by S D Simper
Uncomfortable silence settled. In tentative steps, Flowridia approached, coming around the side. “Khastra?”
Khastra’s glowing eyes spared her a glance. There was no shyness to her pose, but while Flowridia elected not to stare at her nakedness, any discomfort at the sight of her small breasts was far outweighed by the vicious scar between them. Great metallic pins clamped the two halves of her chest together, and nausea welled in Flowridia’s stomach.
“Tiny one?”
“I was hoping I could speak to you,” Flowridia said, noting that even seated, Khastra posed as though far taller than she.
The two women continued with their task of braiding the lengthy mane into a single rope. The girl who had led Flowridia inside stood respectfully apart, holding a towel in her arms.
Khastra finally said, “Go on.”
Etolié had told her once to not be put off by Khastra’s blunt airs, to simply speak her mind. “There is a war in Sha’Demoni,” she began softly. “Did Casvir tell you?”
“He did.”
“And did he tell you about my kidnapping.”
“In passing.”
“Your mother, Ku’Shya, has decreed my head as the price for your death.”
“As is her right, according to Demoni law,” Khastra replied, as though commenting on the dinner menu.
Flowridia steeled herself and asked, “What do you know about The Coming Dawn?”
Only now did Khastra fully face her. The half-demon raised an elegant eyebrow. “Is that who came to collect you?”
“Etolié found a drawing in a book. I’m very certain.”
“Not many depictions of The Coming Dawn. She has rarely been seen outside of Sha’Demoni since the first death of The Endless Night; instead, she is now a lapdog to my mother.”
Flowridia clung to every word. “You know her?”
“I know every member of Ku’Shya’s court,” Khastra said, but though Flowridia wished to melt onto the floor, the half-demon’s words held no ire. “Be careful, tiny one. My mother was the first to mock Izthuni when he claimed a small elven girl to be his champion, but soon saw The Endless Night’s growing power and sought to extinguish it. Ayla Darkleaf’s death four hundred years ago brought fragile peace, but it seems my death has shattered it.”
“If Ku’Shya knew you were here, would it stop the war?”
Khastra’s concern faded into subtle indignation. “Doubtful. The insult stings worse than the crime. Which is why you should be careful. Ayla Darkleaf had many enemies, both of this world and the others. If not The Coming Dawn, someone else will come.”
Flowridia recalled the labyrinth beneath the earth, perhaps adjacent to the realm she stood in now. Ayla was a woman of spite, and though Flowridia knew of her rivalry with Sora Fireborn and her lineage, she had never considered that there might be more.
“My presence in Nox’Kartha,” Khastra continued, her tone pointed now, “will remain a secret until I deem it time.”
Flowridia offered a quick nod.
“Are your questions answered, tiny one?”
She nodded again, though it was a lie. A thousand new ones welled in her mind, including the realization that Khastra would have known precisely who Ayla was even in Staelash, but her innately curious mind withered in the woman’s domineering presence.
Khastra beckoned toward the small girl with her towel, then stood up. Flowridia looked away, demure at her nakedness, and accepted that this was her exit. “Thank you for your time,” she muttered, and Flowridia saw herself out.
Once in the hallway, she finally spoke. “I feel like a fool, Demitri.”
If it’s any consolation, I think she thought you were a fool before, too. Nothing has changed—
His words ceased, and Flowridia stopped listening, because Ana suddenly darted toward the great archway.
“Ana!” she cried, but the little fox darted faster than she could keep up. “Ana, stop!”
The fox obeyed. Flowridia stepped beneath the arch to grab her, yet Ana continued to struggle. “What’s gotten into you—”
“Lady Flowridia, whatever is the matter?”
Murishani’s form appeared within the dark hallway, steadily approaching. When Flowridia stepped forward, the magical shield parted for her to enter. “Ana was misbehaving.”
“Magical creatures are prone to behaving erratically under static, so to speak. There are some powerful spells here.”
Flowridia glanced back toward the stairs, but saw nothing, as though the dark hallway stretched backward for miles. “Forgive me,” she said softly, “but I should be going.”
“Of course, Lady Flowridia,’ Murishani said, offering his arm. “May I show you out?”
Murishani had been nothing but accommodating and friendly, yet something in her stomach screamed in revolt as she hesitantly looped her arm through his. “Lead on, I suppose.”
He led her down the dark hallway, the candles casting shimmering lights across his opulent, gold-trimmed robes. Flowridia’s free hand skimmed across Demitri’s fur.
“I do hate to ask, but did you find what it was you sought?”
Flowridia nodded unwilling to elaborate.
“Goodness me,” he replied, placing a hand on his heart. “A horrible place, Ayla Darkleaf’s domain. An ingenious and dangerous mind, she had, but her application was unquestionably abhorrent.” His hand patted hers. “Strange, what broken minds will do.”
“What do you know?” Flowridia whispered, and his smile curdled her blood.
“Not much, though I tried to make nice with her. I brought her down here, but instead of reveling, she flayed her conquest alive.”
Flowridia stiffened, swearing her heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“My domain is one of pleasures—of every variety, including the twisted sort Ayla requested. But you would know all about that, I’m sure,” he said, his wink obscene and knowing and enough to make her gut squirm.
Perhaps her panicked confusion showed too obviously. “No? Lady Flowridia, I must ask then, what have you tried?” A pause, and his smile twisted into something coy. “What have you always wanted to try?”
Flowridia forced a smile, the inner voice labeled ‘self-preservation’ suddenly screaming at her to run. “Truthfully, I’d like to simply sleep through the night for once. Could you take me to my room?”
“I’d be a neglectful host without a tour—”
His words stopped; Flowridia squeaked at the grip on her shoulder. When she turned around and saw Khastra’s severe gaze, she nearly fainted from relief.
“General, a surprise to see you—”
She pushed Murishani; he stumbled and let Flowridia go. Khastra placed her hand at Flowridia’s back and led her away without a word.
She wore no armor, instead breeches and a shirt, yet still she remained imposing and grand. Her hair, shined and washed, travelled in a single braid down her back, nearly brushing her digitigrade knees. Flowridia said absolutely nothing, not until the scene returned to normal, the vision of the endless hallway rippling away. The archway became an ominous sight behind them.
“Thank you.”
Khastra glanced down at her. “Stay away from him.”
She continued escorting Flowridia up the stairs. “He’s a tease, but he’s only ever been polite—”
“You are a bigger idiot than Marielle, if you believe that.”
Though shocked at the bluntness of Khastra’s words, Flowridia realized the time for kindness had passed. “Why is he interested in me?”
Khastra stopped in the middle of the stairs. She grabbed Flowridia’s shoulders, staring directly at her as she said, “I am not privy to his mind, but the reasons do not matter. Murishani is a manipulative and dangerous man. Next time, I may not be there to protect you.”
Flowridia looked from Khastra’s face to the floor. Already, the urge to second-guess her inner voice reared up, because Murishani had truthfully only ever presented the very image of kindness yet . . .
>
“You are nervous. What did he do to you?”
Flowridia’s gaze shot back up. “It’s only a hunch.”
“Tell me.”
Her posture fell. “I think he started the rumors about Casvir and I.”
“Likely.”
“He showed me other things, too. A-Around the castle. Secrets I shouldn’t have seen.”
Khastra didn’t press, for which Flowridia was grateful. Instead, the half-demon released her shoulders. “Do not be alone with him.” She continued escorting Flowridia up the stairs. “Murishani is the second-in-command of one of the largest empires in the world. Casvir is not a good man, but he is a man of honor. Murishani is everything the imperator lacks, and certainly not above slipping a knife through your back—or, more likely, convincing you to do it yourself.”
Flowridia merely nodded, subdued beneath the reprimand. Neither said anything more until Khastra stopped at the crux of the second floor. “Tread lightly, tiny one. Nox’Kartha is not a place for the weak.”
She left Flowridia alone.
She spent the night in her ambassador’s suite, plagued by tender dreams that burned her to think of in the daylight. She laid in a stasis in her bed until a knock at the door startled her.
Flowridia sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes as Demitri spoke from where he lay beside her. Smells gross. Must be Casvir.
She couldn’t help but chuckle at her rude boy. In her nightclothes, a bone-deep chill permeating her core, she stumbled from her bedside, gripping the doorframe for support when all the blood rushed to her head.
Casvir, imposing as always, stared down at her. “I apologize for the early hour. The grind of politics begins soon, but I wish to show you something. Will you come?”
She nodded.
“Put on clothing. We are going outside.”
Within minutes, she had donned a high-necked piece of gaudy gold and pink. Not her favorite, but it suited her purposes. She and Demitri followed Casvir through the halls and down the stairs, his metallic steps unmistakable, and any servants they passed immediately ducked away or bowed. Flowridia preferred to not dwell on their thoughts. The rumors had travelled much too far for her comfort.
They exited through a door Flowridia did not recognize, but they immediately came upon a splendid sight.
The first hints of sunrise peeked beyond the horizon; within minutes, the sky would burst into brilliant shades of orange and blue. Despite the morning chill seeping down to her bones, she followed as Casvir led her to a copse of trees beyond.
She realized a path of stone wound between them, and through the array of greenery, thick bushes of flowers filled in the space. A colorful wonderland, fresh scents filling her nose as they stepped onto the path.
So engrossed she was, that Casvir’s words startled her. “It is prudent to maintain a garden to entertain ambassadors, and so I invested money in gardeners many years ago. They cultivate the land, but none of them hold a candle to you.”
Flowridia looked up from inspecting a particularly lush rose bush. “I have enthusiasm for gardening, I suppose—”
But her voice stopped when Casvir shook his head. “Never downplay your worth.” He watched as she flitted about, following her lively steps as she inspected the floral masterpiece. Interspersed among the plant life were stone statues, benches, even a pagoda beyond. Funds had been invested here to make it a haven of idle entertainment. It seemed to never end. “If you need somewhere to clear your head, this place is open to you. Do with it as you wish; I trust in your talents.”
Since returning to Nox’Kartha, Casvir’s aura had been brusque at best. But here, alone, it felt like the woods again. “Thank you,” she said, touched at the thoughtfulness. However, the sentiment was marred by a rising bitterness threatening to choke her. “You provide entertainment and havens to all in your servitude.”
“Happy workers are productive.”
“Does that mean you condoned Ayla’s behaviors?” And Murishani’s, and the torture onto Khastra’s sentient body . . .
It was a cruel accusation, especially to one who had shown her nothing but thoughtfulness. “I built her labyrinth, yes. I told you that.”
“And you gave your own citizens to be tortured and met to hellish fates?”
His response surprised her—never had he spoken so harshly. Not to her. “What I do for the greater good of my kingdom is not yours to denounce. Rest assured that those given to Ayla for experimentation were sentenced to die—the murderers, the rapists, those who harm children. The justice of my kingdom rewards the citizens who contribute but condemns those who break my laws.”
Flowridia didn’t say what she had seen of Khastra’s fate—but the half-demon was no citizen, she realized. She recalled the priestess of Neoma who was slain to bring Ayla’s return.
Casvir was a ruthless monarch, willing to burn the world for the betterment of his own. She would be a fool to forget that.
To her surprise, he withdrew the orb from his armor, the crackling beacon of power spiking against her senses at his touch. “In all my study, I feel nothing more or less of Ayla Darkleaf. Surprising, given the supposed power of this orb.”
Though she felt like a fool, she withdrew the ear from her bodice and held it up to the orb, watching Casvir for a reaction.
“Perhaps it is, as I said, because she is something different than a ghost, in the possession of her own god. I cannot say.” He looked beyond her, past her shoulder to the empty air. “But she continues to haunt you, in an entirely real way.”
The words would have once drawn tears to her eyes, to know that Ayla cared still. Now, she felt only dread. “I hear her,” she admitted, and to her surprise Casvir frowned. “At night. In dreams. The louder she speaks, the sicker I feel in the morning. The tighter she holds—” Realization struck her, a punch to her brutalized heart. “. . . the colder I feel.”
“In sleep, our consciousnesses are far more susceptible to magical influence. Has she spoken anything of interest?”
“I think she tried to warn me of the demon.”
Flowridia told him what Etolié had said of The Coming Dawn, passing it off as something she’d read for herself, and recalled from long ago the words echoing in her dreams the night before her abduction.
“Dawn . . . approaching.”
She told him all. His gaze narrowed in disappointment. “You should have told me.”
She merely swallowed her shame. “What does it mean, Casvir?”
“It means, with study, you may be able to speak to her in return.”
Her heart might’ve once sang, but now, as she looked upon the shriveled, desiccated ear, it felt as cold as the labyrinth that had nearly swallowed her whole.
Her jaw set, stubbornly grit against the angry tears that might’ve risen—but not today. She had cried enough for Ayla Darkleaf.
Even if it wounded her beyond words to think.
“You maintain an impressive garden of your own in Staelash,” Casvir said, startling her from her thoughts. “My connection to you was severed whenever you entered the premise. Was that on purpose?”
“In a way,” Flowridia admitted. Her feet took idle steps forward, willing away the vitriolic thoughts in her head. “I wove wards of protection into the roots of the plants, preventing anyone who would try and harm me from entering. It also prevented eavesdropping, magical or otherwise. My mother taught me many things. Wards were a specialty of hers.”
“Your wards are better.”
He said it so definitively, so decisive. Surprised, Flowridia said, “What makes you say that?”
“The lingering connection I felt to your mother always persisted, even after the death of her familiar. You, however, I could not feel when you stepped behind your garden walls.”
The statement welled a thousand questions and confirmed a few festering suspicions Flowridia had kept to herself. She turned back to face him, his cold aura odd among the sea of beauty. “So, you did know my mother?”
/> “She never knew me, but I certainly knew her. I granted her power hundreds of years ago. She was an intelligent woman, clever and capable, and with a mind for the macabre I wished to see flourish. Her remarkableness came from utter squalor; she was a woman with no title, no grand heritage, yet already renowned among her people as a medicine woman, working her way from poverty to fortune. So, I granted her what she always claimed to have—true magic—and watched to see how she would thrive.”
He paused then, thoughtful as he studied Flowridia who watched with rapt attention. “I was a younger monarch then, seeking exceptional minds to fill vacancies in my kingdom. Had her familiar not been killed by the Solviran heir apparent, she might have been taken to live among mine.” He watched her expectantly, and Flowridia realized he wished to verify if she knew this as well.
“Mother told me pieces of that tale.”
“A pity she bargained to escape that marriage. Solviraes blood creates powerful children.”
To speak so clinically of murder and rape chilled Flowridia’s blood. She bit back her discomfort, hiding her expression by returning her attention to the path. Demitri, always attuned to her emotions, came up beside her and bumped her with his nose. “Then you’re the same demon to whom she prayed—”
And to whom she sold her child.
Flowridia stopped. Casvir stepped up beside her. “Mother gave me to you,” she whispered, pieces of her own history falling into place. “Aura appeared to me as a little girl because you had been watching.” Flowridia frowned suddenly, furrowing her brow as she looked up to face him. “But why me? Mother had other children . . .”
But none of those other children were told a bedtime tale of their father, a paladin of Sol Kareena, sent by a demon in the woods.
“You know who my father is,” Flowridia said suddenly. The very birds seemed to cease their morning song. Casvir, however, simply nodded. “You sent my father to Odessa. Why?”
He gestured to the pagoda beyond the path. She followed as he led her to a bench in the center. “I asked for a child,” he said, not joining her when she sat. “Not any specific child. I sent a man I knew could sire a worthy heir for my power. Odessa may have been a failed investment, but that did not mean I could not salvage something from her squandered potential.”