Page 8 of Our Lady of War
“You’re the only goddess-damned one of us who is allowed to meddle at all—to orchestrate outcomes,” Thanasim had hissed at her a few nights after another battle. “You threw it away to come here, and now you meddle improperly? It’s a disgrace, Athania.”
Her heart ached, recalling the conversation.
“You have to stop. You know it will be me who has to stop you if you do not get ahold of yourself.” He’d put a hand to his chest, pleading. “Please, please do not make me have to.”
Yet, he’d mostly turned a blind eye to her antics, coming regularly only to scold her with empty threats. Thanasim could never do anything that would hurt her. He wouldn’t. By not going with Igor to Hawthrin, by not meddling, she’d bought herself some more time regardless.
“Blessed morning,” one of the spa matrons said with a kind tilt of her head as Athania entered.
“Blessed morning, Retta.” The scent of lavender, chamomile, and primrose melded with the hot springs’ gentle aroma and Athania inhaled deeply. “Shall I begin with brewing the Echinacea tea, making poultices, or preparing the tea tree treatments?”
“Why don’t you make poultices, but be sure you’re done in time to enjoy the spa before anyone arrives, hm?” The older woman smiled up at Athania. “It is your day to be near the ocean, yes?” She knew how Athania loved the sea and sand. She’d have happily lived out the rest of her mortal days on an island in a hut with Igor if she could have. Granted, there would be no use for her sullen, beautifully dark gowns in the sand.
Athania reached out and took Retta’s gnarled hands in hers. “Thank you, Matron Retta.”
“Oh, hush.” She pulled free and patted Athania on the cheek. “Run along now.”
The feel of working poultices with her hands was utter bliss. Every grain of the wooden spoon against her palm, the soreness in her muscles as she mixed the herbal paste until it became nearly clay-like; the scent of the herbs relaxing her mind, and the consistent movement, therapeutic in its monotony.
Once the many glass jars were filled, and an extra vat to the side in case they needed it, the sun was rising steadily. Athania looked out the window as she wiped off stray clumps of poultice from her hands with a clean linen. It wouldn’t be long before patrons would arrive and she would be spreading the medicinal paste on sore limbs, arthritic joints, and minor injuries. If she wanted a chance to feel the sand between her bare toes without the hindrance of other mortals, she needed to go now.
Nothing in all creation compared to the ocean—to that particular seaside in Alban, Orford. It had it all. Giant, black rocks jutting up from the crystalline water, perfect, golden sand, and tree-lined cliffs. It was all her moods in a single location.
The castle was built at the summit of the cliff, only one corridor leading out to the beach, specifically for the spa. As high lady of war, Athania thought the spa’s beachside portion was a grave error. One entrance in was still one entrance in. Why build a castle on a seaside summit if there was still a way inside?
When she brought this up to Igor, he told her no one had attacked the castle by sea in ages.
Precisely why someone would, she’d thought. Still, at her behest, Igor had doubled the soldiers at the spa entrance and the corridor lading from the spa into the castle as well.
The sun was warm upon her face, and she tilted her head up toward the sky, eyes closed, to let the sun’s rays soak into her skin as she dug her toes further into the sand, down to where it had retained its kiss from the sea. Time felt as if only a moment had passed when one of the matrons called her name and delivered the first seaside patron.
The hot springs the castle was built over extended nearly out into the sea itself, forming a warm lagoon with medicinal properties, tucked up against the rockface. Many wealthy patrons frequented the spa for its relaxation and comfort, rather than for medical need, and the lagoon was most assuredly the top choice. Shut off to the common public unless referred by a physician, the spa was generally full of pious courtiers and old lords. Occasionally, however, there were patrons like the one hobbling toward her. Wizened, beautiful souls full of stories.
It amazed Athania that stories could still interest her. Hadn’t she seen and done and lived through…everything? Still, there was more life to experience. Mortals lived in such awe-inspiring ways as opposed to gods and goddesses. The looming prospect of death set fire to their fear, and they lived recklessly—beautifully. Considering she retained some of her magic, Athania would long outlive all the mortals surrounding her, including Igor. She pushed that intrusive thought to the far recesses of her mind and greeted Dowager Duchess Lorna, anxious to hear what wild tale the elderly woman had for her this time.
She did not disappoint. Athania found herself in stitches over the outlandish stories, spending most of her morning with the dowager. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of patrons, poultices, gossip, and the sunny lagoon.
By the time the last of the patrons were leaving the seaside, Athania could feel the tight sting of a sunburn on her shoulders and back where she’d discarded her outer tunic before the midday meal. Smiling to herself with the simple joy of experiencing something so very mortal, she went into the spa to retrieve an aloe paste.
“Join me on the beach to watch the sunset?” Matron Retta chirped when she entered the storeroom. “Mercy,” the matron gasped, catching sight of Athania’s burn. “Come, come. Give me that.” She waved her hand impatiently until Athania handed over the jar of aloe. “I’ll help you.”
She followed the sweet matron out onto the sand, the sky already blooming with the tryst of day and night.
“Never gets old, does it?” Retta said as she spread the cool paste over Athania’s hot shoulders.
“No, no, it does not.” How many sunrises and sunsets had she seen? An unfathomable number to a mortal. But they never lost their magic. In fact, Lord Nature and Lady Art took inspiration from the sky as often as there are grains of sand on the seashore.
The sun reflected off the water in a strange glimmer, and Athania squinted at it. “Is that a ship, Retta?”
The older woman made a grunt, thinking deeply. “Last of the merchant ships, I’d wager. Probably got held up at the import line.”
“Isn’t the import line further west?”
Retta made a noncommittal noise and rose from the sand with a grunt. “I’m half starved. Would you accompany an old woman to dinner this evening?”
Athania smiled and rose, dusting sand from her linen pants. “I’d be delighted. But you had better dress in your very best because I have already selected my dinner gown, and it’s divine.”
A husky laugh escaped Retta. “I have no doubt.”