Masks

Chapter Twenty-One

A lover stays with you.

The cottage was swathed in darkness like the rest of the tiny village, except for the pale, formless mass hovering above it, softly lit by moonlight. The smoke from cook fires streamed out of chimneys and straight up into the air, becoming indistinguishable from the low hanging fog. To the point that it looked like they were creating it.

There was no other light, except for the little golden rectangle of a doorway.

And the two people silhouetted within it.

No. No, he didn’t want to do this again. He didn’t want to see this again. Mircea struggled, trying to move.

As always, it didn’t work. He didn’t have the strength to rise during the day, unless someone much more powerful was aiding him. Not even for long enough to throw off a dream.

It left him trapped inside his head.

And with his memories.

Mircea couldn’t see inside the room behind the softly talking couple, other than for a red flicker from the rough stone hearth. But he didn’t have to. He could close his eyes and let his newly sharpened senses paint the scene he knew so well.

There were scents of wood and smoke, of fried pork fat and cabbage rolls, of wet leather from her boots. There were traces of the sweet grass and flower sachets she made up in summer, the sharp bite of a mug of plum wine, the scent of basil from a pot she kept in the window to keep it growing in the colder months. In spring, it would be on the cracked earth just outside the door, the traditional sign that the owner was awaiting a visit from her lover.

A lover who would not come.

But he could see it—God, so well. He could see himself walking over the crunching snow and fallen limbs, ducking under the low lintel not made for someone who topped six feet, and into the one room where he felt at home anymore. He could see the heavy woven hangings that covered the walls, in the warm hues that were her favorites. The bright copper and earthenware pots that hung from the rafters. The old table that sat near the hearth, protected by a cloth she’d embroidered herself and covered by a fragrant meal.

There were touches of him in there, too. A bright red kilim rug he’d given her took pride of place in the room’s center. And, as usual, it had the fold marks from where it had been hurriedly spread-out and placed on the newly scrubbed floor just before he arrived. At all other times, it resided in an intricately carved wooden chest, another gift, well away from spills and dust and dirty feet. And no amount of persuasion on his part had been able to change that.

But other things were used. A pretty wooden ladle he’d bought her at a fair, now on a nail by the fire. A pile of scented soaps. An ivory carving of a camel that she kept on the mantle but refused to believe was real.

“You lie to me,” she’d declared from on top of him, her dark hair falling about his face, shielding him from the firelight, the rest of the room, the world.

“I don’t.” His hands moved up her back, marveling as always at the satin texture of her skin. “I bought it in a bazaar—”

“Then they lied to you.”

“—from a man who had worked on a caravan in his youth. The Turks use them as pack animals, and sometimes in combat, too—”

“Nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense,” he grinned. “You act like it’s a dragon.”

“I have the only dragon I want here,” she said, making Mircea’s hands tighten. “And anyway, dragons are real.”

“Of course they are.”

“It’s true! My mother saw one once.”

“Far be it from me to dispute a lady’s word.”

She sat up, giving him a view of her beautiful breasts painted with firelight. “If you ever saw one, my dragon, you wouldn’t bring me a statue of this kam-el!”

Mircea hadn’t had a response to that. Except to roll her over into the furs. And to stop their argument in the usual way.

He had tried to give her other things, expensive things, but she didn’t want them. Said they would only cause her problems in the village, which already suspected that her suitor wasn’t the traveling merchant he claimed to be. Of course, it wouldn’t matter for long. Soon, when things calmed down a little, he would tell his father about her, and this clandestine life would end. And then she would have everything he’d ever wanted to give her, everything she deserved; he would see to that.

But at the moment it was too risky. When you took a throne by force, as his father had, there were always going to be those who felt they had a right to do the same to you. His father was more worried about foreign threats: the growing power of the Turks, the increasingly insane demands from his suzerain in Hungary, the fluctuating politics of the surrounding states. But Mircea . . .

He was more worried about internal dangers.

Like distant family members with claims to the throne easily as good as his father’s. Like nobles with too much power, who were susceptible to bribes from those who offered them even more. Like courtiers who smiled and charmed and pleaded absolute devotion, yet could turn on them at a moment’s notice.

And while family was where a man took refuge, it was also where he was most vulnerable. Mircea wanted the country settled, pacified, calm, before he brought her anywhere near that snake pit of a court. And it was nowhere near that now.

But one day, it would be.

And then this would be his life, instead of a few stolen hours whenever he could break away.

A chunk of wood in the hearth shifted with a soft hiss. Fingers of light and shadow jumped over the bright wool blankets and soft gray furs heaped high on the bed, and highlighted the softer body snuggled against his. Mircea spread out his hands, to close them on velvet skin—

And felt only cold tree bark instead.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Didn’t understand why it was suddenly dark, with only the dim shapes of trunks all around. Didn’t understand where she’d gone.

Until he saw her, still standing in the doorway, talking to Horatiu. Not even knowing he was there. And it all came back again in a rush, the pain like a knife blade shoved between his ribs, the shock enough to knock the breath out of him and leave it hanging on the air.

Snow was falling, thin and icy. He hadn’t felt it. Could still only just feel it if he concentrated. Cold didn’t matter now, to what he was.

He leaned his head against the rough bark of the tree, panting. Trying to find something to rest his eyes on besides that seductive rectangle of gold. He didn’t find much, just boughs hanging heavy with yesterday’s snow, the boiling gray mist overhead, and, through it, the pale circle of the moon, fuzzy and indistinct.

The peasants told a story about the moon. They said she was once a beautiful girl, the sister of the sun. In fact, she was so beautiful that the sun was jealous of any other suitors, preferring to marry her himself. But as this was a sin, God stopped the wedding. And set them to rule over different parts of the day, so that they should never meet again.

Mircea had never thought much about the story. Until he had suddenly found himself living it. Only the positions were reversed: he couldn’t walk in day and his lover—how could he ask her to share this?

The hand resting on the trunk beside his face was a rash of red and flaking skin—healing blisters. Although they weren’t healing very fast. His new body seemed to prioritize, and it had needed most of its strength for clawing its way out of the grave his nobles had kindly dug for him.

And for other things.

His fingertips tentatively traced the red sickle of a wound that curved across his right cheekbone. He could still feel the bite of heat, still smell the smoke where the poker they’d used had scored his face, gouging a line almost to the bone. That was how his hand had been hurt, pulling it out of one of his captor’s grips, trying to shield himself. But they’d wrestled him to the ground, tied his arms behind his back, fisted a hand in his hair.

And used the poker to burn out his eyes.

The wound hadn’t become a scar yet. Still livid and puckered, it felt like a line of fire across his skin. But after a night of sightlessness and then another of grainy blur, his vision had returned. Too soon.

He could see her if he tried. Concentration seemed to focus this strange power of his, redirecting it however he chose. But he’d deliberately kept things soft. As vague as the forest seen through the fog.

Like what was left of his emotions.

He’d spent most of the last three days half mad, horror-struck and terrified. His nobles were still scouring the area for members of his family; he had to get away. But once he met up with his old tutor, he’d had presence of mind enough to send him to her before he fled. Along with most of the money he’d had with him when he was taken.

He wished it could have been more, but he couldn’t risk going back for anything. Not in his current shape. But it was a fortune by peasant standards, enough to keep her well for years to come.

Not that that seemed to matter.

He heard her cry, and his head came up, unthinking. And, in his panic, he forgot to blur his vision. Or maybe it was deliberate, the desperation of a man wanting one last glimpse of the life he’d lost.

And the woman he loved.

Despite the cold, her skin was as pale as the snow on the hillside. She looked so small, even next to Horatiu, who had never been a tall man and was now starting to bend with age. With her hair tumbled down her back and a blanket wrapped around her for warmth, she almost looked like a child. But there was a woman’s pain in her eyes as she listened to the old man’s soft words.

Mircea should have been able to hear them; he could hear them, their voices muffled by the trees and the falling snow, but audible for all that to his new senses. Yet he couldn’t seem to make out the words. It felt like it had on the battlefield once, when a Turk had gotten close enough to bring a heavy sword down on his helmet, half bashing in his brains.

He’d kept his seat on his horse somehow, and gotten away. But he hadn’t been himself the rest of the day, and his men later told him that, when he’d spoken to them, it hadn’t made sense. It felt like that now, their voices washing over him, waxing and waning, but mostly unintelligible.

“You lie!”

Until the words, flung at Horatiu, finally broke through the fog, coming clearly to Mircea’s ears.

“No, my dear, I promise you—”

“You promise me nothing. You tell me the truth!”

“I have—”

“Liar! You tell me what happened to him. Is he dead? You tell me!”

Horatiu said something. It was lost in the roar in Mircea’s ears, but he was probably reiterating the story they’d arranged. It was even half true—nobles in the pay of another claimant to the throne had attacked his family, he’d been forced to flee for his life, he didn’t know when he would be back . . . or if he would. Things were too dangerous for him here, and for anyone who knew him. For her own safety, she must pretend they’d never met. . . .

She listened white-faced, one hand gripping the doorframe. She held the purse Mircea had sent with the other and cried, silent tears that streamed down her cheeks. And then she threw it, sobbing, at Horatiu, only to have him pick it up and press it gently back into her hands.

Mircea’s fingers sank into the tree.

But he couldn’t go to her; couldn’t take her with him. And he couldn’t bear to tell her why. Couldn’t tell her of the girl he’d attacked the previous night, when the bloodlust overcame him, the hunger of a newborn combined with the staggering amount of energy it had taken to repair the damage his new body had taken.

He couldn’t tell her of the girl who looked like her. Or of the body he’d left crumpled in the snow, barely alive. And only because in his madness he had hunted near a town, and they’d been discovered.

The hunting party had returned late, the freshly killed deer they bore having slowed them down. He remembered the way the torchlight had thrown moving shadows on the ground, on the girl, on him, with his extended fangs and gory face. And on the men’s expressions as they stared at him, their horror, fear, and disgust hitting harder than their weapons as they drove him away, like the animal he now was.

He couldn’t bear see that look on her face.

He couldn’t risk her being that girl, the next time the hunger took him.

He couldn’t ask her to share his life when he had nothing left to offer but danger and want and a cursed night, and she deserved the day.

He had therefore let Horatiu go in to see her instead, while he waited in the forest outside. And left the bloody imprint of his hands in the bark of a tree, so hard had he gripped it to keep himself still. Especially when she stood, silhouetted in the doorway, after Horatiu left.

And cried his name into the night.

It echoed in his ears, even when the dream snapped. Mircea found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, panting, his hair stuck to his cheeks. One hand knotted in the bedclothes, and one extended, reaching out for someone who was no longer there.

And who would never be there again.