by EM Kaplan
“We have been following the star paths,” Deni reassured her, serious when he might as well have been joking. His words reached her ears, but their intent fell short. “We are headed the right direction to meet the river. Don’t give up hope.” She didn’t know how he could be confident when they were one dust devil away from being entombed in the mother desert. Perhaps his assuredness was a cloak he donned just for her sake. To keep her hopes up when all the others were depending on her. Well, it was too late for that.
Zunee wasn’t sure hope was the correct word for whatever feeling she’d lost. Like Deni, she knew they were following the correct star signs to intersect with the Uptdon. What she didn’t know, however, was how many days it would take for them to reach it—and how many days they were from food and shelter, however temporary. The little ones would need to rest and recover. Glancing at Lena, who sat amongst the little ones, tucking them in their lean-tos to protect them from the mid-day sun, she realized that the burden of worry was also exhausting her sister as well.
“We’ve come this far. We can’t turn back now,” Zunee said, turning back to Deni.
She realized then what’d she done was taken the choice out of the equation for all of them. Simply put, they could not go backward. They had to continue. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at the red horizon. Her eyes took in the bright blue sky, and she paused a minute to offer up a prayer that she hadn’t made a mistake.
“Before it gets hotter, I will go up along that ridge to see if I can see anything,” Deni told her. Far off to the north was a slight ascent, a hill that blocked their view of what lay in that direction. “If there is any water, the sun will shine off it. I’ll be able to see it even if it’s miles away.”
She watched him trot away toward the ridge, not surprised at his energy after a long day of walking at a slow, measured pace so the shorter legs of the little ones could keep up. She longed to run, too. But their food was rationed with care and expending excess energy was foolhardy.
Crossing her arms again, she decided she would tell Deni so when he returned.
Chapter 15
In Tooran, Mel sat across a heavy wood desk from Jaine’s adopted father, feeling for all the world as if she were conversing with any other Mask at home in their settlement, deep in the woods outside Navio. For instance, with her father, when he’d been alive. A pang of loss struck her, mid-thought. Longing for her parents, so intense it hurt, squeezed her chest, and she gasped.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He’d introduced himself as Vern and offered her his hand—a strange gesture for a Mask. But perhaps he’d been living in Tooran now for a long time and had adopted their more business-like customs. He wore a smooth white shirt, buttoned at the collar. Straps that clipped to the waistband of his pants ran over either shoulder. A pair of spectacles hung around his neck, fastened by a fine chain. His fingers bore several rings—none of them agamite, but rather pounded metals of different colors, from golden yellow to dark brown.
“Apologies,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face. “I’ve gotten used to letting my emotions rule me. I’ve embraced the lifestyle in which feelings overtake my measured behavior.” She smiled, embarrassed. How many times had her mother chastised her for this very same thing?
But he shook his head, blinking at her in amusement. “Never apologize for that. It’s what makes us human.” Mel frowned in confusion. Perhaps he wasn’t a Mask at all, but merely a person with similar abilities? Did he know Masks existed?
Jaine had left the room to wash up since Mel had already taken a turn at the basin. When the girl came back, she tossed Mel a pair of soft leather leggings—golden brown and somewhat short, but a close enough fit to be comfortable. When she pulled them on, she was pleased with the soft, supple way they hugged her legs without restricting her movement. Yet, they were tougher than the cloth leggings Masks typically wore. The rest of the travel dust had come off, and Mel felt refreshed. She was still excited by travel, but less likely to emit a spontaneous whoop now, which she may have done once or twice aboard the velowagon, with Jaine’s encouragement. The younger girl’s unchecked appreciation for speed was contagious—Mel admired her ear ornament—as was her fashion sense.
“How long have you lived in Tooran?” Mel asked Vern, wanting to learn if he ever missed the settlement, if he’d ever lived there. Even though she had Ott and her friends, she still missed it now and, in particular, the people who had helped to raise her. She found herself thinking of Malga, the woman who had often taken care of her when she was little when her mother was away on a task—would she ever see Malga again?
“I have been in Tooran all my life. From birth to this very day. I am city born and bred, as they say.” Vern shuffled some papers from one side of his desk to the other. A book fell to the floor, and the cat lifted its head from inside the iron pot to give him a disgruntled glare.
“But—” Mel hesitated. Was it bad manners to mention that he was a Mask? Hadn’t they already established this point in their initial assessment of each other? Casual social interaction sometimes still befuddled her. She’d been a Mask most of her life—and she’d been trained to arbitrate and act as a go-between for others. Yet to her embarrassment, nuances still escaped her, and she plodded right through subtleties as a plough nag through a muddy field.
He laughed, then, bringing a sharp recollection to her mind a resemblance to her natural father, Jenks. The way his eyes twinkled now—even if not bright blue like Jenks’s eyes—reminded her of him. Or maybe it was the way in which she had somehow amused him, not intending to, and at her own expense.
“I’m enjoying the play of questions and answers running across your face, Mel,” he said. “You’re a natural at expressing yourself without words. You say you have only just come to it? Rather remarkable. I must compliment you on being a quick study.” He held up an ink-stained finger. “And speaking of study, I wonder if you might appreciate an introduction to the Academie.”
Mel frowned. Which again, he was correct in interpreting as confusion and astonishment.
He went on without her response. “We’re a group of us here in Tooran—others like you and me—who gather together for scientific and educational endeavors. Such as building machines. The velowagon, with which you are somewhat acquainted, or so I hear. Others of us would like to find a solution to the trog problem. I am fascinated—and alarmed—by your description of what has happened to the Uptdon River. And because you were an eye witness, I would like to take you to the Academie so that they may hear first hand what has occurred there.”
Mel was still stunned by the revelation. She had no doubt that this was a group of Masks in Tooran who, in fact, were not Masks at all. People with Mask abilities existed outside the Mask community? How was this not a well-known fact? She considered the elaborate lock on the front door. The distance it took to reach Tooran—made easier by the velowagon, a recent invention. Was the Academie a secret Mask outpost? A gathering of unacknowledged, exiled Masks?
As of yet, Vern had not spoken the word. Neither had Mel for that matter. The silence on that point was enough to cause her to doubt herself. Had she made the whole thing up in her mind? Ridiculous. She had been taught to observe, collect data, and to compile it until she reached an undeniable, obvious, irrefutable conclusion. Yet, still, she was cautious with her words.
“I would be glad to talk with your colleagues. You said they are scholars?” In any case, she would be glad of people who would weigh the seriousness of the whirlpool and horrifying loss of life more than the put-out passengers at the travel depot had. Yes, she decided. She would speak with these people, whoever they were.
“Scholars. Librarians. Farmers. Smiths. All types of people. You’ll see. There’s nothing like the Academie.” Another amused smile crept across his face. “We’re kind of like Masks, but not exactly.”
Chapter 16
Sitting on the flimsy mattress in her breadbox of a room in the Praesepio, Marge
t was still insulted by Ott’s behavior earlier in the barroom when he’d been attempting, with very little skill, to ward off the advances of the blowzy, overdone barmaid. For one thing, Marget wasn’t the least bit interested him. At least not anymore. She might have been once, and may even have kissed him just to see what it would be like—before meeting Mel, he’d been as flirtatious as a randy goat. Not one to discriminate among the many females willing to kiss him back—and there had been many. Many, many girls and women alike.
Because Rav and Bookman had the baby with them, they claimed a separate room. They’d gotten as few room as possible to save coins—which Ott was in charge of, though Marget was well-practiced in running a household, thanks very much. After all, she’d been in apprenticeship at the big house. She had, in fact, offered to sleep in a cot in a corner of their room partitioned by a curtain. But Rav thought the baby might have a troubled night’s sleep after the trauma of the boat going down. And would Marget also have difficulty sleeping, warding off bad dreams? they wanted to know. She huffed to herself now, smoothing her hair. As if that were a possibility.
Yes, the river had been a terrifying ordeal. And a normal situation in which to be frightened. Any one, from burly man to wee child, would have been hard-pressed to be stoic about it. Her heart had beat as fast as anyone’s would while they’d been lowered down into the black, churning water, soaking wet through all the layers of their clothing. But she was no silly girl, no wilting springtime cowslip. She’d been born and raised in the frozen north, where all children learned at an early age that the world could kill you at any time.
No, she’d never been fond of water—wet and cold…brrr—but it was nothing to work up a fuss about. Nothing made you more special and worthy of preservation than the next person, no matter which god you chose to receive your prayers. In truth, she favored the bear god, Dovay. Stalwart, strong, unwavering in the belief that a person could get through another day on the earth with calmness and perseverance.
But Marget had seen her reflection—how many times had she passed that great glass in the entryway of the receiving hall in which Col Rob had allowed his miners and their families to submit their disputes to him for resolution? She knew she was…a “cute little thing,” as the other housemaids had often told her. The older ones had liked to pinch her cheeks—not in a vicious manner, but still, in condescension. Which was why she had decided to leave the great house. She had thought she might make a new start for herself either here in Navio or way out east in Tooran. In a bustling city or at least a place with a population of people other than ones who had known her since she was in her first petticoats, she might find a place for herself. Run her own home someday. After all, anyone could do well for herself in a city like Tooran—anyone smart about it.
She had plenty of skill. Keeping the fires burning in the big house all through winter was no small task. She’d done in with nary a burn nor blister unlike some of the younger girls under her command. Careless things, they all were. Not a one of them had as smooth and unscarred fingers as herself. Bah, the fire was her friend.
And yes, she could admit it now, she had hoped she might convince Charl to let her travel with him. Before they’d left home, she’d interpreted certain looks, certain touches and glances from him as the beginning of…something. A long journey, such as a trip down the Uptdon River in a fully intact riverboat might have allowed them time to cultivate a relationship.
Right after embarking, they’d had some lovely conversations on the boat. Both excited by the prospect of seeing new places and starting over, his face had reflected her thoughts as they’d leaned over the boat’s railing that day, watching the statues of the gods grow smaller and smaller as they left the northern port.
“My father, Haught, loved this river. He used to take me with him when the men broke the ice floes in the spring—never so happy as he was out on the water. He should have been a riverman, not a houseman.” Charl shook his head with a rueful grimace. Bit of a touchy subject for certain. Even Marget had heard the rumors in the big house before they’d left. That Haught had been part of Col Rob’s plan to attack the trogs and, thus, start the battle for the mines. Best to change the subject, she thought.
“What kind of work will you look for?” Marget had asked him, trying hard not to stare at him too much. She was well aware that she’d been influenced in the past by good looks, and Charl had more than his share. Tall, dark blond with broad shoulders and a square jaw…only his lack of smile had kept the girls away. Then again, his father had given him little about which to smile. She thought she might be able to make Charl smile.
“I’m not too proud to work in a stable.”
She looked at him in shock. “After all your father and uncle went through to leave the stables for work in the house?” It had taken decades of hard work for both of the older men to gain enough respect to work indoors, a definite step up in the social strata at the big house. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to work outdoors in the harsh weather at home. And harsh was an understatement. Execution of criminals was carried out by sending the offender on a “walk in winter.” Death could occur in less than an hour’s time. She’d always counted herself lucky—thank Lady Lutra for this—that she’d been trained for work indoors. She knew she would have had a knack for cooking, if she’d ever been given the chance. No horrible cracked hands or looking like she was an old woman before her time. She always knew the exact temperature a pot needed and how long a thing had to stay in the fire. She’d never burned a meal in her life. Just…no one had ever given her a chance to show them.
Relegated to keeping the fires lit, that’s what she’d been. Unglamorous, grunt work for a girl. But a fire had never gone out while she was in charge. She’d kept the big house warm and cozy through the harsh winters. All months of the year, for that matter. Made her want to spit. She’d had big responsibilities since she’d been a little girl. No parents to speak of. But always a hard worker. She’d have no trouble finding a good position in a city, she figured. And she’d take anything…as long as it wasn’t beneath her.
“I’ll take any work I can find,” Charl said, staring at the water. He looked at her, and she felt her insides warm up. She wanted to grab him by the front of his northern, homespun shirt and kiss him. She was from the north, and he was from the north—it made perfect sense that their futures were intertwined. Now would be an excellent time for him to ask her what her plans were. She waited with patience for his prompting question.
When it didn’t come, she said, “I’ll take any work I can find, too.”
He gave her a sharp look, his dark gold eyebrows drawn together. For a boy known for his skill at strategy games, sometimes he could be a right idiot.
“Respectable work, of course,” she clarified. Grumbling Dovey, of course she wouldn’t do that. She was no pleasure female, not one to take up “back work,” as she’d heard it called. Of all the worst turns of his mind to take. She wasn’t that kind of girl, as flirtatious as her reputation might be. She crossed her arms to make herself appear more serious. Yes, she was known for giving out her kisses to whomever tickled her fancy, other girls included. So, what was wrong with that anyway? She wasn’t hurting anyone…except maybe her own prospects at the present moment. She sighed. Here she was trying to build a new name for herself while it seemed the old one was stuck in Charl’s mind. Well, they had a long journey ahead of them. She would simply have to change his mind about her, she’d thought.
Of course, she’d not foreseen being separated by the accident on the river. While others had gotten glimpses of the whirlpool, and she’d heard the crew, Rav, and Bookman describing the thing in the water to each other, calling out their astonishment, fear evident in their voices, she had not gotten a good look at the eddy herself. In fact, all she’d seen was darkness—though she’d heard the strange sounds, the animalistic roaring. Maybe if she had seen the thing in the water, she would have been more affected. But no matter. They were safe now. A
t least, she thought with some remorse, she and her group were alive. Not so much for most of the crew, which was very tragic of course.
Sitting now on the thin mattress in her tiny closet-like room in the Praesepio, she listened to the carousing voices from down below in the barroom, where it was bright and cheery. Downstairs, she’d seen a roaring fire in the fireplace and lights dancing on every table. Perhaps she could find some good company among them who would treat her as she deserved. She stood and primped her hair in the tarnished mirror by the door. Smoothing her skirts as best as she could, she took a deep breath and went out, determined to find her own destiny.
Chapter 17
Ott was in a deep sleep—his first true slumber of the entire journey—despite being apart from Mel. Getting a good night’s rest on the rocking riverboat had been impossible, the very idea of floating on the water pervading his dreams night after night. Though the good Lady Lutra was the otter goddess, water had not been his friend of late. So the constant rocking drove him crazy and reminded him of his near drowning in a black ocean of despair. And of course he missed Mel. The bed felt empty without his mate and partner—he missed how the long wavy tendrils of her long hair sometimes coiled themselves around his hand…all right, so maybe his fingers found their way to her hair in the middle of the night. Or the way he sometimes woke up in the morning to find his much larger body wrapped around hers as if she were the only thing keeping him from floating away.
Despite all this, he slept like a rock most of their first night at the Praesepio Inn. Until screams woke him. Then an explosion rocked the rough-hewn timbers of the inn.
Not again, his mind said.
The shrieking went on and on while Ott fell out bed and stumbled around his room, knocking into a chair and tripping over his boots. Disoriented, he waited for Mel to tell him to be quiet and to come back to bed, that it was just a bad dream…but he couldn’t even find the bed. Instead, he smashed his hand into the wall, which helped him locate the door, which jogged his memory. Mel wasn’t here. He was by himself, trying to herd this tired group of people, this collection of mismatched pieces. With no game board to play on. When he opened the door, light from the hallway helped him get his bearings. Yet, the shouts continued and began to escalate in pitch.
