Spoiler
The first part of this will eventually be added to the end of chapter five, but I wanted to put it somewhere where everyone following this novel would read it and know what's happening.
Summary:
The Masquerader has been wreaking havoc with the Durtainian government put in Maliel. He's attacked another troop and rescued the rebel leader, Camden Bartolv. There's more to him than it seems when he's brought to Camden's door after being shot. Now the puppet queen of Maliel must play diplomat with the head of the Duritanian government.
I don't really have any specific concerns, but all advice is welcome as always.
Want the story to continue?
Summary:
The Masquerader has been wreaking havoc with the Durtainian government put in Maliel. He's attacked another troop and rescued the rebel leader, Camden Bartolv. There's more to him than it seems when he's brought to Camden's door after being shot. Now the puppet queen of Maliel must play diplomat with the head of the Duritanian government.
I don't really have any specific concerns, but all advice is welcome as always.
Want the story to continue?
Ranael moaned and shook her head crazily as Nadiel stood abover her, muttering quickly.
She listened to the wind rattling against the closed window and shook a sweat drenched strand of hair out of her face.
Nadiel came from a small group of Maliens. They only paired with others of their race to keep their people “pure.” All were blind, and most were gifted with an ability of healing, a supernatural ability.
Ranael's bruise was gone. Her bullet wound would take longer to heal.
Nadiel lurched backward when Ranael's anguished mind took importance over her bodily pain. If Nadiel hadn't been healing her queen for an hour and a half, she would have overcome the urge to heal the mind, but she was too exhausted. She couldn't play with Ranael's mind, unless she wanted to risk damaging her forever.
With a hand on her stomach, complaining of vicious pangs of sickness, Nadiel retreated into her own chamber adjacent to Ranael's, leaving the younger woman to her nightmares.
. . .
There was the drone of the Terribles' voices and the harsh clanging of armor. Ranael stood, stiff and silent, watching the foot soldiers prepare with desperate eyes. This was the one room she had cared about, the single room that was sacred to her, and this was the room they chose to begin the renewal, the “modernization” of the Maliean palace.
The walls of the room depicted her family's history, the kingdom's history. The black wood that was plentiful in the forests of Maliel made up the pictures, outlined by a thin suggestion of silver, creating stark contrast with the white walls. There was no ceiling. The walls were protected by a slight overhang that deflected any rain water and shadowed most of the mural. In the center of the room grew an ancient almond tree, supposedly what had made the first of the Laleor family choose this city for the capital of his kingdom. It stretched up toward the life-giving sun. This had been the first room of the palace. There were still empty marble on the wall, waiting for the rest of the story, waiting for her story.
Ranael twisted her mouth into an easy smile and made her eyes clear, though her palms were covered with a cold, clammy sweat. She stood and sauntered over to the one man that, if so moved, could and would make a difference.
He was a Terrible, the head Terrible as a matter of fact, but he didn't look like one. He was young. Instead of the thinning white hair tamed into a helmet, shielding the scalp, he had thick, dark hair that was pulled back into a short ponytail. The only needless accessory was a bright red ribbon running through the thin braid that fell free of the rest of his hair. His bright brown eyes were calculating and merciless in their attention to detail. They were filled with pride and authority, not the suspicious slyness of his underlings. He wore the garb of the elite guard, a plain tunic and trousers of a deep forest green. The sign of his wealth was a jeweled sword, free of any sheath, the deadly metal glinting in the late morning light.
If this had been a different time, Ranael would have seen him as a suitor... But this was a time of hatred, and she looked at him only as an enemy, as a target. He would be dead if he flaunted himself as the Terribles did.
He nodded at her, recognizing her pride and refusal to curtsy, but lording his authority over her by focusing on the tree that would be felled at his signal. “Yes, Ranael?” he greeted in Duritanian. Ranael had listened to the other Terribles enough to recognize a difference from the noble dialect. His voice gave away his past of peasantry with the slight burr that was unique enough for her to know his voice personally.
She flushed angrily at the lack of respect but bit her tongue before she could doom the ancient tree. “Lord Fenrir, I've come to beg a favor,” she said softly in the same language, ignoring his small smile at her red cheeks.
“Why should I give the one royal to give the Duritanian government trouble a favor, my dear queen?” His voice was placid and slightly amused at her play at political correctness. It made Ranael sick to her stomach.
“You know I would have no answer to that,” she murmured stepping in front him in a daring move to force him to look into her eyes that barely held the flash of a repressed challenge. “But I'm willing to make a trade.”
Fenrir glanced away from her to study the tree for a moment. “For your relic?”
“For my family's history to remain untouched.”
His eyebrows rose. “All of it?”
She nodded. “The library and this room.” Her heart pounded against her ribs. She knew he liked to play games. She had seen him carry out his little dance with his own people, make them think he would give them what they want and take it away with their family to make sure they didn't forget what happened to those who asked something of him.
“That's two different favors for two different trades.” He stood over her, trying to make her quail beneath his shadow and smirked with glittering eyes when she backed away slightly.
She hated herself for retreating. “Agreed.” She didn't withhold a flinch when he brushed her cheek with calloused fingertips so unlike a true lord's.
He laughed softly. “My fair Ranael, do you realize how much easier life would be if you gave into us? There would be no trade on this. I would give it to you, but you rebel, despite the fact that your own people hate you. What is this room to you?”
She stiffened at his quiet words and hissed bitterly, “I have no need to tell you such things. Just tell me what the price is.”
He sighed, his eyes still laughing at her. He bent down and whispered into her ear, “The price, my queen, is your mind. Tonight, we will speak in my home over dinner, and I shall finally understand you and why you fight as you do. That is my price for your almond tree and your precious carvings. The library will follow if you do as I wish this night.”
She shivered at his warm breath rushing against her ear and closed her eyes tightly. “Call it off then,” she murmured.
He grinned in triumph, revealing large white teeth, and replied, “I shall look forward to your visit tonight, Ranael.”
She watched him move towards the guards with large strides that ate up the distance quickly and sighed in quiet relief. Her mind skirted around the pending meeting as she hurried from the room. She stopped thinking about it as she burst out of the castle with a soft sigh. She didn't let herself admit part of her was looking forward to dinner.
. . .
Camden bit his lip and paced the small, bare room that had been a broom closet a day before and stopped only to study the dark set of clothing resting on his cot periodically. Every few minutes he would toss his dagger up in the air and catch it, bending down restlessly to put it back in the place where it usually lay hidden, touching his calf, only to bring it out again. He shook his head, muttering to himself.
Rostoloff was out, caring for some sick child, comforting a mother worried out of her wits, reassuring the tired father that was wondering how he would pay for the treatment. He was making a difference.
Camden was rotting uselessly in this hole, but he could make a difference. He closed his door with a decisive snap and unfolded the black tunic.
. . .
“The worst thing he could find out is that you got shot. You're done if he even thinks you might be the Masquerader.” Nadiel studied Ranael's reflection for a moment as she braided her hair with quick, deft fingers. “You'll want to know everything you can about him. He's the important man. Kill him, and Maliel is as good as free.”
Ranael smiled softly as Nadiel continued to care for her in the motherly fashion that came easily to her. “I know,” she murmured and stood, taking her friend gently by the shoulders. “Should I end this now?”
“I heard there will be a weapons check tonight, but if you continue, he'll grow more trusting. Bring nothing tonight. As he thinks he is learning of you, learn to understand him.” Nadiel was nervous for sending her charge into the lion's den, but a small part of her nerves was based solely on Ranael going courting in a twisted, fake way. Being with the Ranael's father since he was thirteen, having been part of bringing the her into world, Nadiel had a strong affection for the once whimsical, bubbly girl that had grown into a serious, thoughtful woman. She straightened the skirt that didn't need straightening as a brisk knock sounded at the door and sighed. “I wish you didn't have to do this. I'm not sure I enjoy letting you go to him. This hints at a trap.”
Ranael laughed, hiding her own worries. “And I am sure I will be fine. This is nothing for the Masquerader.”
“But you're not the Masquerader. You're Ranael.”
Ranael's eyes darkened for a moment. “And she is stronger than she lets on.” She turned away from Nadiel and opened the door to find Fenrir on the other side.
“Hello.” He allowed himself a glance inside her chamber, looking over Nadiel as nothing more than a meager maid, and returned his gaze to her. “I'm here to escort you personally.” He offered his arm, seeming to appreciate the extents she went to for their meal with a slight smile and a nod.
Ranael excepted his arm with a quick look back before she stepped out into the hall and closed the door on Nadiel who wrung her handkerchief.
. . .
Camden frowned at his reflection. He had looked down on the Masquerader before he had know he was Ranael. The killing from the shadows was cowardly and making little impact, but now, as he couldn't go out in the day without being arrested, he saw it as a last choice, the way of, not the fearful, but those who wants to make a difference to the point where they can't not; it's the way of one who couldn't do so in her own skin. Now, he couldn't either, and he had something to prove.
Camden took a deep breath, finding this experience oddly humbling, and pulled his hood over his face. Turning away from the mirror, he slipped from the house and melted into the shadows.
. . .
They walked through the castle in an unsure silence, ignoring the looks given to them from passing servants. Both of them were known as unsocial people. Seeing them together was a small surprise.
Fenrir's chest expanded in a silent sigh, and he finally released Ranael to push a curious servant against a wall. He lifted the poor, surprised man from the ground and growled, loud enough for any to hear in the rooms surrounding, “Please, stop gawking. We're a man and a woman walking down a hall, nothing more, nothing less. We're not doing anything to gain you attention. I don't stare at you when you roam the castle with your missus, murmuring sweet nothings to each other.” He shook the man in an anger that seemed a little extreme to Ranael. The slight burr grew more prominent and contradicted his impressive use of language. He seemed to realize his overreaction and released the man, calming as quickly as he had angered. “We just wish to be left alone,” he murmured and returned to Ranael.
She studied him as they continued their walk in a hushed, empty passage and wondered where he had come from. She opened her mouth slightly only to close it.
“I apologize. That was... barbaric.” He cleared his throat and took the stairs as fast as Ranael did, letting her lead for the moment. “Your brother had a hot temper.” He smiled at the slight flare of her nostrils as he threw her out of balance.
Her throat was tight, and her breath painful. Nodding, Ranael invited no further conversation, amusing Fenrir further.
“We'll have plenty of time to talk about it over our meal,” he chuckled and smirked as they walked out into the chill night. “My house is just outside the grounds.”
They again fell into silence, but it was electrified with anger, slight amusement, and triumph.
. . .
Camden's breath came fast as he stood against a wall for the second night in a row. He stared at the familiar house before him and felt for his dagger.
His father had built this house and, after his mother had died, added many escapes and entrances to fuel a secret life of crime. Camden would admit on a good day that his father had deserved to be arrested. To be killed was a stretch.
Camden knew this house better than his own house. He knew of the secret tunnel leading into the house that was hidden by the shrubs some royal gardener had pruned to perfection. He wouldn't be here; he wouldn't care if one man hadn't been given the rather extravagant home. The traitor, Gane Shaebor, could be seen moving in the bedroom.
Camden was about to move across the street when a couple turned onto the street. He frowned and almost attacked them when they came closer, trying to melt into the wall.
Fenrir, to the public, was no one of extreme power, but any Terrible was a Terrible, and Ranael was walking with him in a intimate. They passed, and Ranael's head turned quickly. Her eyes searched the dark quickly, and she faced Fenrir again when he whispered something in her ear. She replied with a curt movement of her hands.
“I'm glad I have you to escort me, Lord.”
Camden gritted his teeth and tried to stay focused on his goal as they passed. He risked a glance around the wall and saw Ranael's shocked face as she saw him before she disappeared behind a row of buildings.
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