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| Chapter 60. The Shrine | |
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aeve stayed close to Mog, holding his hand as they carried him back to the encampment. She insisted upon helping to cleanse and comfort him once they arrived back at the encampment. Through it all, Mog remained incoherent, occasionally surfacing to utter a protest or cry out for Lyssa. By noon he was clean and comfortable. She and Ronan plied him with water and broth before letting him rest. Maeve lay down beside him, warding him with her body against the confusion and deception she detected in those around her. She trusted Ronan, but the others made her anxious, particularly Maziba and the slightly built woman whose face seemed so familiar. In the sticky heat of midday, she rested her head upon his shoulder and took comfort in the slow pounding of his heart and the even tide of his breath. He was at peace now. Ronan’s art had mended him and sleep gave him succor. She dozed there, warm and content, her concerns postponed as Ronan kept vigil outside the tent. Maeve overheard their quarrels, but she paid them no mind. So long as they were together, she had nothing to fear. It was late afternoon when Ronan tapped her shoulder, gently drawing her awake. She sat up and immediately looked to Mog, relieved to see that he was still resting peacefully. His skin was a healthy pallor and the tension had gone from his brow. She squeezed his hand through the blanket before gazing up at Ronan. “I cannot hold Maziba off any longer. He conceded that Mog needed time to recover, but now that he is no longer in any immediate danger, he wishes to speak with you.” “Whatever he needs to say to me, he can say here,” Maeve said, “I am not leaving Mog’s side.” Ronan sighed and lowered his voice. “Whether by conceit or madness, Maziba claims to know the will of the gods. I urge you to tread carefully, my lady. Such people are dangerous.” “Is that why Mog ran from you?” “My lady, I am not at liberty to discuss such things,” he said, and then his voice dropped to a barely discernable whisper, “Mog knew they planned to use him somehow.” Maeve knew better than to demand further explanation. Ronan indicated by a sideways glance that unwelcome ears might overhear such conversation. He could warn her, but he could not elaborate. Maeve nodded and slowly ran her hand through the stubble that remained of Mog’s ginger mane. The boy that she remembered all those many years ago emerged from in his clean-shaven face. “I will not be parted from Mog again. Maziba knows where I am to be found.” Whether because he was stubborn or he simply found debate beneath him, Maziba did not visit Maeve while she remained at Mog’s side. Ronan, however, stopped by throughout the rest of the day. Mostly he brought food and fresh water, sometimes tarrying to help Maeve attend to Mog. As it grew dark, Ronan retreated into the tent with them. He laid out his own bedding across from Maeve and Mog. She was comforted to know he was there. Her belly warm with food, she curled under the blankets with Mog and drifted off to sleep. It was not Maeve’s intention to drop her guard, but she had not slept for over a day. Indeed, she had slept poorly ever since the dryders attacked. For once a sense of peace filled her and she reveled in his warmth and closeness. Her dreams were of the many joyful nights they had spent together, of his love poems and his sweet songs. In the morning she awakened disoriented and alone. Her head was ringing and a bitter taste lingered in her mouth. Weak and nauseated, she lay within the dim confines of a strange place. Her first thought was for Mog and she croaked his name, her heart racing when she could not sense him or anyone else around her. Had they abandoned her in the jungle? “Relax, Maeve,” said a woman’s voice, “Or should I call you Goddess?” Stunned and confused, she sat unsteadily and gazed up at Akemi. Now Maeve remembered where they had last met. How could she have forgotten those cunning dark eyes? Of course Akemi would have survived. She had been on the same assignment as Mog the morning Ascalon died. “I suggest that if you would like to see Mog again you do as you are told. Do I make myself clear?” In her confusion, Maeve could only nod. “This used to be a shrine, so I imagine you’ll feel right at home,” Akemi continued as if she were addressing a guest, “I picked it out for you. See? There is an image of Lyssa on the wall.” “What do you want with Mog?” Maeve asked as the woman gestured toward the crumbled masonry and the faded fresco of the twin goddess. The broken walls were sturdy on three sides but partially open on the fourth where canvas had been pulled over the old door post to form a partial tent and awning. The floor had been cleared of debris and covered with soiled tapestries and blankets. Along one wall there were stacks of large ceramic water jars and barrels of provisions. “I thought you’d jump at the prospect of being pampered and worshipped again,” Akemi chuckled darkly, “Do not concern yourself with trivial things. Mog is your servant, as am I.” “Do not mock me,” Maeve snapped, although she knew as well as Akemi her threats were empty, “I am not a god. Stop being a fool.” “You may not be a god, but you are an excellent motivation for Mog Ruith. I expect he’ll do whatever we ask of him now.” “No!” Maeve snarled, “You will not harm him! May Lyssa curse you one thousand times!” “Only one thousand?” Akemi tutted, “I’m disappointed, Maeve. All those years of playing goddess and your threat is not only empty, it lacks inspiration. Here’s one for you. If you try anything, I’ll remove your pretty little tongue and feed it to Mog. How does that sound?” Maeve’s rage faded before the familiar emptiness of sorrow and loss. She stared fixedly at her pale hands folded upon her lap, avoiding Akemi’s face. She would not weep, not in front of Akemi or any of her toadies. “I am glad you are able to see reason. Make yourself comfortable. The guards posted outside will fetch me at need. Help yourself to food and water from the supplies.” Maeve said nothing when Akemi departed. A single tear escaped, but she brushed it aside without a sound. Mog needed her. She might not be a goddess, but it did not hurt to act like one. One thing at a time, she told herself. First she must find out what was going on. Only then could she choose her path. |
