Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,

Cleiestis 7: The Worst Chore

Mirrored from Sythyry.

This being read for Tllith of Yirien, Princess of Septoulny Swamp, «Language»-mage, «Cuisine»-mage. This being written by Cleiestis of Gemgaru. Layer of six fertilized eggs is she; one is crushed. Priestess of the third florescence is she, mistress of seven spells and three visible and four invisible potencies. Wife of Tomolrouc is she, who is the assistant administrator of flying insects to the Hoouthgala district. Kidnapped and word-knotted by Kuur Molk Hasp is she, who is worthy of every curse and suffering. The hope from here is that you are in a state of delighted, and that three happinesses and four contentments are on you.

Me — coiled in the box, hidden by the curtain of ripped velvet. No words for couatl or spidersen; no couatl or spidersen. No words for humans; but humans were there.

The words of humans — heard from within the box. Translated. Transcribed. A tool to use? But how?

Kuur: Rathigrea, enter my chamber of sorcery! I have need of you!

Rathigrea: What news, my husband? Is it done?

Kuur: It is done, my wife. The spirit from Gemgaru is brought forth from that mystic hell. A serpent-spirit, a bird-spirit, with powers of healing. It is in the box there.

Rathigrea: May I look, my husband? It is a thing out dream and story; I would see it!

Kuur: Lift the curtain and glance, my wife. It hisses with rage; it would destroy our bodies and seethe our souls if it could. It cannot.

The curtain — brushed aside by a hand of Rathigrea. Rathigrea — Shorter than Kuur! Thin! Breechclout of knotted dusty-green cloth! Bruises on her hands, her arms! Fear in her eyes! Fatigue in her limbs! Wonder in her lips.

Rathigrea: It’s beautiful!

Kuur: Its beauty is a trap, my wife, nor should you think of it as less than hideously dangerous. I control it by both hostages and incantations, as the grimoires teach. But I do not trust it. It is a monstrous wicked thing, a demon of devils, and it hates us, it hates all that walks on two legs.

Me — yes! I hate him! But not for counting his legs! For his smashing and stealing of my eggs and me!

Rathigrea: Will it give you the powers you need, Kuur?

Kuur: It will obey me.

Rathigrea: Then let it begin now, my husband. Douk …

Kuur: My son? What has come to Douk?

Rathigrea: He spoke harsh words and heavy insults to the shaft-boss. Upon which the shaft-boss raised his quota again. Douk protested. Douk waved his strong fist and digging-mattock in the face of the shaft-boss. The Scorthmen came then.

Kuur: My son, my son! Does he live?

Rathigrea: He lives. The Scorthmen do not kill good miners. They covered his eyes with rotting meat, and poured live coals on his head. He is sore with burns and stinking with infections.

Kuur: Yet you told me none of this!

Rathigrea: You were at your sorceries, to free us all. I tell you now.

Kuur: Bring the lad to me, wife! My bound spirit shall begin by giving him a healing!

Douk — brought in. Tall, strong, skin of grey. Eyes puffy with sickness. Hairless even on his head — coarsely shaved. Many blisters from burning.

Kuur: Couatl, attend!
I compel thee by the terms of thy binding to work your full power for healing upon any human who places a hand within thine box, delaying not, making excuses not, adding not any sort of injury or trouble or vexation, neither causing unseemliness nor complication, and in all ways must they remain unaware of your presence and nature.
And I promise you further that if you displease me in your obedience to this command, I shall smash one of your eggs, mix the yolk with my own shit, and paint you with it.

Response — I wished to make it, fierce and biting and bitter, but I could not, for the sorcerer’s words clogged my mouth when I tried.

Douk — nervously placed his hand under the curtain.

Me — healed the child of the man who had killed my child. My choice — none.

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