Flower and Thorn
“Well?”
Lyda nodded once, and her mistress let out a sigh of relief.
“Then it is over. There is nothing left in my way.”
Lyda just smiled. She always smiled when she knew she had done well for her mistress.
“And you, my lovely, your power will be feared throughout the duchy: Lyda, Flower of the Thorn, instrument of my will.”
“And you will take the Throne of Thorns, my lady,” Lyda said.
“Yes, yes. But if I am to be Duchess, then it will be due to your efforts.”
Truer words were never spoken. While Lyda had worked alongside her mistress for years to discredit most of the other electoral candidates, the most recent successes had hinged on her own clandestine deeds.
Her mistress, of course, had planned everything. The usual gossip games would not do. But a noble could not be caught at the necessary crimes that would insure ascension, and so it was Lyda who had blackmailed Hualdaa, framed Wulf, and, just tonight, slipped the poison into Adgar’s drink as the Crown Prince himself looked on.
This was the moment. This was their victory. Triumph was at hand, at long last, for the best of friends.
“We’ve done it, mistress,” Lyda said. “You and I. Together, there’s nothing we can’t do! I just know it!”
“You are more right than you know, my lovely,” her mistress said. “You’ve been with me since before the beginning. And your skills have always complemented mine. Without you, I cannot be who I am.”
A visible blush came to Lyda’s cheeks. She’d had praise heaped upon her before, but never anything this complimentary. Those last words, coupled with the gaze they now shared, meant more to her than anything. It was the kind of recognition that was reserved for only the most important people in life.
Blessed. That’s how she felt.
“But come now,” her mistress exclaimed, “we must celebrate! A toast! That’s what we need.”
As her mistress rushed to the corner table for the decanter and glasses, Lyda wondered at the beauty of her movements. So fluid, flowing. Like waves of rye in the summertime.
Her mistress returned, placed a chalice in her hand, and raised her own in salutation.
“To us,” she said. “May we always have each other.”
She then put the glass to her lips and Lyda did the same. It felt like a consummation of some sort, a sealing of agreement. Lyda would do anything for her mistress. She would give up her life if she had to.
“So,” her mistress said with an abrupt change of tone, “let’s talk about you, my lovely. My Flower.”
Surprised, Lyda asked “What do you need, my lady?”
“Why, I need you, of course.”
Lyda began to feel strange then, and not just because of the confusing words her mistress had spoken. Her hands had started to shake, and her heart was fluttering.
“What do you mean, mistress?”
A smile was her first reply. Thin and sad, made with an effort that was disconcerting.
“Do you see this, my lovely?”
Through watery eyes, Lyda strained to see her mistress hold up the triangular emerald pendant she always wore around her neck. “This is the Thorn. And you will be its Flower, my lovely.”
And then the pain hit full force. Lyda felt like a hole was being bored between her ribs from the inside. Her soul was being taken.
Gawking at her closest friend, Lyda realized why she had just been poisoned. She remembered the promises of power, the stories that the jewel was somehow magical. It all made sense now. The Flower of the Thorn was not a title after all. But what was it? Was it a punishment?
Her mistress began to wave her fingers in her arcane way. While she did so, she spoke with loving affection. “I’m so sorry it has to be this way, Lyda. But without you, I am nothing. I must have you. Your skill, your mind, your heart, your very essence. I need you, my lovely.”
Somehow, Lyda felt herself moving to the green gem. Or rather, part of her was; her body was stationary. As she approached it, all went dark.
When Lyda woke, her mistress was looking down at her, stroking her solid crystalline cage. “Thank you, my lovely. My Flower. My most loyal subject.”
Lyda could feel the power of the Thorn surging through her, but that was not all she felt.
Dismay. Anger. Fear. Sadness.
Lyda would have died for her mistress. But this was not death.
This was Hell.
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Genres: Fantasy. Authors: J. Marcus Kent. Form: Flash Fiction. Length: 800 words. Editor who accepted this story: K.E. Abel.
Author Bio
J. Marcus Kent is an average guy living in the American Midwest. He likes sports, beer, nachos, and writing fantasy.
Abandoned Towers Content: Flower and Thorn
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