Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [153]
Jeryd wasn’t reassured by this. Maybe it was his naturally cynical nature after having worked for so long in the Inquisition.
Late afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds highlighting some bizarre texture in the sky. The city’s spires and bridges sparkled. Tryst had opened the balcony door to help rid Tuya’s room of the acrid stench of her painting materials. The chill in the air was enough to sharpen his senses again. He rested his chin on steepled fingers as he regarded the sculpted Marysa before him. Tuya was crouching on her knees as she made some barely noticeable alterations to this creation.
Tryst had drugged the woman earlier, keeping the dosage safe but regular, so that he could manipulate her more easily. He felt pleased with himself, in fact was getting a kick out of his recent elaborate manipulations. He had planted in Jeryd’s mind a seed of doubt about his wife’s fidelity, and soon he would show Jeryd a display of his wife in action.
“There,” Tuya murmured, then pushed herself upright, a sheer blue gown clinging to her curves. Tryst considered that a baser man than himself would take advantage at this moment, but he possessed good morals.
“She looks … utterly real,” Tryst admitted.
Indeed, the clay female woman was an exact replica of Jeryd’s wife, though he had never seen the latter naked. By her stillness, she looked like a statue, however, and Tryst wasn’t quite certain what would happen next.
The previous evening, Tryst had led Tuya to observe Marysa in person as she walked through the frozen streets. The advantage of working so close with Jeryd was that he could learn most of his wife’s idiosyncrasies. Tryst had even thrown a purse, spilling coins at Marysa’s feet, so that Tuya would be able to get the closest possible examination.
Tryst fully intended to be present when Jeryd encountered this. That would be too much of a treat to miss.
Within the bell, Tuya had gone on to perform some strange rituals with a collection of relics. Tryst observed her as best he could, asking occasional questions, but she was vague in her answers. There was obviously a history to this woman that was never going to be discussed.
Dawnir magic was beyond him, beyond any normal person. To him there seemed no way of understanding it. He just sprawled on Tuya’s bed, waiting for the animation to begin. The statue of the female rumel began to glow, then faded. Glowed and faded. He tried to say something but Tuya waved him to silence, the woman now deep in concentration as she walked around the statue, touching it in places, a hint of eroticism to her gestures. The fake rumel began to twitch slightly. Its arms jutted forward as if to embrace someone, then relaxed. The sculpture slowly performed arm and leg and head movements, as if learning these for the first time, getting used to its own body. Discovering motility.
Then suddenly it began to move with the flowing grace of the real Marysa. Somehow Tuya had managed to capture the very essence of Jeryd’s wife in her art. The woman was more than a mystery. Tryst slid off the bed, the hair on his arms standing on end. Here in front of him was the power of the Ancient race, operating specially for his benefit. It took half an hour to dress the figure in the style favored by Jeryd’s wife. That didn’t have to be perfect, because Marysa’s tastes in clothes were varied.
As they applied makeup, the sculpted Marysa sat at the dresser, silently staring at herself in the mirror.
Tuya finally collapsed on her bed with exhaustion, saying to Tryst petulantly, “Is that all you need me for? Why are you still here anyway?”
Time to drug her further, but he didn’t have enough supplies on him. He picked up an ancient tribal decoration, comprised of long strips of colored beads hanging from a sphere. He swept it in an arc and struck her across the head. She slid to the floor with a grunt, a small trickle of blood oozing onto the tiles.
The fake Marysa glanced