Call of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 1) (27 page)

A knock came at the door and Miri's muted voice asked, “May I draw you a bath?”

“Yes, please,” Axandra responded, opening the door for the aide. Studying her reflection, she thought about how thin she looked. Her wrists, naturally thin, bristled with boney spurs. Her elbows poked sharply out when bent. She realized she had not kept up with her meals, but she didn't realize she was wasting away.

“When did I start to look like this?” she asked herself aloud.

“Excuse me?” Miri inquired over the splashing of water in the tub. Coming over to Axandra, the aide offered to undo her braid and brush her hair. “Madam, I don't know if this is my place, but you look as though you haven't eaten for a week.”

Axandra balked that the deterioration was so obvious. Her thoughts of Quinn fleeing her mind, her face returned to an unhealthy sag. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't felt hungry.” She circled her fingers around her arm, measuring just how thin she had become. She looked at her collarbone in the mirror. The shape protruded sharply beneath her skin.

“These last few days,” Miri told her, “you've looked worse. I'm sorry to say so. Wait, what is that?”

The younger woman noticed the spot where Axandra fingers came to rest, an irregular patch of angry red skin on the left shoulder, blotched with broken capillaries. The area was the size of a red tealeaf, about seven centim long. Leaning closer, Miri studied the rash directly, her soft fingers brushing the skin to feel its texture.

“Did this happen yesterday?”

“I-I don't remem-member,” Axandra said, worry straining her voice. She imagined that such an injury would have been received with pain, but she did not recall—

Pain. That burning in her chest when the creature in Sue's mind chased her, those teeth catching her for just a moment before she escaped.

“Madam?”

She stared at her own lavender eyes in the mirror. Her hands dropped into her lap. The puzzle pieces snapped into place. The sighting of the Goddess at the Landing, the sickness, the packhound, the hissing she heard when things were quiet… The creatures were the light and the infection! When the Believers looked upon the light, dozens of the parasites attached to them, making them sick. The man who had committed murder must have been the first infected. He showed the same symptoms of malnourishment and fatigue and madness. The parasites not only stole their host's nourishment but the very essence of the host. Somehow, the curana became infected, too, insanely bashing themselves upon the rocks. She witnessed one of these entities flee the packhound, but had not linked its presence to the emaciation of the animal until now.

Her own parasite did the same thing. The Goddess shared their nature. They were all the same race of creatures. Was she going to die this way?

More than ever, Axandra wanted to know why the Prophets kept this thing alive. The women of her family had been nothing more than vessels to sustain it, idolized by the people because of the side-effects of an infection. The only thing that separated the Goddess and the rest of her kind was that she didn't destroy the body as quickly, at least not in her prior hosts. Most of the Believers perished within a few months of their infection, while the Protectress survived for a few decades.

Yet such an infection explained why all the Protectresses-Past lived considerably short lives. Elora had lived to be fifty-seven. Before her, Cassandra had barely reached her sixtieth birthday. The longest-lived had been Amelia, the first Protectress, but she had not been named so until she reached her forties. At this rate, Axandra could not expect to live to be forty.

Miri's face moved in front of her own. The pleasantness erased, replaced with a seriousness Axandra had not seen in the young woman before.

“Ileanne,” Miri spoke the name, a breach in protocol when addressing the Esteemed Protectress, but the sound captured her attention. “Don't let it destroy you the way it did Elora. You can fight it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she fought it to the end. She wanted it to go with her to the grave. She didn't want it to find you.”

Amazed, Axandra could only stare at Miri.

“I can't explain why,” Miri continued. “I could never decipher the reason why.”

“Did she believe I was alive?”

Nodding, Miri said, “She knew you were alive. And I'm telling you, you can fight it. I'll find a way to help you.”

Axandra grabbed hold of Miri's hands, holding them like a lifeline. “We have to find a way to help the others. There has to be a way. I have to see Eryn.”

Confused, Miri pursed her brow. “Eryn? But Eryn is—”

“I know, but she may have the answer I need.” Axandra attempted to explain what had taken place at the time the Goddess tore Eryn's mind apart. “All because I couldn't remember a day's worth of events.”

“But, Madam, I was there too. The bison were real.” The woman said this with a taint of doubt, suddenly questioning the memory. Miri wanted desperately to believe the bison were a true memory, but at the same time, wanted to believe her mistress told the truth.

“For me, it never happened. Eryn tried to help me find out the truth. The Goddess struck her down to protect the truth, and then the thing scratched it out of my brain. I think Eryn still has my memories.”

They both jumped as a loud splash of water struck the stone floor. The tub overflowed, a wide stream of water pouring over the side. Leaping up, Miri hurried to turn off the spouts, her clothes soaked as she leaned over the brimming tub.

“Ummm. The bath is ready,” she deadpanned, panting from the rush. The simple words lightened the atmosphere. Both women laughed helplessly. Miri grabbed several towels to mop the floor. “Hop in. I'll let Marcus Gray know that you're coming.” Miri headed for the exit.

“Miri, wait.”

The aide stopped at the summons and looked back attentively.

“Thank you,” Axandra expressed graciously.

“All part of the service,” came the humble reply.

+++

Eryn's home
was a quiet and peaceful place. Marcus was beginning to come to terms with his wife's disability. When he greeted the Protectress today, he seemed in much higher spirits, smiling as he bowed and motioned her inside.

“She's greatly improved since you last saw her,” he stated proudly. “Her mind is recovering more rapidly than Healer Gage anticipated. He thinks there may be a chance she'll be herself again within a year, though with some amnesia.”

While Axandra ascended the stairs, Marcus offered the Elite refreshment. She was grateful he would keep himself occupied while she visited. She did not suspect he would approve of her probing the woman's frail mind.

Instead of lying in bed, Eryn was up, seated at a writing desk to one side of the large drawing room. Full bookshelves lined the outside wall of the room, while immediately to her left, the wall displayed a collection of different harps. She wondered curiously for a moment if Eryn was the harper or Marcus. Either way, the instruments did not appear to have been touched recently.

“Good Morning, Eryn,” Axandra announced herself, masking her voice with cheerfulness.

The straight red hair rippled slightly as the Healer turned her head toward her guest. “You,” she responded, smiling, her now customary greeting. Eryn recognized familiar people only on the basis that she knew them, but not that she could remember a name. Then she returned to work on a drawing in front of her. She used a variety of pigmented pencils. “Sit there.”

Already, Axandra sensed a difference in Eryn's capacity. She was more cognizant of her surroundings this time. Her words actually made sense in the circumstances.

“Eryn,” Axandra addressed as she took a seat on a soft chair nearby, facing the desk. “I came to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Eryn said with confirming tone. “Quinn.”

Distracted by the mention of his name, Axandra frowned. Perhaps she assumed too much improvement. She wasn't thinking about him, at least not consciously.

“I'm sorry, I don't—”

“You like Quinn,” Eryn said with a girlish twinkle to her voice.

“Yes, I do,” Axandra agreed, wondering how he became a topic of conversation. “But—”

“He likes you, too. Very much.”

“I believe he does,” Axandra agreed. Her frustration already grew. She was not in the mood to sort through layers of cryptic nonsense. “Eryn, I wanted to ask you about memories. May I—may I touch you?”

To this, Eryn cringed, a frightful expression on her rosy face. “No. No touch. No more pain.” She pulled away slightly, even casting her eyes away from the Protectress, a defensive posture.

“It can't hurt you again,” Axandra tried to convince. “I won't let it.”

“No,” Eryn insisted. She returned to her drawing, her eyes darting at her visitor suspiciously.

So much for that plan. She did not want to force herself on the woman. The trauma could cause more damage.

“All right. I won't. Can I ask you to try to remember something for me?” She tried to catch Eryn's line of sight, to get the woman to stop drawing and look her in the eyes. Eryn avoided her, focused only on the paper.

“I remember … Quinn,” Eryn said smiling. “Digs in the ground.”

Sighing, the Protectress settled her impatience. She should have known this would not be as easy as she hoped.

“Yes. Quinn is an archeologist. He digs for artifacts left by the Ancients.”

And so the conversation continued in a similar manner for the next hour, always about Quinn, but nothing that Axandra didn't already know about him. Eryn spoke of his eyes and hair, then of the dinner party where they had met. She even spoke of his desire to see Axandra again as though it hadn't happened yet. But Eryn didn't know that Quinn had already visited or that he was coming back tomorrow. When Axandra tried to tell her these things, the ill woman could not grasp the ideas. She continued to speak as though trapped in the past.

Finally, exasperated with the process and noting that Marcus prowled anxiously in the corridor, Axandra rose to leave.

Eryn rose, too. “Wait. This is yours.” She held out the drawing.

“No, Eryn. That is your drawing,” Axandra refused. She was not in the mood to accept gifts.

“Take it,” Eryn insisted, pushing the paper at her. “It is yours.”

Not even glancing at the pencil drawing, Axandra rolled the large paper into a tube. “Thank you, Eryn. Good Day.”

Disheartened by the lack of progress, Axandra hurried home to formulate a new plan.

By the time she returned to the Palace, the lunch hour had passed. The dining room was being cleaned and swept. Rather than intrude, she headed upstairs to her rooms, sending a thought to Miri to have lunch brought up to her balcony.

She carried the rolled up drawing with her. When she reached the landing of the third floor, she unfurled the long paper and glanced at the image. Eryn seemed to have quite an imagination to draw this picture. From a high point of view, possibly a ridge, the artist looked down at a collection of tents and people. Distant mountains formed the backdrop. In the center, the focal point of the image, a large round object rested in a trench, surrounded by men with shovels and buckets. Though the human figures stood in the distance and their facial features drawn as indistinguishable marks, one of them reminded her of Quinn.

Glancing up to see where she walked, Axandra spied a pink puff on the window ledge across from the staircase. Pausing, she blinked, making certain she wasn't just seeing things. In a few steps, she collected the bloom and lifted it to her nose. The musky perfume immediately brought Quinn's face to her thoughts.

Turning toward the main door to her Residence, she saw other flowers, like a trail, running right to her door. Collecting the blooms, she made her way to her home.

She nodded a greeting to the two guards, each of which kept his face impassive. Whatever they knew, they kept secret.

Inside, she looked for Quinn, finding him seated on the sofa, his eyes momentarily absorbed in a book.

“You're here!” she burst joyously, skipping to him and wrapping her arms around his thick torso just as he was able to get to his feet. “How did you get in here?”

“Miri was kind enough to let me in,” he explained, squeezing her tightly in his arms.

“And the flowers?” she asked, holding up the small bouquet. “The garden's stopped blooming because it's so dry. Where did these come from?”

“A friend keeps them in her garden. She's kept them well watered.”

“I didn't expect you until tomorrow.”

“Is that a complaint?” he teased.

“Oh no!” she reassured quickly, her eyes brimming with tears. She rested her chin against his shoulder. “I'm so glad you're here.”

“Good,” he sighed. “I think I'll stay awhile.” Gently, he lifted her chin so that he could kiss her. It was a soft, pleasant kiss, one shared between lovers who had been apart, now reunited.

Backing away a step, he just stared into her eyes. “Their color is so remarkable,” he declared of the violet irises. His hand cupped her cheek. She welcomed the touch, nuzzling against his palm. His fingers felt rough from working.

“Do you know what you are doing to me?” Quinn asked. Beneath her hands, his heart beat rapidly in his chest. His skin felt hot and his cheeks flushed bright pink like the flowers.

“I know what I want to do to you,” Axandra said with a saucy grin. She made certain to send her thoughts to him through her fingertips.

He blushed, his round cheeks rosy. He wasn't wearing his glasses, so the lines around his eyes weren't hidden. They crinkled to fill his face with his smile.

“Tell me what you want, Quinn,” she said, her fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt, “and I will do it. Even if you want me to do nothing. I just want to be near you.” She slipped one hand between his collar and his neck, her long fingers combing his clipped hair, pulling him closer.

He looked at her face with longing. “I wanted so badly for the time to fly to get back here with you,” he admitted to her. He reached up for the hand that rested on his chest, caressing her fingers that so earnestly wanted to open his shirt. “I want time and the world to stand still now so that I never have to go.”