Content Warning: Physical and Verbal Abuse
Mena sat on the back veranda of Heliotrope and stared out at the back garden. The sun was setting, the House was busy getting ready for the night ahead, and all she really wanted to do was go lie in the grass and watch the sky. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards tonight. Kyrie was coming to the House, and he was sure to already be in a mood.
The night before Olivier left the House, she told Kyrie that things within Heliotrope were starting to change, demanding more of her attention. As was his custom, he brushed off her comment with something about how women’s work didn’t concern him since it wasn’t very difficult. Now, Mena had been “dodging” him for weeks, according to his increasingly angry letters and visits to the House where he’d been turned away. He’d said things like he was “owed her presence” because he was “her only long-term Patron” so “nothing was more important” than he was, as well as “you’ll see me or you’ll regret it”, which happened to be what made her break and see him. She knew she needed to rid herself of him, and she knew it would be a delicate thing, but threats were something that she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that she thought he’d follow through, but there were children, staff members, and novices in the House who she needed to publicly stand up for. Olivier had made sure she understood that the Dowayne was the wall of safety behind which everyone else could shelter.
So, the next letter she received, she didn’t open it, just sent a missive back telling him to come to the House. Truth be told, she didn’t have the energy for him, but she’d find it, somewhere. She’d hoped it would be found in the garden, but that didn’t seem to be the case today.
“No, let me through! I do not care that it is not the appointed time, I will be seen now.” She heard a voice she knew getting closer and closer before the door slammed open, and an irate Kyrie blasted through, followed immediately by the young adept who was on door duty tonight.
Turning her head to look at him, she said, “Kyrie. You’re early”
She looked over to the adept and tiredly nodded. “Thank you, but I’ll handle him now.”
The adept’s face twisted into something suspicious and concerned, but he bowed just the same and left the way he came, albeit much quieter.
“Early, the way I see it, you’re late.” His voice was quiet, full of venom. Mena knew this Kyrie: He was upset because things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. Normally, she would switch on the charm and sweet talk him back down. Tonight was different.
“Kyrie, I was busy. I made it clear that I wouldn’t be able to see you until next week,” she said firmly but not bothering to hide her exhaustion. “I made time for you tonight. Is that not enough?”
“Enough?” He came into her view finally, his face pulled into a heavy sneer. “Enough, Philomena? After all I’ve done for you and this wretched House, you think that a sliver of your time is enough for me?”
White hot anger simmered beneath the surface of her calm façade. For a moment, she just blinked at him, forcing her mind to slow, to feel the warmth of Naamah around her, allowing it to soak into her and soothe her. As she looked at him, she could see him getting more and more angry the longer she was silent.
She took a deep breath and said, “Kyrie, the House has more than expressed its gratitude for your presence during the Plague. That debt is repaid.” He opened his mouth to speak, rage starting to etch lines in his face. She held up a hand to silence him and went on, “I feel you need a reminder that I am the Second of this House, and I have duties that I have to fulfill.”
Kyrie took a step towards her, throwing his cloak off with such force that it knocked over the flower arrangement on the table next to where Mena sat. She didn’t flinch, but she felt the warmth she wrapped herself in start to burn. “You forget your station, pet,” he snarled. “I am a lord of the land, that debt is paid when I deem it so. As for your so-called duties,” he scoffed and tossed his head back. “You wouldn’t have them if not for my Patronage. My coin bought that marque and you would do well to remember that.”
The heat was pressing on her skin, as though her own anger and Blessed Naamah’s had merged and her control snapped. Surging to her feet, she stepped towards him, her back straight, and her gaze fixed on his face.
“You think you paid for this marque? Don’t be ridiculous.” She gestured almost wildly at herself. “The idea that the occasional coin left on my table could afford you this is lunacy. Let me tell you who paid for this.” Taking another step towards him, she began to count on her fingers. “Name-day gifts, something you never gave me, from Olivier, my mother, my friends. A marquis of Camlach, another of Eisande, and the one from Kusheth who comes to me four times a year to this day, and a handful of higher ranking nobles whom I can’t disclose. Several merchant caravan leaders come when they have done well, including one from Alba, his gift paid for inches, Kyrie, inches.” She was so close she could almost touch him, though she did not. “And let’s not forget, the d’Marr’s, not only did they treat me like a human and not like a ‘pet.’ Their gifts over the years bought sections the length of my hand, fully limned.” She laughed and shook her head, turning away from him. “Since I have known you, Kyrie, you have barely given me enough to line base. Gods, you really are a pompous ass, aren’t you?”
He was silent for long enough that she thought perhaps he’d understood finally so she turned around and looked at him, taking in his pale skin, blotchy with rage, and his shocked expression. She was not expecting his face to twist into disgust, his words flung like a dagger. “You really couldn’t resist your base nature, could you, girl? You are nothing but a common whore in a fancy package, just like your precious Naamah.”
Mena felt her stomach drop to her knees, and she fought the urge to gasp. Instead, she felt another surge of molten rage fill her. “You will not speak of Blessed Naamah that way in this House! We do not tolerate heresy!”
Kyrie laughed, sharp and humorless, and turned away. “Heresy? Are you completely delusional, Philomena?” He whirled around, voice dripping with venom. “Naamah was nothing but a whore, jumping at the first chance to lie with a man, just like every one of her ‘servants’. The only reason Blessed Elua tolerated her was because she was of use to Him. You think your calling is to serve here? Your only reason for existing is to marry me, have my children, and then I’ll dispose of you like the trash you are.”
His words were incomprehensible to her, crashing around her mind like angry hornets. Pulling herself up to her full height, she looked him in the eye with narrowed eyes. “You are the one who is delusional, Lord Montaban. I can not comprehend your perversion of the story of Terre d’Ange’s founding. You are not worthy to speak Naamah’s name, let alone enjoy her communion. You, my lord, are a disgrace to everything this land stands for. Blessed Elua—”
The blow that landed heavy on her face snapped her head sideways with such force she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Stunned and tasting blood, she turned back to see Kyrie hovering over her, his face cold and cruel. He grabbed her shoulders with a punishing grip, hauling her up and shaking her. “Never speak His name again. You are not worthy to utter His name unless you are on your knees begging for forgiveness for using His Holiness to justify your own base nature.”
Mena grabbed his forearms and jerked, breaking his grip and pushing him back. She stood back up, still feeling the surging hot rage coursing through her. “You will never touch me or another adept again, Kyrian. How dare you put your hands on me like that?”
She became distantly aware of the sound of someone running through the garden, and banging behind her, but paid it no mind. Kyrian was regarding her from a little distance. His eyes narrowed with something that sent fear, thick and cold, slithering down her spine. “You know,” he said quietly, violence vibrating through his voice as he stalked slowly towards her. “I have not seen your protector Olivier in several weeks. Is it possible the withered, spineless excuse for a man has finally died? If so, there’s no one to keep me from taking what I own over that wall and—”
In the blink of an eye, Vouloir was between Mena and Kyrie, the knife she received from her father in hand. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it steady towards Kyrie’s gut. She snaked her arm out, shoving Mena behind her unmoving form.
“There is always me, you miserable pile of camel dung. Your disgusting tongue will never form our Dowayne’s name again, or I will come to your home myself and remove it.” Vouloir’s back was strong, steady, and very warm under Mena’s cheek where she leaned on her. “Leave this place now, and never darken our door again.”
Kyrie snorted and took a step forward. Loir did not move, did not waver. Mena did not understand how her voice was so calm as she continued. “Our Second is so far above you, you lowly, squirming worm, that your filthy hands will never touch her again. And believe in this as much as you believe in Blessed Elua: Come to Heliotrope again, and those steps will be your last. My blade is sharp and thirsts for the blood of heretics.”
Kyrie opened his mouth to speak but whatever he was going to say never got started because two very important things happened at once: the door crashed open, finally broken off its hinges by the bulky shoulder of someone Mena did not know, but had to be a patron, and, most importantly Aevelline, their cook, had made her way from the back door of the kitchen, and hit Kyrie in the back of the head with her favorite pan. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled boneless to the floor.
All of the hot rage drained out of her, and everything she’d been holding in crashed, flooding her body with ice as though she’d dived into a frozen pond. She gasped, the pain from the blow radiating from the side of her face, her vision blurring from it but also from the tears that started to flow. She felt unsteady on her feet, and she clung desperately to Loir, looking around her to see what was happening. The patron who’d broken down the door was heaving Kyrie’s limp form onto his shoulder with one hand, the other ran through his dark hair with clear agitation.
“Want me to dump him in the deep part of the river?”
Loir spoke before Mena could gather the words from the darkening fog that was her mind. “If it were up to me, I’d gut him and leave him on a rock for the vultures as a message that heresy and violence have consequences.” She sighed and shifted a bit so she could wrap her arms around Mena. “But I know that the Dowayne would want him turned over to the City Guard. Let them know what we know happened and ask them to come speak to the Second for the rest of the story.”
The man nodded, a tight smile on his face. “Of course, Loir.”
Mena looked as best she could at the man, and said quietly, “Come back when you are done. You deserve a reward.”
He smiled and headed to the door, muttering something Mena had no chance of hearing. Her whole head was starting to ring like a struck bell, the darkening fog finally catching up to her. As it overtook her, she said, “And buy Aevelline a horse, she’s too good to walk anywhere any more.”
Cook’s laughter was the last thing she heard before the fog won and she hit the floor.