A Lesson for the Cyclops (7 page)

He ducked out of the tent. She stared at where he had been in open-mouthed astonishment.

Then he reappeared at the open tent-flap.

“I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go very well.” His voice was resonant and theatrical, his arms akimbo. “But I’m betting that what I have in
this bag”
—and here, he waved his hand over the sack like a magician—“will bring a smile back to that face!”

He presented his hands in a mime’s appeal for applause.

The Cyclops blinked in surprise, her sorrow momentarily forgotten in the bizarre moment. She could have imagined a number of reactions D’Arbignal might have had to her misery. This would not have been one of them.

“There, that’s better!” he said. He entered the tent, and spun around, his arms spread expansively. “Yes, this place will be perfectly suitable. Lock the door, will you, Maria?”

She started to get up, and then sat again, blinking.

“Um,” she said, “we’re in a tent.”

D’Arbignal had already moved passed her to her dressing table, and was shoving Pahula's cosmetics and beauty tools aside.

“Never mind,” he said, a whirlwind of activity. “It was joke; it’s not important. What’s important is that you trust me. Do you trust me, Maria?”

It took her a moment to realize that he was expecting a response. She shrugged, hesitant, unsure what he wanted from her.

“I guess that’ll have to do,” he said with a theatrical sigh.

He reached forward and gently cupped the sides of her face with his hands. She inhaled sharply at the unexpected sensation, and shuddered in near-orgasmic pleasure.

“Now close your eye,” he said, “and I’ll work my magic on you.”

“I don’t know if I ever mentioned it,” D’Arbignal said, “but I once did a fairly long stint with the Ardoxy Royal Theater Troupe.”

She heard the rustle of his canvas bag. The sounds of items being placed upon her wooden dressing table. Next, she heard the various, slight scrapes as D’Arbignal moved the items about on the table.

D’Arbignal grasped her face in a gentle grip. She gasped, recoiling and averting her face out of habit. D’Arbignal shushed her and took hold of her face, even more gently this time.

She felt the sensation of a downy-soft brush against her cheek.

“Despite the formidable-sounding name, we were a modest band of thespians. We were our own stagehands, and of course, our own makeup artists.”

He stopped speaking for a minute as he passed the brush over her skin and neck.

“Now, I’ll be the first to admit that you perhaps aren’t
the
most beautiful woman in the world—that honor of course belonging to my mother—but methinks you’ve gone out of your way to hide all that is beautiful within you to accentuate that which is not. I do admit it is a refreshing change from the preening found in most women, but any virtue taken too far becomes a vice.”

He continued applying makeup to her face. He turned her head this way and that, up and then down, tsking, hmmming, and making adjustments. She felt like a kite buffeted in a gale.

She felt his arms under hers. They gently but firmly guided her to her feet.

“Now keep your eyes closed,” he said. “I mean eye.”

She heard the rustle of large amounts of fabric, like a bed sheet perhaps. His finger pressed against her lips and she gasped softly.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice moving behind her, “here’s where you’re
really
going to have to trust me. You’ll have to take my word that I’m not looking.”

“Not looking at what?” she said.

Suddenly, she felt him undoing the ties of her gown. She inhaled sharply, her mouth a round O.

“Easy,” he said. “I promise: I’m not looking, and I never break my promises.”

Her gown dropped to the floor, leaving her naked before him.

“Well, rarely, anyway …” he said.

More rustling of fabric. It had a slight whistle to it as it moved, whatever it was. An unusual sound in fabric.

She was feeling a warmth, an unaccustomed moisture in a part of her body she rarely thought about. Worse, the cold had caused her nipples to stand fully erect. She fought the urge to squirm, and she fervently hoped D’Arbignal would not notice her current state.

“I had to guess your size,” he said, “but I’m usually pretty good at that. Just don’t ask me how…”

Then the fabric enveloped her, glided over her. At last, she realized it was a dress. But the fabric was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Its warm sensual nature caressed her skin.

“Hmm,” said D’Arbignal, sounding pleased with himself. “That looks stunning on you! Now for the final touch …”

He caressed her face, and then she felt something soft and warm settle upon her head. She heard the scrape of him picking up another item from her dressing table. She felt a brush against what must have been a wig.

“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.”

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.”

“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…?”

“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.