"Clivia, we call the beasts. The Ancients preferred another term, lost now to time. They counseled us not to purge the creatures from the land and warned us of moral transgressions, lost opportunities, and dire consequences. Yet the Holy Ovidiana counsels otherwise; all bestia populations must be controlled and, where they cannot be controlled, eliminated."
--from "Holey Holies",
out of A Garden of Fragrant Heresies
*~*~*~*
Tea time arrived, and Buccina found her daughter's bedchamber door closed and locked. Again.
She stared at the walnut door and forced herself to study its marbled black grain and brilliant blue lapiz trim. A deep breath in through her nose smothered some of the restless pressure within her belly to see the girl, but it rose anew as she exhaled. Despite her efforts to master herself, her hands shook as the door separating her from her youngest daughter remained barred.
Everyone had nearly died five days ago, and she wanted to see her child. Needed to see her child. She needed to reassure herself that her child was safe and well.
But her child did not want to see her. The girl burned with righteous fire and Buccina could not begrudge her anger. Not after everything Lyra had witnessed the past three days.
The brutal sentencing of a boy Lyra's tender age.
The horrific pageant of a public execution.
The dreadful coronation of a royal hostage.
And Lyra's royal mother, present at every awful moment. Complicit in all the horror.
No wonder the justice-loving girl hated her. No wonder Lyra feared what might come after the barrage of monstrous events. Buccina shared her disgust over what had happened and her dread of the future that, with a single death, had lurched a step closer to fruition.
Buccina closed her eyes and swallowed, but the scene played over and over against the back of her eyelids. The boy sank to his knees. Fell.
Sank to his knees. Fell.
Sinking.
Falling.
A small adjustment could fix this misery. A little snip with promenia, and she'd be free of the horrible memory. But some things must never be forgotten.
Sinking.
Falling.
She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes, then turned to the uncomfortable Electi escorting her.
The young man shifted from foot to foot, his face darkening as though he'd been the one to refuse his Princeps's morning visit. "Please forgive the girl, Basilicus. She has an artist's temperament." He frowned at the door's keyhole. "Shall I summon the Keeper of Keys?"
"No, Promerenti. But I expect to see Lychnis in two hours." She tilted her head. "Or is it Lytra?"
"Her name is Lyra, Basilicus," the man said crisply.
Buccina waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever. I expect her to join my retinue for the funeral."
"Very well, Basilicus. Shall the other artists also--"
The door flung open, revealing Lyra, barefoot and wild-haired in her feminine ivory and masculine turquoise layered paenulas. Buccina tried not to drink in the sight of her daughter, furious but safe, in too obvious a manner.
"Basilicus," the girl said, voice and body stiff with restrained fury, "I'm not feeling well and ask to be excused from the funeral."
Buccina's eyes narrowed. "A Princeps has died, young Erus. You shall show him the respect he is due."
YOU ARE READING
Garden of Embers: Beneath Devouring Eyes #2
FantasyLightholder mages live by many rules. Among these: second-born twins must die for the good of all. In this sequel to Garden of Light, Domi, a fifteen-year-old apprentice sorcerer, has just learned the terrible secret that he is the younger twin brot...
