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| Chapter 53. The Vision | |
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og’s last memory was of falling. Blind panic overwhelmed him and there was only the desperate struggle to breathe and awaken from this nightmare. Unable to endure, his mind escaped and for a long time he knew nothing at all. It was the slow sough of his breath that brought him back to awareness and what he saw and heard stunned him. The sky was flushed lavender in the twilight. Stars winked faintly between soft wisps of cloud, forming an arc of canvas upon which dancing motes of light whirled and spun. Mog drank of the jasmine and honeysuckle laden air, the fogginess and panic leaving him. Columns festooned with ivy held aloft glistening magenta banners that swayed in a warm evening breeze. As he rested on his elbows to survey his surroundings he saw that they marked the boundary of an open air theater. Up from the concentric well of pale stone the grass flowed vivid and green, speckled with russet periwinkles and tiny white daisies. There was music flowing from the encircling walls of a grand temple. His heart swelled at the sound of sistrums and bells. Two dozen voices rose in sweet harmony and he blinked away tears for all that was gone from the world, knowing as he gazed upon the past that it lay now in ashes never to rise again. Once more his eyes followed the graceful sweep of arches and the twin gleaming towers from which a voice curled and beckoned like heady wine. Regaining his feet, he swayed upon the cloister lawn. Everything reminded him of the only place he had ever considered home. It was the Temple of the Sacred Twins, and yet it was not. Blocks of golden limestone shone with an unearthly purity in the gloaming, each perfect and devoid of the ravages of time. He did not need to be a mesmer to know that it was a glamour, a dream of unattainable perfection. For a while he roamed the columned walkways, pausing at times to touch the intricate screens musky with the odor of sandalwood. His raiment was glorious: a silken cassock entwined with golden thread over heliotrope and midnight indigo. He clutched the serpentine wand of the Rision in his right hand and an aureate chalice in his left. Nuine had gifted it to him and it was from this sacred vessel he had drunk the wine of Lyssa during the ancient rites. His soft suede boots scuffed loudly over marble floor of the colonnade, his ears attuned to the rich tapestry of voices singing the rites of day’s end and embracing the womb of the night. In darkness, rebirth, he thought, his lips moving automatically to join the eerie chant of the chorus. Above it all the sweet voices of the twins unfurled against the darkening sky, ephemeral and heart breaking as the song of the hermit thrush. Mog’s first instinct was to find the source of the music and he trod quickly toward its apparent source only to find empty cloisters and shrines. Occasional laughter fluted mischievously behind him, but when he turned, there was no one. The great temple was empty, inhabited by the ghosts of his longings. After a while he strode toward the base of one of the slender towers and gazed toward its gilt crown. The twins ceased singing and the velvet night cast deep shadows upon the empty buildings. Trembling, he walked quickly toward the central hall where the golden statue of Lyssa had once stood. As if on cue the ornate lanterns flared to brilliance and cast a warm glow on the empty walkways. The sweet resinous odor of frankincense wafted from the open doorway to the central temple. He stood in the immense doorway, watching as the smoke of the incense curled languidly from a pair of ornate censers that flanked the image of the goddess. Nothing stirred but the twisting smoke, and for a moment all he could hear was the sudden thundering of his heart. The statue did not stir and yet he felt its gaze upon him, alien and curious. Delicate footsteps whispered behind one of the ornate screens that formed a backdrop for the magnificent sculpture. “Who is there?” he croaked. Swallowing, he moved quickly toward the source of the sound, determined to speak to someone, anyone. He balked under the gaze of the twins frozen forever in their dance and gleaming coldly in their gilded finery. When he reached the screen he saw the shadowy shape of a woman hiding there, drawing away as he sought to join her. “No, do not come,” she sighed, “You cannot look upon me.” “Maeve?” he rasped, remembering her voice, longing for it after all of this time, “Is that you?” “I am not Maeve, Rision,” she replied softly. “But it is you!” he pleaded, “I know your voice.” “Then you doubt that I am your Goddess? You believe me to be a young woman in costume?” Mog fell silent, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what to believe any more.” “A mesmer understands that belief is the fulcrum of their power.” He said nothing for a time, allowing the burn of shame to fade from his face while the veiled figure watched him through the intricate screen. His knees twitched from old habit and he knelt in supplication. “O Lady of Two Faces,…” “Speak simply, Mog Ruith, son of Simagh, for surely you do not think me incapable of reading the dissembling behind such gestures. You did not come here to worship. You came here in rage and despair, a mortal seeking answers from a god on pain of self-destruction. Such arrogance.” His mouth was suddenly dry and shame once more blazed upon his face. He clenched his hands before him to still their trembling, horribly aware of her presence within his mind. “I… I felt entitled to an answer… I surrendered my will to you, that you might do your will through me. I no longer know what your will is. Perhaps I never did.” “Perhaps you never truly surrendered. Perhaps it was it for the love of a woman or to escape an unhappy family? Or prurient interests.” “No!” he nearly shouted, “If you see into my heart, you know that I loved you…” “Yet anger betrays your self-doubt.” “I killed for you though it was never in my nature!” he snarled, “Gladly I would have died for you as well.” “You delude yourself, for clearly you are a capable murder.” He fell silent, his jaws tensed against a roar of indignation. “Or do you not view self-preservation as a natural consequence of mortality?” she asked, almost flippantly, “No, do not answer, I have argued with you long enough. You wish for answers and it took you seven years to demand them. Impressive.” “Why did you make me Tenebrae?” he demanded, ignoring the warning tone in her voice, “I was too young! I never wanted it. Why?” “Why not? First, you offered yourself to me as a servant,” she laughed harshly, “Second, you are not easily corrupted, and third, you love the higher arts of humankind. Who would you choose to keep Akemi in check?” He lowered his face, the anger draining from him. “It is to the ruin of civilization that those more eager to destroy than to create are given power,” she continued, “Did Akemi never speak to you of her first partner?” He risked a glance at the shadowy figure even though he felt humbled by her words. “Usually in the context of how I never measured up.” “He died alone in the ethers when his portal collapsed unexpectedly.” “How is that possible?” Mog murmured. “You know the answer to that already, but if you wish, you may waste a question.” Mog hesitated, realizing by her words that his time with her was coming to an end. “What would you have me do, O Goddess? My way is no longer clear to me.” “Do what you have always done,” she replied, the harshness gone from her voice, “Let those who desire savagery be treated savagely. Preserve what must not be allowed to pass from knowledge. Honor me in laughter and in acts of love and kindness.” For a moment he imagined Maeve gazing upon him beyond the screen and his throat knotted with grief. “My heart is broken, I am not consoled by beauty or kindness,” he rasped, “Why did you take Maeve from me? Why?” “I did not. She is not among the dead.” Mog’s heart was in his throat. Joy vied with sorrow and a sob emerged amid his laughter. He fell to his knees again and bowed to her, at a loss for words in his relief and gratitude. “Now I have a question of you.” Mog blinked the tears from his eyes to look upon the shadowy figure only to find that she had vanished. “Ask it,” he said into the silence. “Does that answer satisfy because it is what you wished to hear or because it is true?” |
