Fungal Halo

They say there are powers—unfathomable and unnamed—buried deep within the earth. Boons and banes and spirits and seductions call to the ambitious, but I’ve never known of someone actually finding one until now.

What does one say to a dark sorceress on the cusp of her victory?

Clouds break in slow motion upon the walls of the crystal palace. The grand structure floats high in the sky, far above a kingdom bathed in the rays of the morning sun.

The view is stunning from up here. It’s like eating breakfast on the sky’s shoreline. Almost hard to imagine that not so long ago I was one of those tiny specks struggling for survival down below, in the streets of a city that looks very different from this vantage.

I can’t say I miss that life.

I fling my closet door open, stepping inside to discover that it has grown again today, filled with yet more beautiful clothes for me to enjoy. How exciting! I say a little prayer of thanks to Goddess and trail my hand as I walk past some of my favorites, savoring the soft touch of cloth on my fingertips.

So many new colors and cuts and styles have appeared here since yesterday. It’s hard to choose! Oh, but today’s my date with Goddess, isn’t it? She’s back home again after so many days away hunting for the other gods.

I know when my Goddess returns by the way the whole palace comes alive in Her presence. The floor, the walls, even the very air carries a subtle vibration of Her power when She, the beating heart of our home, steps foot inside. My legs buoyed with renewed energy, the anticipation of laying eyes upon Her again carries me onward with quickened steps.

It’s spring, and I’m seated near father as he introduces to his court a new magician. It is considered auspicious to time announcements of major changes with the Feast of Augury, and so it is the first time most of the assembled guests hear the news that old Magister Lange has passed.

Collared. Chained. Dressed in finery, given the finest meals, housed in opulence. Even these chains are gold. That girl keeps me like a pet. No, not even like a dog, which can be trained for some valued purpose, but something lower: a pitiful, pampered, useless bauble of a prisoner.

In truth, I feel nothing toward Princess Canina, despite the effort I put into obtaining a position of service within the palace and the long years I labored to earn this position as her personal attendant.

I have a Plan, and that Plan requires me to earn the confidence of the princess.

The princess makes a fine show of roleplaying as a maid, perusing her own wine collection and presenting several bottles for me to choose from. I play my own part, acting as though I have strongly held opinions on which vintage is most ideal for the occasion. She fetches us glasses and pours for the both of us. We lounge on the couch together directly opposite Canina’s favorite mirror, clinking glasses and toasting to each other.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I wake up pain-free.

I also seem to be completely naked in an unfamiliar bed with someone else’s arms around me. I feel and smell filthy. With a groan of disgust, I try to regain my bearings. Memories of what happened yesterday slowly drift back to me as though from a great distance away.

The king’s palace leaves much to be desired. The moment I step foot inside, the first thing I notice is how poorly lit it is compared to mine. Dim and drab and dull, this is what passes for opulence, I guess, anywhere that lacks the benefit of Goddess’s touch. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We will fix this world.

Not what I would call ideal timing for You to indulge Your hunger, Goddess, I have to say. Did You really have so much faith in the three of us, or have You been lying even to me about how in control of Your urges You are?

Stalking Nina and Velle as they descend through the palace, it’s immediately clear that Velle has regained some of her former self. How much, I wonder? I want to believe that her brusque attitude with the princess is a matter of urgency, and that her heart has not entirely discarded the woman she loved just this morning.

My thoughts heave and surge like the tide, flooding, claiming, reshaping the world around me. However, so little of this is my design. The world is clay in my hands, but my hands are not alone, and my hands are not even entirely my own. I recognize Velle’s fingerprints here and there, nudging reality in delicate and subtle ways that contrast with my own wild flailing. Something within me lashes out even at those I love, possibly because I love them. My mind has become a kitchen with too many cooks, all of whom hate me.