, you can find the truth.”
Flowridia frowned, and when Murishani moved to leave, she said, “What does that mean?”
He held up a hand. “Complicit, remember? But you’re a clever girl.”
Murishani left her alone and baffled.
Flowridia looked down at the bottle in her hand. “Demitri, stay with Ana.”
You’re going to investigate?
Flowridia’s hand turned white, so tight she squeezed the bottle. “I have to know,” she whispered. Her jaw stiffened. “My heart may break, but I have to know the truth.”
She left him behind. Alone, she let her feet take her to the blank wall hiding Ayla’s bath. Line drawn, the wall parted, and Flowridia stepped through.
All remained the same. She pocketed the small bottle of lavender. Murishani had said if she knew the path here, she could find what she sought. Flowridia recalled the false wall, the portal she stepped through.
She shut her eyes, let her senses expand, and felt, near her, the false wall with its radiant magic and also . . . opposite it.
Another one.
Flowridia stepped toward the decorated wall and dared to touch the cold stone. Energy tingled at her senses. She knelt and drew a line upon the seam of magic, unsurprised to watch it glow. When it stood as tall as she, it widened and o
pened up into a door.
Not a portal this time, no. It seemed built into the wall, framed by intricate designs, and Flowridia peered through. A dark staircase descended. She stepped forward, flinching at the cold, dusty stone under her bare feet.
Twenty steps, and her feet touched the ground. A dark hallway, lit from some ambient, unknown source, extended in either direction.
Murishani had said her answers waited here. But what, exactly, was ‘here?’ Flowridia kept her right hand on the wall and made her way forward.
Absolute silence met her. Not even her quiet feet disturbed the ominous peace. The path turned, and Flowridia followed, keeping her hand on the wall as she slowly stepped forward.
In the distance, a shadow seemed to consume the path, but as she stepped forward, it moved back. The darkness was never more than a few steps ahead, yet she never reached it.
She stopped and stole a deep breath, skin prickling from nerves. Magic drenched the walls, but it was not evil—something dreadful lingered here, a wickedness that stemmed not from magic, no, yet it sickened her stomach. To fill the silence, she began humming a familiar tune, the very same Ayla had whispered to coax her to sleep.
The sound echoed faintly across the stone walls and floors. It bolstered her courage, though her skin still crawled as her bare feet brushed against the stone.
Murishani wouldn’t have led her into danger . . . right?
She continued forward, until a split in her path met her view. With her hand on the wall, she turned to the right. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings in sheets, threatening to cling to her hair.
Something flaked against her fingers. Flowridia flinched, then gasped when she saw what she’d touched. A smear of copper-hued grime matched the trail her hand followed, continuing until it suddenly veered into the ground.
Flowridia stepped closer to investigate the stain. Years of servitude to a mother with a penchant for cannibalism made her well acquainted with dried blood . . . but where had it come from?
She stepped to the middle of the path, keeping her hands to herself now. Several times, the pathways split. Flowridia kept to the right, unwilling to lose her sense of direction. She had seen nothing and so chose to believe it was abandoned.