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| Chapter 71. The Council | |
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og lowered the pole of his hod, grunting as the weight of the bricks shifted off of his shoulder. He caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his eyes as one of the workmen unloaded it onto an ever growing stack. The jungle was finally yielding up the grounds of the temple. Shattered walls were giving way to flawless new ones. There were new faces as well, too numerous to count, and a good number of them refugees from the lands controlled by the White Mantle to the north. He watched as the last brick was taken away and then shouldered his hod once more. To keep his mind busy he had counted his loads and was now on his fifteenth. Once more he plodded down the long course of steps that wound past the falls. The brick kiln was a busy place these days and a constant stream of smoke emerged from its broad throat. A nearby deposit of clay was being excavated by a handful of workers. Already more bricks were setting in their forms outside the kiln to await firing while a pair of boys stood up to their knees in a vat of red mud to mix the next batch. Mog did not have to work. In fact Akemi had suggested that he spend his time sparring and meditating in readiness for his next task. His precise words to her had been neither agreeable nor kind but had the desired effect. Most days he never saw her or her toadies and he was content with that. His labors helped him control his temper and in this way he avoided violence toward Akemi for taking Maeve away from him. Ronan was his only friend in that encampment, although truthfully he trusted no one. Sometimes he caught the laborers watching him anxiously and he knew that if he made the slightest attempt to leave one of them would fetch Akemi. He was still a prisoner, and so long as he did not know where Maeve was, there was little chance of him making a break for it. He reached the brick kiln and loaded up the last of the fired bricks, oddly disappointed that his work was done even though his body ached from exertion. There was nothing more to do for he had no skill with masonry or setting timbers and there were ample laborers for the other unskilled jobs. Mog took his time tramping back up the slope until he arrived at the work site and stood by while someone unloaded his burden. “Is there anything else I can help out with?” he asked the man. “You’ve been carrying bricks since dawn. Take a break, you’ve earned it.” ‘Aye,’ Mog sighed, then thanked the man absently as he abandoned his hod and limped stiffly toward the tent he shared with Ronan. Thankfully there was fresh water for cleaning and drinking. He filled a basin with it then took a long pull from the jug. Once he was clean, he lay back on his bedding upon the ground and stared at the dun canvas wall and ceiling as they variously ruffled and bulged in the late afternoon breeze. He began to drift off to sleep when he heard voices nearby, voices of authority raised in anger. Mog sat up and turned his head, his senses faintly aware of the anxiety of others. Except for Akemi’s polite and clipped dialog and Maziba’s measured baritone, Mog did not recognize the voices. He could tell by Akemi’s deference that those assembled in the neighboring tent were respected and she was trying not to anger them. “If you would just let us strike Caemaerl…” “Enough! This is not up for further discussion,” replied the prickly voice of an older woman. “What you ask endangers innocent people,” added a man. “So what if it does?” snarled Akemi, “It is time people learned to fear the gods once more. Those who aid the White Mantle are blasphemers. They deserve to die as much as our enemy.” “And who are you to decide who must live and die?” said a third voice placidly, but there was iron behind it and Akemi drew her breath as if to stop herself from speaking. “Our attack was successful! You saw what we did…” “Enough to see that it was foolish and ill-advised,” said the first woman, “If you wanted to prove something with one attack, then perhaps you should have considered a more important target.” “I want to spread fear among their ranks, I will kill off his commanders and loyalists and then I will kill Scarpia himself.” “You did not spread fear,” said the placid voice, “You revealed your hand and innocent people paid for your arrogance.” “No one is innocent,” Akemi snapped, “This is war.” “Your actions are clouded by your desire for power and vengeance. How can the goddess speak into a mind so clouded by hate?” “I am Tenebrae,” Akemi replied coldly, “I am a servant of Lyssa. Question me and you question Her.” “It is true,” Maziba rumbled, “The goddess speaks to her, I have witnessed it.” “Let me make another attack,” Akemi pleaded, the outrage gone from her voice, “Do not deny me my purpose.” “Tell us why you doubted we would support you that you hid your talents and your partner until now? Why have you hidden this sacred oracle of the goddess away and why does your partner not stand beside you now?” Mog nearly leaped to his feet to tell them… what exactly? He sat there burning with rage, impotent and clueless about his captors. One wrong move and he might inadvertently drive Akemi to do something to Maeve out of spite and vengeance. “My partner defers to me, it is his duty,” Akemi lied. It was all Mog could do not to get up and shout at her. He quaked with rage, his blood boiling, “If he did not support me, he would have departed, yet he labors among us to restore the temple.” “You vile witch,” Mog snarled under his breath. His hands tightened into fists and he wanted nothing more than to pound Akemi into a bloody pulp. How could she tell such a hideous lie? If she had even a fraction of the fear of the gods that she wished to place in others, she would not have the temerity to say such things. “We are done here. If you take action in our absence again, you will no longer be on the council,” said the placid woman, “This war is not won. We cannot afford to make tactical errors.” Mog sat back on his hams, aware of people moving outside of the row of tents. After a long tense silence he heard Maziba’s mellow baritone. “Take heart, they support the restoration of the temple.” “Why do they refuse me?” Akemi snapped angrily, “And you said nothing to refute them…” “Perhaps because they are right. You hide things. Some are worried.” “But we have the divine gift of Lyssa’s vengeance! We could destroy the White Mantle!” “But the gifts of Lyssa are twofold,” Maziba said, “Her dagger has two edges, her rose has thorns.” “I am sworn to serve as Lyssa’s weapon in the face of sacrilege. It is blasphemy to deny me my duty,” Akemi cried. Mog sensed that she was on the verge of tears, her anger and frustration becoming grief. “You should rest, you are not thinking or speaking clearly. I trust the council.” “What about me? Do you not trust me?” she nearly shrieked. Maziba hesitated and Mog could sense his dismay. “I do not know any more. You have lied to me many times. You have kept the goddess from me when I wished to honor and pray to her.” “That’s because you are a worthless groveling dog. Leave me, I have had enough.” “Perhaps I have as well,” Maziba said darkly. Mog waited breathlessly as Maziba stormed away, leaving Akemi alone. He was strangely gratified when she released a long frustrated sob and surrendered to tears. Perhaps there was hope if her own people were starting to see her for what she was. |
