Chapter Six
Pikquarrys
A full day has passed since my improper moment in the woods with Princess Loreleivnna. I’ve managed to avoid seeing my best friend or his daughter so far, but my thoughts are a different matter.
My mind is a tangled wood filled with thoughts of her. Some are memories, and some are fantasy. All melt together until it’s hard to see what’s right in front of me, and I trip over my own hooves, right into the burning heat of the crucible.
This morning, my luck ran out. King Vyrion sent for me, and even I cannot refuse His Majesty’s call. After fifty-five years apart, I’m excited to see my friend, of course, but I can’t help feeling I don’t deserve to be in his presence, especially knowing the jovial greeting that awaits me.
The palace gates part for me without assistance from the guards.
I walk forward slowly, nodding at the guards, and pause to check the wear of the wrought iron gates.
Like most of the palace, the gates are made of iron and living flora.
They hold my enchantments flawlessly. I forged and enchanted this gate after the death of the willowisp tree whose branches had formed the previous one.
Luna Wysteria spiritvines sprawl through the intricate iron swirls in a delicate weave.
Fallen brown leaves of nearby blisteroak trees crunch underhoof.
Maintaining a slow pace, I delay the inevitable as long as possible. Eventually the palace’s verdant entry gardens give way, and my hooves clack on the cobbled stone of the modest courtyard. My gaze lingers on the memorial to the wise Nocturn Aevumdivus. The pathway parts around the water feature.
Vines twine around the ledge that circles the fountain, occasionally twisting up the stone surface to dip into the water. The living palace serves as a backdrop to the memorial. Branches boast plumes of colorful leaves so dense they’re like clouds of ochre, scarlet, and golden russet.
Proudly displayed in the center of the fountain is petrified wood from the first fallen Aevumoon Iris, carved to depict the tree it once was.
Its age is lost to time, and very few of its siblings have fallen since.
Some believe the petrified iris is one of the Wise Ones themselves, a stray that didn’t make it into the soil in time for the slumber.
The sight of the remnant reminds me of the conversation I shared with a female I’d thought to be a stranger inside of the Mossy Moon Tavern.
A pretty young petal, far out of my league and technically below my station, teasing me about sex oil and moonlit frolics.
Such flings have stayed far from my mind since leaving Svitaeryl to spellcarve in Ashfall Alley.
Perhaps the forge has aged me. Intercourse is a matter of maintenance. Moonlit frolics through fields of aphrodisiac pollen are for doe-eyed lovers Princess Loreleivnna’s age, not tired old blacksmiths who’ve lived over half their lives.
Still, I hope she doesn’t truly believe I require moondust oil to please a lover.
I grunt and stare into the crystalline water of the memorial.
Reaching into my pack, I retrieve a lacrimae lily I’d gathered after my major mishap and Princess Loreleivnna’s hasty retreat.
My chest pangs. The flower is so small and dainty in my palm, much like the female it belongs to.
The shame of my mistake will haunt me for my remaining century.
Cupping the flower in my palms, I gently place it in the water. The ancient power instantly recognizes the tears of a beloved svitayl elf. Rings circulate the warm gold flower, its burgundy accents bleeding out until all that’s left is a puddle of diluted purple.
I’ll never forgive myself for making the poor lass cry.
She’d sought affection from the wrong creature.
In that moment, with her sweet scent surrounding me and her soft skin a balm on my calloused hands, I’d wanted so badly to give her what she wanted of me.
It’s a relief I came to my senses before making a grave mistake.
“Pikquarrys!”
The King’s voice startles me, and I move quickly to hide the last drops of his daughter’s tears being absorbed by the fountain.
“Your Majesty.” I plunge into a clumsy bow.
“For petal’s sake, get up, you mad steed.” Vyrion laughs. “Done plucking about? The pleasure huts all tired of your mug?”
He yanks my forearm to pull me in for a hug, patting my back twice. It’s not the greeting of someone angry. I exhale in relief that my interaction with Princess Loreleivnna hasn’t been disclosed.
I lean into the warm embrace of my oldest friend, and the feeling that I’ve committed a dire sin sloughs from my shoulders, if briefly. “I’d hope not, for they haven’t seen it in half a century.”
“Then the spiritvines whisper truth. The last petal remains, and the message is he loves me not.” Vyrion gives me a playful shove. He grips my forearm, forcing me to bear the full brunt of his finger pointed in my face. “You’re avoiding me.”
I manage to hide my wince, but a surprised snort escapes me. I mask it with a grin and bat his finger away, breaking his hold on my arm. “Your vines tell tales as tall as Mount Ingensduum.”
Vyrion grunts, giving me a narrow-eyed stare that conveys his disbelief, but he turns toward the palace. “Come along, O Unplanted One.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He snaps his fingers. “Snip that shitbud this instant. I’ve no patience for it today, Pikr.”
I chuckle. As the foal of a lowborn, the inclination to use titles is forged into my marrow, but it’s easier to let go of propriety with Vyrion.
We’ve known each other since I was a foal and he was a sapling on the cusp of princehood.
My father was the blacksmith in Dimword, which was no bigger than a village back then.
While learning the family trade, I’d accidentally enchanted a low-carbon steel sword to always deal deadly blows.
A valuable enhancement wasted on a useless weapon, but it caught the attention of the king.
The princeling accompanied his father to our humble forge, and while the grown-ups discussed my fate in hushed whispers, Prince Vyrion and I bonded over a game of vineball.
The memories warm my chest. Svitaeyl elves live three times longer than centaurs, so while I’ve surpassed mid-life at 197, King Vyrion is in his prime at 274.
All of these are good reasons to forget any fantasies I’ve allowed a supposed stranger in the tavern to craft in my mind.
Unfortunately, I’m well aware of the claiming ritual that allows a svitayl elf to lengthen the life of their mate, so the numbers hardly deter my imagination.
Vyrion caresses a tall sequoiaoak trunk that serves as a pillar to the palace, and they bless our entry with a shower of wine-red leaves.
As far as palaces go, the home of the Spiritvine Throne is on the smaller side, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in beauty.
I follow Vyrion through the short hallway of latticed vines to the grand throne room at the heart of the palace, my heart clinging to every beat as my anxiety grows.
I toss glances every which way, hoping to see her, and hoping she is nowhere to be seen.
The throne room is a beautiful illusion that takes my breath away to this day.
Sequoiaoak trees form a wide circle around the room, their towering cinnamon trunks climbing toward the sky.
Way above our heads, their foliage knits a ceiling of vibrant reds, haunting mulberry, and scarlet maple.
The canopy of color blots out the sky and reflects off of floors made from the purest skyrite crystal.
The resulting globe-like effect makes one feel like a fyrefly fossilized in a warm amber orb.
While criminals brought before the King claim it feels like a bloody trap this time of year, my body instantly recalls all the fond times spent goofing off during preparations for the lunaplume harvest, and a flood of happy memories helps ease my troubled mind.
“Sit with me.” Vyrion motions toward the raised ground dais.
The infamous Spiritvine Throne sprouts from the ground, formed by vines in intricate twirling designs. To the right is a similar throne for Queen Soreivsanna. To the left, a plush cushion lay at the foot of a hoofrest lounge board, reclined to my preferred seventy-eight-degree angle.
During his predecessor’s time, no one was allowed on the platform other than family. Vyrion claims this is still the case, although he frequently makes room for me.
Tucking my legs, I relax against the padded frame, scowling at the instant relief felt in my stifle. The Fallen Ones, in their infinite wisdom, are having a good laugh at my expense today.
A crimson leaf drifts from the ceiling, landing on my flank. I pick it up and snort, twisting it between my fingers. “Remember the time we got caught trying to turn the fountain water into wine?”
“All we had were the leaves swept from the throne room floor,” Vyrion laughs. “The staff was so charmed by our helpfulness that day.”
A servant appears, placing a tray of honey-roasted nuts, candied apple slices, lunar cider, brandy, and water on the pedestal between us, smiling at me warmly before bowing away.
I chuckle and serve myself a horn of brandy, pouring a lunar cider for Vyrion. “Chef Starcrag was plucked about all the missing sugar.”
“Not as plucked as my father.” His chuckle dwindles away, and he swirls the horn of cider a few times before setting it in a stand on the tray.
In Svitaeryl, rulers are ostensibly chosen by the people; however, those nurtured by the Wise Ones with spiritvine speech are always elected.
The Slaytir family has been royalty for four kings–nearly three thousand years.
Vyrion’s father was a just and fair ruler, one his subjects could rely on.
But fairness does not equal kindness, and imparting justice weighs down one’s soul.
A withered soul is heaviest for those meant to support it.
Vyrion has spent a full century carving a name for himself outside of his inherited legacy, including placing his family nearest to his heart.
Another pang of shame courses through my veins. I drain my brandy and pour a horn of lunar cider to chase it down.
Soft footprints approach from the servant’s entrance, and the smell of wood hyacinth and moondrop honeycomb reaches my nostrils before the vines close behind her. My attention wrenches in her direction, a good amount of cider pouring straight down my chest.