Masis ached. Every last bit of him throbbed. From his hair and teeth to his fingernails and the soles of his feet, his body protested with a dull, persistent burn. The sensation penetrated beyond the physical, the effort of producing thought even lanced within Masis' mind. Pain dominated his existence. Masis craved for the great black nothingness of his under mind to swallow him up again. Oblivion sounded like sweet release.
Then hands began to shake him, gently at first then more urgently.
He groaned. Even this supposedly benign action felt like whips.
Masis cracked his eyelids allowing shafts of sunlight to spear his pupils. He squeezed them shut. His stomach lurched, ready to heave its contents if any more waves of pain upset it.
"Masis?! Masis?!" Calla's distressed voice kept repeating his name over and over.
As he began to stir, it faltered, but her hands remained on him.
He curled and crawled his way onto his hands and knees, immediately regretting his choice as his stomach again spasmed within him. Even his cheek that had been pressed into the rugs fibers now stung, relieved only slightly as Masis rubbed it.
Calla's gentle hands steadied his body, resting on his back and shoulder. "Masis, what happened?"
Last night? Masis pushed the query into his mind. Last night!
It hit him. The sequence burst on him.
Humphrey. Night Wights. His Father. Mother. Sisters.
Dead.
Somehow the memory surfaced like a night terror, the edges mottled like a fever's fabrication.
He covered his head with his hands, pulling his chin to his chest. It couldn't be real. It couldn't.
He dared peek out.
There they were. Every person he loved in the world piled like kindling. Dead.
He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No! NO!
He began to tremble. Trembling gave way to shaking as the sobs burst from him. Each vomited out of him, his body all too eager to expel the grief.
"Shhh! Masis, I'm here," whispered Calla, pulling him closer to her. "Calla's got you. I'm here."
He buried his face into her lap, muffling his cries into her skirt. His tears ran into her apron.
"What happened Masis?" she asked. "Who did this?"
The question stilled his weeping into shuddering breaths. "Night wights."
An audible gasp escaped many mouths behind him. There were more people than Calla and himself in the room.
"How many are in the room?" asked Masis, whispering.
"Quite a few of the staff and your fath...the steward."
The steward, Masis thought. My steward, now.
The idea threatened to unleash more tears. He fought them back. Pulling slightly away from Calla, Masis' hands came to his face, drying his eyes and brushing away tears. Hands still composing his face, he stood and moved toward the largest window opposite the door, his back kept to the those present. His eyes adjusted to the sun's light as his hands fell away, letting him survey the picture framed within the window's limits. Not a single cloud marred the sky's face.
How ironic, thought Masis, clenching his jaw as his eyes remained on the clear sky.
Sniffs, coughs, and more face rubbing followed before any words came. He didn't trust his voice. When words finally did come, they were subdued and brittle.
"Night wights," he said. "They did this last night." His voice fell apart, broken with grief. Asserting control, he continued. "Calla, could you please see that my parents and sisters are taken and prepared for burial. May they reign in the Grand Palaces Beyond."
The servants intoned the same words back.
"It will be done immediately," said Calla behind him.
Footsteps sounded out behind him as several servants left the room.
"Master Jercons," Masis said, addressing, his steward, still without turning.
"Yes, Your Grace." The man used Masis new title with mathematical precision.
"We have much to talk over." Masis paused to brace himself for the next statement. "This transition must be smooth. The people must not panic because of what has happened here. We must be strong."
His voice broke at the end and his head sank back into his hands.
"Of course," Steward Jercons said. "Out of consideration for your circumstances and age, if you'd like, I can handle all of the preparations."
Straightening, aligning each vertebrae carefully, Masis squared his shoulders. "No," Masis said, turning. "I will see to it. It is my prerogative."
He faced them fully.
All gasped, jerking back.
"What's wrong?" Masis asked, stepping forward bewildered.
All present distanced themselves from him. Calla did so as well, though reluctantly.
"His face," a maid said, pointing, face full of open horror.
"What happened to his eye?" another asked, shrinking back.
"What about my face?" Masis asked, his fingertips desperately searching his skin for any abnormalities. "What about my face?!"
He took a step toward those present, who retreated to the door, terrified expressions on their face.
Master Jercons, the most composed out of the lot, stood in their midst, face calm, almost satisfied. "He's one of the Shadowed."
"What?!" Masis came toward them again, not processing the steward's words.
This time they fled out into the hall, closing the door to seal him into the room.
Turning, Masis scanned the room for any reflective surface he could use to see his face. He leapt to the window, tearing it open to angle its surface into a mirror.
There was his face.
The left portion, pristine, recognizable, normal. His right side held him in place, rooted with terror and panic.
It was his no longer.
The white of his right eye was white no longer. Cavern black, lines now radiated out onto his skin from the dark well, spiraling, elaborate in design, infinite in complexity, extending from his forehead, down his temple, following his jawline to curve back up and end under to his nose, marring half his face.
He had become a Shadow.
Night wights either killed their victims or they would do something far worse: leave them alive—branded, forever set apart, until the day one of the creatures decided to finish the job. No one wanted to be near when night wights appeared to feed, so such individuals were shunned, hated, avoided like death.
Masis had joined their ranks, a pariah no one would think to approach or speak to.
Heart thrumming, Masis fled.
He fled from his reflection. He fled from death, his family's and his own. He fled from himself. And when he reached his room, he slammed the door, in a futile attempt to keep it from catching up to him.
************
A small knock came at his door hours later as the sun sealed the day and its deeds.
He didn't respond.
Another knock came, louder this time.
Again, he didn't say a word.
The door cracked open after a few seconds passed.
"Masis?" Calla's steady voice called. "Masis? Are you in here?"
Light streamed across the floor, falling on the remains of Masis' mirror, now lying shattered and scattered about the floor.
"Masis?" Calla's voice called her voice hesitant but stronger.
The light from the door rapidly shrank as the door began to close.
"I'm here, Calla," said Masis finally, from behind his large bed, the only place in the room not visible from the door. He sat there his back against the wall, arms propped on his bent knees.
"I brought you something," said Calla, her shoe scuffed the floor as she took a step. "You must be hungry."
"Why would you come here?" asked Masis, his voice bitterly low. "Do you know what I have become?"
"You are still my Masis," she said defiantly with tears in her voice. "Nothing, no mark on your face, no tragedy, will ever change that. You are my Masis."
Oh, Calla, Masis thought, fighting back the tears he had only just wrestled into submission. Thank Mona and Mani for you!
She had been his nursemaid while a child, so next to his mother's face hers was a safe haven, a refuge. His mother's soft yet sarcastic face surfaced in his mind. He squinted his eyes closed, clenching his teeth.
Springing from behind his bed, he sprinted around it to stand just in front of Calla. His movement had made her jerk and she dropped the tray she had been carrying to the floor, shattering the plate, its contents flung in different directions.
"I am a Shadow," he bellowed, his pain billowing out from him, contained in those four words. "Masis," he spat, "died with his family. Should have died with his family."
The storm of his emotions broke, pouring from his mouth and eyes, great tears and ragged gasps. He fell to his knees, succumbing to the tempest, wracked with its blasts and strikes. Again, Calla's arms encircled him. They held him until his emotions raged; they held him when he calmed in the eye of the episode; they held him when the final breathy remnants blew themselves out.
"Be still, be still," she said, petting the back of his head, cooing.
Sighing, he collected himself before standing then helped Calla to her feet.
He looked into her eyes and she his without flinching. As ever Calla was a rock, firm, unmoving, steadfast.
"Thank the Palaces Beyond for you Calla." A hint of a smile attempted to appear on his face.
Someone clearing his throat in the room's threshold broke the moment. It was Steward Jercons, bearing a roll of parchment in one hand.
"Give us a moment, please, Calla" he said, motioning toward the door. "We have some matters of importance to discuss."
Calla did as she told, if not hesitantly, retrieving the tray from the floor before she did. She gave one long look over her shoulder before she finally made her exit. Steward Jercons didn't bother to close the door as she left nor did he approach Masis. He kept his distance, his posture inclined away.
"What is it you want to speak to me about?" Masis asked, sizing the man up.
"There's no easy way to put this, so I'll come right out and say it." He cleared his throat. "Your abdication of the House Domrae and the Forest Asthurn."
Masis barked out a disbelieving laugh. "What are you talking about?"
The man didn't flinch at the question. Masis half-expected Master Jercons' face to crack suddenly into a smile and then laughter as he revealed the tasteless banality of his ill-timed joke. The smile never came.
"I've spoken to a few of the lesser nobles and many of the lieutenant foremen," said Steward Jercons, tone even, businesslike. "We all agree that your current state makes you unfit to lead."
"Makes me unfit to lead?" Masis parroted back in perturbed disbelief. "I am Masis Domrae, son of the Duke of Asthurn. Nothing but my death will render me unfit to take my rightful place." His sadness cleared entirely, replaced by a new storm, a growing fury.
"Didn't you, yourself, say you were dead?" Master Jercons asked, eyes wide with anything but innocent inquiry.
"You were listening?!" Masis asked, outraged. "What gives you the right to listen to my private conversations, let alone tell me I must abandon the land that has been my family's legacy for the last millennium?"
He stalked away from the steward. The man sighed as the distance between them grew, but tried to cover with a cough.
Who did Master Jercons think he was? Masis wondered, brow furrowing. My father?
The thought made Masis wince.
Masis paced. How could this man, supposedly loyal to his family, even suggest that he step down? The Domraes had lived in Asthurn since before the Animal War, centuries past. Though only twenty, Masis would shoulder the responsibility as best he could. He had a responsibility.
"I have no intention of leaving," said Masis, turning back to the steward, more controlled. "Especially, now that my entire family is gone." His voice caught. Had it really only been last night when the wighties came and shattered his existence? It felt like an eon and seconds at the same time. "We must show strength. If I left, it would be viewed as cowardice, weakness. I will... No. I have to step into my father's place."
He turned from the steward as to place a period at the end of his statement.
"They won't follow you," said Jercons, softening his demeanor.
"What?" Masis asked, turning back to him.
"The people. They won't follow you."
"I am a Domrae. No mere mark will change that. They will follow me because of who I am."
"My Lord, think!" Steward Jercons struck the palm of his hand with his fist. "You have the benefit of education and experience. You've watched your father govern these lands since birth. You know as well as I how much a little thing can change everything."
Silence. Masis could not argue with the steward's words.
"What do you think would happen if you stayed?" Walking a few more steps into the room he still kept close to the door. "The people will see the mark and embrace you with open arms? If the situation with the staff is any indication, not a single person will come within a league of you when they find out what has happened. You can't lead a people at arm's length, not if you want them to trust you. Your father new that as his father before him. They worked with their people, muddying themselves alongside them. No one will come near you. Even those closer to your rank made it very clear that they will have nothing to do with you."
"How can they even think such a thing?" Masis asked, beginning to deflate, the trenchant words poking holes in his confidence.
"You're marked for death," said the steward, pointing out the obvious. "No one wishes to share your fate when the nightlings come for you. And when you're gone, then what? You are the only heir. Do you wish Asthurn to fall into petty bickering. Squabbles that could even lead to war as the succession is determined?"
He paused and Masis thought he had finished. He hoped he had finished because all he said bore truth's familiar tone.
But still Steward Jercons went on, his words becoming more emphatic. "Such a situation could even come before your death. You are dead to anyone of rank who could recognize you as heir and help you stabilize the situation. You can't even produce an heir, for what woman in her right mind would marry you. In effect, we are leaderless if you insist on staying."
With those final words Masis' world was gone. His family. His Home. His future. Gone in an instant. He sank down onto his bed. One hand came up to his face covering his Shadow mark and eye. For a moment he became the old Masis, without spot, no cursed blot to set him apart. He let his hand fall, revealing his reality. His sentence.
"What do you suggest I do?"
"I brought this," said Jercons said, stepping forward while extending the rolled parchment.
"What is it?" Masis asked, unrolling and scanning it with a subdued urgency.
"It's a document, which when signed will authorize myself and my family after me to manage the duchy of Asthurn until a legitimate heir of the Domrae bloodline presents himself or herself."
Legitimate heir? Masis shook his head. He knew no other heir of his bloodline existed besides himself.
Biting tears grew in Masis' eyes. "In other words, I am to bequeath my birthright to you and your family. Making you the new duke."
"No," Steward Jercons said, shaking his head, if not somewhat reluctantly. "Neither myself nor any of my line would assume the title of duke. We will forever be the stewards of the house of Domrae. The lands would technically be held in trust until, when and if, you or one of your descendants became fit again."
A single breathy chuckle huffed from Masis' mouth. Death was a Shadow's only release. Even the mages had not discovered a way to remove it.
"You always did know how to phrase something just so."
Their words settled to the floor and melted away. Masis' thoughts followed suit. He could not argue with anything his steward had said. No matter how he wished to. He could present no better plan. He had none nor any time to form one. His father once told him that a man always had options. Always two or more choices if he truly looked. Before him stretched a singular path. No branches. No forks. One solitary lane.
"I assume you brought something I can sign away my inheritance with," said Masis, staring up into the steward's eyes.
Jercons produced a short quill and corked ink bottle from his person. He set them on the desk near the door and backed away, always keeping his distance as though he might be tainted by proximity with Masis. Masis moved to the desk, the one his mother insist he have. The memory made him pause to let the heartache pass. Uncorking the bottle, holding the pen just above the rim, the black liquid swam within. He had the thought that he could stab his eye and produce the same murky blend needed to cut the last remaining tie to his identity.
The quill plunged into the bottle of ink. Rising from its depths, it scratched out his full name, Masis Emith Wogilde Domrae. His name became the knife that severed the final cord to his past life.
His father's signet ring appeared on the desk next to the parchment. Steward Jercons again retreated a few steps after placing it there.
"You really have thought of everything," Masis said, his voice low, picking up the metal band.
Only a few hours before it had resided on his father's hand. It should have gone onto Masis' finger until his death then move onto his eldest son's or daughter's. But the line ended with him. He was a blighted branch on the family tree.
He moved the ring to the tip of his finger, hovering, quivering over its rightful location. He shook his head chasing away his fanciful thought. Slapping the ring back to the desk, he snatched his sealing wax up, thrusting it onto a mage made melting stone. It softened, melting, a few drops falling onto the desk's surface. Next to his name he stirred a pool of molten wax, stamping the ring's crest, crossed, twin axes, into the malleable lump. He tossed the ring aside as he finished.
Masis stepped back. "Now, you do the same.
Stepping forward, Steward Jercons signed with efficiency, spun out the wax with exactness, and stamped the steward's mark with precision.
It was done.
Masis turned his back on him, moving to the window.
"Some of those I have talked with have expressed concerns about you staying in Hyrbn, Master Jercons said, his voice filled with a hint more authority than before, as he rolled up the parchment. "They fear your presence might attract attention dangerous to the community."
"So, I'm to lose my family, my birthright, and my home in one day." Masis glanced back at the man. Not a hint of consolation resided in his face as he wielded the rolled parchment like a scepter before him. "So be it."
"Many of the logging camps in Asthurn, as you know, are not occupied," Master Jercons said, backing toward the door, his face like that of a superior tutor Masis once had. "You could move to one of them and I would have supplies sent to you from time to time."
The logging camps. He and his father had gone on patrols occasionally to run off squatters or make repairs on some of their workdays. Laughs, blood, and sweat and been shed on each of those trips as they worked. A father and son toiling beside each other, the labor their language. Could he go back to a such a place? A place heavy with memory, the very air doleful to the lungs.
"No." Masis said, face sinking toward the ground. "No, I'm leaving Asthurn. There's a Shadow colony near the capital. Best kind be with kind."
The steward made no reply. He simply bowed and then left.
Masis just stood there.
The air smelled different. As if he had come into the room for the very first time. Ash from the cold fireplace. Dark evening atmosphere from the window. Dust caught by the furniture. Each had always been there but now they stood out, making his room foreign, alien. Not his own. The light from the doorway seemed brighter. But what it revealed was his no longer. The furniture, the room, the very memories attached to them all. He was a stranger in his own home.
He stripped off his clothing, abandoning them on the floor, replacing them with his worn workday attire—aged leather boots, sweat stained gloves, yellowed linen shirt, mud smeared trousers. He strapped two long and sturdy seaxes onto his belt, his money pouch tied behind one. Tossing on a cloak with a deep cowl, he raised it to hide his face.
The sun had set more than an hour ago, leaving the room in darkness except for the light streaming in from the still open door. He stood in that bright path, just out of reach of the dark shadows, bidding a silent farewell to the place, to the memories, to the ghosts.
His heart near burst with the weight of it all.
He fled out the door, fleeing from those phantoms, those haunting echoes of his family. Flying down the darkened, silent corridor, his boots clicked loudly against the wooden floor. Faster and faster he went. He pushed himself harder than the morning of the bolae match. Down the stairs more recklessly, more headlong, he pressed himself. Passing the breakfast room where mere days before he had watched his mother and sisters struggle to have a civilized meal, his steps quickened. Memories, specters, reminders chased him down every hallway. They chased. He sprinted.
Why had he not died with those shades that now drove him away? Why didn't the ruddy wighties send him to the Grand Palaces Beyond with his family?
WHY?!
The word screamed out in his mind, pushing back the onslaught of memories that every little nook and cranny of his once home brought flooding into his mind. Little moments of playing with his siters, or testing his father's patience, or beating his mother at cards. Things he would never do again.
He had to get away from the memories. The memories and his failure. He had to escape.
And so, he fled.
Finally stumbling in the apparently abandoned kitchen, lit by a fire and a few lamps hung about, he halted. Breath ragged. Eyes darting. The tension in his body drained like sand in an hourglass, one grain at a time. He sought about with his eyes for the provision he would need.
"Masis."
He whirled, sucking in air. Calla stood there, holding a pack.
"Calla, it's just you," he said, letting his breath out. He pulled his cowl off his head.
"I'd thought you'd be coming this way," Calla said, approaching without hesitation. "Trying to sneak out without so much as a goodbye."
"Sneak?" He said, bitterly. "More like escape."
How did she know I was leaving? Masis wondered. Then it hit him. She must have been eavesdropping at the door. Tears pricked at his eyes. Ever steady, Calla.
"Masis, this is still your home," she said, voice firm, not brooking contradiction.
"Not according to the steward. I'm a danger to those around me." He paused, his failure to protect his family stinging in his mind. "He's right. You should stay away from me."
Calla laid the pack firmly on a counter's well scored wooden surface, a strong, clean aroma still rising from it. "You never have nor ever will be a danger to me."
She pulled him into an embrace. As a child she had been much taller and her arms much larger, but, now that he had grown into his skin, he stood a good head over the fearless woman. Even still he became a child once again in those arms.
"Thank the Palaces Beyond for you, Calla."
"And may they guide your feet in your journey."
They pulled apart. His eyes moistening at the sight of her tear glistening cheeks.
She braced herself, banishing her downheartedness with a wave of her hand, wiping her eyes and clearing her nose. "And since I knew you'd be needing food, I packed you something."
Calla handed Masis the pack, as a sad smile rumpled his face.
Just like Calla to think of everything, Masis thought, shouldering it.
"Should you really be traveling at night though?" she asked, her mother-hen rising to the surface.
"No one's out there," said Masis, shaking his head. "And anyone who is will run for their lives when they see me. Those that don't will be my end."
They both knew he meant night wights.
"May Wilo light your path by day," intoned Calla, "and Mona and Mani by night. May Werold, the Great Mother, sustain you true until the end."
They embraced once more. Each shed tears, not trying to mask them. They pulled away after what seemed like hours had passed.
Replacing his cowl, the shadows reclaimed Masis' face, as he moved to the door. The door's bolts, slid away easily, well-greased. The hinges, well-greased as well, allowed the door to open with no protest. Night air coiled about Masis' ankles as he turned back to Calla. The woman who had helped raise him stood there, hands clasped before her, as though in silent supplication.
"Good-bye." His voice caught. "Until we meet in this or the Beyond."
Masis pulled the door closed behind him, the latch clicking into place with finality. A single heavy breath escaped his lips. He shook it away, peering out into the night.
This was foreign territory. Most would only venture out into the night if they had no other choice, either truly desperate or not in total possession of one's faculties. Polras had once convinced him and several of the other lieutenant foremen's sons to sneak out one night when they were younger, insisting it would be some great adventure. They had all jumped at every small sound and flicker of motion, convinced a nightling would jump out at them from every shadow. The foolhardy endeavor had never been repeated.
Traveling down streets normally bustling with activity, now completely deserted, felt wrong. To stay safe at night, one stayed indoors. Masis now did the opposite for the same reason. To protect himself from the stares and whispers that would follow him as he left Hyrbn and eventually Asthurn, he now made his way in the forbidden dark. Some light escaped from between the closed shutters, but no other sign of life presented itself. Not a single person or animal roamed the streets. Even the crickets' song did not fill the night. He was alone.
A full moon, Mona's scar-less face, Mani would be new and hidden, sat directly behind the path he took, throwing his shadow before him. If anyone had seen him coming down the street, they would have quickly fled having seen a faceless specter drifting down the byway, cloak billowing as it caught the air. The bark dust road mellowed any sound almost to nonexistence. No one in the Hyrbn knew a person crept by, as they remained sequestered in their homes, safe from the night.
A silent farewell came with every footstep. He would never walk this way again. Each pace testified of the same. Even if he did live to come back, even if by some miracle he could return, it could never be the same. Just as his bedroom became a new place unknown to him, a wave, washing away all connections and familiarity, went before him, making all things bitterly new.
"I'm in exile now," Masis said to the night, as he arrived at the stables.
He pushed through the doors without pausing. Hay, sweet and settling, cast its scent into the air. They should have been abandoned well before this time but as he entered, the light of a single lamp filled the space. Casm stood by it, handling Ava's reins, her tack in place and her saddle bags apparently filled.
What is he doing here? Masis wondered, his face tightening with his silent query.
Approaching Casm, Masis tread carefully, not knowing how he would react to his appearance even when muted by the shadows of his hood.
He continued forward. Casm made no move.
They stood there for a moment in silence, stretching out the emptiness to an awkward proportion.
"Calla sent word," bumbled Casm, breaking the silence. "Ava's saddled and your saddle bags have a few things she thought you might need. A long bola, among other things." Casm handed the reins to Masis not flinching away at his nearness.
"Thank you," Masis said, his words small. "You didn't have to come, especially since it's night."
"You once lent me your horse," said Casm, shrugging. "I thought I could at least return the favor."
Masis nodded, his words gone, dried up with his tears.
Casm returned the nod, satisfied with the small gesture.
Masis turned, heading back out to the night. Ava's head bobbed just behind his back. Her nearness, her warmth, her breathing, the only part of home not stolen. His eyes stung with the thought, but his face was hard—he did not bow to its weight. He went on back straight, head high.
"Until we meet here or Beyond," Casm called out softly behind him.
*DON'T FORGET TO VOTE*