Dearly Detested

By Jordan Baugher

In the eighth book of the Vicious Magick series, war is brewing between two powerful countries and Claustria is caught in the middle as Zanther and Madra prepare to tie the knot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Baugher
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301630387

Jordan Baugher

Jordan Baugher is a science-fiction and fantasy author currently based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh.

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Dearly Detested

written by Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

In her room in one atop one of the highest spires of Claustria Castle, Risma sits up in the bed, both the blankets and her body soaked through with sweat. Her legs spread in front of her, she groans and shrieks as coarse hands dig around inside her.

That’s it, keep pushing, the old woman says soothingly, trying to use the tone of her voice to keep Risma calm.

How much longer is this going to take? she asks.

You can’t rush these things, just have to let nature take its course. Pretty soon, you and your husband will have a new bundle of life to rejoice over. Say, where is the lucky father? I don’t recall seeing any handsome men shuffling around outside...

Risma makes the mistake of glancing down at the gore gushing out from within her before grimacing at the stabbing pains tearing through her body. She takes a deep breath, focusing all her attention on a bead of sweat clinging to the bottom of her chin. She projects her pain into the tiny droplet of salty skin excretion and as it falls, she imagines her pain leaving her body.

She exhales.

Husband? Risma asks, "Not quite. The baby’s father, well, he’s...a bit tied up at the moment and can’t get away."

The highwife sighs. "There’s a man for you, never around when you actually need them. Oh, sure, they’re more than happy to make the babies, but as soon as it’s time to start taking care of them, well, poof, they disappear like wizards into the night."

"Well, that is how wizards disappear."

You seem pretty wise for such a young thing. You must’ve had quite a childhood.

The pain returns, splashing around Risma’s extremities and immersing her once again. She blinks a few times, inhaling and holding her breath, gathering up the unwanted sensation attacking her nerves and collecting it within her lungs before exhaling it from her body.

"Childhood? I can barely remember...it’s been so long. The bits and pieces I do remember, well, it almost feels like they happened to someone else. Those long sunspins, those dodecades I spent in Atalantea while my father led generations of engineers in its construction."

Atalantea? the highwife asks, seeming to consider this for a few twitches before shaking her head. Ah, the mindwort seems to have started working. You go on, darling, tell me how they built Atalantea.

Risma continues, her eyes glazed over. We were all on a Trinese ship, this floating box nearly as big as a city itself. They lowered this massive mat of some strange fabric to the bottom of the sea. The thing was huge, spreading a thousand man-lengths in every direction. In its center was a hole just large enough for a man to stand on the sea bottom. They then dropped a long hose into the water. My father, being impervious, rode the hose to the floor of the Leftern Sea and dug a deep hole in the soft sand. He left a huge chunk of something at the bottom of the hole along with the nozzle of the hose, which he then climbed back up to the ship.

And then what happened? the highwife asks.

When he got back to the ship he worked a man-sized bellows, pumping a huge puff of dragon flatus through the hose and down to the narrow shaft at the bottom of the sea. When the puff of explosive gas hit the material, it caused a massive underwater explosion which created a giant bubble, a temporary void on the seafloor. The silty sand was blasted upward and outward, but was stifled by the blanket. The heat of the explosion turned this silty sand into a giant, empty bubble of glass on the sea floor. You know, a lot of people--even some native Atalanteans--think it’s just a dome but don’t realize that the glass walls actually form a nearly perfect sphere. They don’t realize that the ground beneath their feet isn’t the original sea floor but is actually soil and loose stones brought in from the Trinese Empire.

The highwife nods, trying to get Risma to continue, unsure whether she’s actually fascinated by the story or if she’s just trying to keep the girl talking to keep her mind off the pain of childbirth.

The next phase of the project was the descent tower. Its stone base was, in fact, already built--we were towing it behind our ship on a giant square barge. Three other huge Trinese ships approached us, all four sterns facing each other to box in the barge bearing the base of the tower. Each ship attached a wench to a corner of the barge. Now, all four ships were filled with material, and men started building onto the base of the stone tower then and there. As they added more layers of stone, the tower sank into the water, all the time being simultaneously lowered by the wenches. They built and built and built, yet from our vantage point, the tower never got taller than a row or two above sea level. Every moonth, a new ship, filled with materials, would show up to relieve an empty ship. For moonths and moonths this continued, until the tower finally reached the bottom of the sea.

The highwife stares at Risma, her head cocked to one side. And then?

My father jumped into the water with a heavy rock tied to his foot and a bag of tools strapped to his back. He spent a few days building the short connector linking the descent tower to the inside of the dome, then cut the rope to the rock and floated back up to the surface. Topside, workers then started carrying materials down the nearly infinite spiral stairwell and into the undersea dome itself.

That’s a remarkable story, the highwife says, I hope you’re able to remember it; might make a good bedtime story for the child someday soon.

It’s not a story, Risma says, wiping the sweat from her brow, that’s how it happened.

The highwife gives a patronizing nod. I’m sure it is.

Risma narrows her eyes at the old woman for a moment before another wave of pain hits and she can feel her insides squeezing out the tiny intruder occupying her lady parts.

The final push only takes a few ticks, with the baby sliding out, encased in a terrifying cocoon of bodily humors. The highwife wipes the infant down with a towel and holds it up proudly for the mother to see.

It’s a girl!

In an instant, the previous eight bells of agony and screaming are pushed from Risma’s mind, leaving only enough room for her newly-birthed daughter. The highwife holds the baby outward, preparing to hand it over to Risma in order to cut the umbilical cord when her expression turns from one of joy to one of shock and dismay.

What happened? Risma asks, snatching the baby as her eyes are drawn to the red pooling of blood just above the woman’s stomach, the red splotch punctuated by the tip of a crossbolt.

The highwife topples backwards, revealing an ominous figure standing in the door to the room. The baby starts to cry, and Risma reaches for the ceramic cup on her bedside table, downing the tea in one gulp.

The assassin strolls calmly into the center of the room and levels his crossbow at the screaming baby’s head. The baby opens her tiny eyes, staring upward at the intruder.

Before Risma has a chance to react, the baby shuts her eyes hard and squeezes her hands into tiny fists. The assassin explodes into a bloody mist, covering the walls, the ceiling and the floor with a sanguinary splatter.

Risma holds the baby up to her face.

"Did you do that? she coos, Did mama’s little girl make the bad man go boom-boom?"

Zanther strolls casually into the room, his eyes focused on the speech in his hand.

Hey, Risma, how’s the birthing go--

He does a double take when he sees the bloody mess, dots and splotches and puddles of crimson on every surface. A few twitches later, Queen Madra steps into the room, her mouth agape at the evidence of the wanton violence occurring just a few moments before her arrival.

Zanther turns to his fiancé, his expression dark and suddenly serious.

Is this what childbirth is like? We are NOT having kids.

Madra pushes him aside and advances to the foot of Risma’s bed, stepping gingerly over the corpse of the highwife.

What happened here?

Risma shrugs. An assassin tried to burst in here and kill my baby.

Looks like he was successful. At bursting, I mean, Zanther says.

And you exploded him with your goddess-powers? Risma asks.

Risma shakes her head. I didn’t have a chance. Little Proxima here took care of the problem herself.

How’d she end up with the divine touch if both her parents were mortal at the time of her conception? Madra asks.

I drank the bone tea as soon as he entered the room, and then, well...

The queen’s eyes are drawn to the still-attached umbilical cord, the conduit for the transmission of Risma’s immemorial essence.

Does that mean she’s going to stay a baby forever? Zanther asks, his eyebrows askew as if trying to understand the paradox of an immortal infant.

No, Risma says, she’ll age normally until her body matures, which usually happens within twenty or thirty sunspins. Once she hits her developmental peak, though, she’ll stay there.

Madra grabs the knife from the highwife’s hand and prepares to cut the umbilical cord. Risma and Zanther watch her with interest.

Before she can bring the blade close, the tether of bodily sinew starts to shrivel up, and within a few split-twitches, the entire thing is dead. Within a tick, the dried up umbilical cord crumbles into dust.

Zanther tilts his head at the sight, trying to make sense of it.

Risma turns to Madra, noting the Queen’s lack of a lack of composure in a room whose walls are painted with blood.

How are your wedding preparations going?

Madra smiles. We’re almost ready. The two tusked phants have arrived from Pater Lingua, and before the sun goes down, the royal chefs will be getting to work on them. Most of the casks and bottles of exotic wines and liquors got here last week, and the appetizers--

Risma laughs, breaking Madra’s concentration.

What’s so funny?

Most brides would comment on their dresses, or the decorations, or the entertainment, yet you’re completely focused on the menu.

"As I should be. While the Darrinians are known for