by E M Kaplan
“They’re bad, aren’t they?” Harro said with a calmness that belied his tension. Mel could see the strain even in the muscles of his throat and the tightness around his mouth. The woman, Treyna, hovered nearby, her hands gripped together. Mel had sensed some hostility from the woman—she’d seen it in the tightening of the skin around her mouth, the narrowing of her cat-like eyes, and the increase of the pulse that flickered at the base of her neck. Yet now, Mel could detect nothing but genuine concern and anxiety flowing from her. Treyna was without a doubt, attached to Harro. A relationship which Mel found made her feel…relieved. She’d seen the looks the woman had once given Ott. But who was Mel kidding…nearly every woman—and many men, in fact—looked at her mate with those same covetous glances.
Speaking of whom…Ott had skulked off to the other side of their campsite, muttering something about finding food soon. Thinly disguised pouting, she saw, though she wasn’t sure of the cause. She often missed his cues though, but she looked forward to figuring out the cause of his pique.
“Your legs are very bad indeed,” Mel said and then cringed at her own bluntness. However, neither Harro nor Treyna reacted to the harshness of her pronouncement. “I can soothe the pain somewhat,” she continued, searching through his legs as she spoke and alleviating some of the throbbing threads of agony within him. As she did so, the tension in the lines of Harro’s face eased, and he sighed.
“Oh, thank you,” Treyna said, the fear leeching out of her foxlike face as she reached for Mel’s hand. Yet, she stopped before she made contact and retracted her own reach as if she were a root curling into itself. Mel knew a few details about Treyna’s past. The girl was not used to casual touch. But Mel took the gesture for what it was.
“I haven’t done much. Nor will the soothing effect remain for long,” Mel said with apology in her downturned face. Though such expressions did not come naturally to her, she’d worked hard to incorporate them in her interactions with others. It almost felt normal to her. Yet, not quite.
“Will I lose the use of my legs?” Harro asked. The slight slope of his brow, the heaviness of his lids suggested resignation to her. She sensed an irregularity in the beat of his heart caused by no bodily condition but by the state of his mind. And she knew that if she made such a judgment now, he might very well end his own future before the rise of the next sun—if he had the means to do so within his reach. From what she had read of such mental maladies, those bent on taking their own lives could be quite resourceful after they had made their minds up.
Against everything she’d been taught, Mel lied. “I don’t believe so. I think they will heal to the fullest extent. We simply need a healer more skilled than I.”
Across the prone figure of the injured man, she exchanged glances with Ott. From his expression, thoughtful and apprehensive, he had understood the line of her reasoning. He tipped his head to the side, indicating that she should step away from the others so he could speak with her without being overheard. Though she had yet to speak with Rav and reassure herself that the others were all right, they walked a dozen paces from the campsite where he spoke.
Away from the crackle of the fire and the proximity of their companions, Mel could hear the distant booms and the accompanying subterranean tremors that still came with regularity from the direction of Navio. The city was still under siege, and people were still dying as she spoke with Ott. The acrid smell of smoke, mixed with the sulfurous stench of trogs, lingered in her nose. The forest itself was silent. No animals remained—they had fled. With a certain helplessness, she realized this battle was a far bigger problem than either she or Ott could combat.
“You plan to go to the Mask settlement and see if they can help, don’t you?” Ott asked her. They stood close, their faces close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke. He had leaned toward her and now stooped to tangle his larger finger with hers. She hadn’t realized she’d been craving the skin-to-skin contact until he’d touched her. Now she sighed, taking her first true breath since they’d parted on the doomed boat. She wanted to put her mouth against his, but he’d asked her an important question that she needed to address.
“Yes. The settlement is not too far from here. They should know about the imminent threat to their homes if nothing else. Even if they can’t help Harro.”
The location of the settlement was not known to outsiders. Merely disclosing the fact that it was not too far was a serious breach of Mask law, Mel knew. But in the first place, she was no longer a Mask, though she still felt bound by some of the unspoken promises of their beliefs, especially the one in which she needed to protect the Mask way of life by keeping it secure and protected from outsiders. Yet, this was Ott, her mate. Masks didn’t take partners from the outside world. If they did, they never returned to the settlement.
And again, what would happen if the Masks were attacked by trogs right in the settlement? She owed it to them to warn them of the potential danger.
Further, she could not abandon Harro—this man who had survived more than a year underground by some unknown means. Mel believed with confidence that his presence now had some meaning, some deeper significance than she was fit to judge.
“He can’t walk,” Ott said, narrowing his eyes.
That was true, Mel knew. Her healing had not helped Harro much other than to give him temporary relief from his pain. But they couldn’t leave him alone, defenseless, this close to the besieged city. Even a bear wandering through the area could take advantage of him, despite the fire. And Treyna—Mel looked at the girl now, taking in the exhaustion lining her face and darkening the hollows under her eyes—though toughened by experience and unfortunate circumstances, was no match for a bear.
“If we build a litter, we’ll make tracks,” Mel said, not having found a viable solution for transporting the man. She thought out loud more. “What if we try to find a horse in Navio?”
Ott shook his head. “Any horse left alive there has been pounced on and whipped to full gallop to flee the place. Or dragged away as trog food,” he added.
“I guess that leaves only one option then,” she said. Not in a million years had she thought she would end up suggesting that they separate again, but it was clear doing so was their only viable way to get the man help. She would go to the settlement to get help. Ott would stay and protect the group.
He rolled his shoulders as if bracing himself for her words. She was glad to note that while he looked displeased, the set of his jaw suggested that he was resolute, that he would agree to her proposal without a significant argument.
Taking a breath, he said, “You’re right. I agree.” She waited for him to continue. To pout. To fuss. Dropping his hold on her fingers, he folded his hands together and cracked his knuckles. He said, “I’ll carry him.”
Chapter 39
Marget eyed the new girl, Jaine, across the fire for a good hour before getting up, brushing off her skirts, and going around the fire to sit near her. Curled on his side with his back to the warmth, Charl slept on a blanket. After all he’d been through, he was exhausted, the poor man. She was glad to see him again. She’d been worried sick about him despite her small lapse of judgement at the inn in Navio when she’d indulged a little too much in some honey mead down in the common room. She shuddered. Not a night she wanted to remember, though it would haunt her dreams for years. The screaming, the smoke, the man who had been squashed underneath the pillar.
Jaine dug through the pouch that was strapped across her shoulder. Brash-talking and bold with her eyes, the girl had an unusual notion of fashion, Marget would give her that much. The big boots with buckles all over them. What did a girl need with all those buckles? Marget looked at them with skepticism. On second thought, they made Jaine look tougher, like no one should mess around with her. Maybe that was the point. But not too hard. The fine-worked metal jewelry that rounded the edge of Jaine’s ear was a nice touch. How did that clump of shiny circles and starbursts stay on her skin? Was it
by pinch or did it actually pierce through the skin? She couldn’t tell, but she could see herself wearing one of those. Maybe. But not the rest. However, the breeches did look lightweight and comfortable, easier to travel in through the forest underbrush than skirts…
“You’re from Tooran?” she asked Jaine at last.
“And you’re from Navio?” Jaine returned, still digging in her bag. What did she have in there anyway? The bag rattled like Nan’s sewing kit. Metal scissors and the like.
“No, from the north.” A natural mistake, Marget conceded, since they were so close to that city. Other than her noticeable northern accent. Maybe it wasn’t as thick as she thought. Then she rolled her eyes at herself. Of course it was as thick as she thought. After all, she’d seen the way the girls at the Navio inn had squinted at her when she’d asked for some honey mead. Like she was speaking another language and not the same exact tongue they were.
“Ah, so you were on the boat then. Bet that was great fun.”
Marget frowned. Was Jaine being sarcastic? It was hard to tell from her tone of voice, those flat, sideways sounds that seemed to come out of her nose more than her throat. She decided to go with sarcasm. “Yes, so much enjoyment. I nearly died.” She cringed. That was less sarcastic and more chiding than she’d meant to. Now she sounded like a country simpleton who’d missed the entire point of the conversation.
She cleared her throat and attempted to start again. “I like your bag. It has a lot of…buckles on it.”
At that Jaine laughed. “It cost me thirty shells at the leather smith. Complete robbery if you ask me, but I’d been staring at it in the window for weeks saving up. Anyone could see it was a notch above all the others. Made by a master leatherworker from the finest cut. And the place where I got it doesn’t haggle.”
Marget’s eyes widened at that. At home, if she wanted something worked in leather, she had to ask Nan to get a piece for her from the traders. Then she had to work it herself or ask someone to help her. Usually the latter because her leather skills were lacking, to say the least—she was much better in the kitchen and stoking the hearths. But it sounded like Jaine had a market place where she could view and pick over wares. Almost unimaginable to Marget, never mind the fact that she had no idea how much value thirty shells meant. What was a shell anyway?
“It holds a lot, too,” Jaine was saying. Having given up locating whatever she was looking for inside of it, she began laying out the contents of her bag on the ground between them, muttering to herself over the muddy state of the contents. Rings, trinkets, and a tin of salve came out first. A few metal objects Marget didn’t know the purpose of, but assumed they were tools. Some rolled strips of cloth might have been bandages, but now were stained by dried flecks of dirt. A couple more small tins rattled around, and there was a chain of some sort.
“What’s this?” Marget said, pushing aside a pile of the tools with a single, cautious finger. She’d found something like looked like a darning bodkin, like something for sewing. Almost like tongs with a bent metal circle between them. Yet, she knew right away it wasn’t for any thread work.
“Never seen one of these?” Jaine said, picking it up and making sure it was clean. “Watch this.” She squeezed the sides of the bodkin together. The part at the end flicked with a rasp like the sound of a fork scraping across a tin plate, and there was a little spark. It burned out almost as soon as it appeared.
Marget gave a sharp intake of breath. “Is that—?”
“Sure is. It’s a fire starter. Made of metal. Never gets wet like a flint stone could. Always handy to have one on you. Never know when the agamite is going to shut off and you’re left in the dark.” Marget didn’t understand half the things the girl was saying, but she didn’t care. She stared at the starter, her hand itching to try it, but she didn’t want to ask. Her reputation as a bumpkin would be solidified at that, she was sure.
But Jaine noticed her curiosity. She sparked the fire bodkin again, once, twice, and then held it out. “Go ahead. You try.”
Marget forced herself not to snatch up the lighter. She wanted—almost lusted—for it in a way that she could barely contain. She flicked it and reveled in the momentary spark, feeling its power, its potential. She imagined what it would be like if she’d had one of these in her pockets at home. She flicked it again. No more breaking the tinder sticks over and over and getting splinters in her palms. Her load would be lightened beyond measure. She wouldn’t even have to… Halting in mid-thought, she realized her days of tending the fires at the big house were finished—she was never going back. Lost in thought, she put the lighter down, back on the ground next to Jaine’s other mud-spattered possessions. Marget forced her fingers to let go of it, though they tingled to keep it in her grasp.
As she drew back her covetous hand, she brushed the chain, which she realized was attached to a circular object, also dirty. The side of her hand stroked across the circle, and a bolt of heat ran up her arm, around the back of her shoulder, and up into her skull. She gasped as the heat coursed back down her spine through her arms and legs, even into her fingers and toes. Heart pounding, she blinked, the dim forest flashing bright white, then fading darker until it returned to the way it was.
“What’s that?” she asked, not daring to touch it again. Her voice sounded strange, separate from herself. Distant. Breathy. She blinked again and tried to recover herself. Without a doubt, she was overtired and was having some kind of fit. First the boat, then the inn and the trogs…then sleeping on the hard ground of the forest. Though she had to admit lying under the leafy trees was somewhat pleasant…it would have been more enjoyable had they been a bit drier. In the autumn, perhaps, when the leaves were dry and crackly and so easy to burn. To catch fire and ignite. The thought made her stomach feel hollow and hungry. She smiled.
She missed the fires at home, but there was so much here to explore. So much to burn.
Jaine cast her an odd look. “That’s Mel’s,” she said after a measured pause. The girl inched the medallion out of Marget’s grasp and slipped it back into her bag. She stood up, leaving the rest of her belongings scattered on the ground, which Marget found very strange indeed. Because there was the starter she coveted so badly—her lust for it had to be obvious to Jaine.
“I’ll be right back,” Jaine said. “Don’t leave. I’m coming right back here. In just a minute.”
Very strange behavior, Marget thought. But then, Jaine was sort of a strange girl.
Chapter 40
Jaine pushed through the brush in the direction in which Mel and Ott had walked. Though the forest was dense, they were easy to follow, even for a city girl like Jaine. Mel was a good head taller than Jaine, made her feel like a runt, to tell the truth. That Ott fellow was another beyond that. In fact, he was one of the tallest, broadest men she’d ever laid eyes on—and not in a good way. Something about him made her want to give a wide berth around him, as if maybe he had more to him than just his easy smile and tired eyes.
She approached without making a sound. Even though she was more used to keeping quiet in the streets of Tooran, she’d gotten the hang of placing her feet on the wetter leaves and avoiding the hidden twigs that could snap underfoot. She could grow to like the outdoors, she thought. And when she came upon them, she listened for a time.
“Tell me about Charl,” Mel said.
Ott was silent for a moment. Then, after a large intake of breath, he said, “I can’t be near the boy. After what I did to his father.”
“You don’t know that you killed Haught in the mines that day.”
“Lutra on a spit, I was the only one bloody well there.” Then Ott embraced her. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to yell at you. I’m so mad at myself, I don’t know what to do.”
Very interesting, Jaine thought. And filed the information away for future use.
Bursting through the thick underbrush, she found them, lips together and arms around each other, locked in a tight embrace. Very passionate.
Very private. Matched up like a perfect set, they were.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said, turning to the side and looking away until she was sure they had a chance to compose themselves. She might have known better than to interrupt a newly reunited couple. Though she’d always been a bit of a loner, never part of a couple herself despite being almost twenty. Maybe it had to do with being abandoned at birth on the doorstep of the Academie library. Growing up surrounded by members of the Academie could do that to a person. Or maybe she’d just never been interested. Kind of the same way she’d never been interested in books despite spending her childhood around them. It was just something for other people.
No. What mattered in life was things. Getting as much good stuff in life and doing as little work as possible to get it. That’s why she’d always had a weakness for shiny buckles and new clothes. Speaking of which, her britches were muddy. They needed a good scrubbing, but she hadn’t had time to take them off and let them dry all the way through. With any luck, this irritating foray into the wild would be over soon and she could get back to Tooran where exciting things were happening. Without her.
“What is it?” Mel said, her face the picture of concern, the passionate clinch with that fellow of hers a thing of the past. In this light, the woman’s hair looked dark and almost curly, a distinct change from the first time Jaine had met her. But also, a strange golden glow seemed to be emanating from Mel’s skin. Something that would have fascinated Vern or Morla but more or less paled in comparison with seeing a bloody river reverse its course. Jaine had seen a few things as of late that had turned her whole idea of the world on its ear, that’s for sure.
