The Purifier exhaled heavily as he reached the door to the gauntlet. This was his only hope of maintaining a steady flow of converts and constantly bolstering the ever fluctuating numbers of Necromongers, and that was by making more Purifiers. Maybe he had acted prematurely on this one; after all, Lyka Divakar was only a convert for two days before being chosen for this trial. However, he had to get at her quickly before the Lord Marshal deemed her worthy to serve only as a captain in his vast army. Instead, she was to become his second-in-command for her obvious commitment to the path, but only if she survived.
Unlocking the door, he gasped at the sight before him. Lyka was still hanging patiently, not even in a trance; she must have awoken when she heard the door open. She was alert and staring at him with the look of someone at ease in her current situation, no matter how precarious it might become with a single movement. Crimson drops of blood ran dripping down her neck; the blade tips were still embedded in the scars. There was no hope of dislodging them without causing death, one of the main concerns of the original Purifiers when they created this machine to test their converts to ascertain worthiness of the Necromonger title. Lyka, however, had changed.
Her head raised, she looked at him expectantly. At her temples, the three braids that grew from them were pure white, a dazzling contrast to the rest of her pitch-black locks. Her face was gaunter. Was it a delayed result of the fasting, maybe? Was her face tanner, or in this light was it paler? Indeed, she had changed drastically, more so than anyone before who had undertaken this second conversion.
"Convert, have you survived?" The words were ceremonial, but in this case they were a moot point.
"Yes, my lord Purifier." Her voice was deeper somehow, more mellow and less pained.
"You have now gained the rank of Purifier." With that, he wasted no time in withdrawing the blades from her throat. She gasped ever so slightly at the spark of pain before making her face smooth of emotions again. Unlocking the manacles quickly, he made ready to catch her.
Without his help, Lyka fell the short distance to the floor and landed on her feet. He could smell the musky scent of the sweat that had soaked into her tunic, underlaid with a bare hint of the metallic smell of blood. Shaking her head slightly, she stood up without any trouble. Her face was clear of any signs of pain.
"My lord Purifier, how goes the campaign while I was occupied?" She seemed so calm, so rational. She stood on her feet without having the need to lean on anything, her hands grasped behind her back. This confused the Purifier but he never let it show in his own body language.
"The Coalsack systems have brought our cause six million new possible converts, and the planets were purged yesterday. We are now on our way to the Helion systems, a much more bountiful system with more than enough converts to bolster our ranks. We should arrive within a month."
Lyka nodded her head. "Very good. May I please return to my quarters?" Without waiting for his permission, she turned around to the table against the wall and placed her belongings back on her person. He could swear that he heard her sigh with relief as the straps of the dagger went back around her forearm, the necklace clasped safely back around her damaged neck.
The Purifier, stunned into silence at the almost miraculous recovery of this convert, nodded his head also. "Oh, Lyka." This was the first time that he had spoken her name since before the ritual fast, and it caught her attention as she reached the open doorway.
"There will be a ceremony to officially give you the rank of my second-in-command later in the day. Come to the atrium in two hours time. The Lord Marshal will be presiding over it; it means a great deal to him as to whom his chosen Purifiers are. The clothes that you are to wear are in your quarters already." When he had finished, Lyka walked without any sign of weakness back to her quarters.
Standing alone in the room, the Purifier was still in shock. How could she have done that, been able to walk without aid or stand without trouble? She should not have been able to even talk without pain. The combination of the fasting and the psychological effects of the machine should have drained off her energy, and yet she was walking as if neither of them had occurred at all. Something was different with this convert, and even if she was not a Furyan, he intended to find out what.
When the door to her quarters locked behind her, Lyka breathed a sign of relief. She had passed the test with the Purifier, now she just had to keep up this masquerade until she had found Richard and then she would be free.
Her quarters were eerily quiet as she removed her ritual clothing. Sweat had poured off her in rivulets and had soaked into her clothes, leaving them stiff. She intended to throw them out as soon as she could; they were no longer fit to wear, not even worthy for use as cleaning rags. Standing in her room mother-naked, she slowly nibbled from the plate that was delivered to her desk: apple slices, cold chicken, and a piece of dry bread; there was also a cup of tea, which she drank down greedily, followed by another glass of water after that. Her stomach accepted the overdue nourishment, adding to her depleted stores of energy
Adjusting her eyes to the light in the room, she found the shower for her to wash in. Taking the time to luxuriate underneath the hot sprays against her sore back, she washed the grime and the tears, most importantly the sweat, from her lithe figure. The hot water beat against all of the knots that had formed from that awful position that she maintained, serving to make her purr in utter happiness.
Her hair dripping without care on the floor, Lyka wrapped a towel around her waist as she found the clothes that the Purifier referred to, since that was all that her closet was filled with now: leather military-style jackets edged with synthetic gold thread, black leather pants, black tunics, black knee-high boots. From one stand by the door of her closet were a set of black belts. A sombre wardrobe, nothing but the gold trim of her jackets in color.
Donning the tunic and pants first, she started when there was a knock on her door. Disturbed at who would want to visit her so close to the ceremony when she should be spending it in solitude, she opened it to inspect the visitor.
A women of stunning beauty filled her threshold. Against her thin frame was a gown of shimmering silver, a simple long-sleeved sheath that played off the dark tan of her skin. Her black hair was done up in a bun at the back of her neck. But it was her face that drew people in. Her eyes glowed with the caress of power, aided by some kind of elusive eyeliner underneath it. Her mouth was made for both kissing and for talking her way out of trouble and into getting her own way.
"You must be the newest Purifier." The woman took a step towards her, filling the space between them. "I am Dame Vaako, and my husband seems to count you among his friends. It is strange, indeed," as she picked at her immaculate fingernails, "that a week and a half old convert fledging could earn the respectful friendship of the most loyal of captains amidst the ground forces, and be chosen by the Lord Marshal himself to become his newest Purifer." Her deep brown eyes turned towards her in a friendly glare.
Lyka knew that this was a woman not to be meddled with. She enjoyed the feel of the power that her husband afforded her, but she wanted more, feeling that somehow she had earned it. She was a snake, camouflaged among the Necromongers but with the ability to strike out at anyone who threatened the basis of her power.
"Dame Vaako," she stood away from the door to sit on her bed but did not invite her unwanted guest into her quarters. "I have no intention of using your husband to gain power. I was just as surprised as many of you must have been when the Purifier chose me as his second-in-command. But I will not allow you to come into my quarters and accuse me of power-mongering."
"Why, I have no idea how what you are insinuating, Lyka of Aquila Major, or is it of New Mecca? I just came with the request of my husband to give you your marks, now that you are truly one of us Necromongers." From behind her back she pulled out a tool that looked extraordinarily similar to a soldering iron.
Following Lyka's incredulous gaze, Dame Vaako laughed. "Relax, child. Every woman among the Necromongers has these marks underneath her eyes." Her eyeliner was not eyeliner after all, but a charcoal black burn that outlined her lower and upper eyelids.
Like the snake that her personality suggested, she walked with a single stride to sit down beside Lyka. "Now don't move." Grabbing Lyka by the chin, she pressed the iron against the lower lash line. The burn was not bad, but it was annoying. Lyka forced herself to sit still as Dame Vaako patiently burned the rest of her lower and her upper lid.
"There, now that was not that bad, was it?" That loaded question stung her pride as Lyka all but shoved herself off her own bed to get away from Vaako's advances. Yet, she forced herself not to touch the marks around her eyes. They felt foreign, and yet she could almost feel that they belonged to her face, that among the many women who bore them, they made her unique among the flock.
"Get out, Dame Vaako. Consider yourself unwelcome in my room. Now please remove yourself before I do it for you." Her Furyan rage almost escaped her now solid control; already it was decorating the edge of her voice. She had to grind her teeth before a curse came to her tongue that would have been most unladylike.
Laughing out loud, the lady obliged her as she sauntered out. Lyka slammed the door behind her. Resting her back against the door, she forced herself to take several breaths before standing straight. Curiosity beat her control, however, as she walked over to her mirror.
Her face was the same, but her eyes seemed more exotic. The black burns from the iron made her eyes seem elongated. The lines came into at the corner of her eyes in a point. It made her face more narrow, more gaunt. It suited her, it suited her very well.
Shrugging her shoulders, Lyka donned her boots and the jacket. She looked at the mirror. The paramilitary look suited her: the knee length jacket with its gold trim contrasted well with the rugged black leather boots. The tunic and pants, black as night, were simple, just her style. These clothes felt right on her. Gathering one of the combs that she had taken with her from Aquila Major, she pulled back her black braids into a horsetail. By the time that she was ready, the ceremony was about to begin in ten minutes. Grabbing the pendant from her desk and placing it in the jacket pocket, she walked out of her room with new purpose.