#balkis

Her cell was a barren stone room with a single raised slab with straw for a bed and a bucket in the corner. There were chains attached to the floor in the opposite corner, which they at least kept off her wrists. She struggled every foot of the way there, but once she was locked within she was no longer violent or made any attempts to free herself.

A single window sat outside her cell, pouring in harsh striped, white light. Two Windcrest guards were stationed either side of the door, standing as rigid as their polearms. There was nothing fetid here for her to smell, at least – the water had the scent of fresh snow and dragonborn did not sweat.

She imagined that would change, however, depending on how long they let her rot.

She did not know how much time had passed. The guards were unresponsive when she spoke. She had no visitors since her incarceration and she crossed between anger and grief like two sides to a river. Were they going to investigate with no word from her? Do everything behind her back?

Did she have no say in her fate?

A knock rang out. One of the guards heaved the door open and in stepped Amysic Venx, flanked by two of his own guards. His brass scales were a splash of life against the dead, but there was still an air about him that was stale. He was dressed in teals and a black fur cloak as if to off-set his own skin. The silhouette of a kestrel was pinned to his breast and a longsword sat at his belt, sheathed.

He waved a hand and all four guards exited. Surina stood and approached the bars. She only stood a few inches taller than Amysic and it was hidden in the distance he kept from the edge of her prison, but she rose to her full height and stretched her shoulders to their terrifying width. Of all the people who could visit her, his face was the one she wanted to see the least.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

“Well,” he started, cleared his throat, then began anew. “Well, I thought I would come to see the monster behind the bars.”

“I am no monster, and I am not a circus pet,” she growled.

“That would be an amusing outcome, but no, sadly, you are not. Murdered your brother and now even your own parents won’t come to see your face. I suppose you’re the opposite of a circus attraction; nobody wants to see you.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“No, I did not. I came to, ah, see how you are doing, but I also came to tell you that you should have been more careful.”

She shot him a perplexed, angry look.

“I tried to be more careful,” she said, remembering her plea to her father to stay with Kaladan.

“Your baseline knowledge of politics got you into this situation, Surina,” he said, and he hissed her name. She could almost imagine the forked tongue to go with it. “It didn’t take much to craft this turn of events.”

Her brows furrowed and her gaze lowered. In her mind, the pieces began to form together.

“I mean, I couldn’t have predicted quite how it worked out, but I must admit...” He trailed off and sighed. “While Kaladan’s death is regrettable, it does rather nicely get you out of the way.”

“You are responsible?”

“Even if I was, what could you do about it?” He gave her a toothy smile, almost feral. There was a weird intensity to him. Amysic had always been a strange one, but this extended beyond that, uncomfortable and wrong. She grabbed the bars and shoved her face through them, snarling. He didn’t react, smile fixed in place.

“Within a few days, your head will be impaled over the city that you have spent your life in and your body will be left to the dogs, so. You’ll either be a forgotten charter or a cautionary tale for all to remember.”

“How could you – you are – why?” she demanded. She tried to rattle the bars, but they didn’t budge. “What do you gain?”

“Why? Let me tell you why.” He leaned in slow without moving his feet. His voice lowered just enough that only she could hear, arms criss-crossing behind his back. “Because it was fun.”

The cold within Surina swelled and her mouth expelled her fury in a cloud of ice and snow. It settled into a cone shape on the floor, frozen stone and kicked up icicles like whetted blades. Amysic stood on the cusp of it, unharmed. He rolled his shoulders and plucked a single shard of ice from his cloak, inspected it, then flicked it aside.

“Ah, just what I needed,” he said. “How soothing. Do you feel better? What a little tantrum that was.”

“You are vile and loathsome. If I do not die, you will be the first that I kill.”

“Surina, if you survive this, and you may, let me tell you something: you will go far from here and if you dare to come back, what happened with Kaladan will be a sweet memory in comparison to what I will do.”

“How dare you say his name, you murderer.” Tears stung her eyes, but they were tears of anger, biting and sharp. Her whole body trembled with unconstrained rage. “You put me behind bars because you are scared of me. You go through guards and bandits because you cannot face me yourself, and you know this. So when there are no bars between us—” She huffed.

Amysic clenched his left arm, fingers flexing and then curling. Surina only saw it from the corner of her eye, like an eagerness to cast a spell or grab his sword from some source of discomfort. He snorted, a bit of grey smoke curling from his nose.

“You buy others because you cannot do it yourself,” she finished harshly.

“I buy others because it gives me distance,” he spat. “It allowed me to put you in here. You think with your muscles, not with your brain, and that’s why you’re going to at best, die, and at worst, live in some squalor for the rest of your days.”

“You think too much, you do not fight enough. You do not have the mind of a tactician; you have the mind of a coward.”

“Well,” he said dismissively, his tail giving a wide sweep of the floor, “we will see who gets executed first, hm?”

Another cloud of frost fumed from Surina’s nose, but she was spent – it was cool air, nothing that could cause damage. She already felt drained for doing it once, and the hole left behind invited more cold to take its place.

“I’ll give your parents and sister your regards, though they probably won’t want them,” he said.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Every day,” he sing-songed, waltzing out of the room with a flourish.

Surina’s fingers slackened on the prison bars without releasing them. The metal was sunken in slightly where she’d gripped it, now in the shape of her hands. She sunk to her knees, lightly holding the bars above her head, and screamed into the floor with the full force of her lungs.

--

Surina gave up trying to keep track of the days. It was a waste of energy. She would be released when she was released, either for death or something marginally less unpleasant. It was difficult to think of what her options were when her brain had little sustenance.

Her second guest arrived with much less fanfare. The knock was much more tepid, and the same guard wrenched it open to reveal Thava. She was dressed in short, practical mage robes that ended mid-thigh, dark purple in colour with silver embroidery. A guard outside held her staff in both hands; she entered without it.

Surina rose at once, but her body regretted it. The room spun and she bent forward before she could stagger over, then approached the bars once the spots of white disappeared from her vision.

Thava shot each guard one short, sharp, precise look. “You may go. Leave. I will call you back in when I am done.”

The guards looked to each other and both made a noise of dissent. She raised a finger before they could form words. “No. I outrank you. Please leave. I wish to speak to my sister alone.”

She was authoritative without being cruel. The familiarity of the guards not quite listening to Thava was weird amidst an entirely foreign setting. It was almost normal. But they complied, lowering their heads as they shuffled out of the room.

Thava closed the door behind them. For a moment she stood with her back turned, hand rested on the ring of the handle, not looking. Surina saw her shoulders rise with a deep breath before she straightened, turned, and walked up to her, her face twisted with remorse.

“Oh, Surina,” she murmured.

“Thava, what – I did not think I would see any family again,” Surina nearly cried, grasping the bars.

“You will not see mother and father,” she said softly. “They are – they are convinced that you – they are sure that uh—” Surina saw her fight with her words, to make real what had happened. She understood. “They are certain that you were responsible for Kaladan’s death.”

“But I was not – what do you believe? Do – you know I could not, right?”

“I want to believe it,” Thava said, earnest. “It’s hard, Surina, people are telling me that you did it, that there was evidence and I—”

“What evidence?” Surina cut in. “Whatever evidence there was, it was planted by Amysic.”

“And I – I believe you. I do now, especially after seeing you in person. But no one here will listen to me, I’m sorry. It does not matter what I tell them, it does not matter what I say.”

“So father does not believe the word of either of his daughters?” Surina asked coldly.

“Father is blind with grief,” Thava reasoned. “That does not excuse his behaviour, but it does – it does explain it. They want to take you out in front of the city and behead you, that is their plan.”

Surina bowed her head, sunken with dread.

“But I don’t think they are going to be able to,” Thava continued, rushing to the good news. “You remember your annoying friend’s father, Balkis?”

“Yes?” Surina lifted her head. “But I would not call her annoying.”

“I was trying to lighten the mood, I’m sorry.” She paused, scratching her wrist. “Balkis has gotten the capitals’ judges involved and they do not believe there is enough evidence to kill you over the crime. The most they are willing to go to for father is exile. I know that is not much better, but you will at least be able to live, right?”

Surina exhaled slowly, hands sinking to waist-level on the bars, her forehead nearly touching the metal, relieved. Thava stepped in closer, tentatively reaching to place a hand over Surina’s. Surina released the bar and took hold.

“Whatever happens, Surina, I am so sorry for how things turned out,” Thava said. “The way that this has gone, it’s not right. I am sorry there is not more I can do.”

“Visiting—” Surina brushed her thumbs over Thava’s knuckles. “It is more than anything anyone else I love has done.”

“Listen,” Thava said, lowering her voice, “we both know that it was Amysic, or at least we know he had some part in it. I do not know what I can do, but after you go, after all this has settled, I will try to find a way to prove it was him.” Surina nodded, squeezing her hand. “I do not know if it will ever amount to anything, but perhaps I can do something. Anything.”

“Thank you.”

“And who knows, if you look after yourself out there and survive, maybe I will be able to make it so you can come back.” She smiled, thinly. “I would like that.”

“I do not know if it will happen and I do not know if I would want to come back here, but the thought is appreciated.” Surina glowered. “I get to live so that one day I can use my life to get back at him.”

“I will come and try to see you again before I go. My father – father,” she corrected, “said that I was not allowed to come see you, but someone needs to stand up to him now. You will not be there to do it, so...”

“You are right,” Surina agreed, smiling faintly. More realities dropped on her then – she would be leaving the Imperium for good. She would probably never speak to her parents again. Even though Thava was her sister by blood, she had no family left to call her own.

“Fuck him, fuck them all,” Thava muttered, rubbing between her eyes as if fighting off a migraine. “Fuck them all.”

Surina reached through the opening to clasp her upper arm and stroked up and down, ever the bigger sister, unable to resist a conciliatory gesture despite being the one imprisoned. Thava closed the gap, attempting to hug her through the bars, shuddering with what sounded like a small, wounded sob. Surina attempted to hug her back. She could reach well enough, but she felt the barrier separating her from full comfort.

“If you get any smaller, I could pull you through,” she said gently.

“One day maybe I will know magic that will allow me through,” Thava said, catching her breath. She sniffled. “That may be a bit beyond me yet.”

“You are braver and stronger than our parents, I am sure you will.” Surina lowered the front of her nose into Thava’s shoulder. “You will perhaps be the greatest of all of us.”

Thava sobbed again, clutching tighter. Surina rubbed up and down her back. They remained like that for a quiet minute, but eventually Thava broke away, hands sliding down Surina’s arms.

“Is there anything you want for the journey?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her wrists. “I can try and hunt down anything. I will deliver it to Balkis and he can give it to you.”

“A weapon,” Surina said. “Any weapon.” She longed for the weight of anything in her hands that wasn’t bars, something to fend off the utter helplessness she’d felt ever since they threw her into the dungeon.

“I will see what I can do.” Thava nodded. “I will come see you again before you have to go.” She started to turn and paused halfway, torn. Her face flitted through several emotions, all some sort of approximation of coping with the trauma and loss. In a strangled voice she said, “I love you, sister. And I am so, so sorry.”

“I love you, too,” Surina returned.

Thava left.

--

Surina’s third visitor was also her last.

Balkis swept into the room unceremoniously. His brass scales, unlike Amysic’s and his kin, were welcome. Balkis was normally a well put-together man as the landgrave of Skywatch, but his shoulders were sagged, his face weary and clothes dishevelled. If not for the cut of his cloth and the chaplet on his head, he may have appeared like any regular dragonborn.

“Surina, I have come here to take you away,” he announced, and his voice was every bit as tired as he looked. “Guard, unlock the door.”

One of the Windcrest guards procured a ring of jangling keys and fiddled to find the correct one.

“We, uh, I have some fresh clothes for you,” Balkis broached, “and then when you are ready, we will leave Windcrest and I will take you somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

Surina swallowed and nodded, rising slowly this time, using the wall for aid. It wasn’t lost on her that Balkis had thrown away his friendship with her father for all of this. He thrust out a hand to the guards.

“I will deal with this. She is no threat to me. Go, wait outside, we will come out when we’re done.” The guards exchanged a look before bowing and passing the keys and doing as ordered. Balkis approached her cell and Surina met him at the door.

“It’s nice to finally be able to see you, Surina,” he said, gentler now that the guards were no longer present. “Your father would not allow me until now.”

“It would seem he is not letting a lot of people see me,” she said.

“I don’t think he or your mother wish to be convinced you are not to blame.” Balkis fished out the cell key, fit it into the lock, then shook it, struggling, and continued. “They have decided that is what it is. They have proclaimed it for most of the city; to go back on it now would look foolish, but even moreso they feel that you did it. Nothing I say to him can convince him otherwise, nothing your sister says, nothing anyone loyal to you has said.”

“A lot of who I thought were loyal to me has proven not to be,” Surina mused bitterly. “They can be bought out.”

“Politics is a dirty business; it’s why I try to avoid it where I can.”

“I have seen the faces of those who are truly on my side,” she said, gesturing to him.

“There are some common people who believe that you are innocent,” he explained, still struggling with the lock. “There has been some unrest after your father made the announcement. You are popular and many of them believe that you were framed, as you say. They believe it was either bandits or another person who had something to gain, or simply that your father didn’t like having a wilful daughter. There are plenty of rumours, all of which I doubt are true, but what is true is that you are not guilty, and we both know this.”

“Balkis,” she said. “You may not see it as such, but you have saved my life. Literally.”

He glanced up. “If I did not save your life, we both know Valcyis would come back and cut off my tail.”

“More than that, I think.”

He gave a small smile. “You are many things, but you are not a murderer. You loved your brother; I did not need any convincing on that. I have eyes to see.”

Tears welled in Surina’s eyes. The lock finally clicked, stiff as it was, and the door opened with a whine.

“You look like you could do with a bath,” he said lightly, his nose wrinkling. “You certainly smell like you could.”

She remained in the door, uncertain. A small, fragile part of her wondered if she deserved to be caged for her carelessness. Balkis reached up to put a hand on her shoulder, disturbing her downward spiral of thoughts.

“Child, I am sorry. None of this should have happened to you.” She rested a hand over his. “You are going to be alright. We’ll make sure of it.”

“Time will tell.”

“You will survive,” he insisted, “and if there is anything I can do to help you before you leave, I will do it. That is my promise. Not just for Val’s sake, but also my own.”

“Thank you.”

“Come now.” His arm wound around her shoulders, coaxing her out of her prison and towards the exit. “Let’s get out of this dreary place; your father should take better care of his dungeon.”

How rose perfumes pass themselves off as dainty and feminine, I will never understand. They're the exhibitionists dreaded by all partygoers-- the ones whose booming voices and shameless antics send humbler guests scrambling for their coats. Even as bit players, they can derail an ensemble piece by turning inexplicably vulgar or sour. There's no predicting until the drydown hits whether you'll be soaring through a sweet pink paradise or swimming in a vat of vinegar.

So why do we keep trying? Because the rose -- the real one, fresh and dewy -- is what we're thinking of while reaching for the sad facsimile. We want that gorgeous thing, and will keep striving toward it no matter how many bad sprays, lotions, soaps, and Yankee Candles burn us.

If I'd stopped after reading the description, I'd have written Balkis off without a thought. Rose AND raspberry? To me, "fruity florals" in and of themselves signal danger. Raspberries figure large in this genre -- usually as unpleasantly as possible -- so I fully expected a great, big, sticky, Jolly-Rancher-flavored slap in the face.

Instead, the first note was a rosemary terpene, astringent and evergreen. I sat up straight. After this palate cleanser came the dessert tray-- but again, the usual sickening syrup was nowhere to be found. Instead, roses and raspberries had been cooked down to a concentrated jam, fused together by slow heat into something as dark, potent, and honeyed as Persian pomegranate molasses. Once this faded (thankfully not too soon) I found myself cozied up to a straight-up oriental rose: friendly, uncomplicated, powdery, and soft, as if headspaced right off of a living blossom still nodding on the vine. Balkis offers almost zero sillage -- unusual for a rose -- but having this scent stick close by your side is hardly a drawback. Above all, there's not a single trace of nasty guest-bathroom soap smell or any of the other demons that plague this genre.

Finally, a rose without thorns!

During a December many years ago, just on the cusp of a barrage of snowstorms which kept the Eastern seaboard paralyzed for months, I found my relationship with Balkis deepening. I cannot stress enough how much I welcomed its optimistic theme in the midst of frigid darkness. I asked it to absorb some of the sadness I was feeling, and it generously complied. Now Balkis has been discontinued-- but I no longer feel as sad or needful of succour. Life requires movement, and I am moving on.

Still, sadness -- like winter -- always comes back around. Before it strikes again, I think I will seek a new, rare rose as as an anodyne to strengthen my soul against the darkness and cold. I'm sure there will be perfumes that startle, delight, and captivate me as much, if not more. But none may comfort me quite the way Balkis did… and for that, I am profoundly grateful.