Tale
Number One: Let Them Eat Cake
In another plane much like this one, on a world where a giant
meteor scored the earth and created a continent-sized gash, there lived a Witch-Queen
of inordinate power. Friends and foes alike called her the White Queen, both
for her personal coloration and the many peoples she conquered; for white as
you know absorbs all other colors and keeps them inside it, as any experimentation
with a prism will attest.
The Queen was young and beautiful, firm of body and fair of face, and utterly
corrupt. Magic made her cunning and lazy, not to mention cruel. The bulk of
her magic lay in transformation spells and she chose to employ them on her subjects.
For amusement or expedience, sometimes both. Often she used it for punishment.
All knew of her and feared her accordingly.
She was a woman of far-ranging appetites, and foremost among them was for entertainments
of the carnal sort. In her chambers erotic statues were placed, former lovers,
some said, whom she had tired of, or slaves who displeased her, their writhing
forms all frozen at the apex of their pleasure. Some figures served as footstools
and cloakracks, while others were bent over at the waist to stand with legs
wide apart, arms linked, their smooth, naked backs forming tables at which she
played at dice or cards. The sheer, decadent depth of her vision dazzled those
who had the fortune to see it, all that petrified flesh used as rare woods or
marbles would be in more wholesome environs. Hers was a great sorcery indeed,
very rare, very powerful, and I confess I envied her greatly.
One day the Queen told her kitchen slaves to concoct a special feast for a visiting
dignitary. Her lead pastry chef, called Petal-Blush, was ordered to create a
soign-berry gingercake for the dessert. But too late the slave discovered there
were no soign-berries to be found in the palace.
Panic-stricken, she considered her options. If she went to market to buy some
she would certainly be punished, as kitchen slaves were under strict orders
to keep to the kitchen. On the other hand there were plenty of flossberries,
but they were underipe and still green about the edges. What should she do?
Either directly or indirectly she might anger the Queen, and her skin would
pay.
But ultimately Petal-Blush was practical rather than enterprising. Self-delusional,
rather. She used what was available, telling herself the flossberries were a
serviceable substitute if not an inspired one, and that the Queen would surely
understand. Unfortunately, her Mistress did not.
Why did the Queen choose that moment to visit the kitchen? I don't know, and
neither did Petal-Blush. In retrospect, you could say she was looking for disobedience,
to punish a slave in some cruel and novel way. At any rate, she strode in imperiously
and immediately sighted, on a tea-towel on the counter, the freshly cooled and
frosted pastry. But it not covered with the sweet, claret-colored soign-berries
as she ordered.
"What is this?" the Queen said coldly. The slaves shrank back from her, their
spoons trembling in their hands. "I specifically asked for a soign-berry gingercake.
Who made this mistake?"
No slave lived long in the palace by ignoring the Queen. As one the staff pushed
poor Petal-Blush to the front. She had been originally trained as a pleasure
slave and still bore the endowments, and she was to be a most spectacular recipient
of the Queen's magic.
The Queen looked the cowering slave up and down. "Why were they not used?
"They...they were not available, Mistress," Petal-Blush stammered.
"Do you not know unripe flossberries upset my stomach?" the Queen thundered.
"Mistress, I..." the slave babbled as her friends shrank away from her.
When you are a slave, it doesn't take much to displease a mistress who wants
some amusement. "When I say soign-berries, I mean soign-berries," the Queen
said. "I think a spell or two will make you more pliable to my orders."
Poor Petal-Blush begged for mercy, groveling on the floor, flinging herself
at the Queen's boots. But the Queen would have none of it.
"Stand up," she commanded. "Since you have been lax, I will enspell you to serve
more faithfully, to the best of your abilities, so you will never make such
a mistake again." She raised her right hand. A white beam of light shot from
her snow-white palm, all the colors of the rainbow and none. It struck the fear-stricken
slave and froze her in place. "Yes," the Queen smiled. "I know exactly what
to do with you."
With a curl of her wrist the frightened slave began to shrink. Her clothing
fell away from her as she assumed the height of a child, though not its proportions.
Panic roiled behind her paralyzed features, and a fevered, silent plea: Please
don't do this to me, please don't! But the Queen, as everyone knew, was
merciless, and the kitchen staff could only watch in horrified silence as Petal-Blush
continued to diminish in size, her glossy ivory skin now taking on a bright
coppery hue. At the same time she flattened as if fed between two rollers of
an invisible press, curling in on herself as if she was a sheet of metal being
shaped over a mold. In another second she took on the gleam of newly mint copper
fresh from the forge.
Suddenly the shrinking stopped. Petal-Blush was now twelve inches high. She
remained poised on the tips of her toes for a second, then fell over on the
tiles with a clatter. She had become a cake pan. A most voluptuous cake pan.
One or two of the slaves wailed in fright, which the Queen chose to ignore.
"Take your former coworker and see that she produces finer cakes than the one
she made," the Queen said. "I expect to see them on the table at every major
feast."
With trembling hands, the assistant pastry chef bowed and took up the copper
mold which had been her friend, and barked orders for the preparation of the
dough. No slave in the Queen's kitchen could afford to waste time on tears.
The dessert proved wildly popular with the court. The former Petal-Blush was
henceforth kept very busy popping out fresh, steaming replicas of herself, which
were frosted in marzipan with chocolate shavings for hair and candied cherries
for lips, with pink sugar at her nipples and loins; the filling, I have heard,
was most creamy and delicious, with a certain flavor reminiscent of... well,
never mind, but it put lascivious thoughts into the minds of the diners. Indeed,
it was as if the former pleasure-slave was still being used for the purpose
she was originally created for. Not that she had much of a choice, of course.
The Queen furthermore instructed that the cake pan hang from a hook on the wall
when not in use, so that all everyone should see the evidence of their Mistress's
displeasure. The slaves say they see it move sometimes, as if the slave trapped
in the mold is struggling to get free, but that's probably only the nonsense
of slaves. As this whole tale may be.
*What kind of story is that?* Aurena protested. *There is no heroism, no quest,
no romance. Only defeat from the very beginning.*
*I found it entertaining,* the Basilisk hissed, giving her a slim, stony torso
a squeeze to remind her of his strength.
Aurena was silent. Though the story's exoticism had momentarily taken her mind
off her troubles in the end it had unpleasant parallels to her own plight. The
thought of the poor slave continually turning out edible replicas of herself
made her depressed. *Was she ever set free?* she said.
The Basilisk chuckled. *Do you think I would tell you if she was?*
*You torture me,* the warrioress said in resignation.
*As I said, it is my meat and drink.* He slithered over her cold, stony shoulder
to look her in the face. *How do you think she feels, Aurena, when she is thrust
into a flaming oven, her transformed flesh brimming over with sticky batter?
Knowing that every cake that is made of her takes away some of her vitality
for uncaring others to consume? In time even a magical copper will become blackened
and greasy and dented with use... an eyesore to hang on the wall, forgotten
and unused.* He flicked his tongue over her unresponsive eyes. *Do you feel
her despair? Her lack of hope? Her complete and utter helplessness?
Aurena refused to give the creature the negative emotions it sought. If she
controlled her reactions, it might grow frustrated with her noncompliance and
set her free. *The only thing I feel right now is hunger,* she said flippantly.
*Bah,* the Basilisk said, and slid off of her like a wave.
*You think to destroy me with these stories,* Aurena said. *But they are only
stories.*
*Think again,* the Basilisk gloated, and continued.
The
Second Tale...
Copyright 2001 by Cobalt Jade