‘I don’t understand. If white is your specialty, why did you name your winery “The Bloodred Bottle”?’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Vardille found lying by giving half-truths exceptionally hard but at the same time, somewhat entertaining. ‘I believe red could have been more popular in my uncle’s time.’
‘He must have had lots of dark grapes in his vineyard. Those … purplish-reddish ones.’ Idamin gave the impression of a wise sage, someone who was quite learnt and educated for being born in the unforgiving land of the North, especially in the field of mysticism and the ways of the arcane. In other matters, however, she turned out to be mildly … ludicrous.
‘Yes. Blue ones. We call them blue grapes.’
‘Apologies. My clan does not cultivate grapes.’ Ida walked beside him quietly for a couple of moments. ‘But if you inherited his land, how can you make white wine from red … blue grapes?’
‘Oh, well, you see,’ Vardille made a note in his mind to remember thanking an unsolicited lesson in vinification to Lorne Avellan, ‘the juice you press from blue grapes is also clear, mostly. The difference lies in the method of fermentation. When you make white wine, you press the juice from the grapes, what we also call must, then ferment it. In the case of red wine, you first crush the grapes into a mess of juice and pulp, and then comes the fermentation, for the colorants are in the skin of the fruit. Only after fermentation do we press this mash. So, we can talk about must fermentation and mash fermentation, respectively.’
‘Gods fuck me, you might be a damned vinedresser after all.’ Mjelgralah approached from the back of the line. Vardille nodded in welcome; the chief was not in a delightful state.
‘I am not in the habit of lying, Chief.’
‘Unless it serves your purpose. I hate to break it down on you, vinedresser, but that’s precisely how lies work.’
Idamin turned to the tall woman. ‘I see it wasn’t easy with Draggan?’
‘I made him see reason,’ she answered sternly, then covered herself in defiant silence as she walked to the head of their group.
They rose as soon as dawn broke and were travelling for the better part of the day, following a route Vardille thought would bypass the Ghatra’s immediate surroundings. He spent the rest of the night in the makeshift tent he and Mjelgralah pitched after their encounter, and soon the woman’s warriors brought Bryne in. Vardille often inspected his King’s condition until exhaustion took him to a dreamless sleep. Bryne had been unconscious ever since, occasionally twitching and talking in his sleep. Vardille insisted his companion be let to rest. He was the only caretaker, although Idamin helped a lot, and Vardille, for the first time since long forgotten years had prayed; prayed that the King would not mumble anything in his sleep that could compromise his story.
The Velardhari group had been marching for long hours now, with every one of them taking part in carrying the tools and items they needed for pitching a temporary camp. Bryne was travelling on a battered cart, haphazardly built by the northerners which greatly surmounted Vardille’s expectations in all manners.
‘She’s like that sometimes,’ Idamin told him as she was following Mjelgralah with her gaze. ‘But she has a pure heart, even if she herself can’t always see it.’
‘I don’t doubt it. How long have you two known each other?’
‘Saint, probably since childhood. I remember her from my earliest memories.’
‘Are you two related?’
‘No. Harak is her cousin, though. The little boy. She cares for him greatly. Another ordeal she is facing day by day.’
‘I see.’ He wanted to know his fellow companions better, yet Vardille opted for remaining silent. He thought it wise not to push matters too hard. Idamin had proved to be a pleasant partner so far, he feared risking her newly gained trust.
Not that Idamin kept quiet.
‘This land is quite strange. Were you born here?’
‘Oh no. I am from the Mainland.’ Idamin gave him a curious look, which Vardille returned, but since the girl did not ask further questions, he did not go into details.
‘I’ve never been abroad aside from this one voyage,’ the Herald continued. ‘I’d say I enjoyed the journey far better than any of my companions. The Sea of Memories was beautiful with the Teeth looming in the back. Do you know perhaps the origins of the name?’ Vardille shrugged. Some things were better left untold. The story behind the Sea of Memories was such. Idamin went on. ‘I was a bit disappointed that we didn’t have to go ashore neither in Temdath nor Remdath. Those kingdoms are beautiful, never have I ever seen anything nearly as green as that grass. A pity we were attacked by a seasnake in one of the bays of Neryl, but we pulled through it without casualties.’
‘You can count yourselves lucky. You spent days on a ship, out in the wild, yet you did not meet beasts save one. That is unusual in the Mainland.’
‘Weeks, actually. But that makes sense. The behemoths are kept at bay at the Brimlands. Hence their numbers should very well be dwindling in the kingdoms.’
‘I am delighted to hear that they do not wreak havoc in Velardhar, then. It is not the case in Remdath. But truth be told, the kingdom is almost in the immediate proximity of the Brimlands.’
‘So, you are from Remdath.’
Vardille pressed his lips but nodded in silence.
‘Your name sounded weird to my ears when I first heard it. Now I understand why.’
Vardille gave Idamin a sidelong glance. ‘Weird? Have you heard your chief’s name at all?’
The short girl grinned, but quickly turned serious again. ‘Amrith seems to have beasts aplenty. Those hellhounds gave us a hard time the first instant we set foot on your land.’
‘Hellhounds?’ Vardille raised a brow.
‘Those dog-like beasts. Big, furry monsters with eyes glowing like fire.’
‘Bloodwolves. We call them bloodwolves. But I guess hellhounds could be equally fitting.’
The group came to a halt. Vardille craned his neck to get a better view. The manyfold kinds of trees surrounding the group left little to see, for their branches hung nearly from everywhere. Silk oaks, though rare, stood nearby, their stout and robust trunk were covered by silver bark, their leaves, twice the size of Vardille’s hand, languidly hovered aloft. The densely grown everbeech and their bloodred foliage only further obscured vision.
Apparently, the scouts returned from their mission, and now were reporting to Mjelgralah at the head of the line. Judging by the trepidation evident on the Velardhari faces, Vardille sensed the news the warriors brought was of importance.
‘Shall we—’
‘Yes,’ Idamin nodded and walked up to the scouts and her chief. As they approached, Mjelgralah turned, her face lost in thought.
‘There’s a village nearby,’ she muttered. ‘Low wooden fence, couple of town guards as it seems, built at the base of a hill. Know anything about it, vinedresser?’
‘I am not quite familiar with the area,’ Vardille answered accordingly to reality. ‘The vicinity of the Ghatra is scarcely populated, that much I know.’
‘It is my luck then that even so we stumbled upon your countrymen. Very well, we do not seek trouble. Do you think they might prove to be hostile towards us?’
‘A Velardhari band would indeed be a spectacle in any region of the land. And this town could very well be inhabited by the Rebels. Islanders, as they like to call themselves.’
‘We need to avoid any affiliations with local politics before we speak to the king,’ said Idamin. ‘Can’t we just take a detour?’
‘I suppose we could,’ Vardille frowned. ‘There are not many roads around this part of the kingdom, but we could easily find our way to the South-West. Yet, we … you might want to think twice before pitching camp in the wilderness. The shore wasn’t that horrible, but the forest echoes with the howls of beasts at night.’
He wanted to visit that town, one way or another. He wanted information about what had transpired in the last three days. What was happening in the towns around the Ghatra? Were they trying to evacuate the settlements? What were the casualties if there were any? Had any of the Crownguard or Rebels survived?
He longed to get the answers, but he tried not to display his eagerness. He knew he had to be cautious in Mjelgralah’s presence.
‘You suggest we stay at this town?’ The chief looked stunned.
‘It isn’t a devilish idea. We certainly have better chances against the beasts behind a fence than in the open, and no, it is not cowardice. You can at least begin to get familiar with the people of Amrith.’
‘And I wager you’d be willing to march in alone, announcing our arrival. Maybe gather the folks and arm them up, hm?’
‘They are strangers to me as well. Especially if they’re Rebels. I am in no better place than any of you. That said, I am convinced they would be less terrified if they saw one of their countrymen along with your band.’
‘I am no fool, I wouldn’t take the whole band inside before I make sure it’s safe. I hear you, and you know what, you are right. Someone will accompany you to the town and back.’
‘Draggan?’ Ida suggested. ‘If hell breaks loose, he might be able to break out with Vardille.’
‘That would be really impressive, wouldn’t it?’ Mjelgralah muttered, and she hesitated for a moment before sighing. ‘No. I will go with him. Draggan is chief until I return. Stay here, if there is no word from us by sunset, pitch camp, then … I will leave it up to Draggan.’
‘Then storm the city and get you out, understood.’ Idamin nodded with a grin and turned to inform the higher ranked warriors about the forthcoming event.
‘If you need anything, suit yourself,’ Mjelgralah told Vardille as she passed him. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
Vardille checked his sword and the straps of his now somewhat clean armour. That was all he needed to have. He took down his hide satchel with various tools inside and an elderly man beside him, Thrandal, with an ever-present smile on his face, took it over. While the northerners’ leader was away, he walked beside the scouts and inspected the path beyond. It led straight through the forest for a while, then it disappeared following the slope. The town must have been close. Hopefully a town not packed with rebels.
‘Well, shall we?’ Mjelgralah returned, and the change in his appearance left Vardille blinking.
‘Is it wise not to wear your armour?’ The woman wore a long-sleeved woollen shirt with simple brown cotton pants. She tied her hair up with a leather strap. She did look like any villager would in Amrith if it was not for her pale skin.
‘Do your women walk around in armour, carrying a hefty war hammer?’
‘I understand your point. But out here in the wild—’
‘You can surely defend me,’ the woman grinned. ‘You told me Velardhari attires would look ridiculous anyway.’
‘I’ve never said—’
‘Stop dawdling! You get my point. Let us go.’
As soon as the faint clamour of the band muted behind them, Vardille started to sharpen his senses, scanning through the shady parts of the forest, listening to the song of the wild. Few were the beasts that roamed in daylight, yet he had learnt to keep vigilant whenever he left behind the false sense of safeness of crowds.
They did not talk, but silence was a friend Vardille had been used to for long years. Mjelgralah walked with her head held high, her eyes frantically darting from one angle to the next. A couple of times the man caught her staring at the trees in what he assumed a quiet confusion.
The path ran downwards as Vardille had expected. He stood for a moment to immerse himself in the picturesque scenery—far away beneath, as he peeked through and above the canopy of the forest, were a narrow chasm, stretching far around the highlands neighbouring the Ghatra and its less imposing mounts. The otherwise flat green foliage was toned with bright colours, borne by Amrith’s unique vegetation. The red of the everbeech, the purple and azure of the dreampines, the bright yellow of the suntrees all adorned the vicinity as jewels sewn on a fine dress. Vardille took a deep breath, and he let a sad smile creep to his lips.
It was mesmerising. But as nature had it, an ugly and decaying side hid behind the gorgeous cavalcade of colours, since the land that bloomed all this beauty was the same land that gave birth to the repulsive vermin that lurked across the kingdom. Vardille never understood that, and he knew he would never accept it either.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Casting his glance on the robust, rocky mountain not so far away, despair hung unto his soul. The Ghatra seemed ever so proud—but thick, glowing flows of red and orange scarred its slopes, and farther, even some of its valleys. A handful of these fiery flows started to develop a black outer crust but were smouldering even so. Vardille knew it was a false sensation, but he could swear he felt the suffocating scorching heat on his face once again. Three days after the eruption ash lingered still, although the forests they roamed south of the mountain were somewhat sheltered owing to the thick foliage. The guard captain had heard about volcanoes erupting, mainly in the Brimlands, but this one was no natural phenomenon; they had started something inside that mountain.
Vardille returned to the path and continued the journey. Only then did he realise that Mjelgralah was patiently waiting beside him while he was gazing out to the valleys, and that meant something for him. No words could describe that feeling, but a sense of rightness burnt within him.
‘Gods!’ the tall woman whispered, and Vardille turned, flashing out his sword in the fragment of a moment. A huge, bee-like insect was flying around the branches of a beech, its dark-brown body covered in chitin. The Crownguard sighed, sheathed his sword, and waved to Mjelgralah.
‘Do not worry. It’s a kaj. It’s one of the rare species that are not heinous. It means no harm.’
‘How come it grew that big?’ The kaj was of the size of a head, and with its rapidly flapping wings it did seem terrifying.
‘I have no idea. I’m also unsure as to what it does; if it does anything that is. Leave it be. We must be close to the town.’
Mjelgralah nodded, but she kept her eyes on the insect until it disappeared from sight.
‘Yours is a very strange land, vinedresser.’
‘I bet we could say the same about Velardhar.’
‘Have you been there? In the North?’
‘Not yet. I know it is very … cold.’
‘It is. But aside from that, it’s very much like any of the kingdoms in the Mainland. I mean, I’m speaking about the landscape. It is not so different, maybe there’s much more snow than you’d imagine. And mountains. Gods, big-ass mountain stare down you everywhere you look. And it’s freezing cold. I had expected Amrith to be much warmer, given that it’s situated here in the South. But the forest is green, and it radiates in all kinds of colours. I must admit it’s rather beautiful, even if very unusual. And the birds! There are no birds. How is it even possible?’
‘You are asking the right questions,’ Vardille laughed, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t answer them. There are seagulls near the shores, sometimes you can also hear the song of bluebreasts. And we have blackhawks, but they really are not birds. Those beasts could easily kill a man if they catch them off-guard.’
‘Hurray, more bloodthirsty demons to worry about. Well, at least the weather has been lovely so far.’
‘Don’t get used to it. Rains and storms are quite frequent here.’
They walked in silence for a couple of moments, then Mjelgralah sighed. ‘You know, they say if someone talks about the weather, that person really has nothing to say, they just love hearing their voice.’
‘And do you?’
‘Not particularly,’ the warrioress frowned. ‘I’m just anxious. I guess. It’s been a long time since I was without my hammer.’
‘It’s all right. Talking makes time pass faster. As you can see, it has achieved its goal.’
The wooden fence the scouts had been talking about stood about two hundred yards away from them. The undergrowth on the path became sparser and sparser around the gates to the point where it could be called a road with some generosity. Vardille could not make out some movements around and beyond the gates and the fence—the fence which in reality seemed like casual solid wooden wall, standing at around nine feet tall; that left Vardille wonder what kind of defence force the Northerners used back at home if they considered that only as a fence.
He stopped. He was reluctant towards what would come next, but he had ever been an adherent of sincere talks.
‘Do you trust me?’ He asked Mjelgralah. The northerner sighed heavily.
‘Any one man who asks this is fully aware that he is up to no good and only asks for validation. If it’s validation you seek, I’m afraid I can’t give it to you after only one day of acquaintance.’
‘I may have not been entirely honest with you before,’ Vardille muttered. Mjelgralah pretended to be surprised, her eyes went comically wide.
‘Oh my, it has never even occurred to me! Afterall you’re only a vinedresser with skills to draw that sword in the blink of an eye.’
‘Well, not … that. The armour I wear; it’s a Crownguard’s armour.’ He pointed at his chest, where the steel breastplate was engraved with the symbol of the crown and the two halberds crossed over it. ‘That is an elite military unit overseeing the safety of Royal family members and other associates. I know not what reaction it may cause in the town. If they are Rebels, it will probably provoke them. If they are Royalists, they might see us as friends.’
‘Understood. What’s the matter?’
‘I can take it down. That way we could approach as neutrals. But if they found out that we hid a Crownguard’s armour from them, it won’t matter who they are, either group would be quite furious with us.’
‘Leave it on, then. I like our chances better that way. Besides, one of us really should wear armour.’
Vardille found Mjelgralah’s cooperation unexpected. It would not have bothered him had it not been for her unswaying confidence that she saw through his story. Had it not been for the mischievous smirk and the glint in her eyes that told: both of them were aware that Mjelgralah knew Vardille was more than what he showed himself to be.
Three town guards awaited them in front of the open gates, all wearing the same plain leather armour without helmets. Before reaching them, Mjelgralah snorted quietly.
‘Not that… You owe me an explanation, vinedresser.’
‘Just let me do the talking,’ Vardille murmured back.
‘State your business, good folks,’ one of the guards addressed them, a tall, bald man with a profile looking as if carved of stone.
‘My friend and I wish to speak with the jarl of the region.’ Vardille stood straight, his voice filled with the confidence of those who were used to people obeying their every word. He caught Mjelgralah’s sideways glance in the corner of his eye.
‘This is Greenfall. Jarl Alach resides in Inghatra, helping the residents in the neighbouring settlements to gather up in the town from the fire. That’s a two-day long trek on foot to the North.’
‘In that case, we will happily meet your alderman.’
‘Wha’ business ya ‘ave ‘ere?’ another, short guard barked. His broken nose and aggressive grey eyes told of trouble. ‘You don’ seem no refugees to me.’
Before Vardille could answer, the other guard, the bald one, poked him hard in the side with his elbow.
‘Apologies, Crownguard,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t seen your emblem.’
‘It’s all right. We’re seeking trade and accommodation.’
‘Of course. The town hall stands in the middle of the settlement. There is a little pond there, you can’t miss it. But rest assured, the town does not have much to offer in times like these.’
‘Thank you, good man.’
‘If I may, sir,’ the guard lifted a hand. ‘Are you with the others?’
‘Are there other Crownguard in the town?’ Vardille asked, his heart began to pound faster.
‘A few, yes. A worn-out pack, that is. Arrived at dawn three days ago. Same night when the fire started coming down the mountain. They are staying at the Pebbles household. The family left yesterday so the dwelling fell vacant.’
‘Thanks for your help. We’ll seek them out.’
The guards let them pass the gates. It was not for a few steps before Mjelgralah grunted.
‘Impressive. Did you learn that by cultivating vines, too?’
‘Learn what?’ Vardille’s thoughts revolved around the Crownguard. He was quietly taking in the town, scanning the buildings and streets as pebbles and basalt, laid down for narrow walkways, crunched beneath their foot. Most buildings were simple one-story homes, made of wood and stone, and a few yards wide small garden belonged to most of them. Quiet noises filled the air—somewhere hidden from vision, the rhythmical clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer formed the heartbeat of the town. Hogs were wallowing in the mud behind a low fence nearby, and a bit further down the road, two dogs were lying at the corner of a street in the cool shadow of a cart packed with vegetables, occasionally yelping. People were scarce, only a few stayed outside. Most were hurrying to their business and only took a curt glance at Vardille and Mjelgralah, others, standing by their homes or sitting on benches, speaking and gossiping, followed them with their gaze, lowering their voice, some falling silent entirely.
‘Nothing, vinedresser, nothing. Do you really want to find those elite guards of yours?’
‘We shall speak with the alderman first, then find an inn where we can stay for the night with the whole band.’
‘I feel like our roles have suddenly changed,’ the northerner looked at Vardille askance.
‘Whatever conspiracy you are playing out in your head, I assure you, I will not betray your people and won’t defy you in any way,’ Vardille said quietly.
Although, he would have lied if he said he had not thought about leaving the Velardhari band behind to stay in Greenfall with Bryne until the King regained his strength. In truth, that could have been more than a viable option considering that he would have support in the Crownguard present in the town. Yet he knew numbers did mean advantage out in the wild, and travelling with that fifty or so Northerners was much safer than doing so with five Crownguard.
He was suffocating amid the lies. He really should have disclosed at least part of their real identities with the warrioress. Despite spending less than a whole day with the band, he believed them to be sincere folks.
The pond was no larger than ten yards in diameter, its water surprisingly clean, the sun’s bright rays glistened on its still surface. The square around the adornment provided space for the more significant dwellings—the town hall’s stocky building was the only one that had glass in its windows, the stone masonry of the barracks next to it possessed a slender tower with a long spire on its facade, which gave the impression of a temple to Vardille. Across the pond, the only two-story building stood proudly. Windows aplenty yawned on the walls of both the ground and upper floor, their shutters wide open. A small staircase led to a long porch with a balustrade and several alcoves, and a handful of tables and benches stood all over the place. Even if there had been no wooden sign hanging from the side depicting a large mug and a bed, Vardille could have guessed it was the inn they were looking at.
‘You see,’ Mjelgralah looked around, ‘it is much like Velardhar. Without the snow.’
‘I really need to visit your home, then,’ Vardille said while gazing down the street. A couple houses past the town hall, a woman was sitting on a bench, in half-plate armour, the same the Crownguard wore. He could not see her face, but he had seen that braided dark hair many times before.
‘Grapes are rare there,’ Mjelgralah grinned and pointed toward the town hall. ‘Let us get over with it. What is it we want to speak about exactly?’
‘Whether the alderman lets us in his town to stay here overnight.’ Vardille quickly stepped toward the building and gestured to Mjelgralah to follow him.
‘Not like there would be much of an obstacle here if he didn’t.’
Vardille lifted his brows, and the woman smirked. ‘I was joking, of course. I wouldn’t fight innocent people.’
----------------------------------------
The beer was potable, but it could not even begin to compete with the brew they drank in Velardhar. Mjel was quietly examining the hall of the inn—thick stone walls, hides laid around the floor, a large hearth behind her back. No windows were on the walls, light was provided by the fireplace. The long tables were unoccupied, the hall empty aside from them. The innkeeper, a short but muscular man chatted with an elderly woman server.
It really felt like she was back at home again.
‘That was remarkably smooth,’ she told Vardille. The man nodded in silence. He did not even touch his mug.
Mjel studied his features. She found him a mystery she could not solve. It was evident to her he was a Crownguard and not a Godsdamned vinedresser, there were no doubts about it. She believed him to be a knight—and had not let go of this concept completely yet—but the armour and what he had said let her think he was a member of that royal bodyguards. That naturally brought up the question of his companion’s identity he named Sallan. Could he be another Crownguard, or someone more important? Perhaps a member of the royal family?
She knew she was conspiring wild in her head. Playing along proved to be much easier when she was not surrounded by an entire town of natives. Without her armour and weapons, she felt naked, and was on edge. She wished to confront the man with his tale but wanted to do so in a more … appealing situation.
Thus, she lifted her mug, downed her drink, and stared hard into his eyes, asking only, ‘What?’
Vardille blinked and looked up. Mjel continued.
‘You look broody. We have the permission of staying here with the whole band, and the kind innkeeper told us he has plenty of rooms for us. We got what we wanted. I suppose you were hoping for something more?’
‘Something more?’ He wiped his stray, long hair out of his face. Mjel shrugged.
‘Maybe you’re disappointed because there are not enough of your friends and town guards to fight us.’ She smiled so that the edge of her words would be dulled. Vardille shook her head.
‘Nothing of that sort.’ He grabbed his mug, then sighed, and pushed it toward Mjel. ‘I don’t like beer.’
‘Not a problem,’ she said and took the mug. ‘So why the long face?’
‘It’s how I look, frankly,’ the man smiled. Mjel stared in silence until he sighed again. ‘I’ve seen a familiar face. I should … talk with them.’
‘A familiar face.’
‘A friend.’
‘A friend. Here, when you are not even familiar with the region.’ Mjel tried to sound light-hearted, but inside she felt a growing sense of anger and anxiety. Obviously, he was speaking about a Crownguard.
‘I presume you would not like me meeting them,’ Vardille said, clearly seeing signs of Mjel’s dismay on her face.
‘You presumed right. Unless I join you.’
‘That … wouldn’t be …’
‘Yes?’ Mjel asked but the man did not speak. ‘What guarantees your return?’
‘My friend is still with your band.’
‘You could hold me hostage.’
This time Vardille’s smile seemed sincere. ‘I don’t think I’d dare do so. Even without your hammer.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then straightened with rising intensity in his eyes. ‘I give you my sword, as it seems my word alone isn’t enough.’
‘Your sword.’
‘My sword.’
The man unstrapped his sword belt and offered it to her with the weapon sheathed. Mjel found the whole situation comedic. She knew Vardille was more than a mere vinedresser. Vardille knew that she knew it. What’s the point in pretending?
She took the sword. ‘Fancy. I might trade it with the good innkeeper.’
‘I doubt he has the coin.’ The man backed away from the table. ‘I promise I’ll be quick.’
He turned and went for the doors. Hand on the frame, he suddenly stopped and looked back.
‘Go and speak with the rest of the band if you don’t wish to wait for me. I, you see, do trust you.’
With that, the man left and denied Mjel the chance of a witty repost.
The warrioress gulped her beer and laid the sword into her lap. She glanced at the innkeeper, and below the table she drew the sword an inch. The meticulous blade shone with uncanny purity, yet the pommel and guard seemed plain with no ornaments, worn by years of service. She lifted the weapon closer to her eyes, leaning in to scrutinise its surface. She knew what to look for, she knew there was more to the blade.
And Gods was she right.
A faint etching scarred the blade not more than half an inch above the guard. The sword was indeed the blade of a knight, it bore the emblem of the Order its wielder belonged to.
Mjel leant on her side a bit so that the hearth’s dancing flames could shed some light onto the steel. The etching was clearly visible in the glow of the fire. A flower.
A black lotus.