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The grass turns from the silver hue of the night into a glowing crimson, bathed as if in the waves of a vermillion wave, as Carnaval lands before her.
The Stilladìa raises her head, her legs drawn against her lithe body, the black and glassy arm of Helias to drape her shoulders. At least he is there with her.
“Any luck?” She asks, and the stars between her black horns seem to pulsate with baseless hope.
“More still-births. The Night is growing styx.”
“I have seen as much,” she sighs, running her alabaster-pale hand against her nose. Not even the comfort of her beloved husband can seem to calm her frightful anxiety, the terror that has been clawing at her insides ever since she stepped into the Temple. “What of the girl?”
Carnaval shakes her head. Her wings tinkle.
“So, nothing.” She clenches her teeth.
“Nothing on your part, either. Have your little slaves in the Thronelands answered your plight or not? Where is Sandora Mirari?”
“Do not bother. I only own the souls of about one third of them,” she sneers, standing up and pacing back and forth on the grass. “And I certainly do not turn my customers into slaves.” A pause as she glances at Carnaval, crimson eyes against her golden gaze. “Ansàrra cannot say the same, can she?”
Carnaval clenches her fists, making the crystal feathers of her wings crinkle like moaning ice.
“Love,” comes Helias’ voice. “Please.”
The Stilladìa winces, shakes her head.
“Sorry,” even if she only means she is apologising to Helias. Emeralds will be as cheap as bottled glass, the day she - apologises - to Ansàrra’s little pet. “I have contacted all I could. None seem to know the whereabouts of our favourite Eleventh Seat.” She grits her teeth. “And with that, we can say goodbye to one of our leads. So… you couldn’t perceive the girl? This Salicera Fors? Not even the others?”
“I am trying,” Carnaval sighs. “But there is a— a barrier of some sort. It is as if I am trying to pinpoint the single sparkle in a great bonfire.”
The Stilladìa’s gaze grows more heated. Her pupils, always white, turn into pinpricks of searing brightness, casting a glow over her features, over her hair, over her twitching black nails.
“Ansàrra,” she hisses. “Even now, even knowing what is at stake, she hinders me! I expected as much, but even… you! And you just— accept it?”
Carnaval gives her a look she knows far too well.
“What is there to accept? If such is Her will.”
[cont.]
