Trust #3
Ardor blinked, again surprised to find their sparring was unexpectedly cut short.
These were highly favorable terms, and he could hardly complain his birthing obligations were reduced from an impossible ten to a manageable four.
Under normal circumstances, surviving even the eighth child was highly uncertain, and Ardor was hardly normal.
Thanks to this renegotiation, his estimated lifespan had unexpectedly tripled.
It was strange to consider his duty in those terms. His duty was his duty, and he accepted it.
But now, he might actually make it to age 60.
He’d never even considered the possibility before.
“We have a deal,” Ardor said, still reeling a bit.
The horse snorted slightly, shifting on one foot, and his consort said, “Ah, will I see you in the intervening years?”
“That’s for me to decide. If you keep getting on my nerves, I might ignore you.” Leya gave a panicked murmur, and one of the guard’s eyes widened a bit, but his consort’s answering laugh was low and quiet.
“I’ll have to admire you from a distance, then. I don’t care, as long as you’re still here for me to admire.”
Ardor ignored the flush on his cheeks and said firmly, “You’ll uphold these terms in writing, I trust?”
His consort’s amusement faded. “Yes. I’ll have Lord Patel draft a new contract today.”
“Will I see you tomorrow morning, then?”
His consort’s cheek twitched. “…Yes, Eminence.” All at once, it was too much. His consort’s fit body, the warring affection and upset in his eyes, the line of his shoulders. This man, whoever he was… he was simply too much.
Ardor swiftly turned away. He was so overcome by it all that he was at the palace gate before he realized his long, preoccupied strides had left his faithful acolyte far behind.
When he turned back, Leya’s eye was shining as she scurried to join him. She opened the door for him, humming tunelessly as they walked to his customary spot in the garden.
“You’re cheerful,” he remarked.
“Oh, Eminence,” she chirped. “I think I will attend you for a very long time! I’m so glad. Her Eminence Heavenly was taken from us too quickly. It broke my heart.”
“You knew my predecessor?”
“Oh, yes. I accompanied her when she married the old king.”
Ardor made inquiries regarding Kysan’s previous Flower, but Jain wasn’t able to find much. Kysan withdrew from the other kingdoms nearly two decades prior, and information on the royal family was fiercely guarded. He had not even known the previous Flower’s name until now. “What happened to her?”
“She withered.”
“Withered?” he asked, too surprised to phrase the question more tactfully. “She died prematurely?”
Leya fidgeted with the cuff of her uniform. “The doctors could not explain it. It was deeply upsetting. I confess… it tested my faith.”
“She withered after having only one child?” Ardor asked, still puzzling through it.
Perhaps she’d had her children too close together.
Flowers withered if they were forced to give birth too quickly, or if they had multiple consorts and were forced to carry more than one child at a time.
Though the current system left much to be desired, Ardor was grateful he lived in a time when one consort and reasonable recovery periods were the norm.
“It was a dark time. I try not to think about it.” Leya continued fidgeting, anxious about this line of questioning.
The death of a Flower was wrought with political implications, and the loss was clearly personal, but her discomfort and careful phrasing struck him as odd.
“Can I bring you anything, Eminence?” she asked, eager to escape the conversation, and perhaps the memories it stirred as well. “A pitcher for the bees?”
Ardor watched as bees flitted about from flower to flower. “Yes,” he said, his thoughts once again churning as he processed it all. “Thank you.”
He’d heard whispers Flowers could wither on purpose, but didn’t know if it was true. Few outsiders understood the level of control Flowers had over their own bodies, and the doctors would not know what to make of it. But why would a Flower do such a thing?
Flowers sacrificed life essence for all their children.
The more control they exerted, the more they sacrificed.
Some genetic modification was necessary.
Royal consorts expected conventionally attractive offspring with familial similarities, and heirs were given symmetrical features that mirrored those of the consort.
Most Flowers were contractually obligated to ensure there were no hereditary diseases, allergies, or other conditions.
But a few Flowers took it even further, as Ardor’s father had done.
Ardor’s exotic, carefully constructed beauty had cost his father dearly, in more ways than he expected.
When Ardor failed as a Flower, the Archon demanded another Flower—Ardor’s youngest sister—to make up for it.
After Ardor, Eminence Glorious took a more conservative role. All his other children were the conventionally attractive, healthy specimens the Archon expected, but his divine hand went no further. They were not engineered as Ardor had been.
Even if Eminence Heavenly’s divine hand was heavy, and she’d sacrificed more of herself to engineer Xandar to her specifications, as his own father had done, she still should have survived having one child.
It was strange. Puzzling. And the puzzle of Eminence Heavenly’s death was one that warranted solving.