by Kaplan, EM
He froze mid-scrub. The smell of roses came back to him for a second as he remembered lying on his back in the grips of that girl, her hair brushing his face, her mouth bruising his, her small hands in his hair. He hadn't remembered the rose smell before now. Fresh, not cloying. More like it had blown in and cleared away the stink from that beast they hunted. Before that, it had been hard to notice anything but the taint in the air. They had probably rolled through some flowers going down that hill together.
As pleasant a memory as it was, remembering the location where he met her didn't help him remember anything about her other than the way her mouth felt on his, how her waist felt under his hands. He couldn't very well ask for a kiss and a squeeze from every girl he met from now on. It was maddening, the lack of details. What else? He lathered up his hair and rubbed his scalp. Think. Think. Think. Brown hair or fair? The memory just slipped away from him, kind of like the way she had just run off. Barefoot, he suddenly thought.
She'd been barefoot. That compounded his image of her as a fairy, Lady Lutra’s handmaiden, or some kind of woodland sprite running around the woods without any shoes. No shoes, that was odd. But she said she was from Cillary, which was some distance away, which meant carriage or horse. Maybe they didn't require shoes at Cillary. All right, that was plain idiotic. Most likely, she'd lost her shoes being dragged around by the beast. Ott grimaced, his chest tightening with worry. How had she gotten back to Cillary without any shoes?
He attacked his nails with the brush. It had been a while since he'd cleaned up. He and Rob had followed the beast for days. They tracked its erratic path south from Rob's father's land, sometimes losing the trail entirely, though Ott still was not sure how that was possible. Outwardly, the beast had little cunning and no subtlety, crashing through the underbrush, bellowing at them in rage. And then, for a half day or so, it was completely gone, only to reappear somewhere else entirely. More than once, finding the new trail had come down to nothing but absolute luck on their part. He didn't want to admit it, but he suspected there could be something magical going on here. Some kind of disappearing and reappearing of the sort in children's tales. He and Rob were skilled trackers, and it irked him to have lost the beast so many times. It irked him further that he was grasping at ridiculous excuses for having lost his trail.
Really, Ott, magical beasties?
They had had two previous confrontations with the beast, not including the time Rob had dropped that enormous stone on its head from above and caused it to let go of her. His her, Ott thought—he wished he had a name for her. Another lucky instance with that stone. Good timing all around. Lady Lutra had kissed him with her usual benevolence again, it seemed. Ott had been attempting to chase the beast under the spot where Rob was hiding in the tree above, but it wouldn't be herded the first time through and they missed completely. The second time with the girl tucked under its arm, it ran right under Rob, who was usually a good shot, and wham, he got him directly on the head. Lucky again that he hadn't managed to hit the girl though her head had some blood on it from something.
There, he'd remembered another detail. She had a wound on her temple. Why hadn't he offered to clean it up for her? She’d been hurt, and he'd been too much of a dunce to offer assistance. Then, at least he would have prolonged the conversation; he would have had the wherewithal to ask for her name. He groaned in remembrance at his brusque words to her. What kind of creature was she? Accusing her of being some kind of fairy when it was his own body he hadn't been able to control. No wonder she had run away from him. He stank and he had no manners. The only thing he was good for was torturing himself with regret.
"If you're quite done moaning out there, I'd like a chance at a bath," Rob said appearing from behind the trees. He had a shaving blade and a leather strop over his arm. He tossed Ott a coarse towel. "At least I can't accuse you of letting the water run cold."
"All right. All right," Ott protested. "I'm getting out."
"Right. And don't worry yourself. No amount of scrubbing and scraping will make you as pretty as me." Ott took the proffered shaving tools and made his way back to the camp. He intended to shave, and then go back for their clothes to wash them. Thanks to Ott's bartering skills, they each had one change of clothes for emergencies like tangling with the sharp end of the beast's axe, washing . . . or masquerade balls.
Ott propped up a little piece of reflective glass and set to work on his face before his skin cooled off from bathing. Rob was a decent guy, although a bit prickly right now. Ott always thought of himself as a lucky, right time right place kind of guy, while his friend had had a rougher course to go. Rob’s father, Col Rob, made life tough for him. Rob was his father’s only child, and he was expected to be his father's physical self now that the man was older, not in the best of health, and not able to go beyond his own property. Even his entourage, the cadre of aged bowers and scrapers who surrounded him, was getting old and crumbly, a bunch of crusty old men, the lot of them. It made Ott cringe. Although Col Rob was stooped by the years and much shorter than Rob, he was still able to snap Rob to his command by a mere look. It was a crying shame to see his friend bow to anyone, let alone a man of questionable ethics and character. Ott wasn't positive if his friend had endured physical discipline at the hand of his father, but he suspected it was so. And now this.
Ott nicked his chin with the blade in exactly the place he already had a scar. He cursed under his breath and looked for something to press on the bloody cut. He took the collar of his dirty shirt and held it to his face.
Rob's lord father expected them to come back bearing the head of the beast that had been systematically sabotaging their mines and terrifying the workers. At first, the miners had not reported anything. Long hours and grueling work made them jumpy and apt to doubt what they saw. Equipment went missing. Trolleys were broken. Superstitious, the old man called them. He treated them like unruly children. Then they came to him as a group at the end of a shift one day to report that they had all seen the creature. A troll, they called him. Taller than any of them, including the tallest of them. Broad as an ox. Skin dirty, gray, and thick as hide. Reeking like the worst decayed refuse they'd ever smelled. Three-week old chum out in the sun, a rotten beezil carcass—this was much worse than any of that. They were terrified that the beast would destroy the mine entrance and trap them, condemning them to a miner's perpetual fear: to be buried alive.
The old man, ensconced in his pomp and finery like a feudal lord, set Rob and Ott on its trail, imparting the message that they had better not return until they brought back irrefutable proof that the thing was dead. He wanted the head in order to display it to his miners so that they would return to work and continue mining the agamite obediently. Displaying the head was rather gruesome. Definitely not the route Ott would have taken on that one. He was not sure how much loyalty it would inspire. More likely, fear and disgust. But that was Rob's old man through and through.
Ott finished up his face and dressed himself. He tossed the looking glass to Rob, who was coming back from the river. "Your turn, beautiful."
Chapter 7
On her last night at the Keep, Mel lingered in the steam-warmed dormitory. Despite the rich furnishings—the heavy carved beds and fine, embroidered linens for which the local townspeople were famous—she had not grown fond of the place over the summer. The dorm was cavernous and overcrowded with young women. She had, however, developed a strong attachment to some of the girls, and she also regretted that she had not figured out until her final meeting with Lady Skance exactly how much she could have learned at the Keep. The headmistress had shielded entire layers of behavior and intent from Mel, who had no idea how to deconstruct or even interpret the defenses. She was probably alone among all of the girls in her sentiments, but she wished she had had more time alone to talk with Lady Skance.
There was going to be some kind of final benediction the next morning, but Mel would not be staying for it. Instead, she would take a covert route home. She
intended to take a carriage all the way south, several hours to Port Navio and then backtrack and travel north to the Mask settlement on foot—wearing the shoes in which she'd arrived at the Keep. She had already finished packing her trunk. It was just a ruse, really. The trunk contained all her dresses and mementos that she'd collected during the season, but she was going to abandon it on the dock when she reached Port Navio, where it most likely would be quickly broken down and dispersed by the thieves and pickpockets there. Her real belongings, the leaf specimens and written notes of her observations of the blue-leaved trees, were in a bag that she would wear across her shoulders. Not that she had stumbled across any startling conclusions in that respect—but that wasn’t her responsibility. She would leave the theorizing and postulating to the elders in her settlement.
For that reason, she packed her trunk of clothes carefully, removing her name or anything that would identify her, fingering each item in it for the last time. She had to confess that more than once she'd had the fleeting thought of how simple it might be to descend the stairs into the ballroom and be given the firm hand of a young man with agamite-colored eyes, to be courted, and to accept the attentions. To return them without hesitation, fully. But perhaps it was better not to begin an attachment that could not be wholly fulfilled. She was to have no love for a specific person, only people as a whole. No marriage. No home outside the settlement. No role in refined society. No costume other than her Mask. Clearly, her time among the young women was making her even more sentimental than she normally was. She would have to depart them to shed their influence if she were ever going to be a true Mask.
When dusk fell, Mel and the others adorned themselves for the evening. In just a few days, Pei's talent with needle and thread had produced five lavish outfits that were beaded, feathered, and that fit each girl. She assigned them each bits to sew and embellish, but she did all the planning, coordination, and final fitting, all with a cool, orderly detachment that Mel found fascinating. Clearly, she was an artist. She made each modification without effort, her nimble fingers flying over silk and fine netting without so much as a ripple in either fabric or her countenance. Each girl wore a silky, thin shift of a slightly different color that best suited each of them, slit to the thigh on either side so they could walk without impediment . . . as well as for display. Over the shoulders, an elaborate, ornate drape beaded with light metallics that would shimmer and flow under candlelight. On each head, an equally elaborate headdress with beaded mask over the eyes.
As was required, each girl applied traditional, ceremonial face paint, the dark dye around the eyes, the rouged mouth, although each was given rein to modify the colors and designs as they desired; Mel had self-mockingly painted an ornate gold mask under her beaded one. And of course, though it chafed Mel, they were all required to wear the formal shoes, the high lacquered platforms with thin ribbon straps that made every movement, by necessity, deliberate unless she wanted to lose her balance and fall on her head. She would not regret leaving the shoes tomorrow in her trunk at Port Navio.
That night, together, the girls were a bright flock, and Pei smiled at the collective gasp in the ballroom when eyes turned to look at them as they entered. Slowly, they paused as planned in the entryway, then slowly fanned out and joined the other masked revelers. Several young men had dressed as hunters, and it made Mel's heart speed in her chest each time she spied one . . . until she had identified each as just another of the Keep’s young men. The hunter in the green was Jonat, who always held his arms slightly bent at his sides; his posture was an easy marker. A hunter in brown was obviously Mackwan, who could not ever remove his signet ring from a swollen, previously broken knuckle.
Mel quickly located Rav and Rally and picked her way across the floor to them. Rav was easy enough to identify. She had adopted the farharini dancer suggestion after all. Although not transparent as was traditional, her costume was two artfully tied scarves—and that was it. Her dark brown skin had been dusted with cosmetics to a glossy sheen, and she balanced naturally and easily in her formal shoes. Despite the perfumed bodies and aroma of a banquet in the next hall over, Mel could still catch the smell of the desert that was distinctly her friend's as she stood next to her. Rally, nearby, had dressed as a soldier, trying not to be overly proud of his companion. Mel observed a sweet contentment between them.
"Gorgeous, Rav," Mel couldn't help saying, in pronouncement of the obvious.
"Of course I am," said her friend smiling broadly, her white teeth flashing. Rav touched the edge of one of her scarves. "At home, this would be a winter outfit, I think."
Mel laughed. "I'll be sure to visit you in the winter then, when it's snowing at my home."
"Do," said Rav seriously. Mel nodded, not promising anything, and her friend accepted her silence. Most likely, they would never meet again. Rav glanced up and gestured. "Your flock is waiting for you. By the mother hen."
Mel saw Lady Skance perched stiffly on an elevated chair at the head of the ballroom. The headmistress was wearing complete formal attire with her face painted stark white, usually reserved for royalty. Mel wondered suddenly if Lady Skance was a distant member of the royal family. Another question to research. Lady Skance sat with her knees and feet together, in proper posture, as each girl presented herself for inspection. The other four members of Mel's costumed flock were beckoning her to join them for their presentation. Mel excused herself to her friends and made her way carefully, attempting to glide across to Lady Skance now that all eyes were on her as the others waited.
Just as she reached Liz and Pei, she caught a faint strand of a familiar savory scent. Startled, she hesitated, wondering if she had imagined it. Maybe it was her overactive desire to see him again manifesting itself. Another olfactory hallucination. She wished—with a kind of unwilling desperation—that the man from the woods were here, that he could see her in her last evening at the Keep in finery instead of muddied and barefoot. Liz caught her by the elbow and gave her a little pinch. Mel blinked, and Liz smiled pointedly at Lady Skance. Right. There was a task at hand. The five young women arranged themselves in a group, a semi-circle in front of the headmistress, Liz and the other shorter girl forward, Mel and the taller girls at the curve. They perform a synchronized low curtsy that they had practiced, and rose to face Lady Skance's scrutiny, their final evaluation of the season.
The headmistress examined them as a group, and then asked each one to approach individually wherein she critiqued their bearing, artistry in face paint, and costume workmanship. Then she had them reassemble as a group. She gave them a final nod. "Very fine indeed," she said, and with a rare smile, she dismissed them. Officially, their time at the Keep was over and they were free to do as they pleased. As they walked away from the headmistress, chatty Liz offered her hand to Mel.
"I'm sorry again about those things I said that day in the carriage."
"Consider it forgotten. It's long over," said Mel. They clasped hands formally, Liz’s small, fine hand squeezing hers for a second or two. Then Mel watched her move away, sliding away in her plumage and high shoes. Jack intercepted Liz before she made it across the room. He spoke to her very quietly, and Mel saw Liz's face go pink with pleasure. Perhaps they would start something long-lasting after all.
Behind her beaded mask, her gaze drifted, drawn to yet more young men dressed as hunters. Two of them stood together, one very tall with dark hair that she didn't recognize. The other behind him made Mel's heart pound and her mouth suddenly go dry. She froze in her precariously tall shoes, not sure if he was the one she was looking for, but unwilling to decide that he wasn't. She detected no intoxicating aroma, but the room was already filled with perfume, taper smoke, and food. She had to get closer, realizing belatedly it was hard to be subtle when dressed as an exotically plumed bird. She edged around the room, her attention fixed on him. Dozens of masked faces blocked the pathway between them.
She circled the gallery, moving nearer and nearer, closing in. Just as she had
maneuvered around the room to stand behind him, he abruptly turned and walked toward an open door where a breeze from the garden blew in. She nearly growled in frustration. She followed him with small steps, balancing gingerly, unable to hurry, unable to run, to sprint, and to capture. The smell of him suddenly wafted toward her, riding on a cool burst of air from the garden, filling her nose, instantly dizzying her. The same savory smell—although much fainter than before—mixed with something else like mint and herbs, a clean smell. He was standing in the doorway, staring out the door indecisively, balanced on the balls of his feet as if he were going to take flight and escape her forever.
When she drew close enough, she suddenly wasn't sure what to do. If she had been in her sturdy leather boots from home, she may have lunged at him again. Her tall lacquered shoes forced her into self-restraint for which she was somewhat grateful. After another hesitation, she put her hand on his sleeve and said, "Hello."
He turned, startled, and stared at her without recognition. They were standing very close and were nearly eye to eye because of her tall shoes. For one horrible instant, she thought she imagined the whole thing, all the way from the color of his eyes, green marbled with brown and gold to the warm smell of him coming up from the collar of his shirt. Then he tipped his chin up, looking at her headdress and she saw the scar on the underside of his chin, and realized that he didn't recognize her because of her costume. She felt like she had no choice, so she balanced higher on her shoes, leaned in and, gently this time, put her lips on his and kissed him, her mask brushing his close-cropped hair. Some pressure, painted skin on skin painted by the sun, breath inhaled. When she pulled away some seconds later, her head was swimming, and his mouth was reddened by the paint from her lips.
