The Grey Ones
The Open Cage: VIII

THE VASAATH

A day’s work, and the lady’s tent was nearly finished. There were whispers amongst his men, of course—whispers that the lady was indeed eager to convert to the Kasenon. Otherwise, the Vasaath would never issue such a building, with the finest canvas.

Her conversion was indeed what they all wished for, but the Vasaath himself had began to feel slightly doubtful. He would not want her to convert before he’d had the chance of expressing his feelings to her. In fact, he wasn’t so sure anymore that he wanted her conversion at all. The alternative, however, was unthinkable.

No matter how deep his wishes were that she would become vas-maasa, his experience and rationale said she would become ohkasethen. If so, she would be even farther from his grip than she was now.

Of course, he could appeal to the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon and vouch for her healing skills, tell them how important she was for his sanity, but they would never accept it. No ohkasenon had ever been trained as vas-maasa and the other two members of the Triumvirate would surely never understand the Vasaath’s need for one.

During supper, he was sure the girl felt much better. She was chatty, but there was something different in the air. The tension was different—stronger.

Was he going completely mad, or was she speaking softer? Was she playing with her hair more than usual? Was her gaze lingering longer than usual? Did she wet her lips unconsciously, or did she do it because she wanted him to notice it?

He kept thinking about those soft, moist lips against his cheek and he wondered how deliciously soft they would be against his own. He could barely focus on what she was saying, because all he could do was to imagine his lips on her skin.

That night, he did not receive the same token of endearment as the night before; the girl was being careful, and controlled, and he was childish enough to resent it. When she left him, he could not suppress the indecent thoughts that went through his mind, and when he went to bed that evening, he could definitely not control his dreams.

He kissed her, over and over—tasted her, claimed her, revelled. Even after waking up, he indulged himself and kept the imagery of him kissing her sweet lips fresh in mind. It was peculiar—outlandish, even!—that he would desire such intimacy. Mating was one need, intrinsic to most beings; never before had he sought closeness, tenderness. It was a need most human, and he did not like the vulnerability it brought.

To distract himself, he went through the invasion plans, again and again, that morning. He still had not heard from the Saath, and he was getting impatient. He still waited for the Duke to make his move as well—surely, the alliance had been put on hold until the safe return of the lady, but the Vasaath did not expect them to simply let her go.

No, he expected them to most certainly try to convince the populace that the poor, beautiful Lady Juniper was held hostage by the terrible barbarians. Only their precious Builder knew what unspeakable horrors they put her through.

As it were, it would be more advantageous if the lady herself pronounced her consent of being there. A highborn woman who would rather spend her days with a foreign general than with the son of a neighbouring city? What an insult that must be.

He smirked at the thought. Yes, what an insult, indeed. And what if the lady were to pronounce that she’d rather spend her nights between the Vasaath’s furs than between the young lord’s sheets? Well, he was quite certain that wouldn’t happen—but oh, what an insult that would be!

But now was not the time for silly dreams. If the Duke was gathering his City Guard, and the soldiers of Westbridge, the Vasaath had to be ready. His men were strong, disciplined, skilled—but they were outnumbered. Mainlanders would conscript any peasant with a pitchfork, so their skills were hardly the issue. To underestimate a fool’s wish to survive could however be a fatal mistake—and the Vasaath did not make mistakes.

He was deep in thought about strategy and warfare when the girl finally rose and entered the main room. He gazed up. and seeing her beautiful smile, he couldn’t help but smile himself. He greeted her, and she helped herself to some tea before taking a seat by the table.

They spoke quite frivolously and she was bold, audacious even, and she was indeed in a good mood. Perhaps, he thought, her good mood would allow her to be helpful in his militaristic endeavours.

Carefully, he asked, “My lady, you have told me that your father is planning on attacking us. How much do you know of his plans?” He looked at her, hoping she wouldn’t replace his inquiry too invasive. Indeed, his change of subject was very sudden, but the girl would surely hold no more loyalty to her father.

She was visibly taken aback. “Oh, I don’t know that much, sir. I’ve already told you everything I know. There is an alliance in the making.” She dropped her gaze. “But I suppose that is not particularly strong now when I’m, well, here. As I’ve said, I doubt they can solidify the alliance without me.”

The Vasaath only hummed. Yes, he already knew asking her was fruitless—but one thing she said helped him make a very quick conclusion: it was imperative for both Noxborough and Westbridge that Juniper returned to them. It would surely not be long until they came knocking on his door, demanding her back.

He kept thinking about sufficient strategies for the rest of the day. He tried to overlook the building project but his men were quick and thorough workers and he had nothing to supervise, really.

The tent was finished by nightfall and many of the ohkasenon had scoured the city after furniture, books, fabrics, and other trinkets to suit a lady. She was delighted, but the Vasaath felt a sting of sadness seeing her leave his tent—indeed, having her there had been torturous, and vexing at times, but he had enjoyed having her so close to him nonetheless. Giving her a tent, a space of her own, meant giving her freedom. She did deserve it—after all, the freedom was hers all along—but he wanted her to remain with him solely for selfish reasons.

When they had supper that evening, the girl was still in high spirits. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was even being coy. She moved flirtatiously, flung her hair about, moved closer, showed her bare neck to him—she did not make it easy for him to be disciplined.

When she said good night, he thought he sensed that she didn’t what to leave either. But she did, eventually, and the emptiness she left behind was like a gaping abyss.

The Vasaath had another glass of wine all by himself, pondering. Again, he tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts than her, but when he went to sleep that night, in his own bed, the sweet scent of her was overwhelming. He inhaled deeply, savouring the essence of her that was remaining in the furs, imagining that she was still there. One day, he thought, she would be, with him.

Translation:

Vas-maasa – “healer of the leaders”

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

Ohkasethen – “advisor on foreign matters”

Saath – military; army; strength; protection