by K. E. Blaski
“Sure,” she lied. “Is there somewhere I can sit down? I’m a little unsteady tonight.”
“Sit here.” He gestured at Alban’s seat.
She would’ve preferred any of the other empty seats. She tried her best not to cringe, and clung to her journal, waiting for whatever nightmare Noble would make her suffer next. Instead, he introduced her to the remaining men. Each twitched when his name was called.
“Nobless—the most renowned scientists of our world are present in this room. I’ve told them of your soul exchange, so we will speak freely in front of them. Cassius is a master herbist. He comes to us from the spired city of Nathane.” He gestured toward a bald man with a face covered in moles and sporting a silver nose. “Farrar over there specializes in metalworks, and Hadrian, to your right, mechanics. Both hail from the spired mountain city of Telerune.” The two ancient men nodded at Jennica, then turned their faces away. “Gram and Selwyn, the men who left, are experts in biology and horticulture, respectively. Mere villagers. Gram was born in Tapete. And Selwyn. Which village is he from? The one that smells like it’s rotting?”
“Haranem. On the marsh, Noble,” Cassius answered.
“Yes, yes. But they all live here now, without the distraction of wives and kin. These men have been part of my council for years. However, I do find myself in need of a new chemist . . . Cassius, put the word out and see who you can recruit for me. Someone new from the Order of Latona, or the Order of Enau.”
Cassius scrunched his nose. “The Order of Enau is a lunatic fringe. We cannot duplicate their claims. They spread lies.”
“Because you can’t validate their science doesn’t make it false. It makes you incompetent. Get me someone from Enau or your head will join Alban’s.”
“Yes, Noble.” Cassius bowed.
“Good. Now. Back to the business at hand.”
Jennica scanned the faces. Upon hearing the word “business,” the servants went back to pampering their masters. The scientists relaxed into their chairs. Even Damen eased against the wall behind her and looked at his pocket watch.
She, on the other hand, couldn’t calm down. She knew she couldn’t keep craning her neck to see Damen—at least not without drawing attention—so with him out of her sight line, her eyes tracked a new target: Noble Tortare. She stared at him, her mantra forgotten and her pulse pounding, as he tossed a grape into the air and caught it between his teeth, slicing it in two before swallowing it. He paced and her eyes followed. She waited for him to lash out at someone with his claws, for saying the wrong word, looking the wrong way.
His tail slipped across the pool of Alban’s blood and, like a perverse paintbrush, drew burgundy crisscrosses behind him. No one else seemed to notice or care. The smell of iron filled her nostrils and her stomach roiled. She caught snatches of conversation and tried to stay focused on what was being said, but the pattern on the floor became denser, until threads of red became streaks, and streaks became a pathway of blood. Like in a movie, she tried to remind herself.
Logan announced the arrival of Manticore, Granden of Casilda.
“You have news, Manticore.”
Manticore was small, like he was in a younger man’s body, but his voice sounded old and wise. Instead of robes, he wore a tunic over thigh-high boots with a cape pinned to his shoulders through golden hoops. “My Noble, my congratulations on another successful marriage. Casilda looks forward to many moon cycles of your protections.”
“Of course you do. Your Nobless sits in Alban’s newly vacated chair. Be sure to congratulate her as well.”
Manticore’s jaw dropped when he saw her, but he recovered with a swift bow. “Congratulations, Nobless. Aprica’s blessings upon you.”
“Show him your face, my love. Beautiful, isn’t she? You’re surprised?”
“Yes, my Noble. I mean no. Yes. She is beautiful. My surprise is only that you have not yet consummated your marriage. I was surprised to see her. Here. With you. When she is so . . .”
“Ripe.”
“Yes, my Noble.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve decided to keep her around another night or two, while I consider if we should institute the lotteries again.”
Manticore’s pulse throbbed in his neck. A couple of the scientists murmured.
Jennica hid behind the mask again. Lotteries? For souls? Souls that would die because she didn’t? The room’s walls seemed to creep closer together and the queasy knots in her stomach tightened.
“If we want to keep the peace, we have to do what is necessary for everyone’s protection.” Cassius handed Manticore a goblet. “If we had a good battle to look forward to, there’d be plenty of souls for the taking.”
“Right you are, Cassius. Nothing like the ire of war to season a soul. Those were the days. Sweeping the fields clean.” He slapped Manticore on the shoulder. “Back to the news. How does Casilda fair against the Cidran uprising?”
“We’ve won. The Cidrans are recaptured. Thanks to your soldiers’ help.” Manticore finally took a drink from the goblet he’d been holding.
“All of them, then? All of the Cidrans. Recaptured.”
“Yes, my Noble.” Manticore held up the cup, toasting an invisible partner.
“Manticore, I’d like you to meet someone. Have I ever introduced you to my Tovar? I’ve come to find that they’re quite a rare breed. My sources say less than fifty of them in the entire realm.”
“You . . . have a Tovar?”
“I do.” He wagged a taloned finger, and Damen scooted to his side. “Damen, this is Manticore. Please tell your fellow councilmen your impression of Manticore’s claim.”
Damen stared at his feet and scrunched the fabric of his robe in his hands. It was so obvious that he didn’t want to say what he was about to say. She’d been wrong. What she’d thought was nervousness was really his internal struggle.
Jennica shifted her weight in the chair as Damen twisted his fingers. How awful to be in his position.
How awful that she had to watch.
“Manticore lied when he said that all the Cidrans were recaptured,” Damen finally said.
“You see how this works then, Manticore? Now—let’s try again. Were all the Cidrans recaptured?”
“No.”
“How many escaped?”
“Three.” He looked at Damen. “We think. We’re not sure.”
“Not sure. I see.” Noble circled so close to Manticore his tail brushed the man’s boots with Alban’s blood. “And your plan for finding them?”
“We’ve set bait at their last known sightings. Soldiers patrol the streets. We’ve interrogated some of the Cidrans we’ve recaptured.”
“Good. Then you should get back as soon as possible. Gather your entourage. Feed and water your bos, stock your carts from the kitchen, and leave tonight.”
“But, Noble—I thought since I came all this way . . . I could see my wife. My daughter.”
“Ah, but Manticore. You know our terms. You can see them when you’ve ended your little Cidran rebellion. My dungeons are locked up tight. They’re safe under my protection.”
“But Alban said—”
“And you are standing in Alban’s blood.”
Manticore surveyed the floor, seeing it for the first time. He stumbled backward. Cassius held him upright.
“Off you go.” Noble waved him away.
Cassius helped Manticore to the door.
Manticore’s reaction to the blood that everyone else ignored was the slap of reality Jennica had been trying to avoid. Heat pressed on her skin, her pulse pounded in her skull, and the thick smell coated the insides of her nose and mouth. The mask, the robe, were suffocating. She couldn’t hold on to her scream, or the contents of her stomach, for one more second. Dropping her head over the side of the chair, she vomited noisily through the bottom of the mask.
“Damen, get someone to clean up that mess, and take Nobless with you. Give her some caltha. And don’t take all night.”
�
�Can you stand?” Damen took Jennica by the elbow.
She nodded and stood, but dry heaved repeatedly as Damen guided her from the room.
“Are you okay?” Once they were outside the chamber, Damen lifted the mask off her face and put the back of his hand on her forehead, like Grandma Lorinne used to do when she checked for a fever.
She pushed his hand away. “All the blood on the floor. He walked through it like it wasn’t even there. And the smell. Why didn’t anyone notice? And that poor man who wanted to see his wife and kid in the dungeons. Why don’t they care?” She choked back a sob, which changed into a spasm of coughs.
Damen shook his head. “I wish you didn’t have to see all that. The rest of us are used to it by now. Noble keeps some of his people as prisoners, in order to manipulate their kin on the outside. And the blood . . . is just blood. I carry this—to help.” He extracted a pink handkerchief from inside his robes. “It’s been soaked in bereket. Smell it.”
The soft cloth smelled of freesia and lavender—like Grandma Lorinne’s closet where she played dress-up as a little girl. Flowered straw hats, a silk scarf with cheetah spots, fake pearls and bright pink lipstick. The vivid memory quieted her stomach and mind.
“Nice, huh? It smells different for each of us. The bereket plant taps into the part of your brain that holds positive associations. For me, I smell my mother’s langor biscuits smothered in morrell jam, back when she acted like my mother and cared to bake for me.”
Jennica tried to return the handkerchief.
“No—you keep it. I can get another. I’ve a source among the kitchen staff.”
“Thank you. Again.” The vision of her grandmother’s closet blurred, then faded away, but the calm remained.
A sweaty tendril of her hair fell into her face, and Damen reached to tuck it behind her ear. “Something’s still bothering you,” he said, as if only one thing troubled her instead of one hundred.
She decided to be honest with him. He’d know if she lied anyway. “Every time I say thank you for something nice you’ve done, it feels wrong. Like I’m betraying myself, because no matter how many kind things you do for me, it can never make up for you bringing me here.”
He hung his head, and she could see the tops of his thick lashes. “I don’t expect you to understand. But maybe someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. I did what I had to do.”
“And until you understand what you did was wrong—I can never forgive you.”
He examined her face with his dark eyes, searching for a trace of doubt. He was close enough she could smell woodfire smoke on his robes and the soap he used on his skin. Her pulse quickened. She was so aware of him. And of her own reaction to him.
For a second, she thought he might hold her in his arms again. Her heart fluttered. Fluttered, for heaven’s sake!
Then she felt stupid for even considering that she might let him. The last time he’d held her, he’d called her Nyima. But, then again, that was just a simple mistake, right? Ugh! The bereket plant must still be messing with her. She inhaled deeply to steady herself and she stared right back at him. Unwavering.
He sighed. “I don’t know what to say to keep you from loathing me, but haven’t you ever had to make a difficult choice? Haven’t you ever caused pain to prevent a worse suffering?”
“No,” she said automatically, the moment passing. Then she added, “There are people on Earth who act like you, who don’t give a damn about consequences.” She thought of her father, divorcing her and her mother so he could start a new family. He’d broken her life apart to prevent his own suffering. Same as Damen: ripping me from my life to keep Nyima from suffering. “And they’re wrong too.”
“Then we are at an impasse, Nobless.”
“Yes, we are.”
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a woman trying to pass them, scraping her back against the opposite wall. Damen saw her too and shouted. “Noble needs the conference room scrubbed down. Get a servant from the hall staff right away.”
“Yes, sir.” She scurried off.
Damen reached into his robes again and pulled out a second handkerchief, this one smudged with gray.
“What’s this?” She took the cloth warily and unfolded it.
“I wrapped the charcoals for you. You can use them now.”
Inside the handkerchief, the slender charcoal sticks he’d shown her before were wrapped in pink and yellow gauze. “Pretty.” Here he was, being kind again. Even though he knew she wouldn’t forgive him. He must be a glutton for punishment. Or maybe he’s just being a nice guy, a part of her brain piped up.
But before she could consider that thought, she remembered. “The book! I left it on the chair.”
“No one in the room will touch anything of yours without Noble’s consent. Anyway, he wants you to have the bindings. He gave me permission to give them to you. He’s curious to see what you’ll do with them. Do you know what you’ll write?”
“I have no idea. Whatever comes to mind, I guess.”
“Noble said to get some caltha.” Damen took her hand. His fingers were firm and warm, and she let them stay encased around hers.
“I feel fine now. As long as I don’t put that stupid hot mask on again.” Or watch Noble dance in the blood he’s spilled.
“Noble’s orders.” And then, whispering: “We can check to see if Marcis has taken Coralee yet.”
“Oh, yes. Let’s go to the kitchen.” She hoped Marcis and Coralee had escaped. Maybe they’d had time to reach the inn and Coralee was already safe. “Noble didn’t mention Coralee,” she thought aloud.
“He’s busy with his scientists for now. He’ll remember soon enough, and if he asks me—you know I’ll have to tell him where she is.”
Damen was right. Jennica hadn’t considered all the implications of her rash decision, especially when Noble had a truth teller at his disposal. “I’ve put all of you in danger, haven’t I?” She considered her options. “I’ll lie. I’ll tell Noble she died.”
“I’ll have to tell him you’re lying. Remember, that’s why he keeps me around.”
Frustrating. Life here was completely frustrating. Even without castle walls, metal feet, and a multitude of soldiers to rein her in, she was bound by fear of what Noble was capable of. “How can you stand it? Why don’t you run and get as far from Noble as you can?”
“It was always my plan to leave after Nyima’s soul was safely transferred,” Damen said. “I was going to make sure she got settled in Casilda, and then I was going to travel through the mountains. A child’s plan—completely unrealistic. Noble would find me. Someone along the way would turn me in. There is no way I can break away from Noble. Besides, I . . . I want to stay . . . and look after you.”
“I don’t need looking after. Wait a minute. You were going to go on without Nyima? I thought you two were, you know, a thing?”
“Betrothed? No. She was my friend. My only friend.” He looked like he’d gotten suddenly weary. “Here we are.”
They arrived at a large archway. The aroma of roasting meat and baking bread washed over her. She swallowed before drool could slip from her lips.
“Do you have a plan? For what to tell Noble about Coralee?” he asked.
“I’m not a planner—I sort of wing it most of the time.”
“Wing it?”
“Fly by the seat of my pants, go with the flow, improvise . . .”
“Pants?”
“Can I have some bread? My stomach’s empty again.” It was impossible to communicate with Damen sometimes. Language barrier. Gender barrier. Personality barrier . . .
“Yes, but let’s get you the caltha first. Amada? You here?”
The enormous kitchen brimmed with light and warmth. The stone floor was polished to a high sheen. Someone had recently rolled out brown dough on a flour-dusted tabletop and cut it into dozens of tidy circles. Pots of copper and iron were stacked near what looked like a sink, but when Jennica peered into the ba
sin, she saw it was filled with sand. And there was food: food hanging from cords tied to wooden rafters, food loaded on shelves, food piled on counters. In a massive fireplace, a pig-shaped animal sizzled on a spit, its skin glazed and crackling. She filled herself with the amazing kitchen smells. When hungry, this was clearly the place to be. She wished she could stay right here and never go back to Noble’s silo.
An ample woman, her gray-streaked hair gathered up in a bun, rounded the corner and collided with Damen. She dropped her basket. Bread scattered and rolled. “Nobless? Oh dear Aprica, it is you.” She swept Jennica into a bear hug and moaned into her neck. “Oh, thank you. For saving my girl.” She separated long enough to kiss Jennica’s cheeks, and then hugged her again.
The woman’s heart pounded through both their robes in perfect rhythm with Jennica’s.
“Ma’am, please.” Jennica pushed her away.
“Oh, goodness—that skin sure is something, isn’t it? Sucks you down like a whirlpool, it does. Ev’n an ol’ woman like me.” She dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. “Felt fifteen again, I did. Forgive me, Nobless? I overstepped.
“I’m so grateful you sent a soldier for my Coralee. Thought he’d come to take her back to Noble, but he says, ‘No, no, mother,’ he says, ‘Nobless wants her safe away t’night.’
“He wouldn’t say where he’s taken her though. Says it’d be safer for me that way. No, no, now don’t’n you tell me—as long as she’s away from here, that’n’s all I need to know.
“May Aprica shine on you, Nobless. Surviving your wedding night, walking in those nasty feet he giv’n you, gives us all a bit o’ hope. And now you do this—for a common slave. You’re something special—a shining soul is what’n you are. Spero cras vindico nos, argentum pes puella.”
“Amada, please get Nobless some caltha,” Damen cut in before the woman could go on any longer. “We’ve got to get back.”
“Oh, I do prattle on. Right away, sir, Nobless.”
