"Sarcastic Seductress" by Emily Kirsch

She plucked at the mass of curls on top of her head, disgusted with the hairstyle. It had taken a good hour to complete, an hour of hearing the handmaiden jabber on about her husband, how lovely he was, blah blah blah. And the hair, it was ugly. Not that she wanted to perform in front of the castles whole audience, oh no, but she didn’t have a choice. At least she could look tolerable.

She walked into her room, dismissing the three servants with a flick of her hand. A crimson silk dress, embroidered with what looked like flames, sat upon the bed, the small fires dancing idly. She wiggled quickly into this, reminding herself of the time, smoothing the front down with a frail, bird like hand. Her dull golden gaze inspected her appearance critically in the large mirror that was cornered by the door, analyzing every last detail like she knew the Lord’s son would do. He was to pick a mistress, and it was rumored he had his eye set on Fyria for a long while. Well, for as long as she had been at castle D’nerah, working as the music "coordinator", or so they called it. He was cocky and cynical, but had this devilish manner about him, a mystery that made her want to dig deeper.

A grand bell tolled, signaling that the musical would begin soon. She slipped out of the tall oaken doors, jabbing orange-gold curls back into place. Marble steps greeted her feet, these she sidestepped down carefully, hand trailing along the elegantly carved handrail.

Masses of people, grand jumbles of high-ranking Lords and Ladies, worn travelers, royal nonetheless, crowded down the staircase, laughing, joking and chatting, none paying mind to the other, each lost in their own conversations, their own lives.

A cold hand found its place on Fyria’s shoulder as she was mulling over this. She couldn’t stop and turn to see who it was for the commute was moving quickly and very strictly downward, but she didn’t need to. The finely crafted fingertips drew up at the gaze he received from her, his lips pulling into a satirical grin.

"Hello there, my Sarcastic Seductress," the Lord’s son, Ryat, said.

She continued to move down the stairway, not answering the man. The marble spread onto the ballroom’s floor, each too high high-heeled shoe clacking rhythmically on it. The people around her were careful not to nudge her with a stray elbow, for her ranking and occupation was apparent. Ryat didn’t care, of course. He followed her, smirking all the time, as if she played with him. She almost laughed at this thought, and slid into her designated seat at the High Table, knowing he wouldn’t dare follow her there.

But he did.

His shirt rustled as he came into a crouch beside her. "How dare you walk away from me, Fyria?" He asked, in a dark, playful tone, but was soon interrupted, when the whole gathering grew quiet, the man at the head of the table standing up.

The Lord of D’nerah clacked his spoon on the side of his glass, apparently a bit tipsy. He began to drone on about the musical being withheld until the next night, for various unknown reasons; but it gave Fyria a chance to ignore Ryat, for the moment. She fingered a fire-tinted curl, feeling itself pull around the rich amber stone she wore on her thumb, concentrating on this rather her surroundings. Once more, she felt ice caress her palm, beckoning her. "Come with me, my Mistress . . ." he whispered. She rolled her eyes, which thwarted his attempts almost immediately. He stood with a whoosh of cinnamon air, and she could feel his eyes burning down at the top of her head.

"You’ll pay, Fyria," he told her.

He strode away from her chair, and though she wore the confident look, she was still far too nervous for her liking.

* * *

The huge banquet had long since finished, leaving her to wander the grounds without a soul protesting. The moon shone brightly overhead, silver hues piercing the thin clouds that attempted to obscure it.

Her long dress trailed on the ground behind her, though none of the stray branches or leaves that were flung about the path clung to it. She noticed and brushed over this finite detail, desperate to get Ryat’s words from her mind. It worked, for a time.

She thought back to earlier that month, when she’d been only too happy to swoon in his presence. The compliments he paid her weren’t those of "your eyes are as the ocean, hair, the finest gold . . ." but of a much more obscure nature, the ones she’d preferred. No, she hadn’t spoken to him for more then but a few scattered nights, but the fiery gazes he shot to her always made her direct her daydreams to him.

Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about him, though. She needed to worry about the musical – ah, the musical. A sigh wafted from her crimson lips, caught only by the surrounding trees, which entangled it in their branches, swallowing it needily. The damnable thing had taken over two months to piece together. She’d been called from Kenira – the busy desert town she’d been staying in – to the castle, to perform as the coordinator for the project. None she taught could actually sing or play, but she believed the end result would please the Lord, and that was all that mattered, at the moment.

A sudden bird’s cry brought her gaze sharply to the left. Following that was the sound of a small wood flute, swirling notes traveling delicately to her ears. She paused mid-step to listen, and was intrigued enough to step off of the path and into the woods, trusting nothing but her ears to lead her to the player. Surely she’d have known if someone in D’nerah held that sort of musical abilities, but perhaps the musician wasn’t of the castle? She slunk quietly through the trees, brushing tenacious branches from her sleeves. A bright light was up ahead, golden luminescence clouding her visi0n. She parted the bushes, the aria twisting violently about her head.

All that she saw was black.

* * *

She woke with a groan, finding her senses greeted with a dank, musty smell. Was she in a cell? Her eyes wouldn’t dare adjust to the murky darkness, but she could feel shadows cling to her arms and legs. The first thing that popped into her mind, the first person, was Ryat. This had to be some sort of sick revenge. She paused in this thought, mentally seeing her words written on paper, for lack of the ability to view anything else. He couldn’t have played the instrument that well, and who would he hire to play it for him? She would’ve found out, she knew she would’ve, if someone that could make music like that, could spin something so enticing, lived in the castle. Or even around it, for the Lord’s stretch was far.

Fyria pressed her palms to the – what felt like – moss covered ground, fingertips sinking deeply into the moist carpet. Her eyes strained to see, drawing in what little specks of light danced across her peripheral vision. With a push off from the ground, the spongy material twisting about her fingers, she rose, brushing the sides of her dress off. It seemed fairly clean, undamaged, and she reached up to find her hair still in the horrible style. Her arm fell to her side again and she turned in a slow, steady circle, looking for lines of light that could be a window or door, but didn’t see either of these. A shot in the dark, was what she knew she had to make. She walked forward, slowly, steps measured and calculated in her head, though she had no idea what good doing that would do. Her feet, now bare, fell along the rug of moss, toes sinking in with a squelching noise. Her face turned up into a grimace to this, nose crinkling sharply. More steps, each one bringing a sharp shudder to her shoulders, and she found a wall. The bricks seemed old, eroded with time and wear, but served as a path, now.

A distant drip dripping was heard, seeming to taunt her, a piercing note in absolute silence. She inched along the wall, pausing when she felt her fingers brush over what seemed like a piece of paper. This she drew into her fingers, tucking it tightly in the crevice of her breasts, knowing she’d need to read it later, but wouldn’t bother trying in the ebon room. Her feet hit a rock, and she was sent stumbling forward, only to brace her hands into a door. She smiled triumphantly, quickly moving her hands along either side at about hip height, searching for the handle she prayed was even there – and unlocked, at that.

Success. She found the doorknob and twisted it quickly; the door swinging easily opened, as if it had been oiled just the day before. Her lips danced down in a frown, then a sneer. That bastard, she thought, then whispered it aloud, to hear herself saying it, needing to, for some reason. She shook her head; curls flitting about her ears, gracing the sleek points they were drawn into. Her form moved from the confines of the cell, finding a cool, crisp fall air greeting her face with a rush. It was freezing, one only shown to the wee hours of the night, which lead her to believe she had been there for longer then she could imagine. The bird she had heard when she first followed the noise was present, greeting her happily when she emerged. She glared up at it, able to see its raven silhouette against the crescent moon that graced the sky that night.

She moved down the path she’d come, realising that she had it memorized as her feet carried her deftly and without fault across the darkened walkway. Her arms swung at her side, a motion unthought about, and one out of nature or habit. She noted that she was doing it after a moment, and ceased it, tucking her arms about her waist. No, she did not want people to think her in a happy mood.

Her thoughts were now centered on Ryat, and what she would tell him, the next day. No use telling the Lord, he wouldn’t do anything but chuckle heartily, and tell her to go amuse herself elsewhere. Ugh, she couldn’t wait to get out of the dreaded castle, to be able to be wanderlust on her own once more. The bard’s blood ran strong in her, which of a traveler, a venturer, one unrestrained by castle walls and courtly ladies. She plucked disdainfully at the rich burgundy silk she was draped in, letting it fall unenthusiastically at her side once more, the bottom swirling about her feet as if gleeful to be simply moving.

She neared the rose trellis that formed the gateway to the garden she had been heading, flowing underneath this without a second thought to the matter. The rich scent of the blood red buds floated to her nose, making her stop in her tracks, cast a glance over her shoulder. She wanted to laugh at her behaviour, not understanding what was making her act this way, this paranoid, but couldn’t, for she was. Not another noise other then the lonely bird’s cry was heard, that drifting to her ears nonchalantly, remaining with her until she neared the back steps that lead into the kitchen of the castle. She chose to enter the back way so as not to disturb the other occupants of the large castle, which she knew without a doubt would be fast asleep. No one was active here, either, and it remained quiet and dull until she reached her room.

Scattered, lit candles met her there. They were placed intermittently about the room, each of a deep, crimson color, the fires burning with a strangely golden hue, dancing and flickering in an almost bored manner. She hesitated in the doorway then continued on, stepping quietly, breath caught in her throat, as if she couldn’t and didn’t dare make a noise. In your own room? Snap out of it, Fyria, she told herself, but the words had no real impact, other then her letting her breath out with a slight hiss of air. A faint scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, this she took a deep breath of to be sure it was he. Her thoughts faltered suddenly, and she remembered the slip of paper, pulling it out hastily. She moved over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, gazing down at the paper, eyes narrowed as she read it. Written, in loopy handwriting, full of regality, was : "Fyria. I see you’ve gotten out, all right. I told you you’d pay . . . though I must admit; this wasn’t what I was hoping from you. Meet me tomorrow night, under the trellis. No one will know you go there. No one can know. Ryat."

She glanced over at the candle nearest her, pondering burning the note. A second thought caused her to slip it into a worn journal she had tucked under the comforter, one she slept on top of for fear of someone finding it and taking it in her sleep. She decided against writing an entry for the night, instead shifting to lie more fully on the bed, soon falling into much needed, blissful sleep.

* * *

* * *

The various people chatted noisily around her; the music paused for the moment. Fyria stood, hands upon hips, eyes closed tightly in vain hope that doing so, that wishing hard enough would make them concentrate. The golden ovals were revealed when she opened her eyes once more, attempting to pull off the strictest look that she could summon. She cleared her throat, the noise melodious in the simple task. They quieted, all looking to her. A blond haired girl continued laughing, baby blue eyes dancing merrily.

"Deryssi? Are you going to listen, now?" Fyria asked her, smiling sweetly. The girl turned to look at her, then at the rest of her classmates, seeing they were quiet. She flushed immediately, then nodded a few times, lapsing into silence. Fyria smirked at this, then nodded.

"As you all know, the musical is tonight, or so we hope. I do believe you’re all ready for it? We remember our parts, right? That sort of thing?" Each member nodded in synch in response to her question, eyes glittering happily. She restrained from laughing at the trained puppy look each had about them, and merely smiled, instead. "Alright, lovely. Now . . . go back to your rooms, and do attempt to not bother each other horribly. We need pure acting, pure music at this show. You all know this, I know you do. Just, please, for the love of the sweet Goddess, try to do your best." She nodded in dismissal, then turned and didn’t waste one moment to exit from the grand hall, the one decorated for the show she was talking about in the classroom.

Servants and maids bustled about the hallways, tripping over Fyria’s steps when she passed through, murmuring, "Sorry, my lady," to her before continuing on with whatever chores they were doing. She eventually made her way back up to her room, not wanting to be trapped amongst the midst of rapidly moving people. Each guest that had been there the night before remained, traipsing through the private quarters and bellowing on about nothing in particular the whole day. These hollers penetrated her paper-thin walls, or so they resembled, after one man declared that he was, indeed, going to live through the next week. What relevance did this have to anything she remembered him talking about earlier? Not a thing, or so she recalled.

Fyria ended up sitting down on her bed once more, scribbling various notes about the dream she’d just then had time to remember. She brooded over this for a good amount matter of what precious hours remained before the musical, coming to no conclusion, but seeing a rather good song or verse coming from it. Her lips danced up with what might’ve been satisfaction, and she tucked the journal – making sure the note was still there, yet frowning when she read it again – under her pillow, patting down the coverlets and sheets carefully before bidding the handmaiden to come in again. She ushered Fyria to a stool in front of the mirror, and went about fussing with her hair, gushing about how her husband was a cruel and dirty man, quite a change from the previous one-sided conversation. When she was finished, which was soon, thankfully, Fyria believe that her hair hand, in fact, had become much more desirable. She near-chuckled at this, then sucked in a breath, readying herself for the performance. What seemed like déjà vu flowed over her, though the feeling was strange, as if it was a package that had been severely tampered with.

The grand bell tolled, again, so she didn’t have any time to further muse about this. She swirled out of her room in a dusky orange dress, the color that of a sun almost done setting over the mountain tops, blue undertones sticking sharply out yet flowing along with the rest of the colors, forming a smooth blend, one an artist might’ve constructed. Again, the marble greeted her feet; her steps sliding elegantly down them. She awaited the icy touch, dreading it at the same time, but awaited nonetheless, wanting to feel it, to complete her so-called déjà vu. She tugged at a coil of hair, the silky strands darting about her fingers. No touch. The grand colors carried her without warning down the rest of the stairs, seeming to hustle her into her seat.

The Lord rose. He lifted his glass, the rich liquid flicking playfully against the sides of the crystal goblet, mimicking the crowd’s merriness. He wavered, there, for a moment, then fell over, eyes bulging out, a choked, strangled gargle fighting its way from his lips. He clutched his chest, his heart, and fell over with a loud thump, the crimson liquid floating from the cracked chalice. Gasps and frightened murmurs came from the arranged people, then shrieks from the various ladies who had just seen and understood what had happened. Fyria set her lips in a line, teeth clenched together, then stood, sliding unseen from her seat, making her way to the back entrance. None stopped her; none paid her a second glance as she moved. She was glad of this, but a nagging, disturbed feeling sank in the pit of her stomach, which she cast aside, dismissing it as yet another problem she had to deal with later on.

The night’s sweet scent met her nose, inky black vines twining about her demeanor, quashing what light resided there. She shoved these off with a roll of her shoulders, and made her way through the over grown weeds, kicking off her shoes at the side of the path, finding it easier to move in the usually well-kept grass without them. The trellis loomed up ahead, the roses seeming to be the only color in the darkness, which perked up and reached out to her as she neared them. He stood there, too, almost enveloped by the night; one made to crawl in it, a night dweller. She knew he didn’t see her, when she paused, and stood there, watching him, ignoring the shadows that crept across her collarbone. The form fitting grey dress shuffled around her feet, not having as nice of effect as the burgundy one did, but this was just another lost thought to keep her mind away from him. No, no more faltering. She had to meet him, she had to talk to him, and she had to find out. He called to her as silently as the music did aloud, making the fact that it could’ve been him all the more viable. Her feet carried her, unwilling, closer to him, an involuntary action. She didn’t deny this; she didn’t resist, and paused when she came but a few steps in front of him. He turned his head, bobbing his neck at her, then whispered, his voice sifting gently out on the midnight breeze.

"Hello, my Sarcastic Seductress."

8.5.oo, 4.21.AM