Unbroken (Rise of the Masks Book 2)

by EM Kaplan

  “It’s Marget. And this Mask medallion. Something strange happened.” Jaine thrust her hand in the purse that hung over her shoulder and pulled out the ornate medallion. “She touched it and her eyes changed color. They’re yellow and blue, like a flickering flame. She reacted to it. I think you need to keep it away from her. So here.” Jaine shoved the necklace in Mel’s direction, curious to see what she would do. Jaine wasn’t a great believer in magic, but recent events had her thinking otherwise. If proof was in the viewing, she was ready to reconsider her previous agnosticism.

  But Mel flinched and drew away from her, the woman’s dark eyes wide in a way that made her look much younger than she was. Maybe a little sick to her stomach, too. “I can’t touch it again.”

  Interesting. Jaine had always thought Masks were tougher than that. It made Jaine want to see what happened when Mel touched the medallion. Masks were controlled and repressed in the way they lived their lives—the austere cloaks and faceless masks, case in point—but in a way that made them more formidable than, say, the Academie. Maybe growing up surrounded by all of them made her see them in a biased fashion. It was hard to think of her aunts and uncles as anything other than distracted, disheveled, and well, harmless.

  “What is that thing?” Ott wanted to know. Mel explained about the Tooran Mask who had left it in the hands of the Academie, and how they, in turn, had given it to her. “But what does it have to do with the fire?” he asked.

  “What do you know about elementals?” Mel asked.

  “Just what they say in old stories.”

  Still holding the medallion in her hand, Jaine said, “I think we’re starting to discover the old stories have more truth in them than anybody realized.”

  Turning it over in her palm, she examined the pounded metal. The thing looked like a wheel—it wasn’t the first time she’d thought so. As a child, she’d played with it on occasion, always careful to put it back where she’d found it when she was finished. They’d accused her of stealing it once, so she made certain never to be discovered messing with it after that. There was a time she’d been small enough to wear it as a belt, looping the heavy part of it through the end around her hips. She’d played at being a great sorcerer then—as she’d imagined the mysterious Mask had been, the one who’d owned it. Always surrounded by odd relics and historical objects, she’d never thought twice about its significance. She’d never felt any so-called magical feelings from it—it was just another interesting bit of shine to play with. She’d lost interest when she’d found bigger, shinier things to play with. Like the shells from a careless, rich man’s pocket.

  Mel’s hands rested on her hips. “Marget? I never thought…Well, in any case, this is all the more reason to go home.”

  Jaine frowned. Home? Tooran had gone up in smoke. The library was at least half incinerated. No one in their right mind—herself included—would cross the Uptdon, now that it was Down-Up so to speak. And her velocycle had been washed out to the Great Sea by now. Either that, or it was in splinters along the banks of the river. There was no way for her to get home to help Vern and the others. She’d been thinking of all the excitement she was missing, what with the fire. But somehow, she’d changed her mind. This woman Mel was stirring things up, and Jaine decided she wanted to stick close by and see what happened next.

  Mel sounded set on her plan now, which began to irk Jaine a bit. Yeah, so Mel was a tall girl, but did that mean she was always to be listened to? Jaine was well experienced with pecking order, thanks to her years on the streets of Tooran. Yes, Mel had some of those famed Mask abilities, so maybe she did know a thing or two more than the rest of them…but Jaine was less inclined to trust her because of her Mask upbringing. Or to trust any of the rest of them, for that matter. No one was going to boss Jaine around. Mel was saying, “Let’s go back to camp. We’re packing up and taking everyone with us.”

  “Are you certain you want to go back there?” Jaine asked, jogging to keep up with the two because they were both that much taller than she. She still didn’t understand why they’d want to risk it all to get back to the Academie when who knew what remained. “How will we even get there? And with the injured man, too?”

  Mel paused as if reluctant to speak. “It won’t take long to get there.”

  “Not long? Do you have a flying wagon of which I am unaware?” Jaine grabbed her arm, trying to force some reason into her. Mel had seemed like such a mild, thoughtful person up until now. Then Jaine paused, realizing that perhaps she was the one who had been mistaken. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Mask settlement,” Mel said.

  Jaine’s jaw dropped and her hand released the woman’s arm.

  Inside the settlement? Jaine’s objective, logical mind knew that Masks were, in essence, no different from the men and women of the Academie—the people who’d raised her. But Masks. She shuddered. Yes, she could admit it now. Masks had a mystique that the Academie did not. Mystery. Legendary secrecy. Maybe they weren’t the same as the Academie. Maybe they were magical.

  She eyed Mel again. And the scary man, Ott, whose massive dual-edged axe was strapped to his broad back. Jaine had come to trust Mel over the time they’d spent together. Now, she would be cautious. She would need to keep her guard up among these strangers.

  But still, she felt the potential in the situation. This could be exciting.

  Chapter 41

  A few hours later, Mel halted the group at the edge of a clearing to let them rest. Ott eased Harro down on the grass, out of the sun. Mel saw how Treyna’s face reflected every wince, every cringe the man made. She was his constant companion, no longer bothering to hide her utter devotion to him. A sentiment with which Mel was familiar. She flicked her gaze to Ott. Did she also let her adoration show on her face? Was it obvious to anyone who saw her how much he meant to her, how much he seemed to eclipse everything else in her world? She’d read some of the great odes to love that ancient poets had written—her mother’s library had a few slim volumes, though the works were largely neglected. Mel knew the exaggerated versions, the overblown emotions and sentiment that lovers professed to feel though she’d never witnessed it. Masks didn’t show love or any emotion. She wondered again if she were normal.

  Mel paced a short distance away from the group. She knew this clearing well. Every small depression in the clover. Every knotted tree good for climbing. The truth was, only she realized how close to the settlement they now were. And she was having misgivings.

  As she stopped to take a drink from the water skin that Ott had handed her, she considered the magnitude of what she was about to do. Namely, break centuries of unspoken code among the Masks about bringing outsiders into the secret settlement. Never in her whole life growing up there had she ever seen an outsider. Not once. Not until she’d been taken on day trips to Navio by Malga, dressed as a normal girl. Outsiders viewed Masks with suspicion, with trepidation, and yes, with fear. Even as a small child, she’d learned to keep her identity secret in the outside world. Only at home could she be herself. Ironic, since she was as poor a Mask as ever there was. But bringing outsiders into the settlement…

  Was she doing the right thing?

  They had come this far and they had nowhere else to go. Without better care, Harro would lose the use of his legs for good. Then they either would have to leave him with strangers or cease their journey. She looked back at the group, specifically at Rav, her stoic friend, who sat now nursing her baby. Somewhere in the southern, red desert, Rav’s sisters waited for her to come back to them.

  “Do you think they’re all right?” Mel had asked her as they walked through the forest earlier.

  Rav had loosened the sling across her shoulder and brought the child out into the fresh air. Salva’s dark eyes followed Mel as they walked. The babe was holding her head up on her own on strong tendons, looking for all the world like a tiny old woman recently rebirthed into the world. A re-used spirit inside a tiny body. She reached a pudgy hand toward
Mel.

  Mel noticed Rav didn’t answer her question about her sisters. Maybe it was better that way—to wait and see what befell them in the end rather than to speculate and build up hope and expectation. At least one of them was able to keep control of her thoughts. And it certainly wasn’t Mel.

  Rav said, “You have been my friend from the very first day at Cillary Keep when all of those other girls mocked me for my differences, for my clothing and the way I spoke. And when the trogs took me underground, where I thought I would die without ever seeing the wide, open sky again, you brought me out.”

  “No, I—”

  “I believe in you, Mel,” her friend said. “If you say that you will help me keep my promise to my sister. Then I believe you will.”

  Mel tried to deny her worthiness. After all, she hadn’t known Rav was alive when she herself had been captured by trogs, but Rav wouldn’t hear any of her protestations.

  “Here. Hold Salva,” Rav said, shoving the baby into Mel’s arms.

  “Ah…all right. I can…” Mel said, wondering if panic were an appropriate reaction in such a moment, “…take her.”

  She found herself alone with the wee babe in her arms as Rav tromped off into the underbrush to find a private place to relieve herself.

  “But…” she said, sounding feeble even to herself. After all, it was just a child. Even though she’d never held one like this before. Or one at all, for that matter. She looked in the direction Rav had gone, knowing the woman needed a moment or two to herself. Then she peered down at the child, whom she found staring back up at her with dark, intense eyes.

  “I’ve never held a wee tiny babe like you. But your mother is the closest thing I ever had to a sister. I think that might mean I’m your makeshift auntie. Is that all right with you?”

  The baby said nothing, but seemed to examine Mel’s face with a knowledge beyond her mere months of life.

  “Do you know something I should know?” Mel asked her, leaning closer. “I’d search through you, but I don’t think your mama would appreciate it. And she’s rather fierce. Not to discount your father.” Mel cast a glance ahead where Bookman was walking alongside the others. “He could be quite snarly in his other form. Oh—am I supposed to mention that?”

  She wasn’t sure. Maybe Rav and Bookman wanted to wait until Salva was older before they brought up the fact that her father had been a trog at one time.

  She leaned a little closer. Salva was staring at her with that same, unblinking gaze. Then the baby reached out a hand and poked Mel in the eye, making it water. When Rav had returned, Mel handed her back the baby, feeling foolish. Seeking answers from a non-verbal infant? Ridiculous. She was grasping at straws looking for signs in the universe. Her father had often said it was moments like this in which people clung to their religious beliefs. Masks didn’t worship any deities. They sought guidance from truth and comfort in the collection of data. Facts. Proven theorems. But these were unusual times. Jenks, her blood father, would have told her to follow her heart.

  Now, in the clearing, Mel paced.

  “What’s the matter?” Ott said, coming up behind her as she stood, gazing at the clearing. How many times had she run across it in the warm sunshine? She could almost see her younger self, freckled nose, dark hair flying, just then learning to push strength to her legs to make herself as quick as a deer. She had not been allowed to run free inside the settlement. Her wild, jangling emotions had disturbed the other Masks, as did her inability to keep her thoughts in check.

  Large hands on her shoulders brought her back to the present. She appreciated the warmth of them as they kneaded the tight muscles in her neck. How was he not exhausted after carrying the injured man halfway across the forest?

  “Berserker strength,” he said, the smile lines showing to the sides of his green eyes. “I seem to be able to control it a little more now.”

  She knew she had not spoken aloud. “What, are you the mentalist now?” she chided without any venom, smiling. He’d often teased her about being able to read his mind.

  He just shrugged. And she knew that it was because she was letting more of her emotions play on her face. Perhaps it did have its benefits after all. She reached for his hand and tangled her fingers with his much larger ones, craving the skin-to-skin contact.

  “I need to go ahead of you to warn them,” she said at last. Not to warn them so much as…try to suss out the atmosphere. To see whether they would be accepted or treated with hostility, however indirect and unexpressed.

  His fingers tightened, but then released their hold. “It’s because you want to give them a chance to bar us.”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “Although we will enter the settlement anyway, whether or not they want us. I just want to be…polite.” For lack of a better word. Her feelings on the matter were much more complex. Since her parents were dead, she expected both of their houses to be vacant. Masks didn’t often have offspring, so there would be no reason for any of them to change living arrangements and to occupy her childhood home or her father’s home. When her parents had been away on assignment, on a mediation task, their respective houses had stood empty until they returned, while she had stayed with the remaining parent. Not knowing how she’d feel upon seeing those empty homes was merely part of the miasma of emotion swirling inside her. Shoving back her hair, she tried again.

  But Ott stopped her with a hand held up. He was standing so close now she could see the scar on his chin through the beard growth from the last few days. He had a few freckles himself, sprinkled on the soft skin under his eyes. “It’s all right. I just want to know how long you’ll be gone. When will you be back?”

  She handed him the water skin, knowing she wouldn’t need it. “Just a couple of hours,” she said. His startled look turned to comprehension.

  “We’re that close?” Then he, too, looked apprehensive. Which made her frown. Did he still have a fear of Masks even though they were her people and she had been one of them?

  “Just a couple hours,” she said, untwining her fingers from his.

  Chapter 42

  Mel’s feet marked the smooth dirt path that led through the center of the settlement, her footprints overlaying generations of others’. She came to Malga’s house first. The woman had been her nanny, for lack of a better description—though Malga was as strong a scholar as any other elder Mask—and Mel always had a warm feeling thinking about her. Malga had the same height and lean build as the rest of them, straight gray hair chopped off below the ears and a certain way of looking at Mel that had conveyed a wealth of meaning, whether to discipline or to encourage her. She needed to proceed with caution. Malga could read her like a book. So to speak.

  The communal buildings sat down the lane from Malga’s house and included the large, sunken amphitheater where Mel believed the majority of people would assemble in light of the dire events in Navio and the turning of the Uptdon River. Instead of following the road to its end, Mel focused on the house next to Malga’s, which was—or rather, had been Mel’s mother’s—where she’d spent most of her childhood days. The small, low-roofed room in the back with the long but narrow bed in which Mel had slept most nights of her life.

  The small stone cottage was empty now, though her mother’s garden boots still stood neatly outside the front door. The leather boots kept company with the wooden delivery box where Jenks had left their traded items in the morning before dawn. Vegetables. Fresh milk sometimes. Bread or grain. Now Jenks was gone, too, shifted into a trog and disappeared into their underground realm.

  Mel stood for a minute staring at the house before she approached the door and pushed it open. She felt as if she were trespassing though it was her house now. Her house, her library, her boots outside the door—her mother would never need them again. Fighting the compulsion to turn around and leave, she stood in the doorway, calming herself, slowing her heart. Now she half-smiled. How many times had she come home from an illicit run through the sunny clearing or the fo
rest only to stand in this exact spot, composing herself so she would not be chastised?

  The house was clean, which was a little bit of a surprise. All occupants been gone for many months—over a year. But it made sense, as disconcerting as it was. Their home library had many valuable tomes. Other Masks might have borrowed them now and then. And in doing so, may have cleaned the place to keep the books in good condition. The written word, after all, was revered here as much as any deity.

  Mel paused in the doorway of the library. At her mother’s desk was a figure, bent over, straight chin-length hair hanging down. Malga looked up and smiled, which was a rare and genuine gift from a Mask. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever make it back.”

  Breaking with all convention, caution brushed aside, Mel rushed to embrace the woman. To Malga’s credit, she didn’t flinch, but accepted the affection with grace, even running a hand over the back of Mel’s head. An embrace? Was it such an emotional reunion for the woman? Or had the settlement itself changed in the last year since Mel had left? Now that her father was gone…perhaps Masks had loosened their regulations, their austere manner of living. Of being.

  “I didn’t know whether I would come back,” she admitted, pulling away.

  “All roads lead to the same place in the end.” The woman smiled again, and Mel felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Not at the words, but because of the smile. Two smiles and an embrace all in the space of a few minutes? This was not the reception she had anticipated. Had open emotion come to the settlement? She didn’t know what to think.

  Malga shook her head. “No, I’m just so pleased to see you, Mel. And your face is still just as readable as ever. As are your pulse and flush of your skin. You never did learn to master those high flying emotions of yours, did you?”

  Mel shook her head ruefully. “I’m afraid not.”