Yrba's Travels Pt. 12

"I'd have a few questions for her for sure, but I don't think I'm going to get that lucky," she sighed under her breath and gazed out into the almost perfectly spherical hole where unearthly fire had vaporized the foundations of Lord Peter's dungeons. Nothing grew down there, not even moss or weed, and maybe nothing ever would grow again in this weird, twisted place. She squinted. No ethereal beams, no gloss, no wisps of light. Even the ubiquitous background magic avoided this haunted place. Yrba looked at the thing in the palm of her hand and remembered ...

~

The mayor's wife had opened to her knocking and almost did a double take at the sight of the obviously wealthy stranger with the exotic dark brown skin. She left the witch standing in the doorway before Yrba could utter even a single word, and hurried away only to return moments later with a crock, its cork lid sealed by a thick layer of wax.

"A messenger brought this, last summer, and said I was to give it to the first Darkskin woman that comes knockin'. That's all I know. Said you'd know what to make of it."

Yrba had given her a handful of coins in return. Inwardly, she still smiled. Barbara had waddled in a very special way, and her red face and the otherworldly grin told the witch that she finally had found the courage to confess a few things to her husband. And that the two had managed to learn how to do a few things together. Immense things, from the look of it.

~

Yrba raised her hand to her nose and inhaled the faint smell of the single lock of red hair in her fingers. That curl and a shard of the palace's glassified stone had been the only things inside the earthen pot.

Good to know you survived this, Red. Wherever you are now.

She turned around with a sigh perched on the edge between relief and remorse and walked back to her six-horse carriage that gleamed like a pearl in the bright summer sunshine, the ambassador coat of arms being the sole colorful spec on its white coat. A last glance over her shoulder, and —

She stopped. Under her eye, a muscle twitched.

Then Yrba turned and leaned back, very, very carefully. She cowered, straightened up again, took a tiny step back and forth and then stood still, for almost a minute.

Her frown transformed into a smile, and slowly, her breathing changed into subdued chuckles and her lips curled back until her teeth flashed brightly. She threw her head in her neck and leaned against the nearest pillar, and her laughter echoed through the derelict hallways.

"Milady? What has come about you? You're worrying me —"

Yrba gasped for air. "No need — to worry."

She regained her composure and straightened her dress.

"You wouldn't happen to know the shortest way to the next port? I want a ship. As soon as possible. Seaworthy and fast. I'll buy a ship and sail it alone if need be. As soon as we're back with the entourage, you'll send a messenger ahead."

"The next harbor is a week or two to the south. Why?" He gazed at the crater. "Did you see anything?"

She pointed into the rivulets and scorchmarks. "Oh yes. Oh yes! From the right point, from here, these scratches turn into letters. Into a poem."

"I don't see any —"

"My homeland's letters. You wouldn't recognize them. Set sail from the smoking mountain's coast for fifty leagues towards the rising sun, then half a league climb up the path and rest in the new refuge of the doves."

"That's not much of a poem," he frowned.

Yrba rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Loses a bit in translation. Point is, I know where the smoking mountain is."

~

Fire. Fire and heat. Timbers crashing down. Molten rock creeping forward with no regard for fields nor houses nor life nor limb. Noxious smoke that replaced the air. Screaming people, runnning around blindly in the thick clouds of acid gas, with the burning breath of all-consuming hell down their necks. Then jerking awake, coughing and wheezing, all alone in a rocking boat out on the ocean. The mountain had devoured all that once was home.

Yrba shuddered and blinked as her thoughts returned to the here and now. High time for that old monster to pay off a little of its debt by serving as a lighthouse.

"Well? Let's go!" She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows as she pointed over her shoulder, aiming her thumb at the coach.

He bowed and hurried ahead. A playful smile pursed her lips as she felt for the thin chain around her neck. The vial with fresh tincture dangled into her cleavage. Nobody had noticed the slight bulge of the Lady Ambassador's belly over the last weeks. No need any more to waddle around, brewing tincture to serve hundreds. These days, moonshining a little of it every now and then for a few close friends went a long way.

Such a nice guy. And this journey's the perfect time to show him that his mistress is more than just a rich woman with strange habits. So what if I've grown a bit too stretchy for my own good. Why not shape up the bolt to fit the nut? Ain't no good screw if the fit's not tight...

No way in hell would she translate the rest of the inscription, which, in far less flowery words, said: P.S. Things grow easily here. Even Li has beaten you now by far, you mad old cow. And don't get me started about Charley's new size. You gonna let that slide?

We're waiting.

Miss you.

R.

THE END.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's it! The end of the longest, most involved fetish fantasy yarn I've ever written. And if you've followed the story up to here ... Well, then you know my compulsive begging for comments by now, and what chance could be better than this? :)

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