Coris awakened to find himself sprawled across Meya's lap, a bottle of salmiac hovering at his nose, and three women keeping an unblinking vigil from the opposite bench. His roaming eyes settled upon Agnes, and he picked himself upright. Meya took it as her cue to slither away, but before she had even edged an inch to the door, Coris rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Do stay, Meya. Please."
Meya gawked at him. The look in Coris's eyes was as much a plea as a command. Meya settled back down in her corner, sulking in private, sneaking glances as Coris struck up nervous conversation with Lady Agnes.
Despite her fears, Coris and Agnes were businesslike throughout their exchange. Agnes started off recapping her tale, apologized to Coris for her father's sabotage of Hadrian, then plunged straight into the pressing matter of finding Persephia and Klythe. That was where she handed the baton to Meya. Much to her bashfulness, Meya laid out her half-formed plans to uncover the lost Graye twin.
Her ramble over, Meya held her breath and clenched her hands, shooting shifty glances at the surrounding nobility. She took it as a bolstering sign that they'd let her finish, at least.
Arinel nodded slowly, her elbow propped on her knee as she pinched her chin in contemplation. Agnes frowned and bit her lip, naturally conflicted. Her sister was the one being lured into their trap, after all.
Coris twiddled with the salt vial with his long, pale fingers. He nodded to himself then surfaced with a smile.
"You should be more confident, Meya. It's a good plan." He straightened up and pocketed the salt vial, glancing at each of the four women,
"Let's go over the details tonight. I'll find a way to keep our target occupied. I have an audience with Lady Jaise tomorrow morning once we entered the town. You all go take a tour of the town, then come to the castle for dinner."
"Can't I go with you?" Meya bargained. She hated being excluded. She'd had sixteen years of that, being underage, a girl, a peasant and a Greeneye and all. Coris blinked, then gave her a reassuring smile.
"You'd better go walk around. It's a valuable experience." He laid a placating hand over hers, but his eyes betrayed a glimpse of worry. Meya narrowed her eyes.
"More valuable than what you're gunna discuss with Lady Jaise?" Coris grimaced as Meya loomed over him. "What's the matter, Coris? Why can't I join you?"
"Because you're not the real Arinel, Meya."
Agnes replied. Meya spun around. She fixed Meya with her single working eye, a note of dread and awe in her voice,
"The Jaisians grow up not seeing other people's faces. So, they've come to recognize people by their voices. No matter how hard we try, lies leak out through our face, body language and voice. And Jaisians are good at hearing them. Especially Lady Winterwen. One word from you, and she'd know."
Meya shivered. It was a mental pickle, alright. She wanted to be in that meeting, but there was no telling what would ensue should her cover ever be blown. Again.
"But what if the Lady invites Meya for dinner, my lady?" Gretella pointed out, "After all, it would be against etiquette to not extend the wife of a guest an invitation to dine. Since she's a woman ruler herself."
Coris frowned at the wooden floorboards, then gave a soft sigh.
"We might have to switch back to the real Arinel for the time being—But let's leave the worrying for when that happens." He added hastily at the horrified reactions of Real- and Fake-Arinel, squeezing Meya's sweaty hand.
Meya met Coris's eyes and studied his careworn expression. She'd never seen him in such a dilemma. Though it galled her to have to stand down while others get to do all the important work, again, it might be best not to push her luck with Lady Jaise.
Sighing, she slithered her hand out from under Coris's and clasped hers over his instead. Clinging to the windowsill with her free hand, she poked her head out the window.
Now that they were near, Meya noticed the towering black wall wasn't painted, but tiled with polished stone mosaics, from the lightest shade of gray to the deepest of black, arranged into mesmerizing geometric patterns. As breathtaking as it was unscalable.
A line of sculpted-stone crow heads jutted out along the wall's skirt, steaming water pouring from their open beaks into the churning moat below amid a billowing curtain of vapor. The faint smell of rotten eggs hung in the air. Gum trees blanketed both sides of the road.
"What're you discussing with Lady Jaise, anyway?" Meya turned back to Coris with a frown, "Why exactly are we stopping here? Dun seem to be much to refill here in terms of provisions. Apart from gum and water."
Coris stared at his hand, fondling Meya's fingers. He hadn't meant to confide in them.
"There's something wrong with the soil in the West." He sighed, "Almost all nutrients have gone. Crops are withering all the way from Amplevale to Noxx. I'll negotiate with Winterwen to sell us water from Jaise's springs to enrich the soil, buy us more time to figure out the cause. The springs came all the way from down in Fyr's Lake, so they're chock full of nutrients."
"Nutrients which used to make up the bodies of hundreds of thousands of drowned sinners. What a refreshing notion. I can already see those crops becoming rejuvenated," said Meya drily. Coris burst out a short laugh as he mussed up her hair,
"There goes the blasphemous dragon lady."
Giggling, Meya swatted his hand off. Agnes, Arinel and Gretella met eyes, smiling, and allowed the couple a moment of levity.
"I did notice trees and plants growing feeble along the way, but crops are doing fine here." Arinel commented.
"I've noticed, too. And I've seen this before." Meya pitched in, a foreboding shadow over her downcast eyes. As Coris blinked at her, she lifted his hand off her head and plopped it on her lap, playing with his fingers.
"Right before the Crosset Famine, crops and trees and grass were growing yellow and feeble. Cattle and sheep and goat were running dry. And chicken and ducks stopped laying. Fruits and flowers were dropping like rain. We mulched and mulched the fields, but we couldn't save the harvest."
Coris gaped at her, his eyes unblinking. Gretella shivered as she turned to him fearfully,
"Will Hadrian pull through this, my lord?"
Her voice betrayed a deep-seated fear. Though she hadn't witnessed the Crosset Famine, she'd probably survived some other famine—or worse, famines—in her youth. Coris started out of his trance and met her gaze. He looked paler than usual.
"The bailiff's doing all he could, but I doubt we'd be able to save this harvest." He shook his head with a sigh. "But we still have the storehouse grain. And we caught wind of this early on. Father could order a food ration, switch to hardy crops like potatoes and turnips."
"What about the livestock? They won't have grass to graze on, and hay doesn't keep for that long." Agnes asked. Coris nodded, a slow, heavy nod.
"We might have to slaughter them early, preserve their meat and fat." He fell against the cushions and closed his eyes, "And we might have to allow some hog and deer hunting in the Lord's Forest."
"Deer? But—they're your family's symbol!" Meya sputtered. Coris bowed his head. Arinel let out a long, mournful sigh.
"Zier would be heartbroken. He loves deer."
It wasn't just Zier. Meya felt it as profoundly as the others. Every noble clan and its people had their symbol animal. The prospect of Hadrian driven to butchering their own deer for food was as spine-chilling as the sight of Crosset's Snow Gyrfalcon torn to blood-soaked pieces by a Dark Eagle.
Meya's hands shook as she recalled the famine she'd survived. She squeezed Coris's hand, and he reciprocated. Like wagons of May Fest tourists, misfortune continued rolling in towards Meya and whatever neighborhood she'd set foot into, one after another.
Though she tried her level best to deny and debunk it, for once, Meya couldn't help thinking it might have been down to her rotten Greeneye luck.
⏳
Morning light glanced off the gleaming black mosaic of Jaise's wall. The heavy drawbridge straddling Jaise's steaming moat buckled and groaned as wagon after wagon paraded across it in opposite directions behind weary horses. In perfect contrast to how the human digestive tract operates, visitors in the arrivals lane were processed much slower than the departures.
A line of masked guardsmen armored in black fortified the gaping entrance the drawbridge left in its wake. When Sir Jarl approached on his handsome white mare, two guards standing on either side of the gate tilted their pikes to bar his entry. They took note of the crimson banners, the adornments on the carriages and steeds.
"Be this the entourage of Lord and Lady Hadrian?" The guard on the left drawled, his voice filtered through the metal grille over his mouth.
"Aye." Sir Jarl produced a scroll from his cloak and handed it to the guard. The masked man broke the seal, unfurled it, then nodded to his comrade to the right, who turned to Sir Jarl.
"Her Grace has received Baron Hadrian's letter. She is pleased to welcome you to our humble town." All the guards bowed and straightened in perfect unison, then the one on the right continued,
"We understand it can be a hassle for those unfamiliar with our culture, but while in the open within the Black Walls, visitors are required to wear the Jaise mask. How many are in your entourage?"
The guard craned his neck as if to peer into the curtained windows and sniff out stowaways. Sir Jarl presented them a second, much thicker scroll, containing names of everyone from Lord Hadrian to the youngest yeoman.
After a minute of frantic counting, rushing in and out, barking orders back and forth, dozens of black drawstring pouches were levered out and dispensed to the visiting party.
Jerald reached towards a guard tottering behind a staggering pile of pouches, relieved him of six, distributed it to his passengers, then settled down with his own pouch and opened it.
Meya dipped her hand into her pouch. Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth curve of the mask, then a handful of mysterious vials rolling around the bottom.
She pulled out the mask, then tipped the bag upside-down. Squatty, cork-stoppered glass vials filled with red, yellow, blue, green and white dye tumbled into her lap, all equipped with little stone wands for painting.
The gum farmers had decorated their masks with paint and beads. Meya gulped sticky spit down her parched throat.
Fyr, where is Myron when I need him?
Hoping for help or a fellow soul who lacked artistic talent, Meya sneaked glances at the others. Arinel sucked on the end of her stone wand, dithering. Lady Agnes had ditched her old wooden half-mask and donned the shiny Jaise mask. Mirror in one hand, she deftly dabbed paint on the mask (as one would cosmetics).
Gretella hadn't bothered decorating her mask, grumbling as she warred with the leather cord tangled in the loose hair from her bun.
Coris bent low over his mask, his tongue sticking out, tracing red curlicues on the edges. Sensing Meya's scrutiny, he glanced her way with a smirk, then returned to his art.
Cursing under her breath for a drop of spit to drop from his tongue and ruin his work, Meya turned to Jerald. He'd returned to the reins, navigating the meandering, booby-trapped tunnel leading away from the main gate (Meya could've sworn she saw murder-holes in the ceiling).
"Sir Bayne, can you help me with this later?"
Meya hollered, waving her mask. Jerald turned around, mask on. Meya shrank back, unnerved by the glassy, black, empty eye sockets staring back at her. Behind the metal grille, Jerald's lips curled into a smile, and he nodded. Despite the lack of eye holes, he seemed to be seeing plainly.
Intrigued, Meya held her mask to her face. What seemed to be impenetrable black glass from the outside was clear as the windowpanes back in Hadrian Castle on the inside.
"Goodly Freda! 'Tis bright as day in here!"
"The masks are specially made." Coris chimed in airily. Meya turned around to find him putting finishing touches on his mask in green paint. They had breached the torchlit tunnel onto the green lawn between the two walls, and daylight had streamed back in.
"The glass is transparent on one side, opaque on the other. A strategic function for windows, come to think of it."
After dotting one last green spot, Coris picked up his white quill and spelled out his name on the forehead. Meya decided to follow suit. She'd just finished inking the first squiggly line of the M with trembling hands when the carriage trundled through the inner gate into the town itself.
Curiosity overwhelmed her. Meya slid on the mask and poked her head out the window.
Her jaw dropped. She'd expected a town draped in the color of midnight, but the scenery was vibrant and eye-watering as if she had stepped into a town where May Fest never ended. Flat-roofed houses on both sides of the road were blanketed with the same mosaics and dizzying kaleidoscopic patterns, but with all colors of the rainbow.
The sandstone-paved road was decorated with mosaic art, arranged into sentient suns, moons and stars. Narrow canals run parallel to the road, coursing with spring water. Pipes branched out into dwellings and shops. Hot water flowed in along with excited tourists, while sewage pipes slithered out and slipped underground unnoticed.
Despite the bright colors and life, some doors carried white banners sporting a triangle colored in black paint—the Latakian symbol of death, its colors inverted, names and deathdays calligraphed underneath.
Meya retreated inside and hissed at her personal Latakian encyclopedia,
"Psst. Lexi?"
"Hmm?" Coris looked up from his mask with a raised eyebrow. Meya scooted close, cupping her hand over her mouth as she whispered at his ear.
"Did some plague sweep through here or summat? Look at them death banners."
"Oh. Those." Coris grinned as he leaned back against the cushions, "Those aren't the actual dead. That's why the colors are inverted."
"Eh?" Meya spared a second glance outside the window, just as another white banner sailed by, "Then why in the three lands—"
Chuckling, Coris looped his arm around her shoulder.
"Jaisians believe it's important to always be aware of death. Every baby would be given a coffin at birth, straight from the Lord or Lady Jaise. Whenever you feel like it, you can put up your name and preferred deathday on the bulletin."
"On your designated deathday, as you lie in your coffin, people would come to pay respects. They'd deliver eulogies, speaking honestly of your good and bad deeds, thanks and grievances, but the worst punishment —"
Coris unfurled his crafty grin, then leaned in and whispered in her ear,
"—is having no-one at all visit you."
Meya blew out a sigh of awe. She turned and marveled at the dazzling, rowdy town once more.
"By Freda, I'm loving this town already." Coris laughed in agreement.
"If you love it now, wait 'til you see their bathhouses."
Tourists disappeared into sandstone houses perfectly dry and energetic, and filed out with hair slicked back and shining wet, drowsy grins peeking from behind grilles, damp towels on their shoulders.
Meya glanced down at her chest. She felt her cheeks flush. She couldn't afford a dip in the bathhouse back in Crosset, so she'd taken her baths in the river. Even then, she avoided the other girls as much as possible, and vice versa.
If her glowing eyes didn't become a subject of disgust and fear, her precocious breasts would be one for endless ridicule, gossip and scandalized looks. According to the elders, the size of one's pillows reflected the looseness of one's character. Considering the circumstances in which she lost her virginity, for once, they may be right.
Her shoulders hunched, Meya folded in on herself. Coris blinked in alarm. Before he could investigate, the carriage jerked to a stop.
Jolted from her reverie, Meya scrambled for the window and poked her head out again. Wagons and carriages led away before them in single file towards a sandstone plaza. At the heart of the jammed roundabout stood a gigantic fountain blanketed in black mosaic and shrouded in vapor. A pillar of stone arced over the water zenith like a rainbow, bearing Jaise's motto carved in large, bold letters:
Sharper When Broken
Tourists poured out of wagons and made their way to the fountain. Some carried jars, brass goblets, ale mugs and repurposed wine bottles. Some even toted barrels.
Jerald craned his neck to see if he could edge in a bit further, then sighed and turned to Coris,
"The women can get down here and walk around. We'll come pick you up for dinner in the castle later."
Gretella and the girls gathered their belongings. Coris followed suit, snatching his cloak and gold.
"I'll escort them awhile." He sprang up, looped the drawstring of his moneybag around his belt and slipped on his mask. He ducked outside and jumped down first, then helped Jerald ease the women down. Meya, then Agnes, Arinel and Gretella.
Arinel's mask was adorned with drawings of flowers and herbs. Agnes had inked a stunning outline of a white peacock. His elaborate tail cascaded down her left cheek.
Though Coris hadn't commented, Meya's face was roasting beneath her mask. She turned pointedly away, picked up the hems of her dress and stalked off, all too well aware of the lonely, ugly "I" (unfinished M) smack in the middle of her forehead.
By the time Coris caught up with her, Meya found herself skidding to a halt before one of the dozens of roadside stands, hosted by a woman with saggy breasts and a curved back. Her parched lips creaked into a welcoming smile framed with wrinkles behind the grille. Her white, uneven teeth gleamed like the faceted, jet-black stilettos and ornamental spearheads on the threadbare rug. Her glass mask shone like the rows of glazed pottery also available for sale.
Her pottery was unlike any Meya had ever seen. They looked like broken shards of clay glued together by gold, silver and copper. She knelt down and picked one of them, turning it round and round in her hand. Shining on the inner rim of the bowl was Jaise's motto in gold.
Coris knelt down beside her.
"Sharper When Broken." Meya muttered. She set the bowl down and surveyed the rest of the goods on display, "Makes me think of glass."
Coris picked up a miniature spearhead on a leather cord, pressing its tip against his finger.
"Jaise's most lucrative export is the volcano glass blade. Favored by assassins and healers alike. Obsidian reveals its deadliest edge only when broken. Sharper and thinner than the finest steel. Hence the motto."
"Can the same be said of people, though?" Meya challenged. Coris pursed his lips, then cocked his head.
"Well, as the saying goes—That which does not kill one makes one stronger."
"That poison didnae make you stronger." Meya pointed out.
"Not physically—mentally." Coris chuckled wearily. Meya giggled.
"I know! I was pulling your leg. Still, why d'you want people to break you? Each time glass breaks, it loses a part of itself, and it gets smaller, and sharper, danger-er to anyone who handles it. And if you try putting it back together, it just falls apart."
Coris cocked his head in thought, then turned away to explore the array of merchandise. His roaming hand settled on a leaf-green cup littered with golden cracks. He handed it to Meya.
"Once, there was a Safyrian artisan named Jayri. She was famous for repairing broken pottery with precious metals. Her philosophy is what was broken could become whole again. Their scars are what makes each of them unique."
Meya looked up from the cracked cup, intrigued. Coris's smile widened.
"The lucky few are born into, and prefer to lead sheltered lives. They remain forever whole and unscathed. The unfortunate is born on the mouth of hell. The adventurous seek out the steepest cliffs. Many would fall and shatter. Only the remarkable few would pick up their pieces and rebuild it into a unique work of art."
As Meya pondered it, Coris turned to ask the vendor for the price. He produced a silver coin from his pouch, handed it to the old lady, then clasped his hand over the green-and-gold cup and Meya's slack fingers. As Meya gawked, he helped her to her feet.
"Go take a few drinks. You're a dragon, you need your nutrients." He nodded towards the towering, steaming fountain, a gentle hand on her arm,
"As far as I remember, there's no Lattis in these waters. The signs list out all the minerals. Still, I'd say pass your coin over your bowl once, for your health."
Meya tilted her head back, following the jet of water to the fountain's crest. Coris's icy hand slipped away. She whirled around, but Coris was already a few steps away.
"You're leaving already?" She called as her heart jolted in panic, suddenly so lonesome and crestfallen it surprised her. Since when had she become this attached to him, let alone anyone? Coris's lips unfurled into his signature gentle smile.
"I've been here before. You go have fun. See you at dinner."
He spun around and strode back towards their carriage. Meya stared after his back until the last fluttering sliver of his crimson cloak vanished into the doorway, fingering the icy surface of the cracked cup. It hadn't warmed to the touch of his bloodless hands.
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