The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

That evening, the plaza was thronged with people.

The canopies had been stashed away, but the vendors had doubled, and all of them were doing a thriving trade. Children played in the fountains—so many children, Fogar thought. They almost outnumbered the adults.

“There must be ten thousands of people here,” he said to Tespar.

“I believe you are correct, your Grace,” the lieutenant said. He wore a spotless uniform and was Fogar’s only escort to the House of the Third Hand, which was apparently what the diplomatic offices were called.

Fogar had learned this from the Utteri staff at the embassy, after he had reassured them that he did not intend to have them executed, or even sent back to the Uttermark. Apparently when Lord Khevir had arrived as the representative of the Autarch, he actually had the senior members of the prior staff executed for treason.

The Autarchy had not been a good time for anyone.

Fogar’s diplomatic robes were over-hot in the evening air, although with shadows now stretching across the plaza and the breeze if anything stronger than earlier, it was not unbearable. Tomorrow, his first—no, second... third—order of business would be to have new robes made, of the local materials.

Something caught Tespar’s eye and he looked to the side, so Fogar did as well, and discovered Rhoda vash Dorudd trotting briskly towards them. He cut quite a dashing figure in a silken green hauberk over tight blue leggings, with a matching silver sash and buttons. He threw Fogar a wide smile.

Fogar and Tespar paused to let the Quinyri catch up.

“A marvelous good evening to you,” Rhoda said. “You do not mind if I accompany you to the House of the Third Hand?”

“It would be our very great pleasure,” Fogar replied.

Rhoda beamed.

They strolled across the plaza, while around them the mixed throngs of Ghuuli gossiped and flirted and played and ate and shouted at one another.

The northwestern corner of the lowest level of the ziggurat was the House of the Third Hand. There was a space near it which was clear of people, save for a pack of children playing a boisterous game of kick-ball. The three of them waited for the scrum to pass, then crossed to the large opening, which turned out to be a pair of double doors, beaten copper as tall as two men.

Standing next to the door was a statue of what Fogar had to assume was Khuluub; carved from some red, glossy stone, she stood easily twice as tall as a man, with four arms and six breasts. Her lower arm on the right side was outstretched and held a golden scroll.

“I am reliably informed that the statue is life-size,” Rhoda said.

The doors next to the statue were open, and inside was a space lit by many lamps.

As they reached the doors, a young man approached them from within. “Emissary vash Dorudd, welcome back,” he said. “And you must be Ambassador va Uettanti, and escort. Welcome, welcome. Please, come in, mingle, take refreshment. The Third Hand will speak to the assembled shortly and then will be available to meet with you individually.” The man bowed and the three of them passed by, into the building.

It was a cocktail party.

Forty or so people were standing around a large courtyard. The sky overhead was a brilliant blue and orange; vines hung over the edges of the skylight from the gardens above. Some people sat in wicker-work chairs, but most stood in small knots and spoke quietly with each other. Servants in loose red and yellow robes passed around with drinks and food.

Rhoda introduced Fogar to his new colleagues. They hailed from many places; from Norrengan, Lower Issolier, Awd, and a half-dozen kingdoms whose names Fogar filed away to search for on a map later.

There was a legation from Kinglatan, on the Southern Sea, tall and dark-skinned, with white smiles that caught the eye. There was even a single, wizened man from the west, past the Cloudfence, who spoke little of the common tongue but smiled and nodded as he popped food into his mouth.

Rhoda also introduced Fogar to the Uettan ambassador, a stern-looking woman with dark red hair; it was a meeting of some small awkwardness as the border between Uetta and the New Uttar Confederacy was... unresolved. In the event, Fogar found her to be, if not friendly, certainly polite and an expert in the art of small talk. The border was not mentioned.

The three of them stood together, talking, a glass of some fruit wine in Fogar’s hand. Tespar was off speaking with the Kinglatese. It was far from the worst way to spend an evening, Fogar thought to himself.

“The very first thing you will need to send for,” Rhoda was saying, “is Khuleri-nut oil. That’s what lets these Ghuuli work all day practically naked without their skin burning. It’s marvelous stuff, you can buy any one of a dozen sorts of creme from an alchemene...”

A chime sounded, not overly loud but penetrating, and conversation stilled. Everyone turned to look at the source, a bearded man stood next to an open door, holding a hand-chime.

“The Third Hand of Khuluub,” he said simply.

A woman came forth from the doorway. She was of middle age, with dark skin and dark hair, very attractive of face and figure. She was dressed in a simple white robe with a white sash across.

“Good evening,” she said. “Blessings of Khuluub be upon you all. I have a few general statements, after which I shall retire to the protocol office, to which my seneschal will invite you individually.”

“Firstly, I should like to welcome the Ambassador from the New Uttar Confederacy. They have been confirmed in possession of the lodgings formerly granted to the Autarchy of the same demesne. Ambassador Fogar va Uettanti, welcome.”

Fogar bowed.

“Secondly, I have... consequential news. The time has come for the Heart to be renewed. This is being generally declared in the city as we speak. You will understand that this is of great significance to all Ghuuli. There will be six days of ceremony—fasting, reflection, and prayer—and then we shall hold the renewal ritual in the great square. You are all encouraged to attend, and I shall appoint a special place for you all during the renewal ritual. Prior to this, during the six days, no business shall be conducted within the Trasdemere. If your households are not prepared please speak with my seneschal and supplies shall be provided to you.”

The Hand bowed her head. “This is a very emotional time for us. The Heart has led us since the Ascension, and is dearly beloved by all Ghuuli. You need not fear any disturbance but I ask that you please respect our citizens as they experience this... important and meaningful event.”

She held one hand in the air. “That is all; I shall be pleased to speak with you individually now. The seneschal will invite you back. You are of course free to remain or to leave at your pleasure.”

Then there came a great noise, spilling in through the open doors and pouring down through the courtyard’s open ceiling. A tremendous groan, as though the city itself was suddenly sighing in dismay.

“The news has been announced,” the Third Hand said.

Fogar looked at Tespar, who nodded to his Kinglatese companions and made his way quickly to Fogar’s side.

Voices rose outside, at first a few, then rapidly a great many, all of them blending together. But they were not shouting.

They were singing.

Fogar looked at Rhoda, and the Quinyri looked back at him with a solemn face.

Outside the hymnal rose and rose, as all of the ten thousand voices joined it. It was not being sung in the common tongue; the long vowels and hard consonants of the Ghuuli language sent shivers up Fogar’s spine.

“Well,” the Uettan ambassador said. “Interesting times.”

Fogar and Tespar were ushered into the Third Hand’s office by the bearded seneschal. Fogar was surprised to encounter the wizened old man from the west at the doorway, but bowed his head graciously. The westerner smiled with blackened teeth.

The Third Hand was seated behind a vast desk, as large as a bed. She rose and came around the desk to take Fogar’s hand, and to incline her head to Tespar, who took a position next to the door as the seneschal closed it behind himself. The sound of the singing diminished but did not die away.

“Welcome again to the Trasdemere,” the Hand said, returning around the desk and gesturing at a chair stationed in front of it. “Please, sit, we have much to discuss.”

Fogar seated himself and glanced over the papers laid out on the desk surface. Central among them was a map of the Rimbreaks.

“Yes,” the Hand said, “that is the first item I would like to address. Our nations do not yet possess a formal border, and we would like to begin the process of agreeing upon one.”

Fogar leaned forward with interest. Most maps of Utteri lands—of the Middle Kingdoms generally—ended at the Rimbreaks. They were the line of inverted ‘V’s that demarked the very edge of the map.

Here they were central. The small Utteri towns which nestled on their eastern slopes were marked, along with rivers, canyons, sundry other features. On the jungle side, too, streams and other items were denoted, none of which he had ever seen labeled or even mapped before.

“Obviously, a line running along the mountain crest would seem to make the most sense, but of course negotiations are in order. I have prepared a copy of this document for you. And if you look here,” she reached out an placed a finger on the map, “there is a spot where we would like to establish a border crossing outpost. It is our intention to improve the road from Vegenen Xuul all the way to the border, so that intercourse between our realms becomes easier and more common.”

Fogar thought back to the jungle crossing, and repressed a shudder.

“I shall inform the Confederacy of this proposal,” he replied.

“Of course,” she said. “We are merely initiating the dialogue. The road shall be improved regardless, but the sooner we know precisely where to improve to, the more useful to us.” She lifted a pack of papers bound in a red ribbon, placed it before him. “Our next item: we seek your approval to send our alchemenes into the New Uttar Confederacy; I have here documents outlining our proposal vis-a-vis their legal status and certain matters of extraterritoriality.”

“Alchemenes?” Fogar asked. “Please clarify.”

The Hand nodded. “Certainly. As you are aware, the Trasdemere is rich in the fruits of the land, but we are poor in metals and leathers and other things. We seek to trade for that which we do not have. In addition to foodstuffs, which travel poorly, Khuluub has guided us in the production of medicines, unguents, elixirs. Our alchemenes are the chymists who prepare these things and who understand which medicine is suitable for which purpose. We would like to establish—”

The Hand suddenly fell silent, and stood up, looking at the door. Fogar turned in his chair. The singing still softly vibrated behind the walls.

The door opened, admitting the seneschal, who entered the room, one hand remaining on the door, turning as he did so. He dropped to one knee.

Behind him, an elderly woman came into the room. Her long, white hair fell around her shoulders; her face was well-preserved and she moved with grace, but slowly, leaning upon a cane.

The Hand swept around the desk and dropped to a knee before her, kissing the woman’s hand. The woman smiled down at the Hand, raised her up, and kissed her cheek.

“Beloved Heart,” the Hand said, and Fogar realized who the woman was.

“Beloved Hand,” the elderly woman replied. She looked at Fogar and her eyes were clear and penetrating. “And this is the Utteri?”

“Yes, Beloved Heart,” the Hand replied. “Newly arrived today.”

The Heart nodded. “Mm. Welcome, Uttarman. It has been many years since I was in Gildor City.” She smiled to herself. “Now I shall not see it again. Tell me, who is king there now?”

“I, uh,” Fogar stumbled. “We have no king, my Lady. There is a council of nobles...”

“No King? How marvelous. Yvend was king when I was there. He fell at the battle of Bordun Plain, fighting the second alliance. One of your predecessors brought me his finger bone.”

Fogar had no response to that.

The Heart turned to look at Lieutenant Tespar, who was equally speechless. “Ah, a handsome young man,” she said. “Many of we Her children are Utteri, you know. Strong blood in us.”

She turned back to Fogar. “You will not hinder our alchemenes,” she said. “Even infidels have the right not to die of the flux, or childbirth fever. If your council of nobles does not see fit to agree to our proposal, we shall murder them all, and grow Qulat in their empty skulls.”

Fogar’s mouth came open, but no words emerged to fill it.

The old woman turned to the Hand. “Oh, but we tread upon your demesne, beloved Hand,” she said. “I am so sorry. I’m sure that the good people of the New Uttar Confederacy will see fit to welcome our emissaries with gracious arms. I shall leave you to your diplomacy. Khuluub’s blessing upon you, and on you, Fogar va Uettanti, and you, handsome young man.”

She turned, and, leaning on her cane, walked out.

Fogar stared after her, even as the seneschal shut the door behind himself.

“And now you have met the Heart of Khuluub,” the Hand said, returning around the desk. “A very great honor.” She sat down, and sighed. “Which reminds me. If you need anything during the six days of the renewal ritual, send someone to me and it shall be taken care of. I know you just arrived and your larder may not be well stocked; no commerce will be happening but we’ll be happy to provide anything you might need.”

“Very gracious,” Fogar replied, staring at the closed door, barely hearing the singing outside. “I’m certain we shall take you up on that.”

“They water their plants with blood, you know,” Rhoda said.

They were sitting together on the deck of the Quinyri embassy. It overlooked several large warehouses, and beyond them, the flat brown of the Tras river. The docks were crowded with boats, tied several deep; Ghuuli from all across the Trasdemere had come for the renewal ritual. Many of them slept on their boats, but the fields around the city were also a forest of tents, and every home slept four and five to a room.

The embassies had not been asked to take any in, for which Fogar was thankful.

“Oh?” he replied, sipping at his glass of wine.

“Just ceremonially, mind you,” Rhoda went on. “Everyone pricks their hand and squeezes out a few drops. Even the children.”

“As long as they aren’t filling the irrigation canals with it, I guess,” Fogar observed.

Rhoda laughed. “Indeed. I hear the most ghoulish stories of old Kaz Ghuul, yet ever time I corner someone and ask about them, I’m assured that they are true. I honestly wonder if they’re just trying to keep the rest of the world nervous.” He swirled his glass and took a sip. “I told the Third Hand once that I had been told that the Ghuuli god of war used to bless weapons in flames from lanterns stocked with human fat.” He paused.

“And?”

“And she sent for one. One of the lamps, I mean. Damned thing was the size of a bathing tub. No fat in it, mind you. They’d dug it up in old Kaz Ghuul.”

“I suppose,” Fogar said, “if it was fate for one of those gods to return, we’re fortunate that it was this one and not another.”

“I hope so,” Rhoda said. “I hope so.”

“When we met,” Fogar said, turning to the Quinyri, “you mentioned that you had seen an actual miracle. I was wondering—”

The door to the deck opened, and a Quinyri sergeant came out. “My Lord,” he said. “It is time.”

“Ah,” Rhoda said, rising to his feet. “The sixth day. You received the missive from the Third Hand?”

“Indeed,” Fogar said, producing the folded document from inside his robe.

“Very good. You had best return to your people. I will see you again in the square.”

In the event, the ritual was not held in the square, but rather on the ziggurat.

A platform had been put together and placed on the stairs between the first and second tiers, so that it overlooked the gardens which crowned the first tier. The diplomats were all gathered towards the western end of that platform, seated on ascending rows of benches. The eastern end was given to a hundred or so important Ghuuli, all dressed in flowing red and green attire, the women in long dresses, the men in tunics and loose pants.

From where Fogar sat he could see out across the square, which was teeming with people. Not just teeming—almost a solid mass. He had thought it crowded that first night he crossed it, but now it was filled not only with the citizens of Vakhuluub but also many thousands from settlements across the Trasdemere; anyone who had received the news and was able to travel had come to the capital.

They stood in long queues, tens of thousands of them, a hundred thousands, beneath a grey and threatening sky. The fountains had been turned off; the vendors and canopies were nowhere to be seen, although green-robed priests and priestesses passed down the long aisles between the lined throngs, ladling out water and ministering to the people. The lines of people were well marked with open aisles between, and ran like a long snake from the ziggurat to either side, east then west, coiling its way back towards the park in the distance. Children occasionally ran around, spurting from one line or another, but overall no-one seemed motivated to change their place or defy the marks.

The speeches had been going on for several hours; raised pulpits had been erected upon the fountains, from which sermons in both the common tongue as well as ancient Ghuuli were recited to those around.

But now the preachers had come down and joined the queue, taking a place not at the front as Fogar would have expected, but at the rear, far back near the northern park.

He looked up at the sky. At any moment it would rain.

Just below the platform were the leadership of the church of Khuluub, the four Hands, with their attendants. Fogar had been a bit surprised to see that the Second Hand was a man; he had expected that a goddess would demand female servants alone.

They stood together on the walkway that ringed the base of the ziggurat’s second tier; to either side was a garden. The garden on the west, nearer to the diplomats, was orderly, with tall bushes and clumps of flowers set amongst neatly mown paths. It was the same garden which was the roof of the house of the Third Hand.

The garden on the east was a riot. Trees stretched skyward; vines choked them. Fat insects flitted between tubular flowers. Near the stairs there was a cleared patch, barely wide enough for two men to stand with their arms out, fingertip to fingertip.

Fogar had taken a closer look at the cleared area at the front of the garden—hours listening to sermons for a goddess you don’t worship, in a language you don’t understand, offers plenty of time to examine the most minute details of one’s environment—and had been startled to see a corpse. It was a woman, kneeling, facing the stairs, her back against a tall, oblong boulder. Her nude form was wreathed in vines, wrapped around her crotch, her torso, curled around her neck and arms; her eyes were sunken into her skull.

Fogar’s eyes flicked to the desiccated body again. Ghuuli goddess, indeed. For a moment he hoped that all of them standing on the platform were not intended as an additional blood sacrifice.

Then there was a sound: a piercing, ringing vibration.

Shirtless men with large sphere-headed mallets standing around the ziggurat’s edge were striking chimes, metal tubes as tall as a man, hung from wooden frames. They struck the chimes at precisely the same time, sending the ringing sound out across the square and across the city.

The echoes rang, and rang, and then died away.

At the base of the ziggurat, a figure emerged.

It was the Heart. She was dressed all in green, green in many different hues which glittered and shone even in the grey light.

The four Hands descended the stairs, walking in step. They approached the Heart two on either side. When they reached the ground, they knelt down around her.

Slowly, leaning upon her cane, the Heart began to ascend the stairs.

The four Hands followed, behind, and two steps below.

The Heart paused several times, catching her breath, but soon enough she had reached the landing. She turned around to face the thousands who stood silently, watching her.

She raised her arms, and the First Hand leaned forward to snatch up the falling walking stick.

“Khuluub bless you all,” she said, in a voice that was far stronger than Fogar was prepared to expect.

The vast throng murmured in unison, then stilled.

“I have loved Khuluub... since I met Her,” the Heart said. “I am her Heart... because my heart is entirely Hers.”

She waved an arm in a broad arc. “Khuluub did not create this earth. She did not paint the sky. Khuluub does not guide the sun, or know the deep places in the stone. No. These are given to others. Khuluub is set over those things which live. And die.”

“And we are things which live, and die,” she said, her voice somehow rising. “Khuluub loves us, values us, knows us, sees within us that which she treasures more than anything. Life.

“And life... turns. That is its nature. Its beauty. We live—now. We grow, we build, we mate, we create new life. And we die. And in our death, new life arises. Thus is it given to us. Thus would Khuluub have it be.

“I have served Khuluub... for many years. I have seen you come here, all of you, from the places you were before, and I have welcomed you, and have seen you come to know Khuluub. And to love Her, as I do.

“That is what she asks of us. Beyond this, I have little to teach. Love Khuluub. Value life. Hold each other. And thrive.”

She seemed to shrivel, then, to shrink from an imposing green-clad figure to a little old woman merely half the size.

“The blessings of Khuluub, be upon you all,” she said, her voice cracking.

Then she turned to the east, and shuffled towards the garden.

It began to rain.

It was a warm rain, not at all unpleasant, and no one moved as the fat droplets spattered onto their faces and began to soak their clothing, and the Hand of Khuluub walked into the garden. No one said anything, though only those on the platform and on the ziggurat’s walkway could see her as she sank down to her knees.

For a moment, all was still, the rain hissing against the stone and the spectators. The smell of petrichor was heavy in Fogar’s nostrils.

Then the boulder, the tall grey rough-surfaced thing, with the corpse kneeling in front of it, began to split. A crack appeared at the top, a black line which tore down the middle, the two halves pulling apart from one another.

Inside, it was white.

It was not a boulder.

It was a seed-pod.

It tore open down the center, revealing white, cottony interior.

A hand came out.

Fogar stared. The hand was followed by a forearm, an elbow, and then the rest of the woman, thrusting her dark hair out, prying the pod open with both hands. She stepped out, naked, glossy with pod-juice. For a moment Fogar expected to see the face of the Heart on her countenance, but it was not the Heart, not a younger version of her—it was the dead woman. The corpse.

The nude woman looked around and saw the four Hands. She walked towards them, joined them near the center of the stairs. The four of them each dropped to a knee. As she joined them, they each kissed her outstretched hands.

The First Hand rose, lifting up a green cloth which she wrapped around her, then turned towards the square.

“Sisters!” the First Hand called. “Brothers!”

“We have a new Heart!”

The cheer went up like a wave, starting close to the ziggurat and spreading outward. It went on minute after minute, shouting, crying, waving of arms. Lightning flickered in the clouds above, and the thunder was hardly louder than the cheering crowd.

The rain abated somewhat.

Then the chimes rang again, once, twice, a third time. The crowd stilled.

The ambassador from Norrengan, just in front of Fogar, gasped.

Fogar looked away from the Hands and the new Heart.

In the garden, the old woman’s body was moving.

It, too, had split apart. Fogar stared, baffled; her body had split down the middle, falling in half to either side, and within her was not bloody meat, not a skeleton, but white cottony puff, just as there had been in the seed pod from which the new Heart was born.

And now, rising up from either half, came green crawling vines.

The Ghuuli who shared the platform with the diplomats began to murmur, and fell to their knees.

The vines grew impossibly fast, moving with the speed of flowing water, curling and climbing, unfurling green leaves as large as a man’s chest. They climbed up the trees, they curled over bushes and over the pod that had only a moment ago disgorged a young woman. Within moments, they covered an area as large as the platform.

The vines’ growth was visible even from the square, and like grass bending in the wind, the Ghuuli dropped to their knees, a ripple which passed through the crowd.

Flowers began to appear, large, yellow blooms, with wide flat petals and deep wells. They rose up from the vine stem, furled, and then opened to reveal themselves. Raindrops splattered on their broad surfaces.

Slowly, the vine stopped growing. Neither the cleared patch of earth, nor the seed pod, nor even a good quarter of the garden, could be seen. Hundreds of fat yellow flowers covered the green walls of the garden.

The chimes sounded again.

The line at the base of the ziggurat began to move. Four abreast, the people ascended, slowly; one of them appeared to be lamed and was being carried by two priests. All of them ascended the stairs and were greeted at the top by the new Heart, who said nothing but touched each woman, each man, each child between the eyes.

Then they each passed by the garden and paused to smell one of the flowers. From there, they followed the path around the corner to the east, presumably to descend the stairs on that side.

Fogar looked out at the crowds in the plaza. Would the Heart touch everyone of them, in all their thousands? Would they all stop to smell the flowers?

Would the diplomats have to stay for all of that?

In the event, they did not have to.

About a half an hour later, the rain began to fall more heavily, and the Third Hand left the small group at the stairs to come and officially dismiss the diplomats. They were of course welcome to pay their respects to the first Heart if they wished to join the queue, but the second Heart would greet them formally on the fourth day of the new week.

So they all got to go back to their residences before night fell. Fogar was soaked to the skin—as were they all—but the rain was warm and the embassy had sufficient towels.

“So ends the first cycle,” Rhoda said several hours later, leaning back in the overstuffed chair and putting his feet up on the ottoman. He raised the glass of Issolian beer and took a long pull.

“What do you mean?” Fogar replied.

They were seated in the upstairs informal room of the Utteri embassy. The prior ambassador had not liked it, but Fogar had the servants pull the sheets off of the comfortable, ungainly furniture and sweep and dust the room, and now he and Rhodey were slouched across from each other, the map of the Rimbreaks which the Third Hand had presented him with spread out on the low table between them.

“Well, as I understand it from my contacts in the temple,” Rhoda said, “The Heart is the last person to be buried in that first ziggurat garden. It’s closed now. When the second Heart is renewed, or recycled, or whatever, she’ll be put into the next one, and then that one will be closed, and so on. Of course given that Khuluub grew her from seed, I daresay that will be years after you and I are pushing up flowers, yellow or otherwise.”

“Hrm,” Fogar said, drinking from his own glass with satisfaction. “So that’s, let’s see, six tiers—the top one has the temple on it—times four gardens. So twenty-four Hearts. And then what?”

Rhoda shrugged. “They start over again, or they build a new ziggurat. Or the world ends. Who knows?”

They drank in silence for a moment.

“Say,” Rhoda said. “Fogar.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been asking me about miracles. Well, you saw it. You were there. Was that a miracle? And would you call it ‘good’ or ‘bad’?”

Fogar leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling. “Well,” he mused. “I’d actually call that two miracles. And as for good and evil... I don’t feel qualified to judge.”

Rhoda raised his glass. “Here’s to not being qualified,” he said.

Fogar leaned forward and chimed the glasses together.