Winterwen's fearsomely nonchalant voice must have carried to the first seats along the attendants' table. The buzzing in the hall gradually 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 a glare of I told you so.

Meanwhile, Winterwen propped an elbow on the table and leaned her chin lightly against it,

"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 rattled off the list of discrepancies. Her long, lance-like fingers caressed the contours of her high cheekbones pushing through her veil, as her shrouded eyes zeroed in on Meya's dilated one.

"You did not come straight from the Pearly Falls, Lady Hadrian." She concluded, then cocked her head, her icy smile stretching, "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 tightly, 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 her facade. Meya had prepared back-up plans, of course. But the one immutable element was that Winterwen must believe she wielded the authority of Lady Hadrian. And for that, she still had one last card up her...chest compartment.

Coris. But, not in the way he'd expect.

And thus, 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, a hint of smug deviousness creeping into her smile. 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 elaborated airily, then 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, sportively 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."

"It could just be my paranoia, in which case I apologize," Winterwen cocked her head, then turned to Coris, "but I shall have Lord Hadrian attest to that."

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

"Please remove your masks. Both of you."

Now that was part of the plan. And 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 add even more doubt to the tottering pile.

"Wouldn't that make it impossible for you to uphold your creed for life?" Meya challenged. The Lady shook her head with a private sigh of amusement.

"I, my family, and the occupants of this hall have visited other towns and seen countless faces." She clarified,

"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."

Her concern addressed, 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, he managed a few words,

"Goodly Freda."

As he breathed, his shaking hand reached 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 under strain both physical and mental. His trembling hands frantically cradled her face as if it were a leaking hourglass. "Does it hurt? Bishop Riddell! See to the Lady, NOW!"

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

"It's alright, Coris! It doesn't hurt. I took it out myself." She pleaded through her eye for his trust. 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, as Lady Jaise chose that very moment to remind them of her continued presence.

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

Winterwen rose leisurely to her feet, more occupied with straightening the wrinkles on her dress than her guests. Coris whirled around, and Meya squeezed his arm to signal she would handle this herself, as she retorted without pause,

"Not surprising, considering the marriage prospects of a Greeneye lady in Latakia."

She hitched up her practiced sneer, parroting her rehearsed script more smoothly, now that things were proceeding according to plan and she didn't need to improvise much.

"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 allowed herself a brief pause to size up her opponent's reaction. When Winterwen did not respond, she turned and addressed the hall,

"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. She clasped her hands loosely at her middle, then played 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.

After a shuddering shiver, 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 that 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 glanced up to face Winterwen.

"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 as well.

"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 along with her voice, jabbing a finger before her 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 fleeting glance at Coris, who was still wide-eyed and mouth ajar, arms outstretched as if to catch her should she tip over, then whipped back to Winterwen with a mocking grin, stabbing her finger at empty air once more,

"—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 held her arm in place, pointing defiantly to the town beyond the lake, as she awaited the ruling, 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, as her shoulders relaxed into a slight hunch. She nodded slowly, her somber, quiet voice renting the silence.

"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 scrutinize Coris next, 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 discombobulated youngsters looked on, Winterwen raised both hands and lifted off her silver circlet, from which gleaming teardrops of jet and moonstone dangled. She laid it soundlessly on the table, then pinched the hem of her veil and folded it up.

Meya bit back her scream a split-second too late at the sight. 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 revealed as she lowered her veil. Her unaffected manner indicated it was out of empathy for onlookers rather than shame on her part. And, even amidst it all, Meya couldn't help admiring her unabashed courage.

"It is a rare condition slightly more common among Jaisians, and slightly more so in my family." She cocked her head, and her smile widened,

"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." She lowered her hand and raised her chin; she appeared to be meeting Meya's gaze, "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. But, before Meya could do more than open her mouth, she went on,

"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 continued with 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 sympathetic ally, then just as soon disappointed and indignant. Winterwen dipped her head in contrition.

"The gist, yes. Not the specifics." She turned briefly to 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 whirled away to face the room, but her chin was on her chest as she propped a painted hand on the table. For the first time, she looked exhausted and defeated. And her husband stepped forth to rest his hand gently on her arm in support.

Winterwen closed her hand over his, and nodded in gratefulness and reassurance. She glanced up to meet Meya's gaze once more, and her voice regained some of its resounding weight.

"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 at the unpleasant memories, and so did her husband's lingering hand on her arm. Meya found herself nodding. She understood the Lady perfectly, 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." Winterwen continued.

"Nevertheless, we shall persist." Her husband interjected, staring through his mask at the foreign youngsters before him. Winterwen nodded her agreement, 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 resolute 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 with a rigorous response,

"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 the excited chatter of her subjects. Ignoring them, Winterwen turned back to her guests, who were smiling slackly with both relief and disbelief, and smiled in return.

"I would be honored if you would accompany us, Meya Hild." Meya's numb lower lip hung open at the offer. Winterwen did not linger and 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 as he accepted,

"With pleasure, my Lady."