Jaise Castle stood out from all the castles Meya had seen so far—which totaled to two. Then again, the number of castles your average peasant would see throughout his lifetime would seldom be over one. Three for a lass her age was already unheard of at best and impressive at the very least.

Instead of a sprawling white stone complex, adorned with turrets and towers, perched on a hill, surrounded by a deep moat or a thick crenellated wall, Jaise Castle was a lone column of gray-black stone rising up at the heart of a manmade lake, the pupil of a jewel-clear cerulean iris.

Sleek shadows of bass and trout sailed alongside their rowboat as it cleaved its way towards the levee, then darted for the safety of open waters when Meya skimmed her hand on the surface. Now that she had put on her Lattis coin, the water was lukewarm to the touch.

Once Meya had stepped from the wobbling boat onto the quay, the chamberlain led them through the arched doorway, which opened to the Great Hall. Despite the extra items in the itinerary, it seemed they weren't appallingly tardy—maids and servants spilled out of the scullery door, ferrying out platters of food, and sliding trenchers before the hosts and guests around the Lord's table. The attendants' tables were still bare.

At Meya's entrance, the cloaked figure at the center of the main table—Lady Winterwen Jaise—turned her veiled head in her direction, then stood up. The flurry of activity skidded to an abrupt halt, then the whole room followed suit, amidst a cacophony of benches scraping over stone.

The chamberlain stepped forth into the center aisle between the long tables, prompting Meya to lead her entourage along in his wake. She felt the phantom heat of dozens of eyes scrutinizing her through glass masks on every inch of her body—half of them probably thinking about dinner or their protesting knees—and she quickened her pace.

As she approached the end of the aisle, Meya noticed Sirs Jarl, Simon and Christopher perched at the head of the table to the left. Jerald, Atmund, Arinel, Agnes, Heloise and Fione edged in single file before the long bench and settled down, while Gretella herded Frenix and Amara over to the table on the right.

Lady Jaise's veiled head revolved on her bare, swanlike neck, shrouded eyes following Meya's progress as she advanced alone. Meya took note of the raised dais and lifted her dress, freeing her feet. Yet, the tip of her foot caught on the edge of the granite step, and she stumbled.

Curse you, Freda! I've gone hours with one eye. And you chose now of all times to trip me?!

Meya stood rigid, bent double, paralyzed not by pain nor embarrassment, but the certainty that should she relax one muscle, the curse-laden scream to the spiteful goddess she had been holding back would let loose.

Coris had stepped around the table and was striding towards her. He led her forth by the hand, gloved fingers hovering about yet not touching her wrist. Meanwhile, Zier was sheepishly edging back to his seat, having lurched a few steps out from behind his chair when Meya tripped.

The Hadrian boys obviously believed she was Arinel. Over to Lady Jaise, however, the seedlings of doubt were rattling in their shells—Zier's gaffe did not go unnoticed. Lady Jaise's face was now turned towards him. So were those of her husband, son and two daughters far down the table.

Drat it, Zier. Could you do nothing right?

Once Coris had deposited Meya in her seat, Lady Jaise finally gathered her dress and sat back down, signaling the servants to resume their dinnertime hustle and bustle. As a tray of roasted trout resting on a bed of potatoes and blanketed with lemon slices landed before her, Lady Jaise leaned across Coris to greet Meya,

"Does it still hurt, Lady Hadrian? Shall I summon the healer?"

Lady Jaise had the deep, clear, calm voice of an older, larger, more imposing woman than her cloaked silhouette suggested. A goblet of water was already sitting on the table before Meya. She took a quick sip to moisten her vocal cords, then answered the lady with a sweet smile.

"No, my lady, thank you." She said in her best imitation of Arinel's voice, which wasn't good enough—she noticed Coris starting out of the corner of her eye, "My deepest apologies. That was most unbecoming."

Lady Jaise shook her head with a melodramatic sigh. Her heavy curtain of rich, wavy dark brown hair which fell to her hips rippled slightly.

"Please, the blame rests upon the host." Her bow lips stretched into a sealed smile under the lace hem of her veil, "I do hope you would find our humble town pleasant still?"

"Why, of course, my lady." Meya forced out a breathy giggle, nudging up her mask so Winterwen wouldn't spot the band of sweat now popping up along her hairline.

As he piled food onto her trencher, Coris sneaked glances at her chest, which was obviously not Arinel-sized. To assuage his doubts, Meya pushed a pickled olive through her lips onto her tongue, then propelled it down her throat whole. (Meya hated pickles)

Lady Winterwen tilted her head, her smile unraveling at the hems.

"Your tone hints otherwise." She challenged. Meya's smile sagged. Winterwen turned away and tore a morsel off her unleavened bread, then soaked it in the centerpiece meat stew.

"Tell us about your day—with honesty." She commanded in an airy voice edged with ice.

Meya stiffened her shoulders to weather the sudden chill. And she'd thought no precarious situation would intimidate her after she had survived her ordeal with Gillian. Lady Jaise had turned back to face her, chewing soundlessly. Meya hitched her shiny smile back up.

"We headed first to the Pearly Falls, my lady, and we ended up spending our whole afternoon there. The scenery is breathtaking, and the hot bath did much to expel the ache and chills from the long journey."

Lady Jaise unfurled her tight little smile. Just as Meya was letting down her guard, she uttered a single, resounding verdict,

"Deceit."

Winterwen's voice must have carried to the first seats along the attendants' table. The buzzing in the hall gave way to an echoing silence as the occupants turned in ripples to peer at the Lord's table.

Meya saw all this out of the corner of her eye as she stared dumbly back at Lady Jaise, frozen by chilling horror. Coris was trying his utmost to appear unruffled and politely confused, even as his trembling, sweaty hand clasped over Meya's on her lap. Meya was already thankful that he at the least did not bury her deeper in her early grave with an I told you so.

Winterwen propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin against her hand,

"Your hair is dry. Your fingers aren't wrinkled from long hours in the water. Your skin is pale from cold. You smell faintly of blood. Your voice is ventriloquized and uneven." She listed, as her long, lance-like fingers caressed the contours of her high cheekbones pushing through her veil. Her icy smile stretched wide, "You did not come straight from the Pearly Falls, Lady Hadrian. Rather, are you even Lady Hadrian to begin with?"

Even with the roaring fireplace behind her, it felt as if a lake of chilled winter air had just oozed in through every gap in the flagstones. Coris gripped her hand so tight, she felt the bones of her fingers grating against each other.

He was signaling her to surrender. Surrender now, while he could still defuse the situation. For he could not speak for her. Yet.

But she couldn't surrender. Meya had prepared back-up plans, of course. But the one non-negotiable element was Winterwen must believe she wielded the authority of Lady Hadrian. And for that, she still had one last card up her chest compartment.

Meya slotted on a smile just as serene and chilly as her opponent,

"You're very observant, Lady Jaise." A praise. Not confirming. Nor refuting. Winterwen tilted her head, her smile now smug. Not at all enraged nor alarmed by the prospect of an impostor infiltrating her home.

"A common pitfall among both those who discern and deceit is to focus on the face, when lies also reveal themselves in other ways." She flourished her hand towards the room at large, "Being raised amidst concealed faces allows our eyes to roam, and seek out other, surer proofs of deceit."

Meya gave a few deep nods, accepting defeat,

"True, I may not have come straight from the Falls. The reason for which, I have wished to reveal in private company. To save you from embarrassment. My experience of your town has not been positive, I am afraid." She laid out her argument in words weaved by Agnes and Arinel, "But I do not see why I would be an impostor."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"It could just be my paranoia, in which case I apologize," Winterwen glanced at Coris, "but I shall have Lord Hadrian attest to that."

Meya blinked sweat out of her eye. Winterwen stared at her, then commanded brusquely,

"Please remove your masks. Both of you."

Now that was part of the plan. Meya considered it a stroke of luck amidst a maelstrom of surefire disaster—her adversary actually saved her the trouble of charting the uncertain course up to her big ace play.

Still, she shouldn't seem too eager, or it might heighten suspicion.

"Wouldn't that go against your creed?" Meya challenged. The Lady shook her head with a sigh of amusement.

"I, my family, and the occupants of this hall have visited other towns and seen countless faces." She said, "Our creed is voluntary. Jaisians are free to gaze upon another face, or let their own face be gazed upon. So long as it does not intrude upon the choice of others within our walls."

Meya nodded, then obligingly discarded her mask, and waited for the uproar.

Now, Coris. Don't let me down. Forget whatever I told you in bed and just let loose, my lad.

Meya faced Coris fully as he raised his gaze from his mask, making sure the empty socket of her eye was as visible as possible.

Coris's performance started subtle, with widening eyes, blanching cheeks and slacking, wordlessly flapping jaws. At long last, words found him,

"Goodly Freda." He breathed, his shaking hand reaching towards the gaping metallic hole of her missing eye. His icy finger traced the puffy bag below her eye, then gently prodded her eyelid, jerking away in terror when it sunk under his touch.

Meya watched as he gulped and gasped incomprehensible words. She watched the grief, the fury, the guilt emerge after the shock faded in those eyes she adored, and she steeled her gaze against the battering torrent of tears, even as she whispered hundreds of apologies within.

"What in the three lands—Who did this to you?" Coris cried, his husky voice cracking. His trembling hands cradled her face as if it were a leaking hourglass, "Does it hurt? Bishop Riddell! See to the Lady, NOW!"

Coris sprang to his feet, hollering for his healer, who jolted out of his seat and came waddling up the aisle. Meya bolted up, tugging at his arm.

"It's alright, Coris! It doesn't hurt. I took it out myself." She pleaded. Coris's eyes were bloodshot and desperate, and he was still panting heavily.

Bishop Riddell stood at the end of the table, awaiting his command. One that would never come.

"I have never known Lady Crosset to be a Greeneye."

Winterwen interrupted as she rose leisurely to her feet, more occupied with straightening the wrinkles on her dress than her guests. Coris spun around. Meya squeezed his arm to signal she would handle this herself.

"Not surprising, considering the marriage prospects of a Greeneye lady in Latakia." She retorted with a sneer, "Especially now that I've seen how Greeneyes are treated in this town, I feel it safer for the true nature of I and other Greeneyes in my service to remain hidden."

Meya paused to size up her opponent's reaction. Winterwen didn't respond, so she turned and addressed the hall instead,

"But safety does not bring about change. As a privileged Greeneye, I am honor bound to raise my voice on behalf of those whom power would not heed."

Winterwen raised a smile of mild amusement, which both propelled Meya up a wall of Amplevale proportions and chilled her like the winds of Icemeet. The Lady clasped her hands at her middle, playing along.

"And who would that be?"

Gathering her courage, Meya nodded then turned and met eyes with Jerald. The knight promptly stood up, a hand on Atmund's back.

Shivering, the boy got to his feet and shuffled over, with constant quick glances at the staring public, and incessant fidgeting of his hands. Even with his mask on, it was all too obvious the only thing keeping him walking was courtesy for Jerald's lingering hand of reassurance.

Meya nodded at him, projecting confidence from her single eye while suppressing her own fear, and Atmund's legs seemed to wobble a little less. Once he had toddled into her arm's reach, she gathered him gently to her side, then faced Winterwen once more.

"This is Atmund Herzin. He's a gum farmer, and a Greeneye. He's barely ten."

She drew from the bloodless cold and protruding bones of Atmund's shoulder pressed up against her palm to fuel her determination, knowing that her voice must not only carry throughout the room, but through the shroud of indifference over Winterwen's humanity,

"His father Elmund frequents the gamblehouse. He forces Atmund to sell blood every fortnight to fund it." Winterwen was a sculpture under her veil and cloak. Desperate, Meya spun around and appealed to the whole room, "To settle a debt, he also pawned off Atmund's eye to Sir Tyriel Wert, which Tyriel then mounted on a statue over the hot springs. For all to see!"

She raised her hand, jabbing a finger in the direction of the Pearly Falls. A chorus of murmurs and gasps rose to engulf the echoes of her outburst, and Meya breathed freer as she turned back to the Jaise ruler.

"I could have simply brought this atrocity to your notice. But I doubt it would have the same impact, upon both you and my husband—"

She spared a glance at Coris, who was still wide-eyed and mouth ajar, arms outstretched as if to catch her should she tip over, then spun back to Winterwen,

"—had it not been my eye now decorated on that statue in place of Atmund's."

Silence descended upon the room, a curtain heavy as night, as the two women locked eyes, one shrouded and one blazing. Meya did not lower her arm, still pointing defiantly to the town beyond the lake, her bated breaths loud in her ears.

If Lady Jaise remained unmoved, her last resort is to bring this to court and force Tyriel to return her eye over usury charges. But it would be far less than what she had aimed for. Far less than what Atmund—and every Greeneye—deserved.

Winterwen stood still as stone. Unfeeling or petrified, thanks to her veil it was unfathomable. At long last, she blew out a labored sigh, her shoulders now hunched. She nodded slowly, her voice somber and quiet,

"Of course it would, Meya Hild."

It there ever were a moment one would fear one's own name, this would be it. Meya's knees buckled and she stumbled back into her chair. Zier steadied her with a firm grasp on her elbow, and her wide-eyed view of Lady Jaise was partially obscured by Coris stepping in, ready to defend her lost case.

Yet, Winterwen simply smiled sadly and shook her head.

"Your eye conveyed your memories to me. You must learn to control your thoughts." Her cryptic explanation did little to hearten her startled guests. She turned to Coris, but her words were still directed to Meya,

"Yet, Lord Hadrian's concern for you is genuine. Lawfully wedded or not, in his eyes you are his Lady."

Then, as the dumbfounded youngsters looked on, Winterwen raised her hands and lifted off her silver circlet, from which gleaming teardrops of jet and moonstone dangled. She laid it soundlessly on the table, then folded up her veil.

Meya bit back her scream a split-second too late. It wasn't that Lady Jaise was unbearably ugly or deformed—far from it, actually. She was blessed with most of Latakia's ideal attributes for a woman—thick, straight eyebrows, straight and prominent nose, wide, full lips and defined cheeks all deftly arranged on her oval face. Her olive skin was not marred by a single freckle nor pimple.

Her right eye, however, was a glowing acid green. But where its pair should be, was a raw, moist pink, half-open empty socket.

A Greeneye?

The notion whizzed first into Meya's brain, as soon as she had gathered her senses. But, if so, her empty socket should have been metallic, like Meya's own. So, what exactly...?

Her serene smile unshaken by the horrified and queasy expressions of the room's occupants, Winterwen stretched out her hand towards Meya, who gingerly felt it with her barest fingertip. Her skin was cool to the touch. Not as cold as Coris, but as normal humans felt to her when Lattis wasn't on her. She stared questioningly back up at the enigmatic Lady.

"I was born without eyes." Winterwen lowered her veil. Her unaffected manner indicated it was out of empathy for onlookers rather than shame on her part. Meya couldn't help admiring her courage.

"It is a rare condition slightly more common among Jaisians, and slightly more so in my family. Perhaps because our ancestor forbade our people from enjoying the beauty of man, Freda cursed some of our blood to never be able to appreciate the beauty of all her other creations."

Winterwen rested her hand, decorated with flowers and curlicues in crimson paint, over her missing eye.

"Some consider it a curse. Some consider it a blessing. I myself hardly consider it. Still, I want to rule, and it is difficult for the sightless to rule the sighted. No books were yet written to be read by the blind."

She flicked back a corner of her veil, again uncovering her glowing green eye.

"This eye once belonged to a Greeneye who roamed the Sands of Caesonai in times of ancient." Meya could have sworn that eye gave her a covert wink, before Winterwen let down her veil once more. "I've ordered the desert men to bring me all the eyes they find in the Sands, in return for permission to forage for minerals there. I store them in our Library of Eyes here in the castle, where our Greeneyes study them."

Winterwen wrung her clasped hands, then blew a quiet sigh, her face downcast,

"Most out of the know assume I collect them. And I allow the rumor to spread. I must behave as if I am one of them. It is the only way I could think of to prevent those eyes being traded like doubloons from the seabed."

"So, you've known?" Meya barely felt herself stepping out from behind Coris. One moment she was in awe and surprise at finding another ally, then just as soon disappointed and indignant. Winterwen dipped her head.

"The gist, yes. Not the specifics." She glanced at Atmund, who jumped at being acknowledged by Lady Jaise herself, then back to Meya,

"I haven't heard of this outrageous case, and of the blood market in The Tunnels. But I'm aware of the sentiment towards Greeneyes, here in Jaise and the rest of Latakia."

Winterwen heaved another sigh. She turned away, her chin on her chest as she propped a painted hand on the table. For the first time, she looked exhausted and defeated. Her husband stepped forth and rested his hand gently on her arm .

Winterwen closed her hand over his, nodding deeply. She resurfaced and met Meya's gaze once more,

"I am beholden to your kind, for the sight that has allowed me to fulfill my duty to my people. In my youth, I have made bold moves to end the prejudice, but I soon learned that such audacity—which you possess in such amounts, and have not yet lost—would be met with resistance just as ferocious."

Winterwen's lips tightened, and so did her husband's lingering hand on her arm. Meya found herself nodding, as her back and calves burned with the phantom of invisible whips, and the scar on her tongue tingled like a loose scab.

"Undoing a system of belief could take more than a lifetime, and I am by no means the wisest nor the mightiest."

"Nevertheless, we shall persist." Winterwen's husband interjected. Winterwen nodded, and added with a bow,

"And setbacks do not make for excuses. I beg your forgiveness for my lack of oversight. I shall do better."

Her vow still ringing in the silence, Winterwen straightened up and shook her curtain of hair back from her face.

"Quida."

She called sharply to the thin air before her. A lady-in-waiting stepped forth from the shadows behind the table,

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Prepare the carriage and the raft. I shall visit Sir Wert." Lady Jaise adjusted the silver corolla she had just deposited around her forehead, "Have the nurse tend to Atmund, and summon his father. We shall discuss the boy's living arrangements when I return."

The grand hall buzzed with excited chatter. Ignoring them, Winterwen turned back to her guests, whose smiles were slack with both relief and disbelief, and smiled in return.

"I would be honored if you would accompany us, Meya Hild." Meya's mouth fell open. Winterwen turned next to address her beau, "You as well, Lord Coris."

If Coris was pale from trepidation earlier, he was now faint with thankfulness. His reply was for Lady Jaise, but his beaming silvery eyes and smile of pure joy and pride were solely for Meya,

"With pleasure, my Lady."