by S D Simper
He flashed his charming grin to Casvir. “Are we appeased, Cassie? Oh, wonderful.” He returned his gaze to Flowridia. “It was an absolute delight knowing you, Lady Flowridia of Staelash.”
With another bow, he swept away, leaving only his pride behind.
Casvir’s metallic steps approached. “It is not his only punishment, but it is the one he least looked forward to.”
Flowridia’s arm bore hints of blue behind raw red. “You’re a harsh teacher.”
“It is how I have always inspired respect.”
“Never touch me again.” Her lip twitched, but she forced her emotions to steady. “Not in violence. I don’t think I can forgive you a second time.”
Casvir met her gaze, but Flowridia dared to match it, her quiet fury simmering. “Never disrespect me in public again.”
She offered a hand forward. “You love contracts.”
“Exceptions will be made in sparring and on the battlefield.”
Flowridia couldn’t help but scoff. “I don’t plan on meeting you on the battlefield.”
“I do not know your future, Flowridia. But your talents continue to surprise me.” A genuine smile pulled on his thin lips, revealing an almost parental sort of pride. “I look forward to the day you are something to fear.”
He shook her hand.
Casvir left her. Flowridia shut the door and returned to pinning her hair, but within minutes, another knock startled her. “Come in,” she said, and was shocked to see Khastra step inside.
“Tiny one, may we speak?”
Flowridia nodded and pinned the last strand of her hair. She went to the couch and patted the space beside her, surprised at Khastra’s contrite aura. As she did, the half-demon pulled down the collar of her shirt, revealing a smooth metal core where her heart should be. The skin around it burned raw and red, and when Flowridia listened, she could hear a faint ticking sound, Khastra’s new sign of life.
“So far, it has worked well. I feel fantastic. And I have you to thank.”
“I couldn’t let them kill you,” Flowridia whispered, smiling faintly at the seated half-demon, who still towered above her.
“I did not realize you knew the truth,” Khastra continued, and she set her gaze on her hands instead, watching as they clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed . . . “And I would appreciate if you kept it a secret.”
Flowridia nodded. “I don’t know what Kah’Sheen knows, so I can’t account for that, but I won’t say anything.” The arachnid half-demon had said a bit more than that, she recalled. “She’s going to tell Ku’Shya that you’re alive and well, and that you faked your death.” At Khastra’s amused smile, Flowridia realized this was, perhaps, standard behavior for dealing with her demon goddess of a mother. “Kah’Sheen also says to write your mother.”
Khastra chuckled, and it was a sound Flowridia realized she missed. “I can do that.”
“I wasn’t aware you could simply write a letter to a goddess. It’s rather endearing, actually.”
Khastra continued laughing, genuine amusement in the gesture. Flowridia felt truly at ease in her presence for the very first time. “It is a tradition my second wife insisted upon, that I give my mother my attention.”
The statement surprised her. “Your wife?”
“My second wife, yes. Far across the sea, when I lived in Zauleen. She insisted, if we adopted a child, that the child would know all of its family.” Khastra’s wistful expression faded. “We never had the opportunity. She was killed in the first civil war, when the elven lands split apart.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Khastra shook her head. “It was eight thousand years ago, tiny one. I do not live in the past.”
“Forgive me,” Flowridia said, mulling over how best to phrase what she hoped was not an offensive statement, “but I swear I’ve heard you mention your husbands.”
“Yes, I have had husbands.”
“And at least two wives?”
Khastra chuckled. “I have also had wives. I have loved many people in my long life, some of whom I was blessed to marry. Is this odd to you?”
Flowridia fell silent as she thought on the concept. She had never found a man she thought she could love with all her heart, but that was surely not the case for most women. How, then, was it odd for someone to love both? “Not when I think about it, no,” she finally said.
Khastra kept her warm smile. “It is not a secret, though it has been a long time, I admit, since I have been with someone. Well before Staelash.” She looked down at her hands, the skin turning white as she clenched her fists. “I did not come here to discuss pleasantries. I owe you an apology. I have been cold to you.”
“No, no,” Flowridia replied, daring to cover Khastra’s fists with her hands. When the half-demon relaxed, Flowridia gripped them tight, marveling at the warmth of her undead skin. “I was hurt, yes, but then I saw what was being done to you. I thought it was your way of dealing with pain.”
Khastra smiled, but there was no joy behind it. “I was cold to you about Staelash when you were homesick and heartbroken. I could have told you who Kah’Sheen was and stopped the threat on your life, but I was selfish and wishing to hide. I regret my treatment of you and would like to explain myself.”
Flowridia waited with rapt attention, watching as the half-demon’s glowing eyes softened.
“You have seen my life here and what it shall be. My legacy is one of battle and blood, and in Nox’Kartha, I will live again. In Staelash, I meant as I said—I had no love for it. I was bored and resigned. But against my own judgement, I sought to cast it aside without grieving what I had lost because . . .” She shut her eyes, her elegant features softening. “. . . I was hurting in ways I had not expected. And I am sincerely apologetic that you were a target of that. I wish to make amends, both to you and to them. Staelash should know I am here.”
Flowridia kept her mirror always, as Etolié had implored. With care, she withdrew her hands from Khastra’s and slipped it from her pocket. Khastra reached out to steal it, but Flowridia hesitated and gripped the trinket tight. “May I ask you something, first?”
Khastra watched, permissive in her stare.
“I hope it isn’t overstepping my bounds to ask, but what about Staelash is hurting . . .” Flowridia trailed off, realizing, as she watched the subtle lines in Khastra’s face, the signs of laughter etched around her eyes elegant and the only proof of her great age, that she already knew. Khastra had one joy in Staelash. Flowridia had seen the heartbreak on both ends, though De’Sindai and Celestial both had dealt with it in very different ways. “You and Etolié?”
Khastra shook her head. “Not in the way you think, tiny one. You know Etolié’s proclivities toward attraction. She confided in me, long ago, her discomfort toward being pursued with romantic intention. Whatever my feelings toward her, my relationship with Etolié is my most treasured.” Khastra’s good humor faded by small and measured degrees. “In my bitterness toward Staelash, I elected to forget her as well. But I am a fool. I am her friend, and she is hurting.”
“Is that why you stayed?” Flowridia recalled the words of their initial conversation in Nox’Kartha, the threats and discrepancies both. “By your own admittance, you told Emperor Malakh no to overseeing Staelash. But you stayed for over twenty years.”
To her surprise, Khastra began chuckling. She sat back, a broad, wistful smile pulling at her lips. “I wish I had magic to cast illusions so I could better illustrate my story; alas, I do not. But believe me when I say for all my rage toward the emperor, there was someone else much angrier. I told Malakh no, and then Etolié burst into the throne room, already fuming, shouting obscenities at the Emperor of Solvira, in front of his pregnant wife, no less.” Khastra’s laugh was infectious, and Flowridia felt a smile tug at her own lips. “He was afraid she would try to make a claim for his throne, as a daughter of Staella, and could say nothing to her.
“In my long life, I had never fallen in love at first sight. Etolié changed
that. She was beautiful, and she was furious, and when she left, resigned to her fate, I told him yes. Foolish, yes. But I was drawn to her passion and humor, and soon I began to know her heart. I loved her, and that never changed.” Khastra held out a hand to take the mirror.
“Let me soften the blow,” Flowridia said, clutching it tighter. “I’ll talk to her first.”
Khastra nodded. Flowridia tapped the mirror.
Within seconds, the silver glow faded, revealing Etolié’s frazzled countenance. “It’s been weeks, Flowers.”
“Yes, and we left to go find the orb. I’ve been distracted.”
Etolié perked up. “Does that mean what I hope it means?”
Flowridia shook her head. “No, but there’s a more pressing issue we need to discuss.” That particular conversation, the one where she explained that there was a dragon and that Soliel now had three orbs, promised to take hours. “I need you to sit down.”
“Haven’t sat down in days.”
“Will you sit down, please? This might be difficult news to take.”
The ice in Etolié’s frown could have frozen the sun itself, but Flowridia saw the background shift enough to believe her when the Celestial said, “Lay it on me.”
Unsure of how to open this, and not one to simply tear open a new wound, Flowridia said, “Ayla’s been dead for months.” Etolié’s eyes widened, and she immediately regretted the opener. “And so has Khastra,” she quickly added, grateful when Etolié’s expression grew mild.
Mild, but then pained. “Yes. What about it?”
“Etolié . . .” Flowridia braced herself, casting aside all notions of tact. “Khastra is dead. But she’s in Nox’Kartha.”
Grief shifted rapidly to disbelief. A frown tugged at Etolié’s now trembling lip. “Explain.”
“She works for Imperator Casvir,” Flowridia explained. “Casvir raised her after the funeral.”
She dared to glance up at Khastra, the half-demon’s face purposefully neutral. “She’s the same as she was,” Flowridia said, unsure of what she could say to placate both the Celestial behind the mirror and the former general whose hands tensed as they gripped the other. “Her mind is intact. She’s still funny. Still kind. She’s—”
“She’s there, isn’t she.”
Flowridia looked back down to the silver, glowing mirror, realizing she had been staring at Khastra for the entire exchange. “Etolié—”
“Let me see her.”
Flowridia didn’t have to offer; Khastra reached over and plucked it from her hand.
In the split second before she spoke, Flowridia saw light fill the half-demon’s glowing eyes and a smile that spoke of exhaustion, yes, and fear, but also depthless joy. “Hello, Etolié.”
Sheer silence. And then: “You crystalline bitch—” And, oh, the obscenities Flowridia heard from the other end of the mirror—every variety of swear, some featuring Khastra and some, her mother. Flowridia blushed slightly at the non-implication of where Khastra could stick her hammer and watched as Khastra’s glowing eyes widened with each ticking second of the Celestial’s tirade.
Right as Flowridia was tempted to cover Demitri’s ears, the Celestial finished with a question: “Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I thought this was the sort of news to deliver in person.”
“Oh, now you decide to be tactful!”
Thus the rant continued, and Khastra sat stoic throughout. Flowridia pursed her lips, wishing she could disappear into the cracked stone beneath her feet and surprised that the woman who never lied had seamlessly spoken a falsehood.
From the mirror, Etolié’s words cracked, the beginning of what Flowridia swore was a sob seeping through. But the mirror quite suddenly stopped glowing. Khastra and Flowridia were left in silence.
Khastra placed the mirror in Flowridia’s hand, and then her face fell into her own. She did not quiver or seem to cry, but instead became as stone. Flowridia feared to touch her, knowing the slightest push might shatter her stiff composure.
When she slowly looked up, not at Flowridia, but to the door, she whispered, “Thank you, tiny one. Now I can move forward.”
There was naught Flowridia could say, and so she let Khastra go, heartbroken for her defeated stance. This, the feared war leader, Bringer of War, general of the greatest armies the world had known—Khastra let the door fall gently shut behind her.
The silence rang loud. Flowridia tried to tap the mirror.
No one answered.
* * *
At the last minute, Flowridia wrapped herself up in a black woven shawl, stolen from Ayla’s closet, and a pair of boots to match. For the best—when she stepped outside the great doors of the castle, gentle flakes of snow fluttered down to greet her.
Flowridia gazed down upon the city, grateful to find the path down the mountain was maintained enough to prevent frost from gathering. The shawl only slightly kept away the chill, like an embrace from its late owner, and Flowridia clung to the comfort.
The path was not long, the downward slope from the castle built into the side of the mountain an illusion of height. Flowridia breached the gate of the city proper and basked in the bustling energy.
The light dusting of snow barely had a chance to cover the roads; undead with their brooms and shovels worked to clear the area. Alone, Flowridia drew little attention and instead was able to watch the citizens bustle about. Mostly De’Sindai, yes, but a shocking number of half-giants also made up the populace, half-elves—any race commonly enslaved by humans and their Celestial counterparts.
Racial tensions were high in other parts of the world, but with the threat of the imperator’s justice, everyone seemed to get along perfectly well. Flowridia passed a variety of shops, their roofs covered in a quaint blanket of snow.
Farther in, she saw a gushing fountain, clear and pristine despite the weather, with no frost at the sides. She watched as a small De’Sindai boy, his mother beside him, dipped his scraped hand within the waters. When he withdrew it, all damage had healed.
Curious, Flowridia stepped forward, letting her senses expand and touch upon the water. Healing magic, not unlike what she herself wielded, radiated from the enchanted waters.
She smiled at the notion and realized that while Casvir wielded his power with an iron fist, his populace flourished, his perfect semblance of justice undeniable. Happy citizens were prosperous, as he himself had said, but Flowridia’s kind heart could see a place for herself here. The possibility remained; Casvir had offered employment.
She had not signed the contract, but she had also not said no.
Flowridia continued on her way, fascinated by the array of citizens and the life they lived. The white marbled buildings were rich, décor abundant in the way of statues and carved fountains.
One particular statue pulled her attention. Flowridia approached the gargantuan display of stone, marveling at how it captured the might of its mirror. At the entrance of the Theocracy of Sol Kareena was a great statue of the Goddess herself, but here stood Casvir, a god to his people, a hundred feet tall at least, a reminder to them of who they served.
Flowridia, admittedly, thought it needlessly pretentious, but also suspected it hadn’t been his idea.
As she looked away, she noticed, standing on the other side of the statue, a familiar face. “Tazel?” she said, and she ran toward him, noting his utter confusion.
“Oh. Flowridia. Hello.” He smiled, though it seemed unsettled. She noticed the pack on his back.
“I thought you accepted a job in the castle.”
Tazel nodded. “The imperator paid me handsomely for my services, by which I mean he forgave half my debt to his library and said I could work the rest off over the next ten years. I accepted. I’d be a fool to actually stay, though. Kindly don’t tell him you saw me. Once I’ve settled my affairs, I’ll be sneaking out at nightfall.”
Guilt clenched Flowridia’s gut. “Let me talk to him. If I plead on your behalf, he might . . .”
He offered a hand, and when she reached to accept it, he pulled her into a hug she could not quite resist. He smelled of soap and freshly pressed clothing, and in her ear he whispered, “Your heart is good. Be careful of what you tie yourself to.”
Tazel released her, and without another word went away. Flowridia watched him, unnerved by his statement.
She continued onward, grateful for the signs directing people to the various districts of the city. The religious district would hold what she wanted.
It was a lengthy walk, but not an unenjoyable one. The temple of Sol Kareena stood at the forefront, leading to an array of angelic gods. She resolved to visit Eionei’s someday, to relay to Etolié whether or not it truly did put every party to shame.
Thoughts of Etolié darkened her mood. Flowridia worried, but there was naught to do about that yet.
Demonic temples were kept away from their angelic counterparts. Ku’Shya’s domain was grandeur unmatched, bearing her sigils and guards to defend it. Flowridia passed it by, wary of further provoking the goddess’ wrath, knowing her standing with the great demon was unsteady at best.
It was not difficult to find Izthuni.
The Temple of Izthuni lay in the shadow of an enormous wall, perhaps erected for the protection of his worshipers, or simply out of respect to the demon god’s world. The architecture spiraled, a rounded building with pillars too thin to support the dark stone.
Casvir had said the god himself could appear within.
She approached the sole De’Sindai guard at the entrance, who looked rather surprised to see a small girl approach. “Are you lost, my lady?”