Free Black Bottle by Anthony Huso Page B

creepberries and vines had darkened with the centuries.
    The ticking of the thermal crank was deafening.
    Is she going to welcome me?
    Despite the chill, the High King’s witch wore a white summer blouse. Ruffled off the shoulder. It revealed too much of her in equal directions, up and down. Taelin found herself staring at the woman’s bare trunk and the gem, like a lustrous black currant, that occupied her bellybutton. A heady mix of sensual physicality and dream-like etherealness volatilized the air. A fever-dream.
    Gods! Those eyes! Empty and glyptic—litmus blue—so different from the billboards and yet—
    Gilver shut the door. The sound tipped Taelin back on her heels. Stiffly, she looked over her shoulder but the butler was gone. When she turned, Sena’s eyes pierced her.
    The High King’s witch held an ancient red book with one hand, vertically, like a ledger pressed into her thigh. The faded black sigil decorating its cover delivered a jolt to the center of Taelin’s head.
    Taelin looked away.
    In the other hand, Sena twirled a fountain pen languorously across her thumb. She was radiant, powerful and relaxed. Taelin began to understand by increments that this was not likely the place or manner in which Sena took most of her appointments. This had been blocked out, carefully. There were no curios. No distractions. Even the anemic lemon-chrome glow of a tiny window, which must have been unique to this quarter hour, kindled a halo around the witch’s head and enflamed the highlights presumably burnt there by the sun. Taelin got the feeling that everything had been perfectly timed and staged.
    Finally Sena stopped spinning her pen. “Lady Rae, would you care to sit down?”
    Taelin managed to keep from curling her lip. “No … your majesty. I wouldn’t dream of taking your stool.”
    Sena smirked, showing spare amusement. “You don’t have to call me that.”
    “What would you like to be called?”
    “Sena.”
    Taelin watched the woman tousle her curls. Pure swagger.
    Then Sena’s neck extended slightly in Taelin’s direction. A feral cat catching the wind. “You smell like apples.”
    Taelin laced her fingers. “Strange. Your priest said the same thing.”
    “My priest?”
    “I assume he was a priest. I visited your temple, what? Over a week ago now, I think.”
    “Really?” Sunlight basted Sena’s naked waist as she leaned back on one arm. “What did you think of that?”
    “It didn’t make me feel like I think a temple ought to make you feel. Let’s put it that way.”
    “Haugh.” Sena pushed her tongue into her upper molars as she made the pensive sound. “Well it isn’t exactly a temple.”
    Taelin sneered. “Then what is it?”
    “It’s a colligation.”
    “My father is an attorney. I—”
    “I know who your father is. He used to come to Sandren.”
    Taelin laughed. “No offense, Miss Iilool, but I doubt you and he were in the same circles back then.”
    “Well, it was only a few years ago. Summer of ’59? Bishop Wilhelm introduced us. I had dinner with your father one night at the Black Couch.” She smiled thinly.
    Taelin’s face turned hot as a lightbulb. “What are you suggesting?”
    “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just telling you that I know your father.”
    “I doubt it. My father is a good man.”
    “Is he? I’m glad to hear it. You asked about the colligation?”
    “No, I don’t think I did.”
    Sena smiled.
    “I’ve come to build a mission in your city … and to speak with you … candidly.” Taelin took a breath, ready to begin her rehearsed admonition.
    “It’s all right,” said Sena. “You’re not the first impassioned clergy that’s wanted me to publicly disavow all this”—she stirred the air with her finger—” blasphemy .”
    Taelin’s mouth twitched. The witch was hard to read.
    Sena grinned, not maliciously. “You are, however, the first I’ve granted an audience.”
    “Thank you,” stammered Taelin. “Thank you.