by Kaplan, EM
"I'd like it if you and the boys would come live in my house," Rob said. "And you two, as well." He nodded at Ott and his girl. "Though I want my room back, if it's all the same to you."
He was met with silence. Absolute, straight snowfalling silence. The boys eyed each other in apprehension. Ott and his girl were watching Jenny, but Rob couldn't bring himself to look at her face. If he were met with with stubborn, frozen anger, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. All signs pointed to him gathering up the rest of his clothes and leaving her house silently and never looking back.
Her spoon clattered violently into her bowl. She was the most astounding female he'd ever known and he cringed and waited for her final words on the matter, however harsh they might be.
"Boys, finish your breakfast," she said. "and pack up your things. We're leaving this wretched shack."
Chapter 41
Colubridan Robinet, the lord and master of the northernmost manor of the realm—once familiarly called Col Rob by those who knew him, raised him, and watched him turn from youth into man—was finishing his breakfast in his room. He took it sitting up at his chair near the fireplace lately, his heavy mantle wrapped around his legs. Ahh, but the fire was warm. His breakfast was quite good, better than he remembered it ever having been earlier in life. His cook staff worked nothing short of miracles using the dregs which remained . But perhaps everything seemed sweeter on his tongue at this late stage in his life. Much more so than he'd ever experienced as a youth.
Lately, his thoughts had been turning more and more to his childhood, his three older brothers and two sisters, his father and his mother. They had once lived the privileged life of a wealthy family in Port Navio. No, not a soul here in the snowlands knew that he was originally from the port city; no one alive was left to remember it. His brothers and sisters were all dead, as were his mother and father. Servants from his youth were all dead, too. But they were all so replaceable. Sometimes it slipped his mind which ones he had now. He’d collected them over the years. He had adored them like pets while they lasted, but they all died so damnably fast. The expanse of servant gravestones in the burial place behind the house grew as decades rolled by, while his lord Colubrid, the snake god, allowed him to molt yet another metaphorical skin and live on. His life had stretched ahead, longer and leaner than ever.
He coughed hoarsely and was grateful when Charl, his young manservant, brought a cloth to wipe his mouth. Col Rob waved him off when the servant sought to raise him up and restack his bones in better order in his chair. He nodded, however, when the boy removed his breakfast tray. Good lives he gave them, just as he did his agamite miners. Nice, strong, stone and wood houses. Shelter from the godforsaken endless winter. A good living. And a means to provide for themselves. The ability to flourish, if they put themselves forth, to make men of themselves as much as they could, to draw themselves wives and create offspring. Was he not a good lord? A just and constant lord?
He thought with a certain flicker of anticipation about the coming days. He gestured for Charl to bring his game table. There was nothing in the world he enjoyed more than a good game of strategy. Dodge, feint, thrust. A distraction to the edge of the board. A subterfuge. It brought him alive. Col Rob felt blessed he'd had the patience and foresight to train Charl to play the game when the boy was just a freckled, blond hatchling at Col Rob's knee. The servant had good concentration and showed a keen and facile intellect. Col Rob was proud the first time the boy had beaten him at the game. And, in fact, he had presented the boy with a banner bearing Col Rob's family colors that very afternoon. What an accomplishment that had been. To have cultivated such ability in the boy. Even now, Col Rob felt the tingle of pride as he looked across the table at his manservant.
Charl opened with a quiet, standard move. A chan slightly to the right of center, two paces ahead. Could mean anything. Very generic. Very deceptive in its banality. Col Rob decided to let the servant take the lead, and mirrored him.
Charl said, "I have the cadre in position, as you directed." He moved his boneye diagonally out to the left. Ah, now there was an aggressive move.
"Very good," Col Rob said. "Move ahead tomorrow afternoon in the noonday sun. Might as well not freeze off their toes. The trogs know not whether the sun shines while they burrow around under the dirt." He positioned his chool, fashioned in the likeness of the snake god, to the side of Charl's baneye. In two moves, he would have the boy cornered.
"My father leads them," Charl said with a note of pride. He took a moment before he made his next move. Lunet, the lady piece, fleeing to the side. He was on the defensive already.
"Of course. He will do well," Col Rob said. "An adept and truly well-placed man."
"What would you like me to do with the others?" The servant didn't meet his eye, but Col Rob knew he was referring to the soulless ones, the Masks. He scoffed inwardly at their tactics. Amateurs. Displaying the bloodied face of that young girl. He didn't believe their ploy for a minute. Whether she was a hired pawn or one of them was irrelevant. He knew they could alter their appearances. It was a clumsy trick that used light and shadow to create illusion. There was nothing mystical or magical about it. Instead, he'd pretended that he hadn't been the one to summon them. That he was senile and incompetent. Let them think that his adulterous wife's son was at the reins. Lovely insect that she'd been, her family one of the strongest pillars of the house of Insectoj. True to their nature, she had never been completely his. And true to his nature, he had not expected it to be so. And yes, his so-called son Rob was just as much a pawn as the rest of them.
He had Charl cornered now. In three more turns, the game was over. He moved his guard, the rib, to the left and gave the boy an opening and a chance to redeem himself.
"Do nothing," he said. "Let them stay penned here for a while and stew. The storms are not expected to move in for another week. The people will be fine outside while the Masks determine their next approach." He hoped to his god that the Masks’ next move would be more entertaining than the first feeble show. He'd expected them to be better adversaries. Instead, he had bested them in his first turn. Luckily, he had not pulled out the stops at first. Though he had given them more than they were prepared for.
Charl accepted his statement and took the opening that Col Rob had left him. Good boy. Charl knocked Col Rob's game piece to the side and smiled boldly with the final stroke.
"Well done, lad," Col Rob said.
"Shall we play again, sir?"
"No, not for now. I think I might rest," he said contentedly. The boy nodded. Col Rob watched his servant clean up the pieces and move the game table aside, and took pride in the boy's victory.
Chapter 42
"I'm nervous as a cat," Ott said, looking the part.
Mel watched him run a finger around the inside of his collar. She matched him stride for stride down the hallway to her parents' quarters in Rob's house. Not an easy feat. The man was walking fast and his legs were longer now. He had adjusted well to his new stride, although did not seem entirely accustomed to the feel of the fine clothes that he’d borrowed from Rob. Ott yanked smooth the front of the light green tailored shirt and tucked it into his heavy, corded brown pants.
Mel still wasn't sure how she had made his change in stature come about. It had been a side effect of the cleansing. A nice surprise, she thought, eying his larger frame with admiration, though she had liked him plenty enough before. Nothing she'd ever read in her mother's library had pointed toward changing the appearance of others. She thought about the agamite granules that had been absorbed into the now-healed wound on her forehead, about the ribbons of the stuff that ran through the ground here, and the color of Ott's eyes.
She'd have to ask one of her parents, if she got the chance. If she could bring it up between, It seems I don't want to be a Mask after all. And, This is the man I love. And also, I can't seem to bring myself to be more than two feet away from him at any time. It certainly felt that way. She'd been across the room
from him at his sister's house, although he'd had his eyes on her nearly the entire time.
"I wouldn't call you a cat. More like a hound," she said giving him a look from under her lashes. As a reward, she found herself pushed into an alcove in the hallway and pressed into a hanging tapestry. Ott's arms braced against the wall, caging her in. She was trapped in a good way, a very good way. His mouth found hers roughly, and she closed her eyes, matching his ardor. Funny how something could feel both familiar and new at the same time.
When they broke apart, he said, "I wish you would think about not coming to the mines."
She felt her temper immediately flare up, and enjoyed the accompanying lick of heat. If she had been a lesser woman, she would have accused him of kissing her on purpose to distract her into doing what he wanted—not going with the delegation. But honestly, the two events were separate. She could see it in his face. Lust and attraction. Concern for her. Two separate, yet ever-present layers. But she was still angry. And though anger was something foreign and new to her, she loved it. Every outrageous emotion. There would be no more banking the embers of her feelings behind a Mask. She let the anger ride over her and appear on her face.
He stroked her check with one large knuckle. "By your deafening silence, I see you have no more to say on the subject," he said. “And neither do I.”
She smiled, anger and wily manipulation sharing time with what she knew she could never fail to feel for him . . . tenderness and, well, love. All those things she would have been forced to deny feeling before. He gave a groan as she snaked a hand up the back of his neck over the collar that had been bothering him so much, and drew his mouth back to hers.
"Are you ready to do this?" she asked him, her voice low as she tried to stay on task. When his arousal-hazy eyes met hers with an entirely different this in mind, she clarified, "Meet my parents." And she was met with another groan. This one, in which the lust wilted, and his eyes cleared as he blinked and immediately tensed up again. He rolled his shoulders, partly untucking Rob's shirt again. She helped him smooth it, and he took her hand.
"Ready enough," he said.
There was a sense that they had to do this. They had to do this strange, formal presentation of him to her parents because of the uncertainty of the outcome from their meeting with the trogs. Mel wasn't naive enough to try to fool herself into thinking that it would all work out for the best, that they would come away from the mine entrance and the trogs unscathed and with satisfaction on the parts of all sides involved. The violence and death at the Keep was too fresh in her mind for that. If something were to happen to herself or Ott . . .
She drew a deep, shuddering breath that caused him to tighten his grip on her hand. She looked at their hands—his large, weather-roughened hand that engulfed hers. The skin of their palms was pressed together, but still didn't feel close enough to her. She came to a halt outside the chambers where her parents were sequestered and lifted Ott's hand to her face. She met his green eyes as she pressed her mouth against his knuckles, breathing the scent of him in. She knew now that his scent wasn't something that he wore. It was just him. It was the way he was, and she hoped that she wore some of it on her skin.
Chapter 43
Her mother and father were seated, and attired in their cloaks, but their cowls were not raised and veils not in place. She had sent word to them the night before that she would be bringing Ott, her chosen, to meet them at dawn before they all embarked on the task. Though she hadn't asked them to, her parents were obviously seeking to ease Ott's discomfort by showing their faces. They were aware of how Masks were viewed in this part of the world. There was, however, no mistaking the sense of urgency in the room. After this little bit of greeting was taken care of, they would be leaving together for the mine entrance, a good distance away. The time it took for the journey by sled was reserved for planning, for strategizing, for information exchange about the trogs, not for dealing with their daughter's chosen mate.
"Please enter," her mother said, rising and embracing Mel. Her father kept his distance but inclined his head in their direction, and his face was arranged with a . . . pleasant expression, which shocked Mel in itself. Their guard Guyse lingered at the window, his dark and massive height disappearing into the rich darkness of the heavy curtains around the window glass. But Mel felt his eyes on her, and then on Ott, assessing them together.
Mel made the introductions, and her mother was generous enough to take Ott's hand. She knew it was not something to be taken lightly, to be touched by a Mask, by the mother of his . . . Mel wasn't entirely sure in what terms Ott thought of her. He cleared his throat. He looked intensely nervous for a minute, looming at the edge of the carpet in the sitting room. Then she felt something change in the room, almost as if there were a physical lever or handle pushed.
Ott surprised her by suddenly dipping a stiff bow and by saying formally, "Ley'Ana. Ley’Albaer," he said facing them, without the slightest hesitation over what had to be strange-sounding names for him. "I thank you for the honor of your audience this morning. I have been blessed by the acquaintance and affection of your daughter. Please accept my application for her hand, so that we may be joined in holy union and in the eyes of our society." He added, "Or however is deemed fit by your rules and customs."
Mel gaped at him. Whatever she had been expecting, that wasn't it. And the silence that met Ott's words was telling of the surprise her parents felt as well. A glance passed between them, but Mel didn't know what it meant. She was too stunned to think much of anything. He wanted to marry her? And why was he asking them instead of her? She had the overwhelming urge to punch him in the arm. Or wrap her arms around him. Either one. Maybe both.
Her father spoke first, starting with an uncharacteristic throat clear. "Well, this is certainly a morning for new undertakings. We appreciate your candor, Mattieus Ottick. And we will consider your well-tendered request."
Mel felt her eyebrows shoot up on hearing Ott's full name for the first time. Someone had been doing his research, and it was obviously not her. She wondered what else she didn't know about him. And she realized with embarrassment that what she didn’t know about him was certainly more than she could claim to know about him. Ott bowed again, and she stared at him like he was a stranger.
Her father continued, "We have some preparations to complete before our departure. If you will excuse us." Mel felt her mother's considering eyes on her, assessing her sudden alliance with this stranger. Undoubtedly, they had to settle themselves, which included donning their masks, something they'd prefer to do without an audience. Mel felt restless, not joining them. She still had one foot in their world, but she preferred to remain half-apart from them. Or so she thought. When the door closed behind them after they filed out followed by Guyse, Mel turned to Ott, narrowing her eyes. To his credit, he looked sheepish, shrugging his big shoulders, running a hand across his freshly shaven jaw.
"Did you just ask me to marry you?" she said.
He swallowed. "In a way."
"Yes," she said with narrowed eyes. "In a way." He sat in the chair her mother had occupied, took her hand, and pulled her between his knees.
"You're angry," he said. It was more of a question, hesitation and uncertainty in the rise of his voice. Unknowingly, his fingers tightened their hold on hers. She felt his fear and a kind of power over him, which she didn't necessarily want. It discomfited her that his entire future happiness rested on simple words that needed to come from her throat, from her tongue, from her lips.
She shook her head. "No."
He swallowed and looked a little sick. "No, you won't marry me?"
"No. I mean, no, I'm not mad," she clarified. He exhaled.
"So, you would marry me?" While she thought about it, wrestling with her uncertainty, he said, "Do Masks marry?"
"I'm not a Mask anymore," she said immediately, though more to convince herself of it than anyone else. Then she shrugged, realizing it wasn't a question of what she was, but rathe
r what convention she'd been raised with. "Yes, some marry."
"Like your parents," he said. And then looked astounded when she told him they weren't married. "Not married?" He looked baffled, and she felt a divide widen between them. She realized that she knew nothing about him or his own parents. The fact was, she would marry him, in whatever belief system he chose. The fact was, she felt married to him already, in a way. She wasn't certain if she was ready to say the words aloud in front of witnesses. Words felt empty to her. She wanted to show him by her commitment, by her unfailing, steady presence by his side as years rolled by. But, looking down as his face, already etched in her mind, imprinted on her, she knew he needed the words. It was this task that they were doing this morning that heightened his sense of purpose and desire for her commitment. It was this godforsaken task of meeting with the trogs and seeing what their demands were. The word suicide floated into her mind. They might fail. He needed to hear the words from her, as uncomfortable as they made her feel. As forced as they felt.
"Yes, I would marry you," she said. Another big gush of air escaped from his lungs, a breath of relief released. Then she gave what she knew had to be a wicked grin, "If you ever asked me."
Before he could respond, the door swung open and her father said, "Ley'Amelan, we would have you join us now." It was not a question. And Mel's heart sank. If her parents insisted that she take up her Mask again, she would not deny them, at least for this task. She had committed to it from the start. She had taken the oath, and if she were held to it by others, by her parents, she would cave to the tradition ingrained in her. But, she would find a way to make it all work. To be a Mask and to stay with Ott. She looked down at Ott's face again, who was still stunned by her last words, his green eyes curtained by thick lashes, the scruff on his sun-darkened chin, the scar under it that she had attended with her lips earlier that morning. Her chosen.