Penumbra: The Poisoned Past, Book Two

By E.M. Prazeman

Lord Jester Lark is desperate to escape Cathret before the forces arrayed against him find and claim him. He's surrounded by danger, but the worst of it comes from within himself and those who are trying to save him.

The Duchess Gzem Kelleisen searches for her missing son while delivering messages across battlelines. Her work becomes even more dangerous when she attracts the attention of a man who once knew her, who loves her.

When Lark and Gzem's paths cross, it will change the course of their futures forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyrd Goat Press
• Release date: Oct 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370312221

E.M. Prazeman

EM Prazeman is, of course, a pseudonym. The person behind the Mask Trilogy is a Czech refugee from the '68 invasion living in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, indulging an ancestral love for writing, painting and gardening. EM has studied mathematics and engineering, judo and karate, and isn't a bad shot. But can't throw knives worth a damn.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Mark

Jeffrey gripped Mark’s left elbow and Winsome had an arm around him on his right. The pair of them all but carried him across pebbled earth. Step up, Winsome warned in a tight whisper and they hoisted him up a pair of steps, and then they crammed close against him as they worked through a narrow door. Even blind, Mark could sense the darkness in the house and the lateness of the hour.

Where are we? Mark whispered.

Quiet. Lady Winsome Evan, sharpshooter and war veteran, softened the ‘t’. They were probably near the servant’s quarters and she was the sort of person to think of what consonants most readily traveled to the ear. The air carried the weight and scent of a grand house that no amount of help could keep completely free of dust. A dozen more up, she whispered into his ear and they awkwardly climbed the bare board treads. Jeffrey crowded in behind and kept a hand on Mark’s waist as Mark bumped shoulders with Winsome through a stairwell that was probably meant for servants.

Hurry. Lord Jester Bell’s quick whisper came from above and ahead. Mark caught a whiff of Bell’s sweat and his perfume-stained finery. If anyone paid attention to such things, they might suspect that Bell was an islander because those were island perfumes, but then again they were popular on the continent too.

The whole country would be looking for them as word spread of Mark’s escape. It would only take one person’s vague suspicions to bring in the local mavson and an army of sacred guards to investigate Bell and everyone with him.

They really ought not to be in a manor house, but Mark didn’t dare protest as they worked through a doorway at the top, turned down a hall with a soft rug, and then bustled him through yet another doorway. Bell shut the door and blew out a long sigh of relief. Well, he said, more casually but still quietly. Let’s hope no one was looking out the window.

At two hours after midnight? That was Lady Jesteress Feather. Mark hadn’t been blind for long but already he could hear by the quality of her voice and how it filled the room that there was a lot of furniture, and a large rug, and other doorways. A fire hissed and groaned, its warmth brighter on one side of his face than the other, the fragrant smoke spiced with the distinctive scent of fir. It had been a long time since he’d smelled smoke like that. His mind returned to his youth at Pickwelling, and he betrayed himself with a brief longing for Gutter and Lord Argenwain, for card games and history lessons, before his impatience to be home seized him again.

Have a seat here, Winsome told him, and she and Jeffrey eased Mark down into what felt like a loveseat. Silk covered the cushions. Jeffrey let go but Winsome settled close beside him and took his hand.

Mark didn’t want to sit but he could hardly cross the room without tripping, never mind leave the house without their help. Whose house is this? What are we doing here?

My dear friend, we’re getting some decent sleep in the guest rooms of a certain widower who takes on wealthy travelers to help pay upkeep on the estate. He’s kept our hired horses from our stop here on the way to Keredon, and we’re to have them back in exchange for the ones he loaned us, for a handsome fee of course, Bell told him. Brandy?

No, thank you. They’d already abandoned the coach Bell had stolen, and hid it off the road in the woods. While Mark had stayed blindly beside the coach with Winsome, his mind still in shock from bearing the shell of the Gelantyne mask, Feather and Bell had taken the coach horses away and had returned with their current carriage along with four fresh horses. In the carriage for the past ­– he didn’t even know how long they’d been traveling – he’d been inside with Winsome, Jeffrey and Feather while Lord Jester Bell had driven the team. Once Mark had regained enough of his senses to wonder, Winsome had assured him that they’d get him home, but had offered no details as to how they were supposed escape Cathret. Though Mark could now think beyond run and I’m going home, he understood that he still couldn’t sail his thoughts on a true course even if he’d wanted to. How far are we from the border and how are we going to cross it?

We’re going by sea, by a post vessel, Bell told him.

Mark had long passed the point of exhaustion but this news shocked through his nerves and roared in his mind like an angry crowd. No. That won’t be possible. The first thing they’re going to do is check every single vessel for us.

They won’t find us, Bell assured him. We have allies to assist us. Smoke?

No I don’t want a smoke. He needed to get home. He pulled his hand free from Winsome’s grasp and ran it through his greasy hair. He wanted to wash but he wanted out of Cathret far worse. Post ships aren’t supposed to carry passengers, not under any law of safe passage during war in any nation.

You’re worried about breaking a law? Bell made a scoffing noise. This is a trusted, regular visitor to Hullundy Bay. I’ve made all the necessary arrangements. You don’t think I’d come this far only to trip over my own feet. Bell took a pair of steps and then metal scraped on metal. The fire crackled. He was stirring it.

No, he’d want a smoke. He was fetching a coal. Mark’s temper began to smolder. You don’t understand the lengths to which they’ll go to get me back. It was hard enough for me to leave Cathret the first time I’d been pursued to a port. This … this is going to be much harder. Docks … there are only so many ways to get onto them. Won’t every guard, sacred and otherwise, question everyone trying to board a ship until I’m caught?

Well of course we’re going to have to sneak on board, Bell told him. A bit of smoke that had escaped the hearth reached Mark’s senses.

Maybe he’s right. Winsome took Mark’s hand and held it again. It steadied him, but he felt her love for him as an unwelcome tenderness in the pressure and caress of her fingers alongside his. We still have the battle line route. It might be more certain than reaching the post ship.

You have a way through the battle lines? Mark asked.

We have a way of getting messages through, Bell told him. If necessary, the Jessrill army will fight their way to us and bring us back.

Gzem, a duchess of Saphir and Gutter’s former mistress and friend, was running messages between the Jessrill and Saphir, and, he suspected, across the battle lines too. A messenger could be imprisoned or executed if they were caught moving anything other than messages across battle lines, so he didn’t dare ask for her help, but she would know what to do. He trusted her.

When they’d changed horses he’d had Bell send a very short, barely coded note to her by express messenger. They’d hoped the message would arrive at the battle lines ahead of the news of his escape.

Because of his escape, for the first time in two centuries the alarm bells had rung at the Celestial Citadel. He feared that all messengers, who were usually permitted to come and go as required, would be stopped and questioned. Perhaps the Church wouldn’t go so far, but just in case his note was opened, he hoped the words would seem innocuous enough. If we can send messages south in secret, I’d like to post an actual letter. Actually, I want to send quite a lot of letters. Just in case they were caught. Just in case he died. Verai would want one last letter, and so would Ellen. He couldn’t think of Ellen as an adopted daughter anymore. She’d become so much more to him than duty and guilt.

If you want to send letters home, I’m rather hoping that we’ll get there ahead of them, Bell said. But, it might be wise, just in case. At least Bell took the danger they were all in seriously.

If it was two after midnight … We have to leave before the cooks get up to bake bread. I need to write my letters now and then we have to leave.

We arrived at eleven, Bell informed him. Leaving so early would arouse suspicions. No, it’s much better to get a good night’s sleep and leave, oh, about ten in the morning. After we’ve had a good breakfast.

How are Lark and Jeffrey going to get to the carriage without being seen? Feather sounded uncharacteristically pensive. They’d taken her in wearing one of Winsome’s dresses and apparently Bell had claimed her as his niece.

There’s only a handful of servants and I intend to keep them quite busy, Bell said. I have it all planned. And, we have duplicate dresses. His teeth made a soft clack on what Mark guessed was his pipe. Sure enough, a moment later he sucked and puffed on it.

Duplicate dresses? Feather sounded as apprehensive as Mark felt.

People see what they expect to see, Bell said around his pipe. We have two essentially identical dresses, one which fits Lady Evan, and one which we hope will fit you, l’jeste. We have a dark wig, and we’ll make him up. The disguise won’t hold for more than a glance, but that’s all anyone will get past the sun veil. And if it’s not sunny, well, they can wonder. But it was quite nice weather today so I’m hopeful. Once we get Lark to the coach, I’ll bring the dress back in a small bag, we’ll get Jeffrey out there. I hadn’t planned on going back and forth but with Lady Evan to help obfuscate our comings and goings we’ll manage. The distinctive scent of headache leaf curled through Mark’s senses. The air around him seemed to swell and a moment of dizziness tried to claim him. He rubbed his hands over his face to try to get some focus back.

You’re trembling, Winsome noted gently. Are you cold?

He’s exhausted, Feather said. We all are.

Do you have paints, Mark asked, and then he realized that was a stupid question. Of course Bell would have paints. In my colors, he amended. The smoke began to relax him. Like that night at the party, the night he’d been taken from the islands and imprisoned, the smoke from Bell’s pipe and his own weariness threatened to send him into sleep, or waking dreams. He barely managed to hold on to his reason.

You want your mask? Bell sounded surprised.

I can’t think, Mark admitted. Mark and Jeffrey had escaped the cell, the two of them and Feather had been miraculously rescued from the Celestial Citadel, and Bell and Winsome had stolen him out of Keredon before his enemies could organize well enough to stop them. He should have been ecstatic. Maybe his blindness was affecting him, but now it seemed inevitable that they’d all get caught and he wanted to be able to plan on his own. As much as he liked and admired Bell and Winsome, they didn’t know the mainland or understand the vast resources that the Church had at its disposal, and then the military and of course private citizens would soon be involved in the hunt. Jesters would start to make unexpected calls on their neighbors, hoping to catch a traitor in the act of aiding him. Blood scouts and spies, formerly devoted to finding military enemies, would abandon their duties to hunt him down. There had to be a way out, but with his eyes burning and his mind sloshing like mud inside his skull, he wouldn’t be able to find it. At the very least he’d like to consider Bell’s plan rationally instead of groping his way through it. And I’m more likely to be worth something better than a drunkard in the morning.

I might be able to help with the blindness, Feather offered.

A silence followed, filled only with the soft sounds of the fire.

You can do that? Winsome asked before Mark could ask for himself.

Maybe. The word sounded timid.

I’ll fetch my paints, then, Bell said. But don’t be too long at it. He paused. Are you sure you won’t have a brandy?

I’ll have a small one, Feather said. And I hope you’ll lend me your pipe. My head is pounding.

Winsome let out an irritated sigh.

Mark had to tell her about Rohn before the mask took hold. He didn’t trust that his mask would treat her with the gentleness and compassion she deserved. He didn’t want to think about it, much less try to convince her of Rohn’s death – and she would need convincing.

Maybe the mask wouldn’t bring it up. Maybe it would wait until … when? He couldn’t wait until they were at sea, could he? She might consider his keeping it from her for so long a betrayal.

Feather sauntered over while Bell’s heavier stride carried him away.

A door opened from across the room. Feather’s hands came to rest possessively on Mark’s shoulders. You’ve been very quiet, Jeffrey. She drew softly on the pipe. The suction sounded surprisingly sensuous. It seemed the jesteress had rediscovered her usual sultry confidence.

Mark heard Jeffrey move, and then a chair creaked. It’s not my place to say anything.

What is your place? Feather asked.

I’m his valet, and, I figure, something else, if it’s okay with him.

Interesting. The pensiveness was definitely gone, and Mark heard a smile in the warmth of Feather’s voice. Something inside Mark went still and cold when he thought of what Jeffrey might have meant by ‘something else.’ He wondered if it would make Winsome angry and ashamed of him for cheating on Verai, and worse, what Feather would assume about him. That I’m a staghorn? Perhaps she knows. Maybe she won’t care, or will care only as far as she can use it to manipulate me. Does she know about Verai?

Hells, does she know about Ellen and if she does, will she suspect Ellen’s true identity?

Bell returned and his wood case clacked down on a wood table near the loveseat. A hint of a brandy’s scent and the mineral-scented oily paint fumes touched Mark’s face. Well I’m going to bed, Bell said. Glass clinked against wood near the loveseat. Winsome, you should get some rest as well. Jeffrey, you’ll take good care of Lark, I assume? If Bell meant to be funny, he failed. That door over there leads to your bedroom. Winsome, I hope you don’t mind sharing with Feather. If you prefer, she can stay with me.

Really? Feather purred between puffs on the pipe.

You’re quite lovely, but sleep is the better temptress. You’ll be safe from me.

But will you be safe from me? Her mouth made a slippery sound on the pipe.

Bell chuckled. I strongly suspect so, yes. But thank you for the bit of flattery. His words came off somewhat flat. Feather no doubt caught the rebuff but it was subtle enough that Winsome and Jeffrey, who had no jester training, probably missed it.

I’m sure Lady Evan and I will be comfortable, Feather said smoothly. If you don’t mind, of course.

No. Winsome rubbed her hand down Mark’s back. I don’t mind.

Goodnight, ladies, jester, and all. After a few strides Bell shut the door. Mark felt strangely alone with these women who wanted so much of him, but then he remembered Ambrose’s voice in his ear, tenderly telling him you’ll never be alone again. He started to reach, to caress the design that had been tattooed around his right eye, but managed to resist touching it. He didn’t want to learn its scope. It only delayed the inevitable, but he hoped he could resist becoming the slavish thing Feather had become when the priests had forced a tattoo on her beautiful face during her captivity. Here she seemed better. Here and in the carriage, as far as he could discern from her voice and touch, she wasn’t that different from the young woman he’d met in Perida two years ago.

You need a shave first, Feather told him. We’ll wash that lovely face, and your hair, and your body. The way she said body so possessively made him want to frown, but he hid the tension away. Before we bare that handsome chest of yours, don’t you have something to tell Lady Evan?

Winsome would see the scar on his chest.

What? Winsome wisely sounded suspicious.

Or shall we wait until you have a mask? Feather asked.

Feather’s insistence made him want to refuse. Besides, Winsome would want some privacy. Feather was no friend of hers, and Jeffrey was a stranger to her. She wouldn’t want to cry in front of them.

Guilt shadowed his mind as he realized that as long as he was blind, he wouldn’t have to see Winsome’s expression.

Maybe she wouldn’t believe him, or at least not at first.

Lark? Winsome was usually better at identifying the difference between Mark as himself and when he acted as Lord Jester Lark. Then again, perhaps he didn’t know himself anymore. I won’t allow her to bully you if there’s something you’d rather keep to yourself.

He can’t honorably keep it from you. Feather sounded subdued, but he sensed an edge to her words, as if she wanted Winsome and Mark both to feel pain and grief.

It seemed inevitable that Feather would either manipulate the situation until Winsome insisted that Mark tell her, or that Feather would tell Winsome herself. If someone had to do it, he wanted it to be him.

Now that he contemplated telling her, Rohn’s loss slashed fresh wounds through him. Mark’s recollection of the pain he’d suffered when the bond had been broken had faded, but the excruciating memory of Rohn’s heartbeat staggering, stopping, starting and then failing altogether remained perfect, as if he’d experienced it moments ago. He listened to the single heartbeat within his ribs for a few pulses before he began. This loss is ours to share. She would doubt and he didn’t want to convince her. He didn’t want to believe it himself but he had no choice. He’d felt Rohn die. Rohn … his heart failed. He’s ... he … when I … when they did this, she had no idea what he was talking about, he realized, they broke our bond and it killed him. He couldn’t force himself to say anything more.

If it hadn’t been for an allolai’s unwelcome interference, Mark would have died too.

For a moment all he heard was her soft breath, first through her nose and then her mouth. What are you talking about?

Let me show you, Feather said grimly, and began unbuttoning his vest. It was a servant’s vest, white, they’d said. He didn’t know if it was true. He moved his hands in Feather’s way and took over the work himself. The tiny buttons released easily to his touch.

Mark, you’re scaring me. She knew it was him, then, or maybe before now he’d had a vestige of a mask that had faded to nothing with his confession. Feather unwound his plain neckerchief and Mark stripped off the vest, then pulled off his shirt. It’s not possible. There’s no way he can be dead. It has to be a trick. Even, even if something happened, no news of it would have reached … She stopped abruptly, perhaps remembering that Mark and Rohn could sense each other’s heartbeats, or maybe she noticed his scar.

The loss of Rohn’s heartbeat kept him from lying to himself, kept him from hoping that Rohn was still alive. He wanted those memories to be false. He wanted them to be gone but they kept repeating: Rohn’s heart beating out-of-time with Mark’s at first, then erratically, louder and louder and seemingly stronger but then the frantic, powerful rhythm faltered and finally stopped. Again the memory began and Mark tried to will it to change, to imagine that Rohn’s heart kept beating. Even if Mark’s own remained forever silenced, that would have been a better end but he couldn’t escape how things had really ended in that dark ritual chamber.

Winsome’s breath came in gasps. What is that?

Feather touched his chest with unwelcome intimacy. It’s the scar from a broken bond. This is the scar of a broken heart, and a wounded soul. It’s the scar left from your husband’s death. The last word barely touched the air but it stabbed into Mark’s body like a long needle.

No, Winsome whispered.

Now they bore the knowledge together. Rohn had become a rotting darkness inside them. No more quick, subtle smiles. No more quiet mornings basking in his presence. No more family dinners with him seated, ever-formal, at the head of the table.

She loved Rohn like Mark loved him, maybe more because she had no one like Verai in her life. Mark could only guess at the intimacy they’d shared during their marriage. Winsome had borne Rohn’s son. She’d embraced Rohn night after night, and like Mark she knew him as the tender-hearted soldier with armor that he shed only when he was alone with the people he loved, and sometimes not even then. Winsome set her hand on Mark’s head. The light pressure threatened to crush him.

It can’t be. Her fingers smoothed over his hair.

Maybe it’s better if you don’t believe. Mark had no choice, but Winsome did.

You felt his heart fail. Winsome drew away just a bit, enough that they sat apart, untouching.

You still have each other, Feather said. And we still have a war to win. How was it during the war, Lady Evan? How did you survive such losses before?

He doubted she’d had such a loss before, but Mark kept that to himself.

I fought, Winsome said shakily. And I protected the people who remained.

Lark needs your protection. Feather crossed the room. And Lark, Lady Evan needs yours. She returned with water. It sloshed and made musical noises as she dipped a rag in and wrung it out. We need to make sure she makes it home safely.

Rohn wouldn’t be there, but Verai would be.

Assuming the Meriduan Islands were still free and Verai wasn’t killed in a battle.

Feather began gently washing his face. Mark took the cloth from her and washed it roughly himself. I can shave you, Feather told him.

I can manage. I learned to shave in the dark.

Hmm.

Winsome stood up and went away, her soft footfalls wandering the room as he shaved and washed. He washed his hair, brushed his teeth, scraped under his nails but he still didn’t feel clean. He couldn’t see the scar on his chest but he sensed it as a stain that would never scrub off or fade.

Now, said Feather, setting in front of him. Let me see if I can do something to wake up those beautiful green eyes.

Can you really do it? The implications behind her words made him uneasy.

I’m a mask maker.

Yes, I remember.

I can see your soul. It’s very sensitive to masks. Why shouldn’t I have the skill and the means to restore your sight? She spoke so openly of her Sight. Did that mean that they weren’t being watched by sacred beings?

He wondered if she could have restored his lost memory sooner with a mask. He wouldn’t have known to ask even if she’d been in Perida to help him.

With your permission, she said, and cupped his face with cool, dry fingers. She caressed his right cheek with her thumb. He could almost feel her gaze like a brush of her lips across his brow, and then to his nose, and mouth, and throat.

He was about to object to anything that might be a death mask, but with paint the risk was much lower than a separate object that covered his face, and if he could see again … I need my mind cleared more than my sight. I know I’m missing things. Things that might get us all killed if I can’t remember them in time, things I can’t consider as I should.

I think I can manage both. That smile returned to her voice. But masks can only do so much. You have to rest, and heal. Close your eyes. I’ll paint them first.

Mark closed his eyes, the darkness leading only to more darkness, but it soothed him. He hadn’t realized how much his eyes had burned and ached until he gave them respite. His breaths deepened against his will and his consciousness sloshed around in his head like ocean swells.

She used various brushes on his lashes, on his lids, on his eyebrows and cheeks. She applied the paint with perfect pressure, as he might work his own face but with much greater confidence. She could stroke a flawless line or perfect curve with a freedom he witnessed Gutter employ many times while painting. You’re tense, she said. Jeffrey, come here and rub his shoulders, will you? She sucked on the pipe from time to time. The smoke enveloped him, calming him. Brandy? He heard the glass lightly scrape as she lifted it. Her breath made a faint fluting sound as she breathed into the glass, and her lips a tiny sucking sound as she drew the glass away. The cool glass touched his lips. He took it from her hand and he tasted it. It wasn’t bad, though as always it was unpleasantly strong, a wine forever ruined for him. She drew a breath and smoke blew across his face as Jeffrey’s hands settled on his shoulders.

Stop blowing it in his face, Winsome told her sharply. He said he didn’t want smoke.

Do you want me to stop? Feather asked him.

He really didn’t. He reached out carefully and touched her face while Jeffrey dug into his shoulders with strong fingers. Mark’s fingertips smoothed over her perfect skin. He couldn’t feel the tattoo like he could on his own face. It had healed. Her cheek was round with a smile that made him wonder if she intended to turn him into a toy for her amusement. Stop playing. He set his hand down on his knee. Do as you promised, or I’ll have Jeffrey wake Bell and I’ll have him do it.

"Bell can’t do this. He might make you pretty, but this is deep work that requires a certain way of seeing. She painted something under his left eye and something woke in him. How’s that?"

Was that a red glow? Perhaps light from the fire showed through his eyelids. Better I think.

It looks better. She began working more quickly. And you sound better.

Do I?

Listen to your own voice. It’s already stronger, and you’re fighting back. You were such a rag doll when they first brought you in.

He was glad that Jeffrey and Winsome were here, or he wouldn’t have dared trust Feather. He remembered their kiss on the night of his debut, and wondered what she might try if they were alone. Not that she’d get far. He could contemplate another kiss, maybe, even caresses, but when it came to the act she’d be disappointed if she expected anything from him. Jeffrey, though, would be in danger, especially if he kept rubbing Mark’s shoulders and neck in that pliant, inviting way.

But the whole point of having this mask painted on his face was to plan, not to think about sex.

They’d suggested a battle line crossing. Mark didn’t like the idea of so many people risking their lives in what would be an ugly battle, just to get him to the right side of the border. There had to be another way. Tell me about the situation at the border, he said.

It’s been quiet. Winsome sounded subdued. No doubt she was still trying to decide if she believed Rohn was dead. Or so they’d told us when we arrived.

How did you get across?

They snuck us through the woods. It’s a remote area, between a small village with a manor house to the south, and a town to the north that’s part of some important ducal territory. The way she spoke, she didn’t know or care which duke. Bell would know. She took a breath and went on, as if she could hear Mark thinking. Bell said something about the duke being dead, and his wife perhaps was not too sad about it. Her voice choked off, no doubt thinking of Rohn. He believes the northerners are as much keeping her and her people from defecting to the south as they are protecting the territory.

That sounded promising. Will this road take us the same way back?

Yes. Her voice strengthened at the thought. It’ll take about three days. If Feather can cure your blindness, it’ll be safer for all of us. There are blood scouts and worse all through those woods. Even as far in as we’ll go, we could still run into the enemy. We’ll need your skill at firearms and blade if it comes to a fight.

She made it sound heroic and simple, but the fights he’d been in were anything but heroic or simple. What was it that Bell was saying about the army fighting their way to us?

Lord Jester Legend offered it as a possibility. He may have been joking, but I think he was serious. Much will depend on the situation at the border when we get there. If they can’t get a scout to us, or if that scout decides it’s too risky, they may in fact attack the enemy position and try to get us through in the chaos. Her voice developed a vicious heat. Their side sacrificed a lot of men to get you. I suppose it’ll be our turn to risk as many men to get you home.

Home. Verai. Ellen. He could hardly think about Hevether Hall without Rohn there, and he supposed it did no harm to imagine his master in his office, scribbling away at a letter or going over his books. Gale would be there. She’d dash up to him, tail wagging, dancing with excitement, her pink tongue a bright note against her dark coat. How would Ellen receive him? She was old enough that he doubted she’d forget him in a pair of months, but he didn’t know what they might have told her.

He wondered what they’d told her when Rohn died. What would Verai think? Someone like Rohn, fit, relatively young, shouldn’t have died of a heart attack. Did he have a scar on his chest from it? What had he been doing when he fell? In the darkness of those cells Mark had no idea what time it had been, and so he had no way of calculating what time it had been when Rohn was struck down.

Maybe Verai thought Mark was dead.

Maybe he’d have another lover by the time Mark got back, but Mark didn’t think so.

There’d be so much joy when they met again, or so he hoped.

He was thinking too far ahead.

The paint seemed to be doing its work. He could put two thoughts together without feeling like there was a third and fourth behind him where he couldn’t see them.

He didn’t want to risk the lives of so many soldiers, but the docks were definitely more risky. There were only a few ways onto any given docks, and that made them easy to guard.

Perhaps a rowboat at night.

Still, there’d be a great deal of risk involved. In what port is the post ship waiting for us?

Hmm? Winsome took a breath. Oh. Um, it’s in Port Sestra.

He thought back to the maps he’d memorized during his tutorials on geography. It had to be pretty close to the battle lines, or at least where he had last heard the battle lines had settled. Is there a gazette here?

I’ve already been through it, Winsome told him. There’s no mention of the battle lines moving, if that’s what you’re looking for.

You’ve chosen a port very close to the lines.

Yes, she admitted.

We’re not on the coast road, are we.

No.

What road is this?

What are you thinking? she asked.

I’m thinking that we know several messengers passed us on the road, Mark said. Some of them will go to every coastal town in northern Cathret to try to cut us off from the sea. If we’re not on the coast road, that means they’ll have more time to organize, but I understand why we didn’t take the coast road – it’s the first one they’d expect us to take, the second being one of two pass roads into Hasla. I wonder if they have enough ships to form a blockade across the bay. Not to keep other ships out, but to keep us in. I wonder if they might even prevent any and all ships from leaving port.

They can’t do that, Winsome protested.

Why not? This is the Church. As powerful as the royals and nobility were, the Church was just as powerful, and now they control most of the wealth. They have a potent presence throughout the nation. They’ll do everything they can to trap us in northern Cathret. They have the most powerful navy in the world, second only to our own, so the easiest way to keep us in Cathret is to restrict shipping. Now that open war has been declared on Meridua, they’re free to search or outright attack every seaworthy ship that tries to leave Hullundy Bay. His heart contracted. There’s really nothing to stop them from arresting every Meriduan sailor in northern Cathret and seizing all those ships, post ships or otherwise, at least until we’re caught.

You think they’d go that far?

Did she even have to ask? The bells at the Celestial Citadel rang for the first time in two hundred years. In the following silence, he didn’t sense any understanding from her. Never mind trying to impart how committed the Church was to finding him, then. He’d put it in political terms. It’ll take a month before anyone on the Meriduan Islands hears of a blockade. Why wouldn’t Cathret do it? They might have to relent if there’s political pressure from Vyenne or Osia or whatever other nations might protest the breach of the Post & Neutral Ship Convention but they can certainly get away with it for a while. The Church’s diplomats could stall the other nations for weeks without risking relations. And in the meantime we’ll be trapped unless we can go far enough south that our ship will leave from a port outside Hullundy Bay. He knew what he’d do if he were in the Church’s place. They may start to restrict overland travel as well, at least for the next few weeks. It’s going to take some time for them to organize that. Until then, they’ll have sacred guards and anyone else they can conscript checking everyone on the roads, from royal coaches down to people on foot. And we can’t realistically go cross-country from here to the border. We have to stay on the roads as long as possible. If their coach was checked, they’d be looking for a blond man. The easiest way to fool them would be for me to be made up as a dark-haired woman, not just for a dash to the coach, but for the remainder of our journey. He didn’t like the idea. His sensitivity to masks would make the results unpredictable. Maybe with Winsome as a model. He hoped it would lend him some of Winsome’s competence and steadiness during a crisis.

Before you start to wonder what to do with me, Jeffrey said, breaking his long silence, I have a plan.

Let’s hear it. Feather began carefully painting Mark’s mouth.

I want money, food, and a good satchel to carry it in. He stopped rubbing Mark’s shoulders. I’ll hide until you’re on the other side of the lines, and then when they hear how you escaped I can come out of hiding and I’ll have everything I need to get on with my life. I’ll set myself up somewhere, go by a different name –

There’s a problem with that. Mark’s gut clenched at the thought. Cockatrice.

What about him? Jeffrey asked nervously.

You’ve seen things. You know things. He won’t let you live. Even if he decides he doesn’t care, the Church will care. You seen a side of the Church that they don’t want anyone to know about. You need to come with us.

And if someone comes along to check the coach? They’ll think that I’m you.

Jeffrey had been chosen by Gutter, or Lord Argenwain, or both of them together in part because he vaguely resembled Mark. The thought sickened him. You don’t have a tattoo on your face, and you don’t have the scar, but yes, it’s a problem. Mark thought about how Jeffrey might ride where the footmen on a carriage usually sit and then he could run and hide if he heard or saw anyone coming, but he discarded the idea. With all the noise coming from the coach, Jeffrey would have no warning, and anyone coming up on them would almost certainly see him scurry to the side of the road.

He probably couldn’t keep up with the horses the entire way if he traveled at the edge of the road alongside them. According to Mark’s studies a messenger on foot could outrun an individual horse within a day, but a horse, even at walking pace and burdened with a rider, could easily outstrip a person moving at a walk. Jeffrey would have to trot to keep up, and he couldn’t do that all day.

I guess we’ll have to dress me up like a girl too.

Feather laughed. What a coach of hens Bell will be driving to war. Smoke?

We should be leaving, Mark told her.

Just a little more paint and then we’ll see what your mind realizes. She moved away, and then returned. Let’s try this. Open your eyes, Lark, and tell me if you can see yourself.

He opened his eyes and gazed into the mirror Feather held up in front of his face. He saw a man with forest green emphasizing the hollows around his pale, muddy green eyes. White covered most of his face and bleached out his mouth, and black lines traveled from his brows to his jaw right through his eyes. The simple, striking design both caged him inside the mask and released him from all of his fears. Bell was right. If they ran, without rest, without breakfast, without behaving in every way like a group of wealthy, privileged travelers on some errand of social importance toward the border, then their hosts would certainly mention that a group had left the house in a terrible hurry southward to the next sacred guard who asked about unusual persons. Also, a group like theirs traveling in the middle of the night would undergo special scrutiny. At the moment the Church had no idea what road they’d taken out of Keredon, and whether they were traveling south or east. That was their only and best advantage. They had to travel in the most usual way and at a usual pace to avoid drawing attention.

Besides, his body needed rest. He needed to eat, to drink, and to live, because he might not live tomorrow.

He might lose his freedom and become like Feather.

Feather, who now gazed at him like prey, uncertain if she’d be savaged or killed. She was his kind of animal, though, caught in the same snare though far more tightly. Slowly she relaxed, and lowered the mirror. Brandy?

He’d been holding the glass all this time, warming it in his hands. He drained it. The brandy’s heat quickly spread through him, but rather than make him sleepy it made him want more.

You can see? Winsome asked cautiously from where she stood with arms crossed. Her beautiful blue gown and the fire on her unladylike sun-warmed skin made her into an exotic being that didn’t belong in mortal realms. She had a half-filled brandy glass in her left hand, and the crystal decanter sat close by on the mantle.

Oh yes, he could see the one woman of all women worthy of his master, with that elegant fall of amber hair and those wary blue-gray eyes. He could imagine where Rohn had touched her, how he’d touched her. He could imagine Rohn on top of her, inside her, thrusting with unbound passion and then flipping her, taking her by the hips and pounding into her from behind. Seeding her with a child. A ripple of something animal went through him and his cheeks warmed. His cock twitched. She met his gaze and seemed pinned by him. Lark stood up, stalking her but casually, drawing on his social expertise learned from long practice crossing crowded rooms during parties, or approaching Rohn when his master didn’t want to be disturbed, and every circumstance in between. She lowered her gaze, not shy but cautious. He was well aware of Feather’s gaze, and how Jeffrey tracked his every move. He wanted them to watch him.

He lowered his gaze when he got close. Their eyes seemed to look into the same place, a place their souls shared where Rohn was gone, a place where Winsome had invited him, but he’d left her alone. Now he entered. I’m yours now, he whispered just for her. I’m your jester, if you’ll have me. It was true in so many ways. A widow could inherit her husband’s jester if she wished, though of course the bond would remain with her husband.

Except in their case, the bond with Rohn had been broken.

He hadn’t meant to offer to bond himself to her, but it might save him from Ambrose, and who else would he choose over her? No one. But unlike Rohn, he needed to court her first. He needed to win her. He needed to prove to her that he would be hers completely. He opened his arms to her and when she slid her arms around him he kissed the delicate skin beside her ear and drew her silken body against his bare chest. He kissed her cheek, and then beside her mouth and then their mouths mated and she tasted so good, so warm, like good brandy and honey. Her lips felt as supple and sweet as Verai’s but he could imagine Rohn’s mouth devouring hers and he thought he could smell Rohn’s sweat on her skin. He drew away to ask her if she wanted him but she kissed him harder, her strong body full against his bare skin and he strained to be inside her. The door to her room was close and they backed together against it. He stole her glass of brandy, swigged it, and then they pressed their way inside the luxurious room. He bent and wrapped his hands under her tight ass, hefted her up, carried her to the bed.

She started to struggle with her clothes but he captured her wrist and reached around her. She deserved the gift of time and care and devotion. Carefully he began to unlace her dress, and one sleeve at a time, slipped it free of her shoulders while she nibbled on his throat. The corset underneath cruelly trapped her. He untied the laces at the base and kissed her as he loosened it from bottom to top. Slowly it released her and her breathing deepened.

He led her like a dancer in a waltz to turn around. She braced between the bed and his legs, her hands caressing his thighs while he painstakingly loosened the corset even more. He drew her sleeves of her dress off of her arms the rest of the way, and then released the catches on the front of the corset and tossed it aside. Her dress slid into a sapphire pool at their feet. She sheltered her breasts and he wrapped his arms over hers, delighting in the satin warmth of her back against his chest. He caressed her shoulders with his mouth and drank in the scent of her hair, thinking of Rohn doing the same, and then he tucked his thumbs into her pantaloons. Down they slid as he lowered his body. He marked her back with kisses along the spine as he went. Her body trembled as he drew up behind her. She tried to lean forward onto the bed but he wouldn’t let her. His hips pressed against her ass and fuck, it felt so good, like gracian pooling inside his hips. She started to unfasten her garter belt but he stopped her and led her hand to his servant’s trousers. She stroked along the cloth covering his cock and they both drew a breath together as her touch swelled him near to bursting.

She turned and together they moved onto the bed, Lark close between her legs. She unfastened his belt and worked his trousers off with her hands and then her feet while they kissed. The skin between her thighs was already slippery and his cock stroked against her skin and tickled through her hair. This was all unknown now, and he trembled with fear, with lust, but they came together and the pleasure of delving into that creamy, gripping place inside melted away his fears. Her fingers dug into his back and her legs wrapped around him, first around his body with passion as she lifted her hips against his thrusts, but then her heels hooked behind his ass and pulled with a power he never expected a woman to possess. She was strong, so strong and alive and he was inside her. They could have a child, a child of his own, not the adopted daughter he loved so painfully but a child of his own body. The thought undid him as he surrendered all he thought he was. He became Rohn, her lover, her husband, a father to her child. She gasped something over and over, and then it became his name and please please please and he would have done anything, anything to please her. She cried out and threw her head back into the pillows, her body arched in ecstasy.

He flipped her and her voice softened to moans. He bucked wildly against her, frantic for release and then finally, deep, deep in he lost his soul within her love and forgiveness and spilled with the rippling pleasure of more hopes than he could count.

Lark held her hips in his hands, at peace, but his mind wandered among half-remembered griefs as if he walked once more in the Rythan Gardens at midnight. He slid free and together they settled, her back against his front, their shared scent finer than any perfume. He drank it in gratefully. How she could accept him, the man her husband had loved before her, the man responsible for her husband’s death, was beyond his understanding. How could she love him? He’d never done anything to deserve her.

Jeffrey and Feather were still watching. Lark’s gaze slid to the doorway, where Jeffrey, his arms and shoulders bare, stood close behind Feather. Jeffrey slid his arms under her silk-swathed breasts. Feather gave Lark a look of promise that inspired a flicker of warmth inside him, and then together they retreated.

In minutes Winsome had drifted off to sleep. Lark’s mind was in the other room, wondering what Feather and Jeffrey were up to, as much as he could wonder about anything. The brandy had flooded his head. Carefully he crept out of Winsome’s bed. He used his hands on the bedpost, and then the side table by the door just in case he lost his balance, though the world now felt pleasantly pillowed and soft.

They were in the living room on the rug in front of the fire, the furniture pushed back to make room for them as they kissed. Jeffrey was naked, and Feather’s dress was barely undone. Jeffrey looked past Feather as their lips and teeth teased each other, one eye meeting Lark’s gaze in a clear invitation. So handsome, and she was so beautiful, though her tattooed mask was dark and harsh against her skin. He’d always known she was exquisite, intellectually, but now he felt the curves in her body like a presence inside him.

And there they both were, apparently waiting for him. A smile warmed Lark’s face and that heat traveled down through his body into places that remembered taking Jeffrey in the cell so selfishly. Lark owed him, and it seemed Jeffrey wanted some payment now.

Lark poured himself another brandy. His head felt like it had been stuffed with warm wool and yet he felt pleasantly relaxed and luxuriously lustful. I’m pounded. He remembered Grant, and drinking until they staggered. His friend. Dead because of him.

He didn’t want to think about that.

Why don’t you come closer, and I’ll show you how to please your lady. Feather’s purred words promised quite the education.

Lark smiled. As he managed one unsteady step after another to take her outstretched hand, it seemed as if part of him saw her through the bars of a cell, bars that had been painted on his face. While part of him tried to break out, most of him understood that he’d never been free in the first place, and besides, what better way to make use of his incarceration in this country, in this room, within this mask, than to learn all that a young man should so that he could survive. Worms began to crawl under his skin, but he ignored the unpleasant sensation. It was just a tic, a familiar one, dulled by brandy and made ordinary through experience. He bowed, took her hand, and traced his lips over the knuckles of her hand. Feather rewarded him with a dainty, girlish blush. Teach me, he breathed.

CHAPTER TWO

Gzem

Gzem took off her hat, unbound her hair, and fluffed it so it would dry in the sunshine that poured through a blue window among the clouds above her. She ought to stop and dry her horse’s back as well, but she had to hurry.

Someone was hunting her.

Hurrying through mountain passes didn’t involve racing at a break-neck gallop among the rocks, though twenty years ago she might have tried just that. She knew how to wear out the other person’s horse, how to maneuver into an advantageous position where she could confront them while minimizing her exposure, and how to lose even an experienced tracker.

Unfortunately, this person or these people were very experienced, and had learned enough of the same tricks, or similar ones, that she couldn’t quite rid herself of him. Her. Them.

Almost time to try another strategy.

Twenty years ago her heart might have pulsed in her throat and ears, and she might have spent most of her time glancing over her shoulder. This day she enjoyed the sunshine, and contemplated a meal.

She really ought to dry her horse’s back.

Gzem kicked her feet out of the stirrups and stood up on her horse’s hindquarters. Lithaboo, known to breeders as Lithe-at-Brook, was one of her own, as were the two mules that followed along. She found mules invaluable, especially hers. Those two would happily work dawn to dusk and even longer for the promise of an apple, but when they started to fail, truly and honestly fail, they would balk and let her know that to go one step farther would risk serious injury or even death. When they became reluctant, she knew that Lithaboo, who wouldn’t complain until it was too late, had reached the end of what she could achieve.

Rather than kill her, Gzem would fight, but not in the way most nobles did. Her enemy wouldn’t know where she’d hidden until it was too late.

She clucked to the mules and they braced on either side of Lithaboo. Gzem carefully stepped over to Fantai, a dapple mule nearly the size of a mountain draft horse and with the feathered feet to match. He gave her more room to stand, he had an even walk, and he tended to be more careful when she rode or stood on him than Lithaboo.

They moved well above the timberline, where the air was always cold and clear, and the wind pressed with impatient urgency even on relatively calm days like today. What seemed like nearby snow-covered peaks were actually a full day of travel away, if not more. The ground they covered was a mix of coarse, sandy soil and rock. Mostly rock. All around them, jagged edges of stone and long swells of barren slopes blocked what most would expect would be a clear view of the entire world from here.

No sign of her pursuer or pursuers. An inner sense she’d learned to trust over the years warned her that someone was still out there. But they weren’t close. Not unless they’d managed to catch a ride on an eagle. The distance is my ally. What mischief can I manage within the open stretch I’ve been given?

Gzem lowered herself down to sit sideways on Fantai. Whoa, she told her animals gently. Whoa.

They came to an uneven halt.

Gzem stripped them quickly. It would be worse than a bother to load them up again, but she hadn’t flinched from hard work since her youth. She rubbed their backs with their blankets and laid the wool out in the sun to dry. She stripped her cloak off as well and laid it on the rocks.

Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled, or maybe it was an avalanche. Her patch of sun, surrounded by the shadows beneath the clouds, crept across the austere landscape and lit the snow and ice with blinding light.

Gzem sipped some water and poured the rest of the canteen into a leather bag. They frequently came across tiny streamlets among the rocks, so the animals weren’t desperate for water, but gave them a bit to keep their mouths moist until the next one. She nibbled on some hard, dry bread as well, and gave them each a couple handfuls of grain. Just something for their bellies to work on. They nipped the dry, tufted grass that grew only a few inches high. It wouldn’t be enough. Up here, there wasn’t enough for man or animal to live on. Much of the weight they carried over the mountain passes was water and grain. The rest was ammunition, a small amount of bedding, her bow and arrows, and a change of clothes. Her animals were used to the weight and the thin air. For that reason alone she didn’t like to employ any animals but her own for her journeys between Saphir and Cathret. Most couldn’t make it