Maskbound: The Ultimate Hunter

The cushion of the chair shone wet in the lantern light, a slow drip falling from above. Each drop struck the seat with a tap, like fingertips drumming on a window during a storm.

“Rain falls only when the Face is awake, so keep your voices low and your hands empty,” Tink whispered.

A fine rain began to fall inside the hall, drifting down from a ceiling that held no clouds. It beaded on Nilo’s coat without soaking in, every droplet carrying a faint note like a struck glass.

“My notebook says the air dropped nine degrees in one minute,” Zinnia murmured.

“Your notebook measures the weather now?”

“It measures whatever frightens me, so it is nearly full.”

A single mask lowered itself from the dark on a thread of moonlight, turning gently until it faced the chair. It was pale porcelain streaked with two long silver tear tracks, its mouth a tiny downward curve of patient grief.

“Do not stare at the tear tracks too long,” Tink breathed, “they like to be stared at.”

The voice arrived without sound, a drizzle across the skin that the mind translated into words. Nilo heard a gentle voice, but the others flinched as if it whispered a private name.

“Little guests, you came a long way through the rain, no one has offered you a coat in years.”

The old man gripped the lantern, “We want no coat, only a word, if the Weeper is still the Weeper.”

“I am as I was, lantern keeper, only wetter, sit if your legs are tired.”

“We will stand, thank you, the cushion is damp,” Zinnia said.

“Everything here is damp, sweet fox, grief is a thing that never dries.”

Zinnia kept one hand on her rapier and the other on her notebook, as if either might save her. Tink stood perfectly straight, leaning on his cane, the lantern flame now bent toward the mask like a plant.

“Before this goes any further, who exactly are we talking to?” Nilo asked.

“I am the second Face, small blank, the one that weeps so the others may go on laughing.”

“Sorrow,” Jingles whispered, “that is the word that was stuck on my tongue all night.”

The bandolier shook so violently that the hooks rattled, every bell ringing a frantic little alarm for him alone. Nilo pressed a palm to the rack, feeling the cracked porcelain burn warm for the very first time tonight.

“Do not look at me, I am a very forgettable mask.”

“Oh, my small bright one, you are crying, I did not even have to ask.”

“It is rain, it is only weather, it is just a little damp…”

“It is always rain until someone says it aloud,” the mask answered, so softly that the drizzle slowed.

“You two know each other?” Nilo whispered.

“I do not know, I think I might, please do not make me sit with it yet.”

The mask turned toward Zinnia, its silver tracks catching the lantern light. “And you, fox, you mourn a father who is still alive, that is the loneliest grief there is.”

She flinched as if the rain struck her cheek, her ears folding flat against her skull in one motion. Her pencil snapped between her fingers, the two halves dropping into the water without so much as a splash.

“That is none of your concern,” she said, her voice gone thin, “and he is not a subject for rain.”

“I did not choose the subject, sweet fox, the rain remembers it for you.”

Calla stood at the edge of the platform, her mask turned toward the rain as though it might answer. Not a single drop touched her cloak, the water curving around her like a crowd parting for a ghost.

“And you, quiet one, I cannot see you at all, the faceless have already paid,” the mask murmured.

“Then do not look,” Calla said, “I am told it is a habit worth keeping.”

She tilted her head toward the chair, her voice low. “A tailor walked through this hall once, did he not?”

“A tailor wept at my door long ago, small and gray, he grieved so honestly that I gave him a spool of my thread.”

“You armed him,” Tink said, his cane scraping the planks.

“I comforted him, lantern keeper, the sewing was his own idea.”

“He is cutting faces off living people with your thread,” Zinnia said, her voice shaking now.

“Then he no longer weeps honestly, I am sorrier than you will ever know.”

“Can the thread be cut?” he asked.

“Only by something that mourns more than it hates, small blank, that is the rarest blade in the world.”

“The plaque for Squad Six is polished, who keeps it so clean?” Zinnia asked.

“I do, fox, with the rain, it is the only thing I am able to touch.”

“Kiri sang the tide tables, did she not?” Tink said, his voice cracking.

“She sang them until the water closed, lantern keeper, I kept her last verse safe.”

Nilo glanced at the old man, “Would you sing it for the Captain?”

“Bring him down, small blank, I will sing it for him until he stops pretending he is not crying.”

Tink’s grip tightened on the lantern until his knuckles went pale, the flame bowing low toward the silent porcelain mask. The mask turned toward him with a slow tilt, the rain falling a little harder over the old man’s shoulders.

“Lantern keeper, you have carried her flame for twenty years, you may put it down for one moment.”

“It is not mine to put down,” he said.

“It never was, that is why it hurts.”

Tink stepped aside without another word, his jaw working, his eye fixed on a wall nobody else could see. Nilo noticed the old man’s hand trembling around the lantern handle, something he never saw in all the months.

“You alright?” he whispered.

“Ask me later, boy,” Tink rasped, “a question is waiting for you first.”

The rain thickened into a curtain, the lantern flame pressing flat as the whole hall held its breath. Overhead, every mask tilted a degree closer, a thousand porcelain faces waiting together for a single honest answer.

“Everyone who comes here asks for power, so I ask only one thing in return.”

“Here it comes, the question,” Nilo muttered.

“Whom do you mourn, small blank?”

“Boy, be careful what you—” Tink began, but the rain roared over him like a wave breaking on a pier.

‘Tilly’s alive. Zinnia’s alive. Everybody I love is breathing, so whom am I supposed to mourn?’

“Nobody,” he said lightly, “everyone I love is still breathing, so you’re out of luck.”

Tink’s lantern flame snapped sideways so hard that a spark tumbled out and hissed on the wet planks. The rain softened as though the hall itself sighed for a boy who would not admit what hurt.

“The lantern says otherwise, small blank, it has never lied to me.”

He stood still in the drizzle, feeling every eye in the hall on the back of his neck. Calla’s advice drifted through his head, the answer that hurts least, the one the hall listens for last.

‘The answer that hurts least. So what hurts, when I stop being funny for ten seconds?’

“Fine… me,” he said, “I mourn the kid who got found in the street without a name, I never got to meet him.”

A single tear slid down the porcelain cheek of the mask, tracing the old silver line to its chin. It dropped slowly onto the cushion without any sound, the whole hall exhaling like a held lullaby finally released.

“Then we are two orphans of a name, small blank, will you sit with me a moment?”

Zinnia stepped close enough that her sleeve brushed his, a hand’s width of space where her usual distance should be. She did not say anything for a moment, only looked at his profile as if she was learning it again.

“I did not know that, you never told me,” she said softly.

“You never asked, I never offered, we are both terrible at this kind of thing.”

“I am asking now, in the other column, where it belongs.”

“Why me, when you must have had a thousand better candidates by now?” Nilo asked.

“I have had thousands of mourners, small blank, they all answered with someone else’s wound.”

“That sounds like an insult wrapped in a compliment.”

“It is only a compliment, wrapped in rain.”

Clangor cleared his throat inside the rack, “Young man, a knight does not weep, I must protest on behalf of my entire profession.”

“Then he has not been a knight long enough,” the mask answered gently.

“Darling, tears are the finest ink in the world, I intend to write an opera with every drop,” Cadenza breathed.

“Cry, then fight,” Zilch said, “both take strength.”

“I have watched men die for worse bargains,” Drifter drawled, “this one at least has a roof.”

The hall looked different in the hush, its looms and masks no longer sinister but achingly tender. Even the black water seemed gentler, rocking the causeway as a mother rocks a cradle at night.

“Jingles, are you still in there?” Nilo whispered.

“Barely… I am thinking about a very old song, please do not hum it.”

Jingles went quiet in the rack, a single bell trembling against its neighbor like a held sob in the dark. Nilo felt the porcelain beat once against his ribs, the way a heart does when it recognizes a familiar voice.

“Please do not bind it, I think I would remember something terrible.”

“You will remember a kindness, small bright one, in the end the two feel the same.”

“You do not have to do this, boy, no one will think less of you if you walk away,” Tink said, his voice rough.

“I will not ask you to forget your sorrow, I only ask to carry it with you,” the mask said.

“What does that cost me?” Nilo asked.

“Tears fall whenever you fight, small blank, they will not stop until the fight does.”

“Waterproof coat, I will requisition one,” Zinnia muttered, scribbling on a fresh page.

“One condition,” he said quietly, “the next time my friends cry, I want to know before you do.”

“That is not how rain works, small blank, but I will try.”

“The tailor will come for me when he learns you wept here, he collects the saddest things.”

“Then I’ll make sure he finds me first,” Nilo said.

“That is how all the saddest stories begin,” the mask whispered.

“We have a bounty on him, so you are not allowed to be poetic about it,” Zinnia said.

“I make no promises, fox, sorrow has never been good at staying quiet.”

“Fair, nobody ever called me a very good listener either.”

‘Crying through every fight sounds awful. It also sounds like the first honest thing I would ever do on purpose.’

The mask drifted forward from its thread, light as a petal, hovering at the height of Nilo’s chin. Behind it the rain fell silent, every drop frozen in the air like beads on an invisible string.