When The Petal Fell

4-2

Cierene waited, replete in her long silk, silver with opaline highlights, dress. Her red hair laid flat, shining, like a cloak upon her back, a single waved strand falling in front of her left shoulder. Her make-up accentuating her sharp, green eyes, a line of black representing a dew drop trailed down her right cheek. She held her hands upon her abdomen, flat, one atop the other. Her back, straight and formal.

She understood, of course, the meaning behind the wait. Rifnarus advocated a degree of give and take with the customs and theatre of the city. He took only so much and gave little in return. It never appeared overt, never appeared passive, nor aggressive. Yet the meaning of each little word, movement and act conveyed much. Keeping her waiting this long had all the hallmarks of a stamp of authority. Albeit a stamp from a silken slipper, rather than a boot.

Vocha, Rifnarus' stand-in assistant while Klaron sashayed her needle sharp way through the sensitivities of the investigation, had appeared, several times, to offer apologies for the wait. His Lordship found himself delayed by important matters of state and would attend her at the earliest opportunity. She almost felt sorry for the man as he bowed and bowed again, offering obsequious looks to compensate for her lost time.

Cierene did not fall for it. She knew Vocha was not the incompetent he appeared to be. Such was the requirements of working for Rifnarus. None would show their true selves before people other than Rifnarus. The Lord Protector would never take anyone as his assistant, into his confidence, unless they were excellent at their jobs, no matter how short the tenure.

To fill her time, she had studied the paintings that adorned this hallway. As with everything else concerning Rifnarus, each painting was not there for the simple reason of looking good. Each painting told a story, or gave a warning. 'The Sinking of The Albar', an analogy for listening to the correct advice, not that advice that soothed egos. 'Koros' Cross', that burdens may be a discomfort, but not always a detriment. 'The Fate of Indariy', a warning that resting upon one's throne can lead to the greatest of falls.

Her training in the Court of Blossoms had prepared her for many things, including the appreciation and understanding of art. Rigorous training that many failed. It was not an easy life. The training took many forms, the physical, the mental, the avenues of the minds of others. Everything became the domain of a Petal, even more so for a Blossom. And Cierene had excelled at them all. The fastest rising star the Court of Blossoms had seen for many years.

And now, here she was. On the cusp of becoming the youngest High Gardener since Avaeon the Sweet, some two hundred years before. She neither dreaded it, nor welcomed it. It was her duty. No less. There was still the formality of the vote, but even she had to admit that no-one came close to her qualifications for the role. Not within the elite courtesans of the Court of Blossoms and certainly not in any of the other Courts.

"'The Fate of Indariy', certainly a most appropriate message from the past. Don't you agree, Lord Rifnarus?" She didn't turn around. The minute wisp of a draft from the secret door behind her had alerted her and Rifnarus always maintained the same clean smell. "I think we can all learn from Indariy."

"Indariy's failure was thinking he had achieved everything he ever wanted and that his people shared in that achievement." Rifnarus appeared at her shoulder. "He did not realise that, for some people, enough is never enough. See how the artist paints Yorig, Indariy's chamberlain, testing the weight of his coin purse. How Ranariy, Indariy's sister peers out of the window, greedily eyeing the neighbouring kingdom as Indariy sits upon his throne clapping at the antics of his fool, who bears a stunning resemblance to Indariy, himself. Marvellous work."

"It is, indeed. As are all the works upon the walls of this hall." She moved her hand like a hummingbird in flight, taking in the paintings before them. "Messages from the past, caught in oils and pastels and diluted pigments. Some more subtle than others."