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| Chapter 62. Puppet Master | |
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aeve paced like a caged animal for most of the day, pausing only when one of her keepers came to empty out her slop bucket or offer her freshly roasted meat from the communal fire. No one talked to her, even when she demanded to know how Mog fared. It was as if they had been instructed to ignore her. Only when she tried to leave did the pair of guards pay her any mind. They simply grasped her arms and wordlessly guided her back into her cell. Eventually she tired of pacing and sat down, straining to hear what was going on around her, hoping for word of Mog. Instead she heard snippets of conversation about newly arrived reinforcements and provisions and excavation. Toward evening the canvas door of her prison was pushed aside and more barrels were piled against the wall. New faces and awkward glances, but no words exchanged. Night arrived and shadows drew in on her, casting her into inky darkness. She huddled in the far corner facing the door, too anxious to sleep. The dun canvas glowed softly as firelight approached, casting indistinct silhouettes of people upon the door of her enclosure. Maeve instinctively rose to face the new arrivals, blinking when the harsh light of a lantern was cast upon her. “Good evening,” said Akemi, “No need to look so frightened.” Maeve shuddered in spite of the woman’s words. A pair of people wearing the now familiar leathers of the Shining Blade flanked Akemi. The man carried a large wicker basket and the mouse-haired woman clutched a dingy satchel. Maeve did not feel directly threatened, but there was a grimness about them and a gleam of malice in Akemi’s dark gaze. Akemi gestured and the man bearing the basket set it heavily on the ground before Maeve. It was stuffed full of cloth: wine red damask, midnight crushed velvet, lace and misty clouds of diamond flecked chiffon. Akemi impatiently upended the basket, disgorging the untidy collection on the dirty tapestries of the enclosure’s floor. As the others looked on, she held up several gowns in varying states of disrepair, clearly trying to see if they would fit Maeve. Some of them had very obvious gouges and bloodstains. “You’re too tall by far,” Akemi complained when she failed to find anything among her plunder that would work without adjustment, “Atheil, are any of these workable?” “I’m better mending leathers, but I expect I can string cloth together,” the woman said, glancing nervously up at Maeve. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, just enough to make it drape properly. This corset will probably work,” Akemi said, tossing the dark garment at Maeve’s feet, “I saved this for sentimental reasons. Try it on.” Maeve hesitated when Akemi thrust a pale mask into her hands. It was not as highly ornamented or well-crafted as the ones she had worn in the temple, but it did bear a resemblance to the moon pale visage she had donned during evening ceremonies. It was made of silver with flaking remnants of black cloisonné depicting tears and darkening its full lips. She held it to her face, instantly hating it. It smelled of decay and would press down hard over the bridge of her nose once it was fastened. “Good, it fits,” Akemi said before Maeve could reject it. “Which should I work with?” asked Atheil, glancing distastefully at one of the badly soiled garments. “The dark blue one. We’ll drape veils around her and it’ll be mostly dark, so just make it hang properly. Use the bodice from this one. The sleeves should be long enough and there’s nice ornamentation on the hems.” Maeve watched as the two rich but neglected garments were set aside while the rest of the plunder was thrust back inside the basket. Akemi dismissed the man and sat down on one of the barrels to watch as Atheil dug around in the satchel, retrieving needlework tools and a large pair of shears. “That’s an awfully long face for someone about to get a new dress,” Akemi laughed. “I’m to rejoice for wearing the pelts of your victims so you can parade me around like a prize?” “Well, you are a prize. In the hour of our greatest need, the gods sent you to us. It is ordained.” “I came here of my own free will, it was not ordained,” Maeve corrected her. “So modest,” Akemi chuckled, “Atheil, fetch me when you are done.” “Aye, she just don’t seem the cooperative kind.” “She’ll cooperate,” Akemi said with a bitter smile, “Won’t you, Maeve?” Maeve knew all to well the threat behind those words. She nodded, looking away so that Atheil could not see the anger and grief in her face. Thankfully, Atheil went about her work quickly, stripping seams and scavenging pieces from the two gowns. She pinned the motley garment around Maeve’s frame before basting it with expert flicks of her needle. “It’s awful,” Atheil sighed, standing back to survey her handiwork, “Still, I expect it’ll hold for the nonce. We can drape a veil over the hips where I can’t close up the seams.” Maeve said nothing, sensing the woman was talking to herself and would ignore any attempt at conversation. A moment later Atheil gathered up her tools and was gone, leaving Maeve alone in her wretchedness. The shimmering damask drank in the shadows while each fold bore a deep sapphire blue highlight. It had been a beautiful dress at one time, now it was little more than a badly crafted stage prop hacked together on the night of the performance. When Akemi returned she had changed from her normal leathers into a form-fitting outfit of smoky black cotton that concealed all but a small opening for her eyes. She had applied charcoal to what little skin was exposed and presented a frightening figure as she stalked into the chamber alone, the heavy folds of a dark garment clutched over one arm. “It’s nearly time to play goddess,” Akemi announced as she gazed upon Atheil’s handiwork, “Behave and I’ll make sure you get a real dress.” “I don’t want a dress,” Maeve snapped, angered and humiliated. “You just don’t know when to accept defeat,” Akemi sighed, “Sit down.” Maeve followed Akemi’s gesture to the barrel. It was bad enough she was crammed in an ill-fitting garment that had been peeled off of a corpse. Now Akemi wanted her to perform some mockery of the old rites? Rage boiled up within her. “Grenth take you,” Maeve snarled, “You are an abomination in the eyes of the gods! You are not fit to walk in my presence let alone breathe the same air.” “Wrong answer,” Akemi said darkly. She moved so swiftly, Maeve had no time to dodge aside. She doubled over in pain, dropping to her knees and gasping for air from the single sharp blow to her solar plexus, “Disobey me again and Mog will suffer for it.” For many long agonizing moments she feared she would suffocate as she curled around her pain. Akemi guided her to the barrel and she sat there like a fool blinking involuntary tears from her eyes. Maeve had forgotten that the old respect between she and Akemi was gone. If anything, the woman reveled in her power over her former master. She surrendered, suffering her hands to be bound against the small of her back. Akemi eased a gag into her mouth and buckled it in place, taking pains to arrange Maeve’s hair to conceal it. Over this Akemi placed the repulsive mask, its stink eliciting a small tremor of disgust. Akemi placed a hand under Maeve’s chin and lifted her face to gaze down into her eyes as if admiring a work of art. “Once more the goddess, so regal and beautiful,” Akemi said softly. Maeve blinked unwelcome tears from her eyes, hating that she could not be strong, that she had been reduced to this. It was a mockery of her most treasured memories, a mockery of all that was holy and beautiful. She pulled her chin away, determined to retain some semblance of control, no matter how small. She did not call out to Lyssa. The gods that had failed to save Orr and Arah and Ascalon could do little for one foolish woman. She had been stupid to come here alone. “Don’t cry, goddess,” Akemi said softly, “This was meant to be. You resist because you are proud, but if you understood what was at stake you would do this willingly. One day this temple will rise from the ashes, the last sanctuary of our people. Here you will be enshrined once more.” Maeve withdrew mentally, protecting herself in the only way left to her. She hardly noticed Akemi ornamenting her crude gown with glistening veils and remained still as a voluminous black cloak was pinned around her shoulders. She strode numbly beside Akemi into the night, the shadows of the jungle and fallen masonry swallowing them up as the slightly built woman guided them by memory through destroyed chambers and shrines. With a hand looped around Maeve’s left arm to steady her in the darkness, Akemi guided her slowly up a rocky slope. Once atop the hill the forest withdrew and stars twinkled coldly above them. She guessed it was midnight, the significant hour of Lyssa’s dark face when the new moon slumbered below the western horizon. Akemi guided her into the remains of a round central hall in the old temple complex. A firefly luminescence vied with the pale starlight and the stones seemed to release moonlight captured over the centuries since the temple’s collapse. Akemi exhaled in wonder. “It has never shone like this”, she breathed, more to herself than for Maeve’s benefit. At last she saw the object of Akemi’s awe. Untouched by the destruction that was everywhere around it, a statue of Lyssa drifted silently above its round pedestal. As they drew closer, the golden motes of light intensified. An eerie crystalline music hovered just at the edge of perception and a strange sweet odor floated on the sultry air. “What is the meaning of this?” came a man’s voice, low yet tinged with fear. Maeve was so transfixed with the pulsating glow emanating from the shrine that she had not seen the man kneeling at the statue’s narrow base. He rose quickly to his feet, nearly tripping over his robes as he backed away. “Do not be afraid, my love,” Akemi said, “I have brought the goddess here at the appointed time and place. See how Lyssa acknowledges her? What I have told you is true. What more must I do to prove it?” “You tricked me once, witch. I do not know how you achieved this, but I do not trust you.” “See what is in your heart, Maziba,” Akemi implored him, “Acknowledge what you know to be true.” Akemi released Maeve, leaving her to stand alone before the statue, her mind ablaze with color and music. The man’s piercing gaze sought for her eyes, finding her through the confusion of light and sound. Then, as if he had been struck, he staggered away from her, holding his eyes and crying out in pain. “O Lady of Mysteries, Bejeweled Sisters of Sun and Moon,” the man sobbed, falling to his knees and then clasping her feet and kissing them, “I have been blind. Forgive my deluded mind, O Beauteous and Terrible Goddess.” Maeve recoiled from his touch, horrified beyond reason. She backed away and the man wept like an abandoned child. “The goddess is displeased with you,” Akemi said quietly, “You must make yourself right with her.” “How?” Maziba wailed. “She tells me that you must meditate on this.” “She speaks to you?” Maziba choked, almost childlike in his bewilderment. “Yes, Beloved, and if you make yourself right with her, she will speak to you once more.” “What must I do, O Goddess! Please, I implore you!” “The wicked must be destroyed, Maziba. She has delivered to you the means. Now you must allow it to go forward.” “It will be done,” he said, “O Goddess, as I am your servant; I swear that it shall be done.” |
