Lillandyr reclined casually on a chaise in the lower parlor in her tower. Surrounding her were men and women who worked for the printed papers, gossip mongers and more serious journalists who wrote in periodicals for the very wealthy and influential. She dressed modest and plain, a black dress with a high neck. She wore rubies in her ears and at her throat, but these too were subdued. A single crimson rose was pinned in her hair above her ear. It scented the room with its rich fragrance. She wanted and needed to appear modest. Especially now, with the Feast being only a day away.
She had done this fifty times before and it usually went the same way, save for trends. The papers were a newer fixture with the advent of daguerreotype photographs. She remained still, a light smile on her face as the photographer instructed. Still, despite her silence as she remained rigid, they barked questions at her.
For the first time, the focus wasn't on her. It was on the counterpart to her sacrifice. They all wanted to know about the handsome, wealthy bachelor, Merris Osterious. The press knew about her previous involvement with him, the long afternoon teas. The three previous visits to his manor. How they knew was a mystery to her. All of her personal servants were incapable of speech. Her guards were controlled through magic, nothing more than puppets made of flesh. But someone had talked. Though selectively. No one mentioned her dealings with Kia Sin'del. And for that she was grateful. Let them have their petty gossip over Osterious. She'd indulge it.
The questions were general at first.
"How did the two of you meet?" asked a young woman who must have thought herself very progressive, very avant-garde. She wore a man's three piece suit and had her hair cropped short. She was a pretty girl and wore the look well. Her quill poised over the parchment.
"I was obliged to make his acquaintance when he first arrived in my Quarter. I found him a delight. He was a banker, as I'm sure you know. He managed funds and savings for other noble families. I sought his advice and it was very sound." She was formal and polite and tried to keep her voice from wobbling. She didn't want them to see or hear how broken up she was over Merris. Over what he'd done. It stung her and she ached. She missed him, their long, sprawling intellectual talks over the soul and the meaning of life. Over the power of the gods. It hadn't occurred to her until he was gone, but he'd been her only true friend.
And that one moment of intense passion between them. It brought color to her cheeks even now, even when she was so displeased with what he'd done. His hand had brushed over the swell of her breasts, his lips devoured her kisses. It set her pulse to race. You love him, her mind supplied bitterly. It went beyond the machinations of the music box's spell and the whims of Baellith; she genuinely liked and admired him. So with just the gentle nudge of the spell and her god, it had blossomed into something far deeper. She felt besotted and lovelorn. She despised it.
The girl liked her answer and smiled. "Another question, Lady Shadowglade. It's been said that the two of you enjoyed tea together nearly every afternoon for fifty years. Is that true?" She pushed back her wide-brimmed hat and leaned closer to the Marquis.
Lillandyr, despite herself, despite all the years of carefully composing her face into an unreadable mask, faltered a little. She pursed her lips and did so until the photographer cleared his throat. Right. She needed to be still.
At long last the flash powder and the bulb exploded in bright light so intense that she had the afterimage seared on her vision in blue. She blinked heavily, glad to be done with the pictures. She had clipped Merris from the papers. How handsome and smart he looked. And so sad. His eyes, dark and mysterious, holding the secret of what he was, looked lonely. She had nearly wept when she'd seen it, his portrait. She had done that to him. Over what? A slight?
No, she argued with herself. More than a slight. He had tried to bewitch and manipulate her. But like a lovesick girl, she'd tucked his picture away in one of her jewelry boxes and admired it often. Curse him.
She nodded absently at the reporter girl in boy's clothes. "Yes, yes. It's true." She composed herself fully and sat upright, smoothing her honey-gold curls. "He's a very intelligent, delightful man. I enjoy his company."
She didn't know that this was blood in the water. That she was feeding the sharks.
The girl smiled, sharp and quick. "Enjoy? And are the two of you lovers?"
The question was like a slap across the face. Lillandyr was private. Things like this just weren't discussed in the stiffly polite world of the rich and highborn. That was a question for a common whore. Her brow pinched. "No. We're merely friends." More than friends, her mind said bitterly. We could've been more than friends.
A man at the girl's side in a pristine white suit held his quill up, trying to gain her attention. She flicked a cold, cutting glance his way.
"Marquis Shadowglade, were you close with any of the prior sacrifice participants?"
"They were all strangers," she answered. She wasn't sure now what made it worse. That she knew who was to defile her or not. They were almost always common born men. Rough and unattractive, like Kia Sin'del.
She thought of the Old Dog and his disfigured, disgusting face. His big, rough hands, his hulking size. Lillandyr thought of what it would be like to be taken by a man like that. She'd seen his looks, the way his gaze devoured her. She'd seen how he'd been fucking that whore. Men were always easy with her, her sacrificial lovers. Gentle and nervous.
More than half of them were so nervous they couldn't even get their cocks to stiffen. Most of the time, it was just simulated sex on the altar, grinding pelvises together, going through the motions. But she knew Sin'del wouldn't have any problem taking her. And he wouldn't be gentle. She'd never been taken from behind on all fours like that. It brought more color to her cheeks.
She had only once lain with a man she wanted. Sylandris. The revolutionary. Dashingly handsome, clever with a silver tongue. They'd been drunk and she'd just given him a purse full of gold coins for his "cause." She'd lost her virginity to him, in his hideout, on a thin cot that smelled musty. It had hurt.
"Marquis! What do you think of this year's choice? Do you find him attractive?" the man asked with a leering grin.
She had to fight not to glower at him. She wanted to fill his mind full of terrors and send him screaming from her tower, but she couldn't. This was too important. Her image was part of the key to her rule. Before her, the Flesh Quarter hadn't been a real Quarter at all, just a cesspool, a space in between the Industrial Quarter and the Artisan Quarter. A dumping ground for those in society that were no longer wanted, for waste and trash. But she had swept in and cleaned it up and risen to power, and had ruled for over fifty years. Her people adored and worshiped her. She took the questions, though they were in poor taste.
She lowered her gaze, sly and coquettish. She bit her bottom lip. "I... must confess that I have always found Meriweather Osterious attractive." She sighed a little. "And I've always been fond of him." She simpered, appealed to what they really wanted, gossip. All those in the room regarded her now with wide eyes. The story just got a thousand times better for them. It made her sick. Sick, because it was true.
The girl in men's clothes pushed ahead of the man in the white suit. "Are you telling us you have feelings for Mister Osterious?" She sounded incredulous, but delighted. A love story for the Feast of Saint Baellith. Lillandyr knew it would be charming and irresistible to her people. And quickly forgotten once the feast was over.
She nodded slowly. "I do... I can't keep it to myself any longer. Oh, I wonder if he will read this." She laughed lightly. She hoped he'd read it, but she knew he wouldn't believe it. He'd be a fool to after the way she'd treated him.
"It's funny," she added, her tone conversational. "Because we'd had a bit of a falling out. A small disagreement. And it only made me realize... how much I value him, his friendship. I do hope he knows how sorry I am. You know how it is: harsh words in anger are rarely reflected in the heart." Believe me, she thought desperately, as if this were some message in a bottle she was putting out to sea.
She had their eager attention now. They were vultures circling a dying beast in the desert and she trailed sweet vitae with every word.
The reporter girl strode forward and sat on her couch. It was bold, too bold. She was common trash and Lillandyr wanted to strike her, tear the tongue from her mouth and make her live the rest of her foolish days as a servant. But instead, she smiled graciously while the girl lit a thin cigarette. "This is so amazing. Do you think the two of you will be lovers after this?"
Who asks these questions? she thought in dismay. She had to find a way to end this little game. And end it quickly. "If Mister Osterious chooses to court me, I suppose we'll have to see," she said a tad stiffly.
The girl offered her a cigarette, which Lillandyr politely declined. It was a disgusting commoner's habit, smoking.
"Are you nervous then?" the girl asked.
She was nervous. For the first time it didn't feel like a chore, but something to be anticipated. She longed to see him again. But at the same time, she worried that it would be unpleasant. That he would hate her. That he wouldn't have her, but they'd just go through the motions together. It sent a lance of bitter regret through her. She had to do something.
"Nervous? Oh no. He's my dear friend... and I'm rather glad that this came along with the nudge to deepen our relationship. Now," she said rising, smoothing her skirts. "If you'll excuse me, I've some men from Pith to see. They've brought gifts and I would be a terrible Marquis if I didn't receive them. Thank you." She dipped her head in a bow and left them to catcall questions after her.
How dare they?
How dare they!
She was furious and trembling. Those questions. Times were changing, she thought, and not for the better if people could just think they could simply ask such things. Of her especially. But she pushed the fury and upset out of her mind as she entered a drawing room on the west wing of the spire. There, two men sat, very close to each other. They clasped hands and whispered. Both of them had warm, caramel-colored skin and their long ears were covered in gold rings and black inked tattoos. They wore white satin with gold filigree and had long, long inky hair. Elves from the Deserts of Pith. They were beautiful men and she greeted them with a formal bow.
"Good evening Lord Oromo and... company." She didn't know the name of the man at Lord Oromo's' side. He was thinner of frame and shorter of stature than Oromo's, but just as beautiful. They could've been brothers with their amber-colored eyes and slick smiles.
"Marquis Shadowglade, as always, it is a pleasure to see you." His voice was richly accented, but his common tongue was perfect. "This is my lover, Lord Ytish." He gestured absently; golden rings on his fingers shimmered brightly.
She continued to exchange pleasantries and wine with the men. It was a welcome relief from the invasive journalists, as the men from Pith were kind and polite. The conversation was all dry and formal and she felt suddenly very, very tired. Her thoughts kept wandering to Merris. What was he doing? Was he as anxious as she was?
"Our gift is extravagant," Oromo's drawled, breaking her from her reverie. She'd not been listening at all.
"Oh? I'm sure it's lovely." She bobbed her head in a nod. "And you have my thanks. You didn't have to bring a gift other than the gift of your company." But all the dignitaries brought gifts to her. Some were small, meager gestures. Some mere trinkets. Silks and furs and jewels. Bright little birds in gilded cages. They all scrabbled for her favor. The Marquis Florin of the Industrial Quarter gave her a motorbike. It was a bizarre contraption that belched black smoke and roared when you stepped on the pedals. It terrified her to go so fast and in so unwieldy a fashion. She'd give the gift away. It seemed like something for a commoner besides.
Oromo's chuckled at her dismissive nature, but it was a warm laugh and Lillandyr smiled sheepishly in apology. She was tired, surely he understood. "He, your gift, is chained in your courtyard. A rare beast."
She let Lord Oromo take her by the arm then and lead her outside. There, in the courtyard, towering almost two stories high, was a strange beast she'd never seen before. It was built much in the same way an elephant was. It had a long trunk that was ridged in bony spines. The creature was a bright, vibrant teal and had jagged, white stripes on its... fur? No. Feathers. It turned and shone, iridescent like a hummingbird. The teal changed to deep, emerald green depending on the way the light hit it. Broad, sweeping crimson feathers protruded from its brow and the creature regarded her with an intelligent, topaz gaze. The beast had ivory tusks and two ivory horns from its crowned head. The ivory had been carved in strange symbols and set with brilliant gems of all colors.
Lillandyr found the beast lovely, exotic, and impressive. She told Lord Oromo so, bowing politely to him. "To honor your gift, I shall ride it to the temple tomorrow."
This delighted the man and they parted on good terms. Someday, she thought, when I am Empress, all of this shall have been worth it. All of the bowing and scraping. All of the listening to the apple polishing. Then? She'd not have to tolerate all of this. It would be hers. And she would see to it that it was all done in honor of Venorith and she would be rewarded with power beyond mortal comprehension.
A wicked smile curled her lips. Yes. She needed to focus on what was important. She'd risen from nothing, from the filth of the slums to this. She deserved it. And she would allow nothing to take it away from her. Not after how much she had struggled. She'd let herself love once. She'd let him trick her, Sylandris. Let him seduce her with sweet words and soft touches. Let him have her body and her gold.
And she had caught him with his woman. His lover. Caught him with his hands all over her. He had never loved her. He had wanted her gold. And later she heard that he'd run the same scam on other noblewomen. Sylandris wasn't a revolutionary. He wasn't some romantic figure with a brave and courageous cause. He was a conman. And she'd been such a fool.
She'd vowed never to fall for a man's charms again, yet here she was, missing Merris, pining for him. Longing.
It soured the rest of her evening and she could not find sleep. She spent the time, the long gray hours between deep night and dawn, bathing and preparing herself. She scoured all the hair from her body and oiled her skin. She sent her maids away; she couldn't tolerate the company of anyone, not even the silent girls. She wore her robe and drank too much wine. But that was all right; she was usually drugged or drunk for the Feast. It was the only way she could bear it. Before it was disgust, now it was nerves.
She stood on her balcony and already a crowd gathered there. She squinted and saw that they held papers in their hands. The gossip rags already circulated. The people called up to her, cheered her. That hadn't ever happened before. They shouted her name and cheered. Her lips twitched at the corners, unsure if this pleased her or not, but eventually, she smiled broad anyway. She held up a hand and waved to her adoring crowd.
Lillandyr couldn't stand their fawning long and she retreated inside. She called for her maids and had them set her hair in place. This day, she wore no cosmetics, no jewels, or flowers. No lace or satin or velvet. She came fresh faced and unadorned. What she didn't see was how lovely and vulnerable it made her look. How open and afraid. It was harder to hide her feelings without the paint on her eyes and lips. They dressed her in a simple gown of soft white linen that plunged low and cinched at her waist. And then they left her.
Lillandyr stole away to her bedroom and flung aside all the jewels in a powder blue box until she had the paper that held Merris' photograph. Oh, his face. Her fingers trailed over the picture and she closed her eyes, remembering how his lips had felt, how wildly his heart had drummed when she'd been wantonly pressed against him.
No, she thought, he was not an elf, not a man. He was male, but not just flesh and blood. His soul was ancient and dark. He was powerful, like the angels of Venorith. Perhaps that was what he was. An avatar of her god.
"I'll tell you," she whispered, tucking her treasure away. "I'll tell you how I feel." Even though I'm afraid, she thought. So she sat, waiting, waiting for Vassiago to come and fetch her. The Feast began at high noon and only an hour after that she would see him and part her legs and open her arms. She would take him inside her and briefly, they would be one. And in that moment, she would be united with Baellith. Baellith would impart her with great wisdom, words to give to her people. And sometimes the god told her things, whispered madness in her ear. Sometimes, he took the place of the man brought to defile her so that the god was the one who took her. This time? She only wanted to lay with the man who had won her favor.
Two hours before the ceremony, Vassiago came for her. He brought a box full of silks and feathers and golden bangles for her throat and wrists and ankles. "My Lady Shadow," he said reverently, "I've come to dress you in your costume."
She nodded dully to his usual fawning. He looked resplendent with his silks and jewels and curled shoes. Like a jester for the Emperor. She could see a touch of his golden hair and a flash of his light brown eyes. His smiling lips. He was beautiful. She knew that if she took the mask off, that he would be a lovely man. But she never wanted to see his face. Though she was certain it was fair, she was certain too that it was terrible. She wasn't sure why, just a strange feeling he always gave her.
The costume was simple. Subdued as always. He dressed her in the style of the desert elf queens of Pith. Another nod to Oromo's and his generous gift. Gold glittered on her slender limbs and graceful neck. Her hair was pulled up, curls spilling in a sweep so that her throat was exposed. Peacock feathers adorned her golden locks. Her feet were bare. She looked at her reflection and smiled. She looked younger, afraid and wide-eyed. Not at all herself.
"Shhh," Vassiago soothed. "Our Beautiful Queen shouldn't worry. Shouldn't fret, no, no, no! It will be all over very quickly. Just close your eyes and think of something else! Something pleasant, yes? Yes." He kissed her temple and pressed a syringe into her palm. The poison for the child sacrifice. Her mood soured further.
Lillandyr could be cold, yes. Cruel? Certainly. Anything to secure her power. But she did not relish killing a child. It always disturbed her. And the poison had been her idea. The child was supposed to be burned alive to symbolize the torment that Baellith's twin sister endured, but Lillandyr found it distasteful and cruel, too terrible to endure. When she was Empress, she vowed to abolish child sacrifice, but until then, she had to go along with it. So it was a mercy, to kill the child before the flames touched her. Fifty children, she thought with a tightening of her throat. All that blood on her hands. Sometimes, especially in the dark, lonely, still watches in the night, it was hard to reconcile it all. She just kept telling herself it would be worth it.
She offered Vassiago a thin smile. "Ah, of course. Thank you." She took a final look in the mirror and drew in a steadying breath. Lillandyr lofted her chin and squared her shoulders and felt very, very alone. Cold. She repressed a shudder and turned, nodding at Vassiago. "It is time. Let's go."
He offered her his arm and she took it. She let him lead her down all the winding steps, through the cool, dark corridors, down, down until light spilled golden in the marble foyer. The music was loud, a cacophony of disjointed sound, shouts and revelry. Moans, screams, cries of joy and pain. The smells were overpowering, too. Food and wine. Sex. Drugs and smoke. The drums beat and Lillandyr could feel them throb against the soles of her bare feet. Anticipation and nerves made her mouth dry, made her clutch Vassiago's arm a little more tightly. She wanted to go back to her room. To hide. To go to Merris on better terms so she could softly talk to him, earnest and open and frank, and confess her feelings and beg forgiveness. This spectacle was no way to reconcile.
She stopped at her courtyard and looked at the throngs of revelers and merrymakers. It was a beautiful day, the sunshine was bright, and the spring air was cool. A soft breeze lifted the fouler smells and drove them away. People laughed and grabbed each other. There was fucking in the street. Men and women paired off or stayed in groups. Gender was irrelevant, just touching and kissing, groping. Women went out with bared breasts and men wore no shirts. On the Feast of Saint Baellith all of her whores offered themselves freely. They wore crimson ribbons wound around their arms. They sacrificed as Lillandyr did. For a moment, she found the spectacle beautiful. It was an expression of physical desire and lust and love. But under that thin veneer she knew that there were rapes and murders. That the joy many people had they'd found in drugs.
Kia's men were out in force. Their faces dark with malice as they peddled their poisons. People sought it out this day in particular, the drugs adding to the pleasure, the lust, and the frenzy of the Feast. Her guards had been instructed to let them be, let them sling their wares to her people. Kia and Lillandyr now had an understanding. She helped him. He helped her. It was the way of it. The best help she could offer the Old Dog was her apathy. Turning a blind eye.
Vassiago led her to where the strange creature idled. Huge, golden chains were looped through the beast's tusks and her guards tugged on them, heaving until it knelt low. Her men, including Vassiago, helped her to climb atop the beast. The feathers were soft like satin and it smelled strange, like cinnamon and the musk that large animals sometimes have. When she felt secured on the beast's back, Lillandyr raised a slender arm and her men let the beast stand on all four legs again. It lurched and trumpeted. The sound delighted her and despite her nervousness and foul mood, she laughed. The sound was like bells and clarion calls at the temple. Vassiago and her guards marched the great creature forward with her atop it like a little jewel. She waved to the crowd who cheered and called to her. They raised banners, her banners, but... wait... no. The twisted black tree had another symbol over it. A moth. Merris and her symbol intertwined, together. It made her pulse flutter and her face redden.
The writhing, moaning crowd parted for her and her beast. They threw bright petals before her and sent beautiful children dressed all in red and black with bells on their wrists and ankles to dance in her path before she tread it. It was good luck. She could see the fires of the temple glow red against the horizon even in the bright light of near noon. The oracle should be meeting her fate. There was nothing Lillandyr could do for the girl now. The bells tolled, loud and bright, cutting through the noise of the cheering, adoring crowd. She was done, her throat slit, her young, lithe body tossed into the fires of the flesh pits.
Those fires would burn until dawn. Enemies of Belshalara, criminals, virgins, children, whores... the flesh pits always required more. Especially today. Ash would rain from the sky the following day and it would give her great unease, but again, it was tradition and there was nought she could do about it. Not yet anyway.
The beast lumbered onwards, taking her nearer the temple. She could smell the braziers and censers, the thousands of candles they'd lit for her and Merris. All the music stopped and the crowd, though far from silent, hushed. Now, only drums beat. The rhythm was deep and slow, throbbing, booming baritone drums that vibrated in her very bones, and despite the cool breeze she felt too hot, her palms sweaty, her mouth like the deserts of Pith.
All too soon they arrived. Her men helped her down from her exotic mount and led the beast away. She alone ascended the temple steps, heart in her mouth. She tried to look brave, regal, but she felt so small. The Temple of Baellith towered over the crowd and though her spire was tall, the tallest building in all of Belshalara, few things compared to the majesty of the Flesh God's temple. It was comprised of three tall towers and all had been gilded. The towers had been carved of ebony stone that shone brightly in the sun. Carved in the black stone were visions of the hermaphroditic god coupling with women and men.
The stone of the steps chilled the bottom of her feet as she moved. Was he there already? At the altar? Waiting for her? She knew he'd be dressed similarly, in white robes, simple, nude underneath. Unadorned. She felt dizzy then. Weak. But up she climbed. It was her duty and the public had never before adored this so much. Her god demanded it. Her people. She couldn't turn back, though every fiber of her wanted to.
The altar loomed before her, polished white marble threaded with gold. She didn't see Merris on the dais, thank the gods. Near the altar, a man dressed in her colors, an acolyte of Baellith, held a young girl under her arms. Her eyes were glassy and half closed. Drugged. As Lillandyr approached with cheers at her back and her banners whipping in the wind, she wondered if it had been Kia's drugs that subdued the child. She thought it likely. Curious that it did a mercy when usually it destroyed. She wondered, too, where he was then. Was he close? Could he see this? A wicked part of her hoped so.
Lillandyr nodded to the man gravely, and held out a hand for the child. She didn't look at the poor little lamb; she couldn't bear to. She went through the motions and plunged the syringe into the back of the girl's neck and mashed down the plunger. It was some small comfort that the child didn't suffer. That it was quick and painless. Lillandyr stooped and gathered the child to her, dragging her to the open fire pit. "Baellith! Take this sacrifice and see that she burns in your name, for your suffering and pain, let her be devoured! Favor us today and grace my own sacrifice with your presence!" She let go and the little girl, quite dead, tumbled into the roaring flames. She half turned so that the crowd, so that the guards, so that no one could see her revulsion, see her close her eyes so she didn't have to watch.
When she turned, she lifted her hands and the crowd devoured her humility and beauty. She drank it in, their adoration. The power it gave her. She let it bolster her, give her strength, drive away her anxiety and nervousness. They cried out her name, over and over, in time with the thundering beat of the drums. Yes. She had to remember this was about her.
But then the cries changed. The crowd grew quiet for just a moment until it boomed and surged back to life. "Merris Osterious!" they called. It stole her breath. Time paused for this moment; it slowed, and all the color bled out of everything. The music, the drums, the cheering of the crowd, all faded away as her ears rang. Slowly, so very slowly, she turned around.
He looked small and terrified by the altar of Baellith. He wore a shapeless white robe that was cut low so she could see his pale chest and the scant smattering of dark hair. He had his hair loose around his shoulders, feathery and black and shining. They dressed him like the kings of Pith, gold on his wrists and ankles, a blood red ruby shining on his forehead. He wouldn't even look at her.
"Merris," she said, but her voice couldn't be heard over the din of the crowd. Still, he kept his gaze fixed on the marble at his feet, his thin hands clasped before him. He trembled.
No, she thought, her heart wrenching, aching. It couldn't be this way.
Though she knew it would hurt her, she closed her eyes and slipped into his head, into the maelstrom of his thoughts.
Instantly, it burned, throbbed behind her eyes, this vicious pain. She was a mere mortal and he... he was something else, something bright and fierce and divine. He looked up at her sharply, angry at her invasion. But she pressed on until she could taste copper and felt her blood, warm, trickle from her nose.
Merris, she called to him. There wasn't time to beg for forgiveness or to argue. Merris, she called again until he kept his dark eyes on her. "I want you," she cooed in his head as she reached out a hand for him. The crowd went wild, falling into each other's arms, touching and groping and cheering. Calling for them to embrace.
He didn't believe her.
She reached out a trembling hand again to him. She focused all of her power even though it felt like angry hornets buzzing in her skull. She focused until the backs of her eyes burned white-hot. Dizzy, she pressed on until she sank to her knees.
She was blinded, chin sagging to her chest. She reached up a trembling hand and silently prayed that he would take it.