Unbroken (Rise of the Masks Book 2)

by EM Kaplan

  Utter silence had blanketed the meeting hall. No nibs scratched paper now. Had she been standing before any other group of people, she would have repeated her words, thinking that none of them had heard her. In fact, her companions shuffled their feet now. Ott laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, engulfing it with his large palm. But these were Masks. She knew them. And she knew the impact of her speech.

  “Why do they rise now? We don’t know.” Images of the lighted streets of Tooran filled her mind. The agamite-powered vehicles traversing the land. The shiny stones that dangled from the earlobes of the fat man at the Tooran travel depot. And the scores of dead agamite miners that littered the grounds of the big house in the north after a trog attack. Yes, she had theories about these elementals, these protectors of the earth. But all she needed was to appeal to the protective nature of the Masks before her now. Yes, they’d acted as the protectors of humans, the indulgent, avuncular superiors who stepped in to settle petty disputes.

  Mel looked at each face before her, hoping beyond hope that she had said enough, that she had chosen the right words to spur them into action. “All that matters is that people need help. They are defenseless against attack and they are dying. I lay the burden of action upon you. And I ask you only one question. What will you do?”

  Chapter 45

  “I know it already. You don’t have to tell me. They’re going to kick us out of the settlement.” Marget sat on the stone steps outside the assembly hall with Jaine and Charl. Smoothing her skirt and folding her arms over her chest, she added, “We’ll have nowhere to go. The trogs are everywhere. And where they aren’t, monsters are rising out of the earth itself.” Thinking of the imminent danger made her shiver. While she wasn’t one to dramatize a situation, it felt pleasant to do so, especially in the presence of Charl, whom she eyed from the side. Though, she had to admit, she was getting frustrated by his lack of interest. His overall indolence, as a matter of fact.

  “I couldn’t get home to Tooran even if I bloody well wanted to,” Jaine said. Standing in the shade, leaning against the outside wall of the building, she’d perfected a big-city nonchalance that Marget admired. She noted Jaine’s use of the word bloody, which Marget had already begun sprinkling throughout her conversation as often as she dared. “My home’s burned to the ground, according to Mel. I don’t know what’s become of my da. My aunts and uncles, either. And if I tried to get home, I’d have to cross the bloody Down-Up bloody turned around river.” Jaine’s face flushed bright pink with anger and frustration, which Marget also admired.

  Then she caught Charl’s interested look in Jaine’s direction and frowned. Squinting at Jaine a look she hoped said, Back off, girlie, Marget’s admiration of the city girl fell a notch. Charl had been in Marget’s sights from ages ago and she would not stand for an interloper now. Even if he was possibly possessed by a water demon.

  For his part, Charl lazed in the sun, looking for all the world as if he were on a day trip, out in the meadow on a picnic. Water from a nearby fountain reflected on his face in dancing, fairy-like sparkles. Marget’s eyes went to the water again, noting its effect on him. His eyelids looked heavy, as if he’d taken a dose of carrow, a root that when boiled eased the frantic workings of the mind. She’d known a housemaid who’d become overly fond of the drink at home. So much so that she’d snap and snarl at any person who suggested she stop using it. Charl was behaving the same way about water at the moment. Perhaps there was some truth to Mel’s fancy words about the elements coming to life after all. The woman had been a Mask herself after all. Who knew what powers she held?

  If that were the case, wouldn’t it be a kick if she herself—Marget—were a great and powerful controller of one of these magical elements? She’d as much as guaranteed that her days of keeping the house fires going were over in that case.

  Her eyes traveled down Jaine’s flat chest to the ornamented leather bag she always kept strapped across her torso. The fire starter lay inside the pouch—no, Marget had not filched it when she’d had the chance to earlier after Jaine left all her belongings dumped on the forest floor. Not so wise for a canny city-bred girl now, was it? But, no. Though Marget might be nothing but a lowly housemaid, she was no thief. Her northern upbringing instilled her with manners and pride, and a good sense of right and wrong. And Dovey take her for a walk in winter if she ever considered theft.

  Even so…

  “Do you still have that fire starter in your bag?” she asked Jaine. “I have an idea.”

  Jaine gave her a look. One with which Marget was well-accustomed. It spoke of mistrust and was rife with doubt as to her abilities.

  Marget snapped her fingers. “I’m not going to steal the bloody thing. I simply want to try something.”

  Though he hadn’t sat up, Charl watched them with mild interest. More than before, Marget noted with some satisfaction. Maybe that’s all it took. A bit more spine. Let more of her true nature show through. Dovay knew her people had plenty of perseverance and determination. Why had she bothered to hide it before? Gods above, perhaps this was the stuff that attracted fellows.

  “All right,” Jaine said after a deliberate hesitation that irritated Marget. She dug into her sack for a minute and pulled out the metal starter. Then she seemed to think better of it, slipping the leather strap of her bag over her head and tossing the whole pouch to Marget.

  Well, fine, if the Tooranan wanted to play that way. Rude girl. Marget caught the flying purse with no problem. Smoothing her expression with care so as not to appear as miffed as she felt, she pushed open the flap and swept her hand inside. Jaine was watching her with a wily expression that rivaled that of a frost-rat, a hardy snow creature known for its ability to open even a padlocked larder.

  Inside the bag, Marget’s questing fingers brushed across the firestarter, but when she closed her fist, she found instead that she had gotten hold of a cool metal with small polished nobs embedded in it at regular intervals. The Mask medallion. When she tried to drop it, she found that she somehow grabbed it again. Giving in to the impulse, she lifted it out of the bag—intending to set it aside so she could find the metal flint instead. Drawing closer to Jaine, Marget handed the purse to her.

  And somehow managed to keep the medallion back in her own possession.

  “I don’t want this,” Marget told her. But it was a lie. She did want it. As much as she desired to keep the hair on her head, the nails on her fingertips, and the skin that covered her bones. And when she meant to hand the carved metal back to the Tooranan girl, Marget found that she had curled her fist back against her own belly and clenched it against the front of her dress.

  Jaine watched with a satisfied, amused smile. Her sharp features watched Marget, always assessing, just as others had done to the housemaid throughout her entire life. Marget the lowly hearth maid. Well, she would show them all now. She grasped the medallion tighter, feeling it go warm.

  Not warm to her, yet she knew it would burn anyone else who dared touch it. Not her. Never her. She had never been burned by fire though she lit the hearths every day. Always by wooden match. Always at the first strike. And when others weren’t watching her, not with the bellows that were kept alongside each broad, soot-coated fireplace. A small puff of her breath had always been enough to fan the flames.

  Or was it her breath?

  Maybe it was simply her.

  She would show them now. Lifting her small, pale fist in the air, she showed them the medallion. Beyond the flicker, their eyes widened. She smiled at them as the flames shot skyward from her hand, a triumphant torch.

  Chapter 46

  “Nicely done,” Jaine said as Marget’s fist ignited. The flames had a lovely green tinge to them, thanks to the agamite in the medallion. It all came back down to the agamite, didn’t it? There was some connection there that Jaine had yet to suss out.

  By her side, Charl had sat up straight and snapped out of his stupor. One of his hands, she noticed, still dangled in the water of the
fountain.

  Aha. Fire, meet water.

  What other trouble could she stir up? Jaine wondered. What would happen if the two touched? She considered shoving one at the other—plain old skin-to-skin contact. But the two country bumpkins already seemed destined to collide on the course of a romance. Neither outwardly acknowledged the other, yet they couldn’t keep their eyes away from each other.

  How delightful would it be if they were not able to touch due to the opposite nature of their elementals?

  Now…how to get them to test out Jaine’s theory? She crossed her arms and considered the situation as Marget continued to revel in her burning hand.

  Jaine hadn’t practiced her dramatics in quite a while. She’d been adept in the past at playing the starving street orphan to beg for a spare shell or two from a soft-hearted gentleman passerby. One or two? She smiled at the memory now. She’d absorbed quite a lot of useful skills in those days. Before the boredom had nearly overtaken her senses.

  She turned her back to the water boy and prepared to throw her voice. By using a simple distraction technique, she made it appear that Marget screamed.

  “It burns,” Jaine cried. “My skin burns!” She’d put just the right amount of northern accent in her intonation—namely, enough to choke a furred snow goat. She’d also raised the pitch of her voice to mimic the girl. Jaine knew she’d got it just right based on the confused look the girl gave her upon hearing a facsimile of her voice coming from Jaine’s throat.

  Behind her, she heard Charl leap to his feet. A splash of water signaled his intent to douse Marget’s flames, which Jaine thought was perfect. It fit well into her scheme.

  What would happen? She rubbed her hands together with anticipation.

  But at that moment, the meeting hall’s doors slammed open.

  Mel stormed out first, Ott and the others on her heels. Judging from the expression on the Mask-girl’s wound-up face, the meeting had not gone well.

  On a gasp, Marget snuffed her flame.

  Charl retreated a step or two, drops of water sliding from his fingers.

  And Jaine was forced to wipe the pout from her face.

  Mel, her frustration and fury damped down for a moment, paused in her tracks and looked at Marget. It seemed the tall Mask woman hadn’t missed a thing. Jaine should have known as much. Now Mel was staring at them with her dark, assessing eyes, which made Jaine shiver—they were so much like Vern’s. No one else had ever understood Jaine as well as her adopted father. Under anyone else’s authority, Jaine chafed, but under her Da’s, she was just…herself.

  “Can you control that?” Mel asked Marget. Clearly, she had seen the flames shooting from the girl’s fist. Pretty hard to miss. Since they were green and all.

  Without hesitation, the girl said, “Of course I can.” She added a toss of her head as she straightened her posture. Jaine suppressed a snort when Marget’s glance moved to Charl. As if Jaine had any interest in his attention. Not bloody likely. She belonged to no one and nothing. Her loyalties were her own. Though they might temporarily be bought for the right price.

  And nothing the little house maid had was worth much.

  Until now.

  “Show me,” Mel told the girl.

  Marget looked taken aback for a minute. Then she lifted the medallion in her hand, squeezing her knuckles so tightly that Jaine could see the agamite stones peeking through the girl’s fingers. The others had stopped to watch as well. Ott stood with his feet apart—Jaine recognized the stance. She’d stood that way many a time, ready to run down an alleyway or jump from a low roof, if need be. He was prepared for the worst. She angled her body slightly to the side to take shelter behind Mel should it be necessary.

  Lifting her fist in the air, Marget inhaled a great breath and ignited her fist again. The greenish glow shined on her face, illuminating her eyes and rounded cheeks even though the sun was still high in the sky. A self-satisfied smile quirked the corner of the girl’s mouth. Jaine couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like to wield such power. Such magic. It was just like the stories of the old times that Vern had read to her when he’d tried to share with her his love for the written word.

  Yeah, she’d listened to the tales of monsters—the ogres that stole children away from their parents when the children misbehaved. Jaine scuffed at the dirt with her heel. She’d never believed in monsters before the trogs came. For her, monsters were more real than stuff from childhood tales. Real monsters lurked in dark alleys, stole her food, her safety, and her dignity. Those were the creatures she’d always dreaded meeting.

  “Do you feel the fire elemental?” Mel asked Marget now.

  The girl shook her head. “He’s sleeping.”

  “Where is he sleeping?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not anywhere. Not in Tooran. Not awake.” Marget shrugged. “Or maybe a little bit everywhere. In every fire. Even this one.” She turned her fist, rotating it as she looked at either side with a fixation that threatened to give Jaine a case of the shudders.

  “Now, shut it off,” Mel command. And when the girl complied, Mel praised her. “Good,” she said. “Put that medallion around your neck and keep it there. Congratulations. You’re the master of your very own fire elemental. We will need you soon.”

  Then Mel turned on her heel and continued in her sharp, angry steps away from the Mask meeting hall, brushing past Jaine. It was somewhat Jaine’s fault, of course—she hadn’t moved fast enough out of the way—but Jaine had never seen her in such a state. Mel had been so uptight, so cautious and…inhuman…all the time Jaine had observed her.

  And just what had transpired inside the hall? Jaine wondered whether their bedraggled group would be shunted out of the Mask settlement. In truth, she hadn’t been able to discover much in her solitary exploration of the town. She’d gone from door to door, peeking in windows and slipping into unlocked doors—which most of them were. It seemed Masks didn’t feel they had anything worth stealing. Jaine had never experienced such a number of open homes. But then she rolled her eyes, thinking about the dearth of jewels and coins she’d found. No baubles. No trinkets. Truly pathetic.

  Her haul had been a big fat zero. All these people kept were books. Endless numbers, row after row of volumes on God knew what. They were just like the school-obsessed members of the Acadmie. Worse, in fact. Masks didn’t even believe in wearing nice clothes. Just the horrid, drab tunics and unadorned boots. Not even a buckle among them. No fun at all.

  Jaine took a seat on the edge of the fountain a little too close to Charl, just to stir up the annoyingly proper housemaid a little more. Charl sat up straighter, tucking his booted foot under his leg.

  Interesting. Perhaps he did have feelings for Marget. And here Jaine had thought he was just a thick-headed, self-obsessed boy like the rest of the pretty ones she’d met before. Though she’d overheard Ott and Mel saying that Charl was skilled at strategy games. Perhaps Jaine had underestimated him.

  Jaine smiled, fingering Charl’s agamite sigil ring she’d taken from Mel’s pocket minutes earlier. See, being in the way of the angry Mask girl hadn’t been an accident.

  Fire girl, meet water boy.

  Jaine was spoiling for a good fight. The situation might be entertaining after all.

  Chapter 47

  “The Masks won’t be lending their assistance. We’ll need to ready ourselves for our journey and continue south on our own. And as soon as possible.” Mel paced the floor of her mother’s library in front of the desk where Ott now sat. She could tell he longed to prop his bare feet on its surface but was refraining in deference to the memory of her mother. Like Mel, he’d removed his boots at the door of the small house.

  Not long ago, Mel had sat at that same desk, thinking that she would never see Ott again. She had laid her head on the grain of its top and made the decision to take the Mask oath, to hide away all of her memories of Ott, and the fleeting sisterhood and the horrors she’d encountered at Cillary Keep. Now the desk belonged
to Mel, as did the house—and her father’s slope-roofed house just down the lane as well. As unnerving the thought and as unwanted the objects were to her. This wasn’t her home anymore. It may never have been, for all of her discomfort.

  “We know of two elementals. Marget’s fire and Charl’s water,” she said now and, with her hand, patted around in the pocket of her tunic. When she failed to locate Charl’s ring, she hung her head for a brief moment of self-condemnation. “You have got to be jesting,” she said to no one in particular.

  Ott lifted his head from the book he’d been skimming. An old tome that debated the use of agamite in the forging of weaponry. Very detailed diagrams, as Mel recalled. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve lost Charl’s ring.” But it took her only another instant to realize where it was. Or rather, who had taken it—Jaine. The girl was quick with her fingers. Fast enough to go undetected by a Mask. A first-rate thief.

  In the next instant, a loud explosion rocked the house. Books fell off the shelves in muted cascades.

  Ott was on his feet before Mel. “Lutra on a spit. It must be trogs here in the settlement.” They ran for the door to shove their feet into their boots.

  Trogs? More like Jaine interfering with Charl and Marget and their elementals. Mel had thought she’d conduct a controlled experimentation for the both of them—far away from other people, somewhere south in the desert. But this…this was highly irresponsible. People could be injured or killed by the fire and water creatures, especially with such novice handlers. Mel had no idea what kind of energy or strength it took to control one of the beasts.

  When she reached the dirt lane, she headed straight for the meeting hall where they had last left the young ones. But all three of them—Marget, Charl, and Jaine—were alive and well, if appearances could be believed. Standing opposite the other two, Jaine displayed a startling array of expressions on her face. Uncertainty warred with fear and confusion. But Mel’s attention was focused on Jaine’s fist, between the knuckles of which Mel spied the glint of Charl’s ring. So that was an unfounded fear—Charl didn’t possess it, and the explosion wasn’t an elemental in the center of the settlement.