So the Tempest and the Maiden are both the Stormmother. But the Stormmother is sleeping in the sea or something, and the Maiden lives in Waves, and the Tempest shows up wherever to smash stuff.
Also, not to put too much of a point on things, but I’ve seen the paintings of the Maiden, and she does not look like no kid in those!
Man, gods just make no sense!
Spring 7
“Blessed morning, most holy Tempest. The heavens themselves resound–” sang the priestess on duty.
“Before my triumph, yes,” Alisandra agreed, wiping slime from her face. “Towel please.”
They met at her landing pad amidst the palm trees of the Tempest’s private garden. Though surrounded by the temple complex, here they could simulate privacy for the supposedly divine.
Offering a towel, the priestess tilted her head. “You do not seem pleased. Was the deed inglorious?”
Alisandra wiped her face clean. “The deed is done.”
In the depths of the monster, she had found another of the Wyrm’s black scales.
Always waiting at the end of our misfortune.
Each a mere fragment, but their number never dwindled. Every year she found more: sometimes in the bellies of a monster; sometimes in the smoky den of some mad mage; sometimes in places already well scoured.
A little parting gift from our last duel.
Though she knew the truth worse than that.
A portent of his return.
“Will you require a bath, Holy Tempest?”
“Yes,” Alisandra agreed, putting on a smile. She began to strip, dumping her ruined clothes in a basket left by the landing pad for this purpose. They would be burned. “White Beaches will require cleaning.”
Those white sands now stained black.
“We shall dispatch,” the woman assured. She posed, smoothing her turquoise skirt across her hips. Despite the early hour, she wore brilliant lipstick, gold bracelets, and a chain of jewels that dove into the cleavage of her bandeau.
Alisandra had not the heart to inform her priestesses that such eye candy favored her mother’s tastes, not her own. Nor did she mention that she knew of their extensive training before entering her service.
‘You must be yielding and pleasing in all manners. Do not attempt to soothe her tempers, but bow before them. Present yourself at all times as ready for any service she requires.’
A scantily-clad counterpart to the Livery Guild in Ruhum.
“You have served me for four years now, Banu,” the angel noted. You were the third daughter to a wealthy family, delivered to the temple in hopes that you might ride the tide of the reinvigorated temple. Alas, cruel fate and the machinations of your rival aristocrats saw you enslaved to the whims of the Tempest! “Do you fear me less now?”
Banu grimaced, embarrassed. “I remain devoted to your service, Holy Tempest.”
“Then perhaps one day you will call me by name.”
“It feels…improper…” she muttered into her shoulder.
“I ask only for your discretion. Nothing more.”
Banu murmured, “As you wish, Tempest.”
Another parallel to the Livery. The gulf between servant and master; noble and commoner; mortal and angel. Would that these walls fell as easily as the monsters.
Suppressing a sigh, Alisandra dropped the last of her clothes into the basket and clapped her hands. “Bath. Clothes. Business.”
And hopefully no more drums today.
***
After Lumia, Ruhum had closed its borders and hunkered in terror of more attacks. Jörmungandr obliterated the port, the Inventor program, and a score of Houses in hours. Seats of government, food and supplies, centers of currency…all gone in an instant.
With no idea of the Wyrm’s origin – or his return – the country succumbed to hysteria. The Conclave, desperate to act no matter how blind the flailing, gathered its surviving members to debate war.
Only the impassioned speech of an admiral had prevented the fleet from setting sail. He had argued that not one but two powers had descended in Lumia that day.
“With the Tempest reawakened, we cannot muster,” the admiral stated. Firm against the dismay of nobles with neither service nor sons afloat, he continued, “The Tempest of ages past never suffered our fleets of war. Our ancestors perished upon the sea. Shall you consign the sons of Ruhum to the same today?”
Alisandra had played a part in that speech. Stealing from Mirielle’s playbook, she offered the man drinks and advice in equal measure; then she heard her own arguments from his lips on the Conclave floor a week later!
Faced with a god, Ruhum flinched.
Yet the nation replaced war with a gradual, building fixation on the Tempest as the source of every woe. Every lost ship, every spoiled crop, and every stillborn child were laid at Alisandra’s feet. In time, as the confusion over the events at Lumia deepened into conspiracy, the word ‘Azure’ grew to be a curse.
Thus, on Spring 7, the first bill of the first Conclave of Spring was the same as every year: a rousing denunciation of the Tempest, the Maiden, and the heathen south. This year, due to rumors of monsters born from faithful women, the denunciation carried fresh penalties for traveling south without an official visa.
Alisandra arrived at the Conclave for the tenth bell roll call, her arguments armed and ready, and found her effort wasted.
Including her, only seventy-four votes assembled. The Conclave echoed with every cough.
At the dais, in place of a Keeper, the Holy Receivership officiated. A strict monk in white robes, he called the first session to order. When the roll call fell short of quorum in this body of three hundred votes, he broke for recess.
Half a bell later, they repeated the process. Now eighty votes answered.
Still short, they adjourned.
Eighty votes, Alisandra thought. Less votes on the floor than in the Receivership.
Her own legislative agenda began with a simple measure: to set a date at which the Receivership would conduct the House auction for the fallen votes. Should the Receivership fail to comply, the auction would be officiated by Mel aldersmen, and the matter would be settled.
This would be her sixth time proposing the bill.
Each House looks to the votes and calculates the costs. How many will they gain; how many their rival? How much gold can they spare? How much can their rival?
One House’s best year to strike was the time for their opposite to delay with full force.
And the Holy Receivership sat on eighty-five votes, swelling year after year, with dismissive platitudes of future plans to hold the auction.
Alisandra wondered how much longer it would take the Conclave to realize the game being played here. She marveled at how credibly grown men would swallow lies that reassured them!
All is as it was
Nothing has changed
Have a crumpet
Her thoughts rattling with these dark clouds, Alisandra took a few words with the other Houses and departed the floor.
Passing under the dome of Aura, she felt a faint tickle across her halo.
“The center wavers,” she agreed. She stopped to adjust her dress, annoyed as ever at the cost of the thing. She only bothered with the display to soothe her Conclave allies that she too was solvent, and she often wondered how much more use the gold could serve beyond the halls.
“Good morning, Lady Mishkan,” a worn woman in constable blue stated.
The angel glanced up.
Flitted a moment through her eidetic memory for a name: Margaret Dune.
Met the woman’s eyes, nodded, and started walking.
Margaret swiveled on a heel and fell right into step. Together they cut through the swirl of a thin Conclave crowd.
Even the reporters skip the day, Alisandra noted. She paused at the top of the steps, hearing the click of cameras, and sought its source.
“I would ask of your time,” the woman insisted.
This dance always began with a dollop of honey smeared over the cudgel.
“Consult my lawyers,” Alisandra replied.
“I promise this will require but a moment.”
“Then my lawyers will be cheap.”
Margaret Dune chewed her jaw, debating.
Will you muster the courage to demand my arrest? Your mistress would answer for it.
“I see,” the woman muttered, accepting her defeat.
For the moment.
Alisandra spotted the source of the buzzing cameras. A convoy of wagons approached from the west, brilliant with the first flowers of Spring. Deacons rode for honors, and their priests flung the flowers for a crowd as good luck charms.
‘Where flowers grow, ash will never take hold’, she recalled. Not yet a Catechism, but headed in that direction.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The flowers were grown in greenhouses just south of the city.
The western mountains flickered like candles, the distant rivulets of lava tickling down their flanks to smother yet more farmland.
“No ash nor smoke nor storm shall stop our Flame!” called a priest before the wagons.
“No ash nor smoke nor storm!” answered the deacons, enjoying the pageantry.
Margaret cleared her throat.
Alisandra brushed past her and down the steps towards the pageant.
“You’ll get yours,” the woman growled under her breath.
Get in line.
Reaching the wagons, Alisandra stepped on a curb for a better view – though she was tempted to leap skyward! – and marked the men in each wagon.
The youngest priests threw the flowers. Older priests drove the wagons, carried the wine, and screened the crowd away from their superiors. Then the deacons sat at the center, sharing drinks with their esteemed guests.
Salkeld – Blacksmith Guild. Barsham – Electricity Guild. Cockburn – banker. Tattersall – private security.
Each and their matching deacon she filed away for later investigation. When the deacons finally made their play for the Keeper of the Flame, she would enter that war knowing who commanded fat coffers and prominent backers.
When the last wagon passed, she found Sebastian waiting for her by the lamp post.
“Delivering the mail again?” she asked evenly.
“Yes, Archangel,” he answered, matching her tone. Bowing, he presented her a packet with the losses from Brant.
Alisandra skimmed through, annotating the losses to her illicit network. She hissed through her teeth, “I told them to relocate with the winter!”
“And those that heeded your words are now with Walter.”
“We do not have the resources for this many legal battles!” she snapped, nursing a deeper grudge. You should have spoken, Sebastian! Is the angel of Witness rendered blind? You would never have missed this while Father lived!
“Would the Archangel reproach me?”
She bit her lip. “No, Sebastian. Anything else?”
“One more matter.” He offered another letter. “I am afraid it will be displeasing.”
Handwritten on reused vellum, the letter used the clumsy letters of someone unused to writing and suffered from numerous misspellings.
Tempest, Fury of the Storm, Arbiter of our Fates and our Lives,
I write to you to beg for aid as I and my sisters are held against our will. Though you claimed upon your return that the practice of sold girls was ended, we find ourselves prisoners of your temple. May the fates be merciful and this letter find you!
“Which temple is this?”
“Dew at Dawn,” answered the Witness.
It was a tiny sect nestled in the wilds far north along the Dragon. Such outposts self-governed in all but name. Even Alisandra’s network missed such corners.
Her next appointments could wait; this was important.
“I will remedy the situation,” Alisandra snarled. And see everyone involved in this matter banished from my temple in destitution. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
He smiled. “We are in accord.”
“Tell me if you find any more.”
“Of course, Archangel.” Adjusting his postbag, Sebastian departed for the east and his next rounds.
Alisandra stared into his back and thought of how she had found him fifteen years ago: catatonic, fallen in a circle of cursed ground, surrounded by the ruins of his aborted work.
Four years he had sat in the chair where she had put him.
And now he delivers the mail.
The Conclave rang with the noon bell, and she shook herself free of such misgivings.
If he requires time to heal, he shall have it. We all mourn in our own way.
Perhaps it was for the best…
She leaped south to deal with the miscreants who thought the edicts of their goddess an idle suggestion.
***
Alisandra ended up dismissing the entire temple. The outpost would simply have to manage without religious officials until the edifice could be rebuilt from the ground up.
She saw the girl and her three sisters to the safety of Esmie’s temple. There they would find other girls with the same story and a measure of comfort.
Other girls with the same story.
Temple girls were an investment that could pay dividends if managed discretely.
“What use this temple as a bordello?” she growled for the sky.
Abhorrent, illegal, and yet still festering among the margins.
Just another form of monster, really.
“Sometimes I wonder if they deserve a monster’s fate.”
The Hand of God pulsed against her fingertips, ready.
***
After a few bland meetings, the afternoon brought one of Alisandra’s least favorite rituals.
As Tempest, she assumed the Azure throne on her mother’s behalf. While she could delegate the thousand functions of state to her priesthood – they were well trained in running the nation without the goddess already! – her presence was still required for a few occasions of spectacle.
With spectacle came clothes to match the part.
Alisandra begrudgingly changed into her most ridiculous costume yet: a fanciful weave of silk and golden thread so taut against her chest that a heavy breath would bust her free.
Perhaps that would be a fitting image for the Tempest, she mused, raising her arms so the servants could tie the weave across her back. The paparazzi that competed to catch glimpses up my skirt when I was twelve finally awarded that and more.
Though she doubted those paparazzi would waste their time with the naked Tempest. Ruhum would hardly buy papers to tell them the evil nature of the southern harlot. They only wanted pure girls, as young and dumb as possible.
Her servants continued to wind around her, wielding thread like spiders preparing their meal, as silk winched into the flesh of her thighs and butt.
“Another strand here,” Banu directed quietly.
How quiet the servants today. Then again, did she truly wish to discuss this silliness again? They must learn my moods like the sailor learns the clouds.
“Klara, how fares your son?” she asked if only to lighten the mood.
“Well, Holy Tempest. He placed second on his exam,” answered one of her older servants, a woman just past forty.
The same age as Alisandra, mother to a boy approach manhood, her hair showing its first approaching grey.
“No more midnight wanderings?”
“Yes, he is recovered from his malaise. He has not mentioned the girl in almost a fortnight now.”
Her servants shared a giggle, all well-informed. After all, drama moved faster than light!
“Love is hard on the young.”
“Love is hard on my hips!”
“Love is all well and good, but after four children I’ll settle for an hour’s peace and a bath!”
Her costume winched another step tighter, outlining the bumps of her areolae.
“Any tighter and I will have to hold my breath,” Alisandra drawled.
Banu bowed. “Forgive us, Holy Tempest. The sizes were incorrect.”
“You measured me yourself.”
She flushed. “Yes, but…you are more bountiful than expected.”
Alisandra arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
The servant raised both hands. “Never mind me, Tempest! I measured incorrectly!”
One final snip of stray threads left Alisandra woven into silk to within an inch of her life. She took a careful step forward, letting the golden beads on her ankles tinkle, and tested the limits of the fragile fabrics.
I have known the feel of the world shaking beneath my fists, she thought, glancing at the Hand of God in the courtyard. On the rare occasion she left it behind, she drove it to the hilt into her landing pad to prevent any curious accidents. Yet I must prance before this parade on baited breath.
“You look ravishing!” praised one of her newer attendants. “A divinity enough to enrapture!”
“Sariya,” Alisandra chided her by name.
Enough of that honeysuckle prattle in the throne room
Leave it behind
The woman tucked her shoulders and bowed her head. “I beg your pardon, Holy Tempest.”
Unbidden, a thought whispered in Alisandra’s ear.
How much more obedient they are in my temple
She squashed the whisper and its line of inquiry with prejudice. “Very well. We begin!”
Outside, the music roared to life. Her attendants fell away, and a troupe of Maiden dancers in their own finery flocked into the room around Alisandra. The grand doors at the front of her complex swung open, and she marched into the Spring afternoon.
The crowds roared at her approach, surged against their bounds, and stretched forth a sea of wands to beg her favor.
She answered with tokens and trinkets from a basket held by a dancer, showering the crowd. Those favored laughed and clapped like the winners of a lottery. Whether this was because of pious joy or the fact that Tempest favors enjoyed a hefty resale market, Alisandra could not say.
She paused to admit children into her procession, letting them ride on her shoulders or in her arms. The older ones grinned and giggled, temporarily famous; the smaller ones stared at her with awe.
“You were there when I had to go away,” one whispered to her. “When the bad man came from the sky.”
Maintaining her poised smile with all her noble training, Alisandra whispered back, “I am here now that you might know a full and happy life.”
The child nodded, and Alisandra flushed with the flutter in her heart from the delicate trust in those little fingers wrapped against her own.
With all that she was entrusted.
Her procession meandered through its loop: from the temple, over the Dragon Bridge, through two parks on the other half of the shell, and then onto the waters of the river to dance the Dragon.
This year’s winner was a fetching young man from far up-river, and Alisandra allowed him to spin her through the Dragon dance. She even tolerated the first time his hand cupped her backside.
On the second she leaned in and puffed a tiny bit of ice against his cheek. “Mind the fingers you wish to keep.”
He behaved himself for the rest of the performance.
Finally, the procession returned to the temple, and Alisandra led her followers into the throne room. Mindful of several popped threads across her belly, she stepped over Apophis’ petrified remains and mounted her mother’s throne.
“Today,” she told the assembled, “we renew our covenant.”
Truth among the pageantry.
For she was their Archangel, masked by other names. Their shield against the dark.
We shall destroy all sycophancy. This covenant is kind for kind. I shall bear the Blade against any and every celestial threat, and you shall respect my purview in this matter.
Beyond that, let mankind rule itself.
She settled into the throne, letting her fingers tease across her crossed knees, and let the rest of the ceremony wash over her.
Air played over her bare skin…
Her costume strained to survive, the silk at the small of her back teasing doom…
Her people drank in her presence and her figure…
And Alisandra loathed it all.
Tread lightly. Smile and glide through the myth of the Tempest. Just enough to assure them that all is well. Just enough to remind our enemies that this hearth is guarded. Tread lightly…
This power had to be seen.
Gifts of state accepted and honored.
The Plateau sent a pair of cragbear cubs, a promising sign. In turn, she sent them elemental serpents and the witches to instruct their use.
Highbranch sent a beautiful flute in the hands of a coy woman with hair braided to signal her willingness to offer private performances.
Deepbloom sent an invitation to the deepest jungles where the Tempest might hone her skills against the greatest foes the wood could offer.
Even Moros sent a gift of sapphires and rubies set into a silver crown.
Only Ruhum abstained. Instead of gifts, the island sent a copy of the Catechisms for the Maiden!
In turn, Alisandra sent them vouchers for the Maiden’s healing. Though her hopes for accord grew dim, she continued to extend the hand.
Even if the privileged few came south to heal their sickened children with one season and denounced the Maiden in the Conclave in the next.
Though the sun began to set, the festival continued. Next were omens by the seers.
Miraculously, they saw only bounty and wonders in the nation’s future!
Well-worn paths of Song fugue, she thought. Omens in the clouds and the trees; portents in flocks of birds and schools of fish!
Most were counselors by another name, and those few with the true gift of sight seemed no happier for it.
Will that be Valkyrie’s fate? Alisandra shifted her legs, and one of the strings holding her last modesty in place snapped. She bit down on her inner cheek and kept smiling for the current song. If her Graces fray too far, what shall be her doom?
Alisandra thought back to Father Lucas and his Psalms in Lumia, desperate to crown their own goddess of fire, and grimaced.
If she requires a guiding hand, better this temple than the ravings of some hedge witch.
Finally, the last ritual!
“…and we answer blood for blood!” the head of the temple guard called, smashing his staff to the tiles. Staff, not spear; he was head of the guard but not chosen of the Tempest.
His guard answered, “Blood for blood!”
Her halo itched at a meager echo of the drums of war. Bravado and tradition – the temple guard mostly fought the chaos of petitioners rushing the morning line for the Maiden’s healing touch.
Alisandra sighed under her breath.
The entire room froze.
All eyes straining for a hint of displeasure from the Storm.
Fear and love
But mostly fear
The guards glanced at the head of her guard, tightening their grip on ceremonial weapons.
Ready to assume whatever duty was required for this covenant.
To remove any source of her displeasure.
Look how we love you, Tempest
Look how we fear you
Turn your gaze away
Choose a target too great, and they would dash themselves upon its rocks.
Choose a target too small, and they would think it mockery.
Fail to choose at all, and the current would decide for itself.
Her thoughts returned to the Dew at Dawn temple and four girls bought by holy men.
I am too lax, she observed. How many other outposts do as they please in my name?
“How many children does the temple still own?” Alisandra asked. For my spymaster and I both know that the number is not zero. The practice emerged during mother’s neglect and flourished in her absence. A tradition of centuries does not easily yield to a single edict.
“None, Holy Tempest!” the man replied, managing an even voice.
“I remain doubtful,” she hummed, and the temple shuddered. “Tomorrow, you will embark on pilgrimage to all the temples, and you will ascertain the truth of what we have been told.”
Her head guard bowed his head, accepting this judgement. One step short of banishment, he knew that his position would be long sold to a successor when he returned. “As you command, Holy Tempest!”
“…and when you return, you will report to me and be honored for your service,” she amended.
The man exhaled, relieved.
Alisandra also released her breath.
Oh, so carefully I must step! To shepherd this storm…
Deep inside, though, her true thoughts shouted.
Keep your dominion! Silks and temples and dancers all! I only ever wished a mother!
For Esmie’s sake, though, she would bear the brunt of this attention.
Aching for the quiet of her patrols, Alisandra waved a hand for the ceremony to conclude.
May you finish your Work soon, Mother. I am an ill-suited goddess.