97 Divine Constructs
“You—” Lilith’s surprise fluttered like a startled sparrow; the big bloom had stripped the Archbishop’s disguise like wind peeling mist from a ridge. But if this flower was an old acquaintance of the God of Mountains, then even if it wasn’t divine, it was no small thing—knowing the Archbishop of the Majestic Court as clearly as a mountain knows its streams was only natural.
“What about me?” The big flower’s voice rattled like pebbles in a gourd. “You youngsters keep getting idler. That old fossil told you to hold a funeral, so hold it. Why run all the way down a mountain that tall? What are you after—ask around and somehow He won’t die?” It plopped on the ground, grumbling like thunder under a blanket. Blue petals flushed at the tips with a dark red, like a face burning with anger, and the Little White Dragon stared, curious, as the bloom shifted toward a bruised purple. The flower shot her a glare like a thrown thorn. (A glare? The Little White Dragon had no idea how something without eyes glared, but Lilith truly felt that glare hit her like a cold draft.)
“What are you staring at!” The big flower cracked its vine like a whip, and Lilith’s courage shrank like a snail into its shell. She ducked behind Nidhogg’s shadow like a chick behind a boulder, and only when the flower stayed still did she dare peek past the Black Dragon’s back, eyes cautious as a deer at the riverbank.
“Ah.” Seeing the Little White Dragon so meek it hurt, the big flower sighed like wind through reeds, then dragged its body and turned toward the Archbishop. It tilted its head halfway, voice dry as bark. “And you. Why aren’t you up on the mountain preparing the funeral? What did you come down for—found your way into Lamter’s factory, no less. Count it like rings on a stump—how many Archbishops before you never left the Majestic Court after the day they took the seat?”
“I am the first.” The Archbishop’s tone was as calm as a stone under still water. The old elf shook off her initial surprise like frost from a sleeve and returned to that deep, mirror-still poise. For the first time before the Little White Dragon, the elder who was usually so wayward let the steel of her office show, steady as a bell in a temple. Neither servile nor overbearing, she asked the flower, voice clear as a mountain spring.
“Compared to me, why are you here?” She pointed at a nearby growth pod, where a blue blossom floated like a twin moon in glass; it looked eight or nine parts the same as the bloom before them. “You even let these followers of Mali turn your image into goods and send it to market. That’s incense turned to price tags—disrespect to the God of Mountains.”
“I’ve always treated that old thing the same way.” The big flower shrugged its two emerald vines like lazy snakes. “When He asked me to pass the word, I’d already cursed Him a few times. And you didn’t take any of it seriously.” Its tone flicked like a leaf in a crosswind.
“How can you?” The Archbishop’s restraint tightened like a drawn bowstring. “When we lost the chance to speak to the God of Mountains directly, we needed your help like rain in a drought, and you ran to Mali first. That’s betrayal.”
“I’ve been in mutual betrayal with that dead man from the start.” The flower’s voice went dry as sand. “And you lot who can’t even recall His true name—moss on the stele—have no right to judge me.”
“Wait, wait.” The mood turned crooked like a path in fog, and the Little White Dragon rushed to wedge herself between them like a bright pebble in a stream. Lilith tugged the Archbishop back; she’d hoped today to see a version of the Archbishop more serious and reliable than the usual free-and-easy elder. Instead, the old woman had leapt into a quarrel like a spark into tinder.
“I’ve got a question—did you two know each other before?” While they traded words, the Little White Dragon had smelled a thread of something not simple between them; Lilith’s gossip-sense pricked like whiskers.
“No,” the big flower said at once.
“Yes,” the Archbishop answered, just as fast.
“Tsk.” The bloom clicked its tongue; the sound scratched like a beetle’s shell. The Little White Dragon still couldn’t fathom how a flower made that noise, but she let it pass like a drifting cloud. Right now, she cared more about the weathered road behind the two of them.
“Remember what I told you about divine constructs?” The Archbishop’s gaze went to the bloom like a lantern to an old inscription. “This is the one recorded in the Majestic Court’s histories as the first to build a bridge of speech between us and the God of Mountains. Not just in Lamter’s era; it appeared more than once after. It only went quiet recently. Turns out it ran to one of Lamter’s plant-growing factories to help.” The Little White Dragon had a faint impression of that term—truth be told, the Archbishop had told Lilith about it right before they came in. If she’d forgotten already, she should probably get her head checked like a cracked gong.
“What divine construct?” The big flower bristled like thistles. “I sure wasn’t made by that dead ghost. You humans are a pain. You slap grand names on half-understood things like iron brands on living bark, and even when you’re wrong, you won’t scrape them off. Me and your so-called God of Mountains aren’t bound that tight. At most, we’re close friends. I passed messages because I can carry words between the god-realm and the normal world, like a sky-bird flying valley to valley.”
“Once people call you a divine construct, it’s out of your hands.” The Archbishop’s voice fell cool as frost. The big flower didn’t answer. It shook its head and turned away like a stalk turning from the sun.
“Say what you like,” it muttered, limp as a wilted leaf, “but coming here to help these Mali believers make things was His request. I don’t know what brew He’s steeping, but since it’s His ask, I did it. I don’t like Mali’s faithful. If you worship that coin-brained fellow, you’ve probably got coins rattling in your skull too.” The words clinked like copper in a bowl.
“I understand.” The Archbishop’s reply was steady as a ridge line. “You won’t betray your own disgust. But all the same, you helped them, and you pushed this product down the slopes. Without you, I wouldn’t have bought this blue flower. Even if I’d come to this factory to investigate, I might not have gone this deep.” At that, the Little White Dragon lifted the pot in her arms like a small pond of sky, and the Archbishop gave her a nod light as ash. Then she looked back at the bloom.
“You used this route to draw me to you on purpose. What do you want?”
