A Lesson for the Cyclops
Page 6
“We’ll drape it like so …” he said. “To shadow the eye socket but not hide it. Lend a little mystery, perhaps, but not tell any lies … which is a darned sight better than I do for myself!”
He fitted something over her missing eye. “And finally… there!”
He moved away from her. She heard him circle around her, once, twice, then a third time.
“I think this demonstrates my point. You may look now, Maria.”
She did and saw him evaluating her.
After a few moments, he nodded his head, looking pleased. His eyes gleamed.
“You know,” he said, in quiet awe, “I think even I may have underestimated myself.”
He smiled broadly, and fished a large hand mirror from that magical bag and handed it to her.
“Cyclops,” he said, “it is my very great honor and privilege to introduce you to Maria.”
Chapter 21
She wasn’t beautiful. For all his talents, D’Arbignal wasn’t a mage. He couldn’t perform miracles. But that said …
She blinked, mesmerized by her reflection. She wasn’t beautiful; no, that was too much ever to hope for. But she was … she was …
She was attractive. Her complexion was youthful and unblemished. The contrast of her new wig to her olive skin was just right.
He had given her long, dark, enticing lashes. Her new hair fell partially over the black eye patch that now covered the scarred socket her other eye had once occupied. It played with the shadows around it to make it look mysterious, dangerous even.
There hadn’t been much he could do with the bony stub of where her nose should have been, but he had blended the raw redness away to make it look less severe.
But the dress. Oh, the dress!
It was a long, dark green dress with a daring neckline that hinted at much but revealed little. Against her skin color, the effect was astonishing!
She looked … good. She actually looked good.
“No,” she said in anguish. She yanked the wig from her head and threw it to the floor. “This is wrong. I shouldn’t look like this.”
D’Arbignal looked perplexed. “I have to admit that this wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”
“It’s all wrong!” she repeated. “I shouldn’t look this way!”
She ran to her trunk, found the folded portrait buried near the bottom. She unfolded it and showed it to D’Arbignal.
“There!” she said.
He glanced at it, confused. “All right, so you want to look like her. I don’t think that shade of blonde will suit you, but I suppose I can—”
She shook her head sadly.
“I don’t want to look like her,” she said. “The portrait is of me, before this was done to me. I used to be pretty, beautiful even. I don’t deserve that anymore.”
Chapter 22
“Have you ever been in love, D’Arbignal?”
“Sure,” he said, “all the time!”
The Cyclops began to despair. If she couldn’t share this with D’Arbignal then there was no one.
“No,” she said, turning away. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
D’Arbignal touched the side of her face, gently bringing her back around to face him. His expression was more somber now. “My apologies. What did you mean?”
She sighed and thought back to her time with Hernando, so many years ago. The shame, the loss, the anguish, and the pain all resurfaced in her mind as fresh.
She shook her head.
“Forget about it,” she said.
“If you don’t tell me,” he said, eyes gleaming conspiratorially, “then I won’t show you the last surprise I have for you in this bag…”
She felt enervated. She had had almost no sleep last night, then Marco telling her that he was casting her out, and now this. She wished she were made of sand, so that the winds and rains would erode her into nothingness. Nothingness was where she’d be happiest.
“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “No, I need to get ready for tonight. Marco told me that he’s kicking me out after this run. I won’t be coming with you when you leave Per.”
D’Arbignal raised an eyebrow.
“Did he now?” His jaw jutted and his eyes narrowed. “We’ll just have to see about that.”
“What do you mean?” the Cyclops asked.
D’Arbignal tapped his nose, a sly grin on his face. “The answer to that is in this bag, and you don’t get to see what’s in the bag until you tell me about ‘being in love.’”
She considered his ultimatum. Her brain felt ponderous in her depression.
At length, she decided.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell —”
Pahula entered the tent. Her eyes first narrowed on D’Arbignal and then widened when she saw the Cyclops.
“Cyclops, you look … bootiful! And that dress! It is—how you say?—gorgeous!”
“Sorry, we’re closed for a special reception,” D’Arbignal said, ushering the Tattooed Lady out of the tent. “Only ladies and knaves. General admission resumes in one hour.”
“Like I said,” Pahula grumbled from outside the tent. “Low.”
“Sorry about that,” D’Arbignal said. “But you were saying something about being in love…?”
Chapter 23
“When I was six,” the Cyclops said, “my father promised me to Hernando, who was eight. Hernando’s father was a miller. Mine was a baker. The engagement served to strengthen ties between the two families so that both could profit. It would guarantee my family an inexpensive supply of good flour; it would assure Hernando’s family a steady customer who could be counted on to pay his bills.
“I first met Hernando when I was nine, and against the odds, he and I fell in love. Hernando was quiet, sensitive, and intense. I was strong-willed and outgoing; our families were wealthy, and I was spoiled.
“Our love for each other grew as we matured: a slow, comfortable love, born out of the inevitability of our future together.
“Then I began to turn into a woman. I learned that my new beauty gave me power over men. Wise men, rational men, would turn into idiots when I spoke to them. Husbands would ignore their wives.
“I learned the way to move and dress to accentuate the effect. I also learned that there was much to be gained by being beautiful: lower prices at the market, preferential treatment by laborers. It made me conscious of the unlimited potential of being attractive.
“I aspired to more; I resented Hernando merely because there was more to be had from the world than he could give me. For his part, he noticed my growing disdain and did all he could to woo me: flowers, gifts, even poetry. I felt that these were my due, and they did nothing to make me forget how common he was and how special I was.
“One day, a duke from the Kingdom of Bryanae visited our household to procure some specialty breads. He was much older than I, but he was wealthy, powerful, and more importantly, a recent widower. I seized at the opportunity and flaunted myself at every chance. The Duke had no defense against my ripening sexuality. When I slipped into his bedroom on the second night, his protests were hollow, and he yielded to my clumsy seduction, taking my virginity.
“When it was done, I pretended to cry, lamenting the loss of my virginity to my father’s trusted friend. I told him I would be victimized as a whore, and that it would be his fault. The only solution, I told him, with artfully punctuated sobs, was for him to marry me.
“Not once did I spare my fiancé more than a passing thought. After all, it was the opportunity to become a duchess and I would be a fool to pass it up.
“Fearful for his reputation, the Duke agreed to marry me, and we snuck from my house and I rode with him on his horse back to his lands on the northern outskirts of the city of Bryanae. The kingdom itself occupied a large island off the western coast of Homina, separated by a frigid river from the Kingdom of Kyrn.
“Such a majestic city! And to imagine I was shortly to be royalty!
“But it was
not to be. I was not only unworthy of being a duchess, I was unworthy of Hernando, of my family, of everything in my life that I had taken for granted and discarded in favor of what looked to be the best opportunity.
“In rapid succession came the letters: first, from my father, begging me to abandon my foolishness and return home. His appeal touched my heart, but I was determined to stay.
“Then another letter from Hernando’s family, describing how despondent he had become. They pleaded with me to return to him, to make good on my promise of betrothal. I actually laughed at this letter, may I freeze in the Icy Inferno forever for it. I laughed at poor, dear Hernando’s suffering.
“The next batch of letters I received arrived at the same time. Hernando had hanged himself. My father disowned me. Hernando’s father pledged revenge.
“Only now did I begin to understand the gravity of what I had done, how cruel and heartless and self-serving I had been. But what could I do? I could not undo the evils I had committed. My dear Hernando had died from the broken heart I had given him. My family would not answer my letters, and I had only myself to blame. Only the preparations for my imminent wedding served to take my mind in part off my crimes, so I threw myself into them, determined to have the biggest, fanciest, and most impressive wedding Bryanae had ever seen.
“Before I was married, I received the present Hernando’s family had sent me.
“As we traveled back from the dressmaker’s shop one evening, my retinue and I were set upon by a dozen ruffians with blackened faces, blackened weapons, and cold, cold eyes. They murdered everyone in my party, even the horses, but me they spared. They had something special in mind.
“I was bound and gagged, and tossed into the back of a wagon like the cheap piece of meat I had become. The wagon took me to the outskirts of Bryanae. The sorcerer was waiting for me there at the abandoned cabin, isolated from the rest of the world by a forest on three sides and the ocean beating upon a rocky shore on the fourth.
“The sorcerer was very tall, very thin, and wore dark velvet robes and a dark hood over his dark face. When he spoke, it chilled my bones.
“‘You’ve been a very naughty child,’ he said in a voice laced with malevolent glee, ‘and I have been paid handsomely to see that you are appropriately punished.’
“At his command, the brigands ripped my clothes from me, but the sorcerer showed no signs of sexual interest. He grasped my face, and turned it this way and that, admiring it.
“‘You are beautiful,’ he said. ‘That is what you prize most, is it not? That is what gives you a sense of value, a sense of importance.’
“He took a step away from me and examined me like I was an insect.
“‘That is what I shall take from you.’
“He reached for me again, but now his hand seemed to be on fire. A lapping red corona surrounded it, and cast fearsome shadows onto his already fearsome black face. And those eyes! They burned!
“I screamed and screamed, but no one came to help me. No one took pity on me, not even when the sorcerer began to sear my flesh.”
“The worst was my eye,” the Cyclops said, shuddering. “After that, I barely even noticed when he burned the rest of my face and neck. No pain could compare to having your eye boil out of its socket. Nothing the sorcerer did after that could make me forget it. Nothing that has happened in my life since has made me forget that pain.”
The Cyclops held herself, shivering. D’Arbignal moved to hold her, but she shook her head and he withdrew. It was the first time she had ever spoken of her burning. She felt somehow liberated, but it also served to remind her further of her evil deeds. No matter how bad she felt, she knew she deserved it and more.
“The sorcerer and the brigands left me in the middle of nowhere, naked and hideous. I was awash in agony, barely able to think, let alone move, but I realized that I needed help or I would die.
“So I crawled back to the city. Horsemen and carriages passed, yet not one would stop to help me, no matter how much I begged. Only once did someone show me mercy; a priest, seeing me on my hands and knees by the side of the road, tossed the remains of his pheasant dinner from his carriage. The carriage didn’t slow the slightest as it passed.
“It took me days to get back to the City of Bryanae; I slept in ditches, on rocks, wherever my strength to crawl just gave out for the day. When I made it to the city, I was such a bloody, disgusting mess that the Guard refused me entrance, fearing that I carried plague.
“I skirted the city walls, and eventually regained my ability to walk. I staggered along the path to my new home, still agonized, and now wearing a discarded blanket as my only attire.
“I reached the Duke’s manor a couple of hours before dawn. I had convinced myself that when he saw what had been done to me, he’d care for me until I had recovered enough to have our wedding, and that he would exact cruel vengeance on those who had done this to me. Yes, I was that big of a fool.
“The night guard refused to admit me to the manor. I begged and pleaded with him, then his superior, and then his superior. At last, the Duke himself came to the castle gates. He glanced at me only once, averted his eyes in disgust, and told the guards he did not know me. They dragged me from the castle gates and set me back on the road to Bryanae.
“I walked for days, all the way back to my family’s home, but they, too denied knowing me; indeed, they denied ever having a daughter. I sobbed and begged them to forgive me, but there was no forgiveness in their hearts. I left my home, heading off without a direction. Where was I to go? How would I survive without any prospects for marriage, without any skills?
“While I stumbled through a field, starving and feverish—much as you were when you came to us—I was beset by thieves. They were dismayed to learn that I had nothing of value. I was too ugly even to bother raping. However, one of them knew a man who ran a freak show, and he brought me there for a finder’s fee. But the owner of the show had been cruel, and smashed everything I loved, down to the smallest teacup. When the Venucha Players passed by, I left the freak show and begged Marco for a job with the circus.
“He paid me almost nothing, but for the first time since I had been abducted, I was in a place that could pass for a home. I wasn’t respected, but I wasn’t treated any worse than the other freaks. And I even bought a pair of teacups. I’ll show them to you if you like…”
D’Arbignal eyes shone with moisture, and for a moment, he seemed stricken mute. When he tried to speak, his voice caught and he had to clear his throat.
“Sure,” he said, his voice gruff, his eyes full of sadness. “I’d love to see your teacups.”
The Cyclops stepped around the beautiful wig she had thrown to the floor and went to her trunk. She searched through it to find her teacups, only to find the shards at the bottom.
“Oh,” she said, tears dripping down her face. “I guess Alfredo must have smashed them when he was looking for your rapier.”
“What?” D’Arbignal said, his eyes narrowing. The expression on his face was fierce.
The Cyclops shrugged and pointed at the gown she wore. “So you can see why I don’t deserve to have a nice dress like this, or a beautiful wig like that, or even to have you be my friend. I deserve to be the hideous freak that I am. I deserve to be alone and despised. I have no right to want or expect anything else.”
D’Arbignal stared at her for a few minutes, saying nothing. Then at length, he nodded in agreement.
“Right,” he said, standing up. “You’ve got a point. I’ll go and kill Conchinara now. Be back in a bit.”
He exited the tent, leaving the Cyclops gaping in astonishment.
Chapter 24
The Cyclops stared at the tent flap, frozen in astonishment. Then the thought began to sink in: D’Arbignal was going to murder Conchinara!
At first, the Cyclops was paralyzed by confusion and indecision. Then the call to action screamed louder in her ears.
D’Arbignal was going to murder Conchinara!
“D’Arbig—!” she started to call again, but stopped abruptly no more than three steps from her tent. D’Arbignal was standing next to Pahula, gazing at her tattooed chest with intense interest.
“Yees,” Pahula said, pleased, but her voice tinted with suspicion, “it deed hurt a lot when they make this one.”
D’Arbignal clicked his tongue sympathetically. “I can imagine. Still, it’s more than beautiful: it’s a masterpiece!”
The Tattooed Lady blushed. “Thank you, Meester D’Arbignal.”
“No ‘Mister’,” he said. “Just D’Arbignal will suf—” He saw the Cyclops now. “Ah! You’ll have to excuse me; my date has arrived.”
Pahula’s eyes narrowed. “Your date?”
D’Arbignal winked and strode back to the Cyclops.
“I thought you were going to kill Conchinara,” the Cyclops whispered, herding D’Arbignal back into her tent.
“So what of it?” he said, as though discussing the weather. “You cheated on your fiancé when you were—what?—twenty?”
“Sixteen,” she said.
“Sixteen. You cheated on him when you were sixteen, and for that, you deserved to be tortured, humiliated, and scarred for the rest of your life. Conchinara was trying to cheat on her husband; I figure that if a sixteen-year-old girl deserved what you did, then an adult like her certainly deserves to die for her deeds. Do you disagree?”
“What?” the Cyclops said. “Yes. I mean no. I mean—”
“Well, which is it? Either you deserve what happened to you, in which case Conchinara deserves a good murdering, perhaps with a dash of torture thrown in for seasoning, or your punishment was far in excess of what you possibly could have deserved. Which is it?”
The Cyclops’s mind reeled. “It’s … it’s not that simple.”