Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (9 page)

“She appears so,” Axandra agreed, tracing the exceptionally round belly with her fingertip, including the protruding navel button. The other female figures on display appeared thinner at the waist and with leaner breasts. The hefty figure's breasts appeared engorged with milk.

Quinn called her attention away from the stone goddess with the words, “But these are the truly exquisite items.” The second half of the crate contained clay creations, round except for a flattened bottom. Shaped into the surface were primitive symbols, likely pressed into the wet clay using a sharpened stick. Lifting one with a stable arrangement of fingers, Quinn rotated the ceramic for Axandra to view. “These are about a millennium older than the stone figures. This symbol is similar to a later glyph for head.”

Reluctant to handle the obviously fragile items with only one good hand, Axandra restrained her arms at her sides. “They look like containers of some kinds. Hollow.” She offered her observations like a student would speak to a mentor.

“They are incredibly lightweight for their size,” Quinn confirmed. “And you will see a slight seam here on the bottom, circular in shape, as though a hole was left and later plugged with fresh clay.”

She couldn't help but grin at her successful interpretation. Her lover grinned back at her, clearly impressed at her willingness to participate in his obsession. “Incredible. We are actually looking at the traces of a non-human civilization.”

“Indeed. It's a shame they went extinct.”

Axandra dropped her gaze and turned aside on the brocade cushions. Her eyes considered the view of burgeoning wildflower fields through the solid glass windows that dominated the eastern wall of the great room. Thousands of years ago, different people walked these fields, hunting and gathering food and eking out an existence wealthy enough to thank the gods for, yet simple enough to enjoy without manufactured pretenses.

Setting the field of artifacts aside, Quinn removed his specs and focused on his younger companion. She obviously needed attention. “What should we do this afternoon?”

“I don't have any preferences,” she put forth, absently caressing the seam of her wing-like sleeve. “Council is out for a few weeks. I feel like I could just wander around the garden for the rest of the day and think about nothing.”

“What
nothing
has you worried?” he probed. He knew her tactics well enough to see through them. “Something new?”

“Not entirely, no,” Axandra admitted. “I mean, I really can't blame people for being suspicious of me. I kept an incredible secret, as did my entire family. I can't even be sure my link with the Stormflies is completely broken. All I know is I feel freer than I've ever felt. My mind is my own. It took me twenty-two years to get it back. Even my head feels lighter.”

Quinn listened somberly. Taking up her left hand, he pressed his lips to her wrist, then caressed her slender fingers. The perfume from her skin infiltrated his olfactory canals, sparking a pleasant reaction in his brain and invoking an image of sweet laurens on a summer's day.

“But how do I demonstrate that to the masses?” Axandra questioned, almost oblivious of his actions.

“That is a very good question,” he agreed with thoughtful eyes. He rolled his lips together to create a thin line. “And I'm sure someone will think of it. I'm actually surprised the question didn't go one step further.”

“Oh?” Axandra raised two curious brunette eyebrows.

“How do we know the Goddess won't try to possess you again?” Quinn voiced and regretted his thought immediately. He had a habit of speaking when he should keep his mouth shut, a habit difficult to break given his chosen profession of asking questions and seeking answers.

Axandra's face paled instantly. Quinn could almost see her heart stop, then jump into a pounding tarantella beneath her sternum.

“Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. That was stupid of me.”

“No,” she disagreed. “No, you're right. We don't know that the curséd things won't try to use me again. I may be placing everyone in great danger just by being here.”

“Axandra, stop before you get started,” Quinn begged.

“I didn't even think of that,” she scolded herself harshly.

“Axandra!” Quinn barked, causing her to halt suddenly. “It's just a theory. For all we know, it can't use you again. We still don't entirely understand how the Stormflies do what they do. You may be immune now.”

“Arrgh! Sometimes I hate your big mouth,” she blasted.

“I know,” he accepted humbly. “I hate it, too.”

Axandra hopped up from the divan and grabbed his hands. “Let's go for a walk. Then I can stop thinking about it, and you can redeem yourself.”

“That is a wonderful idea,” he acquiesced humbly.

32
^nd
Unimont (Turnsday)

As promised, the heavy rains fell overnight, accompanied by gusty winds that broke small twigs from most every tree to litter the ground. But once the strong storm cell pushed through, a gentle soaking rain cascaded over Undun and the surrounding prairie. Freshly tilled earth turned to mud and the green shoots of grass sprang up within hours.

The next morning, Quinn was called to help finish sowing the field the planters had started the day before, which meant by the time he arrived home again, he was caked in mud from hat to boot. Smartly, he left the dirtiest outer layers in the laundry room downstairs, keeping the barest clothing on for decency as he climbed the back stairs at the south end of the third floor wing. This route avoided providing a show for any visitors in the main level. He stepped into the Residence wearing an undershirt and shorts, barefoot and bare-armed.

Axandra laughed at his expense, only to receive a finger-full of mud across the cheek.

After coaxing him into a warm bath overflowing with bubbles, Axandra joined him in the tub wide enough for two and for some playful interaction. Forty-five minutes later, she slipped on a relaxed pair of flared slacks and an embroidered tunic of white thread on finely spun lilac algodon. She tied her curls into a loose bundle at the back of her neck. Dressing casually, Quinn slipped into warm knit slacks and a collared shirt of earthy russet algodon formed in a coarse weave with square, untucked tails.

“When are Sara and Suzanne coming?” Quinn asked, remembering as he dressed that his wife had invited the dear friends to dinner for a relaxing evening, now that the Council was in recess for a few weeks.

“Six-thirty,” Axandra answered, brushing her eyes with sparkling powder to cover up the dark circles of insomnia. She ignored her lips, knowing the color would come off on her wine goblet not long into the evening. “I've been spoiled having them around. I should probably make a few more friends in Undun.”

Sadly, Quinn knew that her words were spoken half in jest. Yes, she was spoiled with Sara and Suzanne nearby, two people she trusted when she needed an ear for personal matters. But for a woman with the status of Protectress, the Esteemed Matriarch, the task of making new friends of the same caliber proved difficult. Of course, many people wanted to make her acquaintance to garner favors, but those people didn't harbor any true feeling of affection for the young woman. Companionship proved a necessary ingredient for a content soul.

Quinn was friend, lover, and betrothed, and he understood his role did not always include hearing about every personal thought, especially if she needed to vent about him in particular. She rarely had time to putter around town looking for someone who shared common interests, and no one around bore similar responsibilities. She attempted to connect with others during meetings or when she managed to make herself available to speak at one of the schools. She lacked time to nurture acquaintances into becoming solid friends.

“Fortunately, Sara is now just a call away,” he pointed out cheerfully, gesturing toward the newly installed communit in her study. “You can talk to her anytime. Should I go check on this evening's menu?” he offered. He enjoyed teasing the Palace chef from time to time.

“Maybe in a little while,” she said, pressing her hands flat against his soft shirt. His heart thumped contentedly within his stocky frame, evidenced by the pulse she felt through the palm of her hand. “Since we still have a bit of time alone, I'd like to spend it with you.”

“I'm honored. How about a little music?” He turned aside to click on the music player and selected one of the few discs they possessed. As the playback spun on the small machine, a tender piano melody exuded luxuriously from the speakers at the graceful pace of a whale in deep water. Though uneven, the meter felt sublimely glacial.

Neither was much into dancing, but they swayed in time to the music as they held each other. This particular piece reminded Axandra of the kind of rain falling outside, a steady but subtle cascade of droplets collecting on the surfaces of leaves until gravity brought them down. Axandra breathed in the scent of Quinn's cologne while they quietly meditated on the notes. Quinn's body felt warm against her hands and breasts as she pressed herself close. His arms encompassed her shoulders, his fingers absently fondling her cascading curls. She found it possible to allow the sound to completely encompass her reality, creating a bubble in which she and Quinn floated comfortably and serenely.

After a while, they reclined on the sofa. Quinn opened a bottle of white wine and poured four glasses in preparation for the imminent guests. He and his wife started an early sampling, about half a glass, before the visitors were announced by a knock on the door. Since Axandra alerted the Guards of her guests, the guards allowed them unfettered entry.

“Come in, ladies,” Quinn greeted, giving each a solid hug. “Good evening. Have some wine. Axandra and I were just relaxing. Did you stay dry?”

“Dry enough,” Suzanne assured, taking liberty to remove her damp shoes in the home of her friends, even if one of them was the Esteemed Matriarch. Sara followed suit.

“You know, I like the changes in here,” Sara complimented, her eyes darting to the far corners of the room. “It feels so much brighter now that you've removed those dingy old curtains.”

“It does, doesn't it,” Axandra agreed. Making the Residence her own, she favored lighter, brighter fabrics and began replacing antique decorative pieces of furniture with friendly, usable items. A few of the household veterans staunchly disapproved, but Axandra appeased them by making the old pieces useful in the library and in guest rooms. She simply preferred something she could sit on without feeling like a dozen ghosts sat on her lap. “I would like to paint the inner walls in this room sage green to draw the light to the interior of the place. Quinn's workspace we'll leave alone for now. That room may have another purpose in the future. And some of the items are so dusty when he brings them in.”

Winking, Sara needled her old friend, “Talking about babies already, are we, QE?” Sara often referred to Quinn by his initials, as she had since they were children growing up together in North Compass. He was just two years older than Sara.

“Not for a while,” Quinn evaded, chopping the air with his hand.

“No. The Healer recommended waiting until I recovered more fully,” Axandra explained openly. “The parasite, the abduction, and the burns did quite a lot of damage. It's best that I wait until I'm stronger.”

Sara's face went ashen when she realized she stroked a raw nerve. She started to apologize, but saw both Quinn and Suzanne shaking their heads to pull her back.

“Then I wish you a speedy recovery,” Suzanne offered sincerely in place of Sara's stutter. “The Great Spirit of the Universe will make you well again.”

“I know it's probably a long way off, and who knows if we'll still be living here, but if we have more than one child, we'll run out of room,” Axandra went on. Her voice sounded guardedly hopeful. She still wondered if she wanted to have children of her own, but Quinn most definitely did. Until she could manage a more stable recovery, the entire idea was on an indefinite hold.

“They did design the place for just one, didn't they,” Sara tsked, counting rooms in her head. “Pessimistic devils. We'll just have to figure that out when the day comes. I think QE would love to have four lovely daughters.”

“QE,” he said of himself, “would like to change the subject. Drink the wine, grab some cards.”

“What a stone post!” Sara grumped, forming sour lips at him, but she quickly changed the subject as implied by his unwillingness. “So, I know this is business, but I wanted to apologize for Homer. We truly wished to keep that matter off the table. But now that it is voiced, even more people will be thinking about it. If it weren't for that obnoxious Morgan Mainsteer prattling on, no one would even care.”

“Morgan Mainsteer? You mean that crackpot from Naismith?” Quinn piped up. “People actually listen to him?”

“Quite a few,” Sara said with dismay. “Your sister included, from what I've heard. His meetings nowadays draw a hundred people at a time and are growing. Recent events have ignited interest in what he has to say.”

“Who is this Mainsteer person?” Axandra asked, lost in the conversation where she was the only one without any familiarity of the subject. She wondered after she asked if this was just one more thing she'd forgotten, another elusive victim of a deep mental chasm. To her left, Quinn twisted his face into a grotesque scowl, displaying his loathing of this man.

“Morgan Mainsteer,” Quinn explained, giving no indication that she should already have this information, “has been a voice of dissent for about a decade, calling for the dismissal of the Protectress and a restructuring of government. His reasons seemed so ludicrous until now. He was certain the Protectresship was a front for an illegitimate government run by the Prophets, who controlled every aspect of living and kept human kind from progressing naturally. Unfortunately, he wasn't too far off.”

Sara corrected his brief assessment. “But he thought the Prophets controlled the Council and Protectress directly and didn't know anything about the Stormflies. He used to suspect that the Prophets used everyone else as slave labor to support themselves as an elite class.”

“Oh my goodness,” Axandra reeled with the information. Now she began to understand what she was up against and noted to herself to research the implications more thoroughly. “We opened the floodgate for him.”

“He dropped that theory a short while back to rally for change for the sake of change, I think. It so happens that his focused attention has turned to you, QE. He sent an inquiry to my home,” Sara stated.

“Me?”

“The Protectress' new husband in a week,” Sara explained pointedly. “He's looking for dirt to drag you through.”

“You should let me respond. I'll give him something to think about,” Quinn snarked.

“At some point, we'll have to deal with him,” Sara forecast. “But that aside, let's get back to topics that are more enjoyable. I want to know more about your old friends from Gammerton. Last time you were just beginning to tell us about Jeanette and Dora before we were interrupted.”

As bittersweet as it tasted to bring up her old life, Axandra drew upon humorous episodes from her island home, including her former long-term relationship with Jon. Quinn appeared secure enough with himself not to be bothered by the topic. Other stories included the variety of colorful folk who called the island home.

“He was a fool to give you up so easily, but it was a blessing for me. I can't complain,” Quinn would say of her former lover. Axandra wished she could share his confidence. While she had no interest in rekindling the old love affair, in the back of her mind lingered a fear that Jon would show up one day. The scenario could go an infinite number of ways, one of which she envisioned Quinn laying a fist to the taller man's jaw. She honestly could not determine who would come out victorious in a fist fight.

She proceeded to start in on the request. “Jeanette and Dora were like great-old aunties, doting on me in some ways, pecking on me in others. They appreciated the company of a younger woman helping them with their garden. I know they found me attractive as well, but they only used that attraction to rekindle their own love. I only remember one time that either of them suggested more than a playful flirt,” Axandra explained. “Dora never said it directly, but I'm certain she wanted to get my clothes off, if just for a peek.”

“We'll be those old women someday,” Suzanne remarked wryly, winking at her partner. “And I'll be Dora.”

“Pining after a younger lover?” Sara pouted, though her sparkling eyes gave away the act.

“You are my younger lover, darling,” Suzanne appeased. “And I don't blame Dora one bit,” she went on, her eyebrows wagging at Axandra. “If you were a younger woman, and I was single, of course, I'd make a pass at you.”

“Oh, flattery lightens a girl's heart,” Axandra sighed, her face radiating delight. She briefly thought to mention the one girl she had dated back in her nineteenth year, Avery. She reconsidered for the moment. Quinn accepted her long relationship with Jon, but throwing in the ten other short-term engagements might put him over the top. On a day when the girls were alone, she might broach the subject again.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of dinner. They ate the informal meal from the tea table, mostly with fingers, savoring skewered roots and mushrooms, fish hand pies and sweet redroot bread.

“Did you learn anything from those relics of yours? Did you decide to open one?” Sara questioned. She'd heard about the recent acquisition.

“Ooo, that is such a difficult decision to make,” he bemoaned. He parked his socked feet on the tea table as he sat down next to Axandra on the shorter loveseat. He looked up at the ceiling, realizing for the first time that it was painted with a mural of the prairie. “I hate to destroy one of the few pieces we have intact, but at the same time, I have a feeling there is something inside that I really want to see. Tomas and I are devising the best strategy to get in without breaking the thing. Drilling a hole somewhere is probably our best bet, but we have to order a diamond-tipped bit and a special drill that allows us to set an exact rotation. Plus we're looking for already fractured pieces we don't mind testing the drill on. We want to be as precise as possible. We're also consulting scanner experts to see about improvement in vision. Our current scanners just show us that something is inside, but we can't judge the composition.”

“What do you think is inside?”

“Me? I'm not sure that I hazard to take a guess. There is so much we don't understand about these people yet, and we have nothing to compare them to. You know, Old Earth archeologists had the decedents to study, traces of language and culture. We have absolutely nothing. A blank sheet.”

“Tell us,” Axandra insisted, eyes boring a hole in his face, making him uncomfortable until he broke.