Spoiler
Summary:
The Maquerader is a masked vigilante, fighting agianst the invading Durtanian army single handedly. When a revolutionary leader finds her on his doorstep it marks the beginnings of an unlikely alliance.
The puppet queen of Maliel is trying to find a way to help her country's people. After making a deal with the head Duritanian and the real leader of the new Maliel, she must have dinner with him. Tension is high as both try to gain the upper hand.
Want to read the rest of The Masquerader? Start atChapter One.
Continue the story.
The Maquerader is a masked vigilante, fighting agianst the invading Durtanian army single handedly. When a revolutionary leader finds her on his doorstep it marks the beginnings of an unlikely alliance.
The puppet queen of Maliel is trying to find a way to help her country's people. After making a deal with the head Duritanian and the real leader of the new Maliel, she must have dinner with him. Tension is high as both try to gain the upper hand.
Want to read the rest of The Masquerader? Start atChapter One.
Continue the story.
Ranael stared at the new house that seemed very peasant-like for the wealth of its owner. She said, doubt evident in her voice, “This is your home?”
Fenrir smiled knowingly. “Have you ever heard of the saying, 'don't judge a book by its cover?” He opened the door with an unneeded flourish and revealed the interior of a palace.
Ranael glanced at him before stepping through the door hesitantly, feeling as though crossing the threshold was the beginning of her execution. Her slippered feet sunk into plush carpet, and her eyes adjusted to the soft glow of candles that were unoffensive to the nose, perfuming the air with the barely detectable scent of roses.
A mahogany table sat low to the ground, laden with silken napkins and porcelain dishes, guarded by two thick pillows. A maid bent over the table, setting a steaming plate down with a sweating metal pitcher and a long-necked bottle.
“Will you go forward just a bit? Laughter and pride snaked their way through his quiet words, and he continued, “I must admit, without you on my arm, the chill of night is harder to bear.”
Ranael, embarrassed by her obvious awe, hurried forward and turned toward her host nervously. “This is a very beautiful place.” Any words spoken in a place where he was truly king came haltingly as if any syllable sacrificed to the sweet smelling air was betraying her cause.
He nodded, looking around with a content eye. “Aye.” He leaned against the mantle above a cold fireplace and murmured. “I've found hidden beauty is always more breath taking that that which is flaunted, yes?”
Ranael smiled at the eloquent words and asked as she stroked the strings of the harp in the opposite from the table. “Where did you learn to speak so charmingly?” She spoke in Maliean despite the fact that they had been speaking in his home language, so she would sound as inferior as she would speaking Duritanian.
He motioned toward the table, leading the way, and replied, “Why couldn't I have been raised that way?”
She sat across from him on a pillow and shrugged. “Did you?”
Fenrir spooned a rice dish, the grain imported from the hot, humid Durtanian plains, onto her plate. “No. I'm afraid, I can't take that credit as I'm sure you inferred by my accent that fails to be conquered by any number of exercises or threats.” He spoke in Maliean, the words were made hypnotic by his way of speaking, unaffected by the fact that it was his second language. He smiled at her as he poured wine into her goblet, seeming to forget his own. “The army rules all and I was forced to speak my language in ways I wasn't used to. The nobles are mainly the ones fighting on horses, so we must speak with their accent, with their vocabulary.
“I left the beloved plains that served as my home and became a servant for money.” He grimaced as the words left his mouth and took a bite of the dinner, motioning for Ranael to do so as well. “My master wasn't as kind as your family was. The servants were possessions, not people to be paid monthly, to ask for the smallest favor. We were unfortunate peasants that are lucky to be serving such nobles, that were made for servitude only.”
Ranael, entranced by the workings of Fenrir, took a bite of the meal.
A wonderful burst of foreign flavors created by unknown spices delighted her. Heat followed close behind, forcing her to soothe her tongue with wine that floated through the mouth, leaving a pleasant taste that she knew to stay away from. She set it on the carpet beside her.
Fenrir hid a triumphant smirk behind a water-filled goblet and continued, “when the emperor decided to attack your country and begin his imperialization, my master and all five of his sons were ordered to war. One of his sons was diseased. My master didn't want him on the battlefield as he would die within the first few moments. I was chosen for my strength and my coloring, which was similar to his son's. He taught me how to speak properly, and I was good enough for the officers to ignore my 'peasant' accent.” He leaned back, taking another bite, and shrugged. “That's my life's story.”
She sighed and drank deeply from her goblet. “I would congratulate you for your movement in social standing, but you overtook my country and killed my parents.”
A silence quenched an easy air between two enemies.
Fenrir cleared his throat and watched her eat for a long time, twirling his fork between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me, Ranael, with no others to speak badly of you, what do you think of the Masquerader?”
Taking another sip of from her goblet to tame the heat that was quickly becoming enjoyable, Ranael paused for a moment and thought. “Um... Do you want to know what I think of his virtues?”
Fenrir tilted the wine bottle towards her in offering and filled the goblet she handed him. “No. I mean, are you on his 'side'?”
Ranael giggled. “Nope.” She laughed outright at his surprised face, bright, tinkling sounds morphed into cold, harsh laughter. “What do you think is going to happen to me when you're killed by raging peasants?” She grew serious at his scoff. “It's going to happen,” she spat, “But the sick thing here is the fact that you protect me. When the peasants take over, I'm dead before you probably. I go out there and tell them what's going to happen, which is never good for them. I'm the one they see when their pleas for help are ignored. My signature is the one they see on the orders for their land.” She rested her chin on her hand. “The Masquerader is just giving my people ideas.” She sighed appreciatively, changing the subject suddenly. “This was great food.”
He nodded. “I pay for only the best.” He studied her sharply, his mind working quickly. “So Gane Shaebor is a hero to you?”
Ranael snorted. “Gane is an idiot. He just wants power.” She shrugged. “He's a small man. My father used to shoot arrows with him. That relationship was purely based on gain for him.”
“And the Masquerader isn't part of Camden's resistance.” Fenrir was standing. “Your highness, would you grace me with your presence on another evening? I must apologize for my sudden departure.” He was out of the room before Ranael could reply.
Ranael laughed and placed the two full goblets she had taken from behind the table. One was three quarters of the way full, missing one frantic swallow. The other had wine still cooling the metal, just recently poured and not touched though her lips had graced the rim many times. She left a purse of gold where she had found the extra goblet and walked out of the room without a stumble or sway.
