Chapter 4: Wilful And Lucky
"Every person is a book, Yael. You just need to find the right way to read them."
Pyren taught me how to hold a knife.
I wasn't allowed to talk to him. He was grown and I was thirteen when I first realised there were things he could teach me. Shana, my mistress the mask-maker, had every reason to distrust him. But I knew of the sort of men she warned. Pyren didn't watch me like the hungry street dogs you saw in the market. He didn't scare me.
They said he came from Darmelifad beyond the Sarres sea, one of the unmasked lands where the spectres couldn't reach. But to me his accent didn't sound quite as foreign as everyone assumed.
"If you watch them long enough, eventually, they'll give themselves away," he said to me once when I snuck out of the workshop to his lonely cottage on the outskirts of Thalmina. "You let them talk, always let them talk. Not just with their words, but also with their body. With the little details in their clothes and how they wear their masks. They talk and you listen, and when you speak, always tell them what they want to hear."
"How can I know what they want to hear?" I asked, twirling the knife over the backs of my fingers. A game Pyren taught me.
"They'll tell you. They always tell you. If you watch and listen, you'll know."
"Did they teach you that in Kalmisia?" It was my guess. Kalmisia was the smallest territory of Vynam far in the south.
He froze and looked at me with newfound interest. Up until that day, he had only been bragging when he taught me his knife tricks and how to earn the trust of honest people. Now, though, he searched my face with something akin to respect.
And fear.
"How did you know?" he asked after a long moment.
"I saw your scar."
"My scar?"
"Just the one on your forearm which you hide with the blue band. The bite marks."
"That was just from a dog."
"It's too wide to be any normal dog. It's a Kalmihound bite, isn't it? Uncle Dedn had a bite like that."
"There're Kalmihounds in the north."
I nodded. "Sure there are. The scar was the first hint."
"And the next?"
"The band you use to cover it."
Pyren raised his arm, looking at the light blue band.
"That colour of dye," I said, eager to flaunt my knowledge. "The mask-maker calls it celeste, it comes from Ayeroot, which you can only find in Kalmisia. She used to be able to buy it in powders, but then the Ericace lords wanted to increase their export of wools and cotton, so she has to buy the cloth already dyed and the mask-maker says that she wouldn't even mask her enemies in Kalmisian cloth. No one in the north is masked in celeste anymore."
He looked at the band and laughed. "You know your dyes, mask-maker's apprentice. But that doesn't mean I couldn't have simply bought the cloth before coming north."
"When you're cross," I continued. "You put the emphasis on the second syllable of every word. Just like Duvert Sormental, the Kalmisian poet who read to us during the Autumn festival last year."
I defeated him. I saw how his eyes brightened when he looked at me. I sometimes—rarely—received the same look from the mask-maker. "You're a natural," Pyren said, a wide smile cutting into his cheeks.
Three years later, two riders wearing Fel masks, one of a tiger, and one of a lion, rode through Thalmina. They didn't stop at the tavern, or pause to replenish their horses. They rode as if the spectres were on their tails.
Soon after they departed, I noticed a plume of smoke rising from the direction of Pyren's cottage.
When I arrived there later that evening, I discovered the smouldering remains of his cottage. His body I found by the little stream that ran down from the hill right by his home. His hand was in the water. His throat and face were swollen purple, so bloated, I wouldn't have recognised him if it weren't for his clothes and the scar on his arm. There was something green that looked like moss all over his arms and back.
I always wondered what secret Pyren had taken to his death.
And whatever in the world had brought him to Thalmina
***
With the execution over, the market was grudgingly getting back to its activity. Vendors began to set up their stalls in grim silence. Burly boys lifted vegetable-laden crates onto tables. Salesmen and saleswomen unpacked carts, setting cheeses and pies on display. Klesei market proper was mainly a food market, selling vegetables, cheeses, hams, bread and fish. Merchants with more precious wares had their shops in the buildings surrounding the square where they were better protected from the thieving hands of Kelsei's many impoverished children.
I passed through the dispersing crowd, mindful of who I was pretending to be. Mindful of the steward watching my back. Mindful of the body of the young woman I had left naked and unmasked in the same place where I murdered her.
The image of my father's legs twitching flashed through my mind.
My heart was beating faster than my lungs could breathe. My stomach twisted. I hastened my steps. A drop of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I hurried, behind a fruit stall, to the farthest wall of the square where empty crates and piles of waste were left for the sweepers to clean during the night.
I braced my arm against the wall as I heaved. Bile stung my throat but nothing came out.
I needed to get out of Klesei right now. The fancy I had a moment ago, that I would somehow take the place of Lady Dylana, had already been discarded. Other than her name, I didn't know anything about her. A human being couldn't just be replaced, no matter the mask she wore.
I had to get ahold of myself and get away from here, before—
"Lady Dylana?"
I turned too quickly, the back of my hand flying to my lips. It was the young Phasiani lord with the peacock mask.
My muscles hardened, ready to run, but the Phasiani lord's body reacted to my own. If I made a move now, he would definitely apprehend me. When he looked into my face, though, there wasn't even a trace of suspicion, only a sympathetic smile. "You don't like the sight of death?" He nodded, answering his question for me. "You shouldn't have gone so close to the dais. That's no place for a lady. Come, before Afali throws a fit."
I stared at him. I couldn't help it. No one spoke this way to me—the real me. As if I were a child. As if I were fragile. I began my apprenticeship with the mask maker seven years ago, when I was eleven, and I was never again treated like a child, even if I still was one.
He didn't physically restrain me, but as I lifted my hand to push a lock of hair behind my ear, I saw his hand twitch. I wouldn't be allowed to wander off and when I took this lord's measure, I wasn't certain I could escape him.
"Dylana, heed my advice, don't cross Afali."
How would Lady Dylana respond? I didn't know. And who was this Afali? "How did I cross her, exactly?" I asked, straightening my spine.
The Phasiani lord's eyes shifted as he tried to work through my words. "Wandering off in a crowded market square isn't the best way to start things off," he said with a weak smile.
I didn't know what he meant. I thought about running, about surprising him. Surely, he wouldn't know Klesei as well as me. But escaping in broad daylight would place me at immediate risk, and I felt I could still play this carefully. There still wasn't the slightest suspicion when he looked at me. Did I resemble her that much? I doubted it. The only thing we had in common was our thick, long, dark hair and sepia skin—though mine was a shade or two darker.
But I knew that wasn't enough.
This Phasiani lord didn't even know Dylana enough to properly remember her face and voice.
"We best be on our way, my lady," he said, offering me his arm. "Afali's waiting and I'm sure you're exhausted after your journey."
My journey?
I stepped up and snaked my arm through his. While my steps were light, the heat of the morning was beginning to settle and my skin prickled. I thought of how my body must smell like sweat and dust, my hair stank of woodsmoke.
I didn't smell like a lady.
But the lord made no comment. He thought I was her.
"Ah, you found our lost goose, Lord Euriys," said a tall Cervi lady in a dress of pale green. Her mask was a yellow gold overlain with intricate rose gold lace and studded with small green beryls where her eyebrows would be. On the corner over each eye, Lord Aspertin's symbol of a screaming stag was imbedded in the gold, studded with more beryls as its eyes. Beryls and gold—Lady Afali was Aspertin's only daughter, next in line as head of the Cervi and ruler of Velamia. She too showed absolutely no hesitation when addressing me. There were three other lords surrounding us, and the servants, whether intentionally or not, stood in such a way that if I broke into a run now, I had no clear route of escape.
But Afali didn't suspect a thing about my identity. Why would she even be here, at an execution, and have any interaction with a lowly Desmelasian lady?
"Come, Dylana," she said to me. "I believe your rooms are ready."
My rooms. I was a guest to the very lord who killed my parents.
She offered me her arm, and I had no choice but to move away from Lord Euryis and on to the new arm I was to ride upon.
We were flanked by two blank-faced servants, both wearing bottle-green satin masks with Aspertin's stag embroidered in gold thread near the corner of each eye.
Lady Afali gripped my arm and dipped her head close to mine. "Your father warned us you were wilful, dear Dylana. Your behaviour today might have gone unpunished in that little sheep farm that passes for a Vynam state in the south. But not here. If you cannot learn your place as my ward, I will show you your place. Do you understand?"
Ward. Ward.
Ward was a nice word the lords used for hostage. I wasn't a guest. Wards had no rights, and were at the mercy of the lords who held them hostage. I was Aspertin's tool. Short of killing me, he and his daughter could do anything to me.
I should've run when I had the chance.
"Do you understand, Lady Dylana?" Afali asked me again. She was expecting a reply.
"I—I understand."
I was a prisoner to house Cervi.