by Kaplan, EM
Without a doubt, the young women were already well aware of the events, chattering about it in the dormitory. One could change the behavior of the women, but not their very nature. She could treat the whole thing as if the attack were by a wandering vagrant, an anomaly. And then hope that nothing would happen in the next handful of days to prove her theory otherwise. And perhaps, hold her breath and pray.
Lady Skance did not have much on hand in the way of security. It might have seemed an obvious thing to require with such a nest full of highly valuable fledglings. Thoughts of kidnap and ransom used to cross her mind frequently when she was a younger headmistress, but time had faded those worries. She had gamekeepers and stablemen. And the young men, of course. For the first time in nearly forty years, she was uncertain and felt ill-prepared. She could artfully bully and coerce statesmen and courtesans, but she could not prepare a strategic defense. She set her back straight and continued her measured steps toward the sick room.
Chapter 5
Mel was embarrassed, an unusual predicament to find herself in, for sure. The attendants in the sick room were forcing her to stay overnight so they could observe her. They had bandaged her head up in tissue like a stuffed pastry. Lying in the sick room would have been a good opportunity for her to regulate her mind and smooth out the erratic beating of her heart, but Jack insisted on staying with her for a long time. Rav and Rally had visited, too, and now Liz was across the room shooting her apologetic glances.
Mel's further embarrassment stemmed from waking up from a dream in the sick room and calling out for her mother. The sick room attendants had tried to comfort her, murmuring that she'd be home in no time. Liz had stared across the room at her with wild eyes. When the attendants left them to rest, Liz, who seemed genuinely ill, queasy with bouts of disorientation, climbed out of her bed and crept across the room to Mel to whisper and tell her how sorry she was, how she had no idea what had come over her in the carriage before the accident.
Mel was puzzled as to why the creature had affected Liz, too. Mel was fairly certain Liz’s outburst and Mel’s muddled head were connected in some way to the attack. Maybe the traits that she'd come to think of as her people's alone were not merely theirs. The acute sensitivity and awareness. The control. Certainly, Liz’s explosive anger had been greater than Mel’s own emotional upheaval. Maybe Liz had distant connections to the Masks? Mel had heard of people leaving the settlement . . . once every century or so. Liz was from Tooran, a busy metropolis to the southeast where an outcast could certainly hide in anonymity. So perhaps there were people outside the settlement with varying degrees of the Mask skills. If so, what had the creature done to them?
Despite the bad dream, Mel had wanted her mother, but it was more on a matter of research. Her mother was a thorough scholar, and Mel brimmed with questions for her. Although she'd heard of trolls only in stories, maybe they did exist. Stranger things had proven real over time. Rumors of noisy, horseless carriages that ran on compressed vaporized agamite came from the east. The greenish stone melted under extreme temperature and, if rumor was true, produced greenish-blue clouds of steam where the carriages ran.
And truly, she needed some explanation for her own behavior, particularly her rampant lust for a complete stranger. Even sitting in her sick room cot now with the thin sheet over her knees, she flushed hot, her skin warming with slow heat from inside. If that man was a hunter, which his appearance suggested, he was most likely stalking the thing that had gotten Mel. And if that thing had a keen sense of smell, maybe the man was wearing some kind of scent camouflage. She didn’t know much about hunting, but she had heard of the use of the hunted animal’s musk to disguise oneself from detection.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again and the remembered smell of him—the addictive smell of him—filled her nose and made her heart pound. Olfactory hallucination. She heard his voice, too, the scant six or seven words he'd spoken. She felt the touch of his mouth. She replayed every tiny detail over and over in her mind and she was convinced it had something to do with that troll or whatever he was. Maybe the scent the man was wearing—the one that affected her—was for repelling the creature. She started to laugh out loud sitting in her cot and had to disguise it by clearing her throat. If she'd been overcome by some kind of trollsbane . . .
She turned over in her sickroom bed and sat up, smoothing her hair, adjusting her bed covers, having detected a new visitor. Not much later, the sound of footsteps clicked down the stone hallway. Lady Skance was coming. Mel gathered from Lady Skance’s footsteps—the pace and force with which she placed her shoes down—that she was concerned and also angry, but not at Mel or Liz. There was a small, unlikely trip in Lady Skance's tread once—the headmistress was upset. A minute later, she entered the room with small, even steps, floating effortlessly on her glossy stilted shoes. Lady Skance spoke briefly with the head physician and went to Liz's bed first. Liz was solemn and scared, which Mel could feel through the waves of nausea coming from her and the extra swallowing of her throat. It dawned on Mel that Liz was suffering as if she'd been poisoned, though Liz’s symptoms were more severe than Mel’s. Lady Skance spoke in a low, calm voice asking general question about her health. How did her head feel? Had she gotten some rest? And so on. Then she turned to Mel.
The anger that radiated from Lady Skance was unwavering and intense. Mel searched the older woman for other signs. The headmistress felt her school had been compromised. Her face had several layers of paint and powder, smoothed to look like natural skin, but she had been the head of the school for several generations. Her expressions were carefully controlled. Other than her obvious anger which anyone could see, she was very difficult to read. Startled, Mel realized that perhaps she'd had more to learn from her this season than she'd realized or taken advantage of. Lady Skance leaned toward Mel and said, "I hear, young lady, that you have been asking for your mother."
Inwardly, Mel grimaced, "Yes. I . . . had a bad dream." She searched for the skill to pull herself out of the situation. The last thing she wanted was to be under this woman's scrutiny. Especially now, so close to the end of the season. Mel's people had gotten her into the Keep without detection or notice. Just a simple manufacturing of credentials, an added recommendation from a past satisfied recipient of Mask mediation, and the right clothing had gotten Mel into the Keep. All that artifice could crumble if she made a mistake. She soothed herself, gathered her senses, and was relieved to find her body cooperating, at an almost normal level again for the first time since the carriage attack.
"Understandable, given the circumstances. Hopefully, you'll have no lasting effects," Lady Skance replied. "And your people are from where?"
"Port Navio," Mel said, naming the largest and wealthiest port city near her home. The easiest non-truth was always the one closest to the truth. None of the other women at Cillary were from there, so none could confirm or deny it. She sought through the things in her mind that she'd read about the place.
"Ah, yes. That is a very populous city. And not altogether safe for a young lady."
"It has its undesirable areas," Mel said. "My family is well-aware of certain . . . incidents there. For instance, I'm not allowed to traverse the riverwalk on my own."
Lady Skance considered this and then said abruptly with a distinct pursing of her painted lips, "In all my years as headmistress of this school, I have never experienced an affront such as this. This . . . this trespass in our pristine arena, our sanctuary. It is absolutely unheard of." She looked distracted for a minute. "You have been checked by the physicians here. And you are well?" It was less a question than a pronouncement or demand. Lady Skance would never outright ask if Mel had been injured or . . . physically compromised.
Lady Skance waited for Mel to nod. "Very good." She rose to leave and pronounced, "When you ladies are well enough, you should prepare your dresses for the end of the season festivities. We will proceed as planned. You will join us when you are fit."
Mel listened to her fa
ding footsteps, whisper-quiet, all the way down the hallway until they disappeared. She glanced over at Liz and crossed her eyes at Liz who gave a short burst of laughter. Then she slid her feet over the edge of her cot and tested how she felt standing up. She made her way over to Liz.
"Are you all right?" Mel asked her, though she knew she wasn’t.
"No, I'm not," said Liz. "I'm sick as a dog. What do you think?"
"Think it was something you ate this morning?"
Liz looked at her like she was a moron. She felt like one with the huge bandage on her head. "Yeah. Black tea and toasted bread made me crazy as a hornet? And then sick as a dog? I'm not a complete idiot."
"I don't know. Have you run out of animal comparisons?" Mel asked casually, though she found herself snappish and short-tempered, at least for her.
Liz laughed and then groaned. "I think I'm going to vomit."
"Use the pan. Not on me," said Mel, but Liz just grimaced. Probably thinking about her outburst in the carriage. Not very elegant or attractive. Various other emotions crossed Liz's face, and then it steadied in more or less simple anxiety. Mel was relieved to find Liz had dropped her concerns to more mundane problems. Though she would have liked to mull over the attack more herself, she certainly didn’t want to discuss it with Liz.
Mel read her and said, "Don't even think about it. I've got a plan."
Liz looked startled then recovered her sarcasm. "You're a very talented mentalist as well? What was I thinking just then?"
"You're worried about your costume for the dance."
Liz squinted. "OK. I was, but I changed my mind. You're not talented. I'm just very obvious in what I'm thinking. Always have been. Always will be, despite the teachings of her ladyship." Mel considered quizzing Liz about her family. Maybe she wasn't the only naturally combatant one in her family. Maybe that was a genetic gift as well. Mel glanced toward the door a couple seconds before two women entered.
Rav said, "I have brought Pei like you asked me to, Mel. She is the best seamstress among us. I am pretty sure she can make even you look beautiful, with that which is on your head." Pei, the slim golden girl, always elegant, looked them over, assessing them. Her eyes flicked toward Mel's bandaged head.
"Don't worry," Mel said. "This thing is coming off."
Pei nodded. "Good then. My headdress idea will work better. You and two other ladies will be wearing costumes modeled after the exotic fratuka birds, wildly colorful birds with impressive plumage. Each lady will choose a different color to most complement her complexion. Together, you'll be a dazzling flock."
"Thank God," Liz said, leaning back on her pillow, her black curls making a halo around her face. "I was making myself sick with worry. I just want to look decent, you know."
Mel noted with some amusement that Rav declined to be included in the flock. Mel herself was glad to be rid of the decision. She didn't mind participating. But in truth, she would have preferred being alone elsewhere, thinking about a certain encounter with a certain huntsman, and why it had been completely out of her control. Completely out of control. Like the man was magnetic. She gave a little shiver as her senses were flooded again by the memory.
"Are you all right, Mel?" Rav placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm fine," she said gesturing to her head bandage. "Just being an idiot."
Chapter 6
Mattieus Ottick, sometimes known as "the Ott" but more often called just Ott, sat across the fire from the hulking form of his good friend Rob in their makeshift camp. He'd finally gotten up the nerve to ask Rob to change their plans to chase this thing, this idea hovering over him that had been torturing him the last couple of days. An obsession with a strangle-hold on him, actually. The roasted bone that Rob had been gnawing on clanked down into his metal plate. The big man stared at him.
"So let me get this straight, Ott, because only you could find a girl deep in the forest. We went into the woods chasing a beast and you found a girl. A girl. Who kissed you. I can't quite get this into my head. Let me . . . let me just sort it all out again, if you don't mind. You're saying you locked your lips with those of some girl out in the woods and that is why we gave up the hunt and strayed two days off course out of our way so that we could get into costume and be dressed like fools? For a dance?"
Ott didn't know how to explain it. How she wasn't just a girl. How she might have been some kind of witch or fairy, elf or enchantress, if those things existed. How she'd kissed him. How he was sure it hadn't been a dream or some kind of beast-induced hallucination because something as coarse as the beast they were chasing could never conjure up something like her. How he'd been thinking about the whole thing endlessly. And yet . . . he was confused and ashamed to admit to himself he couldn't remember what she looked like. He was a hunter and tracker, but yet he couldn't exactly remember if her hair was brown or fair. Was her skin fair or golden? Were her eyes brown or green? All these details were completely hazy in his mind. He did, however, remember her words, that she was “a Cillary girl.” But even if they found her at the Keep, how would he recognize her? That damn beast they'd been chasing must have muddled him. That, and six weeks of tracking with only trail food to eat and hard ground to sleep on.
Rob chewed thoughtfully. He shrugged. "Well, I've been an idiot for far less."
Ott slumped with relief. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. A lot rode on the opinion of his friend. It had always been like that, the whole two dozen years of his life. Rob had been there from the beginning. Ott would be the first to admit that his friend was cut from nobler cloth than he was. One day, Rob would be lord of the northern region, and Ott . . . well, he’d just keep relying on his luck and good looks as he always did. They had never failed him in the past.
"Thanks," he said. Rob was a true friend. Not just friend, he realized with a little chagrin, but his employer also. Well, indirectly. Rob's powerful father had hired him to track this thing that was running through the hills on his land and messing with his mining endeavors. They'd chased it for days this far south. So far, only to lose it after it had attacked the girl and her friends in their carriage. Disappointing for sure, but Ott was so befuddled by the girl and the kiss that he'd lost the momentum of the chase. Or transferred momentum to her, he realized sheepishly. He was like a dog thrown off the scent.
But still, he owed a lot to Rob. While they were down here fooling around in these temperate Cillary forests, Rob’s entire future was on hold. He should have been at home in his father’s palatial manor learning stratagem and how to order people about or whatnot. Though, to Ott, traipsing around in the forest was a thousand times better; he’d rather be strung up feet first than have to deal with those self-important windbags who called themselves advisors and dignitaries. Dignity? What kind of dignity was there in wandering the halls of that frozen place in a dress and slippers like an old biddy?
Across the flickering campfire, Rob mused, "So, what costumes should we use? What do you see yourself as? A prince, bandit, or perhaps a ghostly Mask?"
Ott looked down at himself. "We'll go as hunters, I guess. Easy enough, right?"
"Well, at least you could bathe if we're going to be rubbing elbows with the ladies. You're a bit gamey, as they say. Plus, what's that additional delightful new perfume you have on?" He took an exaggerated sniff and wrinkled his nose.
"Don't you like it? It keeps off the bugs," Ott said. "I made it myself from some of that citronus plant. Seemed to work this time, too."
"Stinks," Rob said bluntly. "And while you're bathing, give yourself a shave."
Ott scratched his bristly chin. "If I'm all cleaned up, I won't look very authentic. Not a true man of the outdoors." He postured with exaggerated bravado, though he was filled with misgivings about the whole excursion. He was being an idiot. Following his urges instead of his head. It wasn't the first time he'd been distracted by a pretty face chasing after a kiss. A stolen kiss here or there, but Lord alive what a kiss this one had been, he thought, pu
lse speeding. He rubbed a hand over his face. He was a complete idiot. She was probably just a regular girl. And he'd realize that for sure as soon as they found her. But now he had to go through with it; he had asked Rob to give up the hunt and wait it out while he chased after . . . what? He wasn't sure what they were going to tell Rob's father. The old man was as hard as the stone he mined and equally tough on Rob.
"Don't look so grumpy," said Rob. "You don't want to be outshined by me, do you? In all of my masculine glory." He mocked Ott and batted his eyelashes, foppish gesture in ridiculous contrast with his dark features. "Not sure what she'd see in a runt like you anyway."
Ott pitched an empty tin cup at him over the fire, which Rob batted away with the back of his hand, giving Ott an amused grin. Ott stalked off to the river frowning. Well, he guessed he deserved it. He owed Rob a lot for this possibly pointless chase. Scratch that, he owed Rob for his income, his way of life, and most of his training and experience, too. Ott’s own family had crumbled apart. Mother dead, sadly. Father dead, thank heavens. Family home in ruins. He sighed again as he stripped off his clothes and waded out into the river. Sand gave way to river rock. He was forever in debt to his friend, but there were far worse people to be beholden to. Ott’s own father had been one of them. Ott pressed that thought to the back of his mind as he pushed off the slippery rocks and treaded out to the center of the water.
The water was very warm. Not far upstream were hot springs they had found a day earlier. Almost too hot for a bath up there. Even this far downstream, the rocks were colored blue-yellow from some of the mineral deposits, and the plants along the banks were warmer weather plants than the surrounding areas. Whatever it was, it made for good bathing. Ott unwrapped a chunk of milk soap and a small, soft bristled brush for scrubbing, for which he had bartered a pheasant in the last town. He sniffed the soap suspiciously. Some kind of herb mixture. Mint, for sure, plus something else he was unfamiliar with. That was both the benefit and shortcoming of moving around to new places. There was always something to experience that was novel, strange, or both. The soap was not bad. At least it wasn't flowery, not that he minded the smell of roses by themselves.
