Blood of the Sea, Chapter Fourty-Eight

Chapter 48: Thirst

Veyda

The next morning, a knock on her door greets Veyda with both her morning tea and the news that Enya had answered the summons for her. Behind Aella - who had delivered the tea - was the woman in question. Slender but fierce, Enya wore fiery orange robes with short sleeves - traditional amongst fire mages, and a shorter hem which revealed light tan pants which cinched around her ankles, leaving her sandaled feet on display. A natural red-head, Enya’s curls bounce around her face, leaving just enough room for her smile - all teeth - to shine through. The fire mage curtseys, though a bow in her attire would have also suited. “I am told you have need of me, my Queen.”

Veyda takes the tea from Aella, nodding her thanks as the heat from the mug seeps into her ashy gray palms, and the fruity smells reach her nose - bright with the taste of citrus and a hint of sunshine. The air mage bows out of the conversation, taking up station down the hall by the stairs. Veyda peers at Enya, the fire mage almost vibrating with energy. “Indeed. Your talents will be useful in the carrying out of Kildangan’s sentence.”

“Kildangan? The port city?” Enya folds her arms over her chest, her voice lowering just a tad, “Don’t they thwart your rule?”

“They have,” Veyda says casually. “But their time in the sun has come to an end.”

“Oh, has it now?” Enya’s smile grows. “A port city set aflame?”

“Perhaps,” Veyda smiles indulgently, sipping at her tea. The steam warms her cheeks; a similar flush finds its way to Enya’s. The fire mage fidgets, her hands glowing softly. “Be patient, though, dear,” Veyda reminds, “You still have to meet those you are riding with.”

“Of course, sister. But, others?” Enya’s expression darkens. “Am I not first among the chosen for this mission?”

“You are, dear one. But, what chaos is born of fire can also be born in a storm.” Veyda sets the tea down on a table in the hallway, leading Enya down the stairs toward the throne room.

“A storm? I didn’t think we had a trained storm mage…”

“No, in that you are correct. But we have been gifted with a water mage.”

Veyda hears the doubt fill Enya’s voice. “Water mage?”

“He calls himself a water caller. He tells me he can move vast amounts of water. That the ocean calls to him.” Veyda casts a quick glance over her shoulder, “It’s up to you to see how true that is.”

Understanding sparks in Enya’s eyes, “Of course, my Queen. At Kildangan?”

“At Kildangan,” Veyda affirms. The two mages enter the throne room where Vance and his friends have already been gathered. Aella enters the room from another side door, nodding to Veyda when the queen glances her way. Perfect, the J’korun are ready as well. “Vance,” the water caller looks up at his name, and Veyda’s magic ripples excitedly when his heart rate picks up as he bows to her. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what, exactly?”

“A little taste of revenge, my dear,” Veyda smiles, indulgent. “What do you know of Kildangan?”

“That they harbored us when we first arrived…”

“Yes. And would you say that the others not in this room have… formed an attachment to the city?”

Vance considers this, rubbing absentmindedly at his chin. “I suppose that would be correct. I haven’t been there in some time…”

“That is all well and good, my dear water caller.” Veyda gestures to his friends, “Have they pledged for you?”

Vance nods slowly.

“Good. You will ride with Enya to Kildangan. The people there have pushed back against our rule for too long…”

She sees Vance take the bait. “Our rule, my Queen?”

She raises her eyebrows, “Was it not obvious? You can rule with me.” She offers her hand to him, “Destroy our enemies, and you will be rewarded.”

The water caller takes her hand, hesitating only for a moment before kissing the back of her charcoal tipped knuckles softly, awe widening his eyes. “Yes… they will be crushed.”

“You understand why you’ll be so good at this, don’t you, dear?”

Vance meets her gaze, “They’re a port city. The ocean…” he trails off, a sort of hunger in his gaze.

Veyda leans in towards him, brushing some hair back from his cheek. “Feed your magic. Feel the power you possess; the control you have over the waves. Show them what it means to be a Mage.”

Vance gently releases her hand, nodding as his gaze flits to her mouth. Veyda smiles softly and whispers, “Soon, dear one. Do this for me. Bring them to heel. Return to me, triumphant.”

Vance swallows, backing up. He bows low, his voice raspy when he says, “Of course, my Queen.” He rejoins his friends as Aella approaches them, gesturing towards the main doors and supposedly depicting how to ride a J’korun.

The group files out and Enya leans in towards Veyda, “You are masterful in getting what you want, sister.”

“Is that envy, Enya?” Veyda’s voice is carefully light, though her magic burns along her arms, coiling should the fire mage make darker promises. A hint of worry sparks at the back of her mind, reminding her of her fragility in the face of the Thralkin earlier, and Iblis’ constant pestering to heal.

“Merely observing,” Enya kisses Veyda on the cheek and bounds toward the front doors, pausing just before them. “You always were meant to rule. If I didn’t know better, I would guess your magic has grown… persuasive.”

“I have a certain hold on people, it’s true,” the Red Queen responds quietly, “But you know very well it has darker roots.”

“Bloodier ones,” Enya replies from the other end of the throne room. The room that could have been hers, should things have happened differently that fateful day. The fire mage glances around at the marble room; not a piece of wood in sight; the only flammable thing being the carpets and decorations. “I was meant to be a soldier, sister. It is known. These flames do not chafe at the freedom it grants me.” The two mage sisters share a long look, remembering the blood staining the hallways, and the heart Veyda ripped from the chest of the Mage-King. “I only hope you keep free of whoever thinks they got the better of you.” The words are wrapped in the caution only a sister could offer and Veyda tucks her hands behind her back, dipping her head in acknowledgement of Enya’s keen observation. Enya dips her head once more to the queen in return. She slips out the door, the wood booming shut against the doorframe, and the sound fills the empty throne room as Veyda rubs her cold, blackened hands together.

Veyda settles upon her hard, marble throne, her fingertips tapping against the stone as her body heat is stolen by the chair. Her blood cools, her magic gnawing at her. I need more blood.

As if summoned, Aella enters back through a side door; her feet whispering along the floor as she steers a young man toward the throne. Veyda tracks her movement through heavily lidded eyes as the messenger guides the man to kneel outlandishly close to the throne, facing Veyda.

“My Queen,” Aella says softly, head bowed.

Veyda leans forward, her blood warming as she reaches for the young man before her, tipping his face up towards hers. She turns his head this way and that, her magic coiling around her arms like red ribbons, though tipped with claws as they climb down her hands and take a hold of the man kneeling on the steps of the throne. She doesn’t feel any disease or sign of other illness, so she nods to Aella, a dismissal. The wind mage bows low and backs away toward the main doors before making a detour towards the kitchen. As the door shuts softly behind her, Veyda sits straighter in her chair, eyes nearly slits under her eyelids. “Kiss me. Serve your queen.”

The young man holds his hands up, cupped towards the Red Queen as he swallows, a hint of nerves, and recites the line he was told: “My blood is yours; my life in your hands.”

The young man straightens from where he kneels, reaching toward the queen. She watches him struggle a moment, having been told not to rise from his knees, before she kisses him, biting his lower lip, drawing blood to the surface as the young man gasps. He deepens the kiss as Veyda’s magic roars in her ears and her breath comes faster, shorter, and the two of them grow light headed together. Red spills over the throne, upon her hands, her robes - dripping from both of their chins.

It always starts as a heady process, tempting both parties closer, threatening to drive them both mad, hands tangling in hair, fingers pulling flesh closer. But slowly, with the transition of blood from one to the other, Veyda swells, dominates, crushes.

The young man whimpers, and they part, voiceless, breathless; their lips stained red red red. Veyda’s power - engorged and pulsating - moves through the throne room as the young man slumps, barely managing to prop himself up on Veyda’s knees as they both gasp for breath. Veyda pushes back the man’s hair; the queen herself glows softly as her magic encircles the two of them in a gauzy, crimson cocoon. Veyda licks her lips, her breath returning to normal while the man pales at her feet; closer to corpse white than the rosy red of Veyda’s cheeks.

“I will get a healer,” Veyda tells him softly, stroking a hand over his head. The young man shudders, leaning hard against the stony throne as Veyda straightens and walks toward another door. “You have served me well.”

The young man rasps behind her, the words nearly lost across the space, “You are a symbol of power, my Queen. Long may you reign.”

Veyda wanders down the hall in a haze - power drunk from the blood. The sticky warmth cools on her fingertips and lips, the metallic smell clogging her nose and sliding down her throat. Her magic digs claws into the walls, shredding the stone like paper as it searches for the green, earthy aura of the healer mage on standby. The door swings open without needing to be touched, and when the older man adjusts the glasses balanced on his nose as he peers at his queen, Veyda laughs, leaning against the door frame as the blood high scorches through her veins. Iblis approaches Veyda cautiously, followed by butterflies of green which cautiously land on Veyda’s arm as she holds a hand out to the healer. The butterfly which alights on her finger bursts into bubbles which pop, speckling her skin like with droplets of water, though they disappear instantly.

“What did you do?” Iblis asks, his voice strained. Tired.

Veyda giggles, reminded of when the healer would scowl at her when she was a child.

“Veyda, I’m serious. Who is hurt?”

“Everyone. Anyone…” Veyda’s vision blurs, tears trailing down her cheeks as the turmoil roils within her. She hiccups, sliding down the wall, and pulls her knees close to her chest.

Iblis sighs, “Keep your magic up. I’ll follow the blood trail.” He touches the crown of her head gently, “It will pass, my Queen. It only hurts because you were starving.” He sighs, “You offer this kingdom a great deal of strength. Let us be your strength in return.” Iblis limps from an old injury, scuttling down the hallway as he follows the ribbon of red connecting her still to the young man. Veyda watches him go, shoulders shuddering, but the old healer doesn’t pay attention to the gouges in the walls. His butterflies touch each scar, the stone mending behind him, and finally he rounds the corner, leaving Veyda in a puddle of rich red fabric.

The stain of blood brightens her eyes as her magic settles and the connection tying her to the other room snaps. A sigh of relief filters down the hallway, and her magic slinks toward her before burying itself in her chest. Her heart beat increases in rhythm, pounding out the mantra I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.