The Grey Ones

JUNIPER

She lay in her bed that evening, crying and cursing in turns. She feared for her brother—she could scarcely believe her father had sent his only son and heir to battle the Grey Ones. Sebastian had never fought a battle in his entire life. He had only sparred with the guards and trained with his swordmaster, but he had never fought for life and death. He was brash, thoughtless, and arrogant, yes—she had many times wished he would just grow up. But he was also young, and kind-hearted, and naive. If he were to fight the Grey Ones, he would surely perish.

She felt anger towards the Vasaath. Knowing she could not blame him for not understanding her responsibilities towards her baby brother, she wished he would at least try to understand the agony she felt in knowing he was being sent into battle where death was imminent. He had brushed it off, impatiently and abruptly, and seemed uninterested in her pain. He would have killed him if it had come to that. It was an unfeeling side of him she had rarely seen but had known was there all the same. It vexed her—it saddened her!—immensely.

Moreover, she felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine, she shouldn’t have made a fool of herself in front of the general—what had she been thinking, flinging herself at him like that? What must he think of her? A harlot? The mere fact that he hadn’t mentioned it made it all the worse.

Her heart fluttered at the memory of their burning encounter, but it was improper and impetuous. He did receive her, yes, but she had heard many times from the men around her that there was nothing like a woman to fill the void after a brawl. He pushed her back because he realised how improper it was—she was an ohkas, and a human, so she was hardly what he truly desired. She was sure of it. She didn’t want to be, but she was.

Furthermore, what she did was incredibly unladylike and brash. Her mother must be turning in her grave! But—oh!—how she wished he was one of her kind, one that would court her and ask for her hand. In truth, she wished he would, as he was, but knew it would never come to that. He despised marriage. How impossible a dream she had, how foolish her heart was. The Vasaath made her weak, and furious, and as she lay in the darkness, wrapped in the furs, she missed his warm body against hers.

The next morning, she was famished. Bread and honey would not do and she went to the cook for a more substantial breakfast. On her way back, she walked across the battlements and saw the barricades around Winter Harbour. A chill crawled along her spine as she watched the men build the walls higher and sturdier. There were no people other than the Kas and the ohkasenon by the harbour that day, and the ships and boats docked there were abandoned. A large Illyrian trade ship was anchored in the bay, silent as the grave. There would be no more wine and grapes and appleberries for her father.

The city was quiet. She knew the people must be scared—the children, terrified. The looming threat the Kas posted was bad enough, but to have the entire City Guard marching to battle must have been a terrible awakening for everyone.

Noxborough hadn’t seen war for hundreds of years, not since the War of the Kings. Its true horrors were long forgotten save for the recollections from books and ballads. She wondered, then, what the people would write and sing about the Kas invasion a hundred years into the future—would they sing about the greatness of the Vasaath and his soldiers, or would they sing about the bravery of those who dared to oppose him?

While gazing over the barricades, she spied the Vasaath himself walking towards her atop the battlements. When he reached her, she curtsied and greeted him properly. She was still embarrassed and could barely look him in the eye.

He nodded, his hands behind his back. He had a troubled and stern face. “How are you today, my lady? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, my lord,” said she. “I believe I’ve learnt my lesson now. I shall keep my wine consumption to a minimum. But today, at least, I feel well.”

“Good,” he said, urgent. “We have something to discuss.” He looked at her from under furrowed brows, his mouth pressed together in a thin line, as he motioned her to walk with him.

Worry began rising in her chest, but she followed suit. “Is something the matter, sir?”

“Your stay here,” he said, and her worry grew.

She knew she had acted foolishly and she knew enough about Kas culture to know that they did not like foolishness.

He sighed. “It has become bothersome for me.” Grunting frustratedly, he said, “What happened between us yesterday—”

“Please,” she exclaimed as she halted, causing him to silence and turn to her. “Let me explain myself. Let me apologise! I—”

“I wasn’t finished.” His tone was harsh, his gaze demanding, and caused her to regress. “What happened between us yesterday proved that there are some things that cannot be repressed any longer. I have tried, but it will not do. I am sure you feel the same. You have a curiosity that must be indulged.” He clenched his jaw. “And I have a need that must be satisfied. So I have a proposal for you.”

She felt numbness upon her; her knees were trembling and her throat ran dry. Her thoughts were all in disarray and coldness spread through her like a winter storm. A proposal? She didn’t dare to imagine, didn’t dare to wish where he was heading. Just the night before, she had dared to think it, but she knew it was impossible.

One thing was nevertheless certain: the Vasaath needed to destroy the alliance between Noxborough and Westbridge, and if he were to wed her—but no, he couldn’t possibly mean marriage! She couldn’t think it! Not the great Kas general! But if not, what was he speaking of? She knew her own curiosities—that much was true—but what need did he speak of?

She pressed out, “What proposal, sir?”

His face was still troublesome and he once again motioned her to walk, which she did. They strolled in silence along the battlements for a moment before he said, “I know it might seem forwards and bold, but the tension that exists between us can only be resolved one way.”

Her heart nearly stopped and faintness was upon her. If he were to say matrimony, she was sure her knees would buckle beneath her. The wind would carry her away. Her chest would explode. She told herself to still her heart, but it would not do.

“You and I must lie together,” he then said, determinedly. “Intimately.”

At first, she wasn’t certain she truly caught it. The world seemed to stop; her movements turned sluggish, as though she walked through a haze. Did he truly suggest intercourse?

“Do you accept?” he asked, but she didn’t hear the question—she only heard the consequences if she did not.

She suddenly heard her father’s voice in her head, telling her that men only wanted one thing with women and if the man was powerful enough, he would get it sooner or later.

The Vasaath was indeed a powerful man, and even though she vividly remembered him telling her that she could stay with him for as long as she wanted, he never said it was unconditional. He never specified such a detail. Surely, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he started his argument saying that her stay had become bothersome for him.

Her heart fell, like a stone in her chest.

“Well?” he said impatiently, his teeth tightly pressed together.

The world found its rhythm again, slowly; the haze dispersed, and Juniper felt strangely defeated. If she would have to choose between a miserable marriage with Lord Christopher, life on the streets where people hated her with vigour, and lying with the Vasaath, the choice would be simple even if it meant she might risk an eternity in the Netherworld for it.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad fate, nor could she pretend like she hadn’t imagined it, many times, in her lonesomeness, but to imagine something and to do something were different matters entirely. Perhaps she had let her heart stray too far from what was real—she thought he had deeper feelings for her, that the tension between them was more than physical. But now, he had made it quite clear that the interest he had in her could only be resolved by intimacy. Not by romance, not by courtship, but by lying together.

In the end, her person wasn’t what had interested him; perhaps it was his lack of female companionship, or perhaps he simply saw her as a perfect candidate to console his loneliness. Whatever the reason, her father had been right. She had to accept the fact that she had very little say in the matter. It angered her, offended her—but most of all, it saddened her.

She composed herself, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes, tightened his jaw even further, and then nodded. “Good. I’ll send Kasethen to fetch the things you need from a maasa.”

She felt the heat rush to her face—she didn’t know that much about that sort of intimacy, but what things could she possibly need? She didn’t dare ask him, and continued walking next to him in silence.

The Vasaath’s face had shifted. He seemed relieved, serene. He stopped to look out over the sea, and Juniper gently leaned over the stone. She wanted it to look unencumbered, as though she wasn’t affected at all by what had just transpired, but the truth was that she could barely feel her legs. She was cold, nauseous.

“Soon,” he said, “red sails will be on the horizon. When they come, I shall defeat your father and you will have your freedom.”

She tried to reply, but no words seemed to find their way to her lips. She gazed out over the bay and the Winter Sea. At that moment, she was terrified—the day would come when war was imminent. There was nothing she could do to stop it, no matter how much she had thought so. She had been foolish and naive. She saw that now.

The Vasaath excused himself and said that he had to oversee the barricades, but that he was looking forwards to seeing her that evening. He had a strange hunger in his eyes, one she hadn’t noticed before, and it sent chills along her spine—she wondered, then, if that was the same look he had given her every time she thought he would kiss her. How could she have misinterpreted it so wildly, now when she saw it so clearly?

She returned to her tent and sat down on her bed. The beddings were changed, just as the Vasaath had promised, and Juniper sighed deeply. She stared into nothingness, trying to fathom what had been said, what she had agreed upon, but her mind was numb. She felt so naive, so gullible. She was indeed a hopeless romantic and the more she pondered, the more she realised that she had been blind. She had been led to believe, by silly fantasies, that there could be a world where the Vasaath loved her as a husband was supposed to love his wife. Such delusion.

She knew not when she lay down, nor when she fell asleep, but she awoke sometime later. Her body was dull, as was her head, and she slowly made her way into her main room. The thoughts that tormented her mind before were still there, but she had calmed. Indeed, there were far worse fates than bedding the Vasaath—she could think of a few that could very well be hers.

It wasn’t so much the prospect of being intimate with him that had hurt her as it was the realisation his attraction was only physical. But she did like him, very much indeed, and she did trust him. She never thought she would experience that in her life—her mother taught her better. She might have dreamt it, but she never expected it. That alone made him the best alternative so far. If she could only mend her broken heart, all would surely be well.

She tried to occupy her mind with other things, things that wouldn’t necessarily echo the harsh reality she found herself in, but soon after, Kasethen arrived.

With him was a woman, dressed in red. She was a human woman, neither young nor old, and her face wore markings in the same fashion she had seen on the Vasaath’s chest. This was an ohkasenon.

“Lady Juniper,” said Kasethen and smiled. “I hope you are well. In light of your—predicament, with the Vasaath, I thought you might find solace with someone your own sex. This is Neema.”

“Vahanan,” said the woman and nodded.

“She is maasa,” Kasethen continued. “If you have any questions, I am sure she can oblige, and I—oh, my dear girl, what is the matter?”

She couldn’t help it. Surely, she thought, the Kas must be terribly vexed by her tears by now. But she was heartbroken; not only did she have to accept the general’s shallow needs, but she also had to admit that her father had been right all along. How long had the Vasaath wanted to bed her? To use her for his own pleasures? Had anything been real?

Before her stood a woman that could very well have been an expensive working girl in the pleasure districts of Noxborough, but this one served the Grey Ones; this one had, as they would call it, a higher purpose. She was properly dressed, yes, but Juniper could see; the alluring tied dress, the deep neckline, the voluptuous curves—she was Desire. It wasn’t any different anywhere else. Not even with the Kas. The world was cruel, unfair, and unjust, by men and for men, no matter where she turned.

Kasethen embraced her gently. “Hush now. What troubles you, Juniper?”

She only shook her head. “I… I thought that he—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but she looked at him pleadingly. She wished that he would tell her that she was wrong, that there had been a mistake, and that the Vasaath hadn’t meant what he said and that he loved her with all his heart.

“You thought that he, what?” Kasethen asked and softly moved a strand of her hair from her face.

“Kasethen, leave her to me,” said the woman. She had a soft but stern voice. Kasethen did as the woman told him to, and then she sat down next to Juniper. “Sweet girl,” she said, “why are you crying?”

She shook her head again.

“Now, now,” said Neema, “there is always a reason, even though that reason is just sadness.”

“I—” She didn’t know if she dared to say it. She knew nothing of this woman, more than that she was an ohkasenon, and a maasa. “I’m not—”

“Kasethen has told me about you,” said the woman. Her accent was strong. “He has told me about your stay here, and about the arrangement you have with the Vasaath.”

Juniper glanced at the woman. Her eyes were green, her hair was golden, her waist was lean, her hips were wide, and her bosom was full. This, she thought, was a true beauty. Desire, indeed. Of course, she was a maasa.

“I admit,” said the woman, “I was rather confounded to learn of it—the Vasaath has his own healers to tend to his needs, but I suppose he’s like any other man, after all.” The woman eyed her, and then huffed. “You aren’t even that special. His needs must be dire, indeed.”

Even though she tried not to, Juniper cried even harder.

“Now, now, girl,” said Neema. “You are pretty enough, but beauty isn’t everything a woman has to offer. If the Vasaath has chosen you for himself, then you are appealing to him, and that’s that, no matter what I think.”

The words soothed her some, but not entirely. “I thought there was more to it. I—” Her breath hitched. “I thought he felt something… different.”

Neema furrowed her brows, confused, and then her face softened. “Dear girl, the Vasaath is a symbol of power and prosperity. To be the object of his desires is an honour! But if you thought you could bring him to love you, then I am sorry, but you have been foolish to do so.”

“Yes. I have come to see that, myself.”

The woman sighed. “Well, you are a mainlander, after all.”

Juniper dropped her gaze, dried her tears, but said nothing.

“I suppose you are a maiden?” said Neema, and Juniper nodded. “Very well. You needn’t be afraid. Mating is an act of mutual understanding and respect. I know it is seldom so in your culture, but you are not his prize or his possession. It doesn’t matter if he is the Vasaath.”

From inside her robes, she pulled out a leather pouch. Juniper stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Here, I have oil and herbs. Oil to make it easier—do not brave it without it, you are a human and a maiden, so don’t be foolish—and herbs for making sure nothing will latch on. I believe he will take care, but accidents do happen.”

She placed a bottle of golden oil on the table, and a bundle of herbs next to it.

“Grind little more than a pinch in a teacup and seep it in hot water before you lie with him. The water will turn black, but don’t worry. This is Shadow Veil from Kasarath and it will remove anything unwanted, but it is perfectly safe for you. Let it cool, but you must drink it no later than two hours after the deed.”

Juniper listened carefully, but was more and more uncertain. She had always been told of the horrors of intercourse, that blood was the true testimony of maidenhood. “Will it hurt, when I bleed?” she asked carefully.

Neema laughed. “Oh, my dear girl! No!” She shook her head. “There should be no blood in this. If it is, he hasn’t tended to you properly. In that case, slap him.”

Juniper was shocked, but Neema laughed again.

She laughed a good while before she took a deep breath and said, “There could be some discomfort, some pain, especially the first time. It isn’t only their stature that is bigger than ours, you know.”

Neema gave Juniper a suggestive look; she knew what the maasa was implying, and it made her face burn in embarrassment to think of.

The woman quickly continued. “Humans and Kas aren’t always compatible. But, if there is pain, it should not last, and there should definitely be no blood. There will most certainly be soreness afterwards, of course, but don’t you worry about that. It will pass, but it might feel unusual and uncomfortable. Take a clean, cold cloth and press it to your core if the feeling is too bothersome. Now, if you do experience true pain during, you tell him to stop, immediately. Sometimes, such a union is simply not possible.”

Endless thoughts rushed through her mind; her whole life, she had been told that a woman’s duty was to marry a man and birth him sons. She knew the procedure that would lead to conception but she had never thought there were so many things to think about. All she had ever been told was that the woman was supposed to lie on her back, be silent, and endure it, and then it would be over. Now, however, she had to think about oils and herbs and concoctions and cold cloths—

Neema then suddenly took Juniper’s hands in her own. “Remember: you are the master of yourself. Mating is useless if the soul is broken. You must be willing.”

Juniper nodded, entranced by the woman’s green eyes. There were suddenly a thousand questions she wanted to ask her, but the only thing she could think of was, “What if I fail? What if I forget the drink, or doesn’t let it seep, or doesn’t let it cool enough, or drink it too late? If I forget the oil? What then?”

The woman smiled. “Use your common sense, girl. The brew can be made beforehand and you’d do best to drink if directly after; if you forget, you come to me. The oil will surely come to mind if you find it too difficult to take him; the first time will be especially challenging.”

“What do you mean, take—oh…” Her cheeks burned and she wished the earth would swallow her whole. Surely, she had thought about the Vasaath’s body many times but she had never dared to think about what his, well, endowment, was going to do. Of course, she thought, embarrassed, it would play a vital part in the coming activities.

Neema only laughed at the girl’s terrified face. “There is nothing to be worried about, dear girl. The Vasaath will be gentle and respectful even if he doesn’t want to be. If not, he will be shunned by his own.”

Juniper didn’t know whether that made her calmer or more nervous.

“I’d be grateful, if I were you,” said the maasa then, “to lie with a man that isn’t poisoned by old, hateful tradition.”

Juniper only chewed on her cheek and dropped her gaze. To say that the Vasaath wasn’t poisoned by tradition would be, in her mind, a wrongful assumption. Every tradition was hateful in one way or another; perhaps the healer didn’t know all the details of the agreement, after all.

Translation:

Maasa – healer

Ohkas – stranger; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”

Ohkasenon – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”

Vahanan – welcome; “I receive you”