Mistress of Masks

by C. Greenwood

  Vaguely, as if from a distance, she heard a prolonged shout and saw a quick blur of movement from the corner of her eye. The scorpion’s massive stinger plunged downward, coming straight at her. And then a blade swept through the air, slicing the stinger cleanly from the tail. Screaming, the creature scrambled backward as Orrick appeared. The juices of the severed stinger dripped from his sword as he positioned himself between Eydis and the creature.

  In its haste to escape, the injured scorpion stumbled through the underbrush and into the trunk of a tree, setting branches quivering and leaves raining down.

  When Orrick would have advanced on it, Eydis was surprised to find herself grabbing his elbow, pulling him back.

  “Let it go,” she said. “It’s in no condition to come after us now. Besides it’s done us a favor, rescuing us from Naroz and the hunger hounds.”

  The barbarian visibly hesitated, watching the scorpion make its clumsy escape. After a moment he lowered his sword, admitting, “I’d just as soon not prolong an encounter with a fire scorpion. But you don’t owe your escape to that thing. If I hadn’t discovered the scorpion wandering lost from its swarm and driven it into your captor’s trap, it would never have taken down the monster.”

  “Then thanks for our rescue,” Geveral said, joining them.

  Orrick said, “Keep your thanks. Let’s just move out of here before those hunger hounds find the courage to return. Or before the scorpion comes back with his whole swarm. If you think that one was formidable, you don’t want to see these creatures when they’re full-grown.”

  Eydis glanced uneasily into the deepening shadows. “Right then,” she said. “Let’s walk through the night. We’ve lost too much time already.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Geveral

  Asincourt was unlike anything Geveral had ever seen. Treeveil, with its hundreds of inhabitants, had never seemed small to him. But Asincourt must have held tens of thousands within its gates. On entering, the three travelers found the marketplace so crowded they could hardly move through the jostling press.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Eydis reassured him, pulling him out of the way of a passing fruit cart. “I grew up in a city this size before I made my home at Shroudstone.”

  That didn’t make the press any less overwhelming. “How long do we have to stay here?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of screaming street sellers, rattling wagons, and poultry and livestock being driven through the streets.

  “Only until we obtain an audience with the local lord,” she told him. “If we’re to defend the seclusionary outside these walls, we’ll need all the support we can get from the townspeople.”

  “What if the lord won’t help us?” Geveral didn’t know which thought was worse, that they wouldn’t get the aid they needed or that they’d need to spend days in this overcrowded city, drumming up support. Seeing the great world beyond the Elder Forest wasn’t turning out quite like he imagined. He had envisioned Lythnia’s great cities as bastions of beauty and order. Nowhere in his imaginings had been the foul smells, the refuse spilling out of side alleys, and the dirty, hungry-looking crowds. The eyes of the inhabitants were cold, their voices shrill, and their manners abrupt. No one even walked on the proper side of the street. Back home, the Treeveil elders would never have stood for such ugly chaos.

  “Don’t worry,” Eydis cut in on his thoughts. “Asincourt won’t stand by and let their seclusionary be overrun by a dark army. Once he understands the graveness of the situation, their Lord Karol will send soldiers to protect the seclusionary. I’ve only to show him this mark to be recognized as one who speaks for the First Mother.”

  Absently she rubbed her temple where the silvery trace spanned her forehead. The lace-like design was barely visible in the bright sunlight but could be seen in flashes as she moved her head from side to side.

  Geveral suspected half her confidence was feigned but kept the thought to himself as their party obtained directions from a passerby and headed up a slightly quieter street. At least with Orrick in the lead, pedestrians let them pass. But there were many curious stares turned their way, as if the people here had never before glimpsed a barbarian from the Kroadian wilds.

  The hall of the local lord was conspicuous for being one of the larger constructions in the city. But despite its size, there was something dingy about the plain timber structure. The long porch was layered in dust from the street, and the warped glass windows looked like they hadn’t seen a cleaning in months. Even the watchman at the door had a slovenly appearance and sat snoozing in a chair rather than keeping a lookout.

  “Orrick, are you sure you do not want me to mask your appearance?” Eydis suggested, when the three paused before the hall.

  Orrick frowned. “I have told you, do not touch me with your magic. I have no liking for it.”

  With an effort, Eydis held in a retort at his foolishness, saying instead, “In that case, it might be best if Geveral and I proceed alone from here. Common people on the streets might not know you, but Lord Karol is likely better informed than they, and he may have heard rumors about the escape of the ‘betrayer of Endguard’ from the Morta den 'Cairn.”

  “Hold on,” Geveral interrupted. “The betrayer of what?”

  His companions exchanged a glance, and Eydis said, “Perhaps we should have told you before, but Orrick has had a previous encounter with the authorities in the coastlands. Let’s just say it would be preferable to avoid a similar occurrence with the baseland authorities. They too are bound by Lythnian law.”

  Geveral tried to come to grips with the information. “You mean we’ve been traveling all this time with a wanted man?” Suddenly Orrick’s suspicious behavior made sense.

  “Lower your voice, boy,” the barbarian growled, darting a glance at the passing pedestrians.

  “Why should I?” Geveral countered. “I have no interest in protecting some sort of criminal. How do I know you’re not plotting even now to murder me?”

  “That,” Orrick warned, “is a great possibility.”

  The two glared at one another until Eydis cut in. “Enough. Have you forgotten what’s important here? Geveral, if the oracle can overlook Orrick’s crimes to use him as an instrument for good—”

  “Alleged crimes,” Orrick interrupted.

  She ignored that. “If the oracle, and more importantly, the First Mother, can focus on the greater good, so can you and I. My visions tell me we’ll need Orrick on our side before all this is over. That’s enough for me, as it must be for you.”

  She looked troubled, despite her words, and Geveral wondered if she had seen anything else in those visions of hers, something she was withholding. But at least tensions had been cleared for the moment.

  The three arranged to meet at the corner tavern after Geveral and Eydis had their audience with Lord Karol. Then the Kroadian left them, and Geveral and Eydis mounted the steps to the porch, where they woke the lone guard and persuaded him to summon a servingman. Soon they were met by a black-haired fellow in scarlet livery, who looked down his long nose at the both of them.

  “Lord Karol is a very important man. He is not available to every dust-stained traveler who comes calling,” the servant informed them.

  “Not even a messenger from the great oracle of Silverwood Grove?” asked Eydis, lifting an eyebrow. “I should think your master might be rather angry if you turned away such a message without consulting him.”

  That gave the servingman pause, and reluctantly he invited them inside. Eydis stepped through the doorway, and Geveral was about to follow when he had the strange feeling of eyes boring into his back.

  Looking to the street, he saw a stranger staring at him. It was a bald old man, dressed in the rags of a beggar, and apparently blind in one eye, judging by its milky white color. But what gave Geveral pause was the stranger’s slender Drycaenian features and pointed ears. It was the first Geveral had seen of one of his kind since leaving Treeveil.

  Findin
g himself discovered, the stranger looked away quickly and hurried off up the street. Geveral made an abrupt decision.

  “Do you need me at this meeting, Eydis? Because if not, there’s something I’d like to do.”

  She must have wondered what sort of errand he could possibly have to fulfill alone in a strange city. But she told him to go ahead, and she would meet him with Orrick later.

  He barely let her finish before bounding down the steps and back onto the street in time to see the bald stranger round the corner. Geveral pursued at a distance, following him down one side alley after another. He could easily have caught up, for the stranger’s pace was slowed by a slight limp. But something told him to hang back and see where the other Drycaenian might lead him.

  They entered an impoverished-looking part of the city where all the buildings were decaying and the yards around them overgrown with weeds. The stranger squeezed through an unlocked iron gate and into a high-walled courtyard. Spying through the gate, Geveral saw that the enclosed yard held the remains of a large burnt-out house that had only one wall and chimney still standing. The rest of the building had collapsed and been reclaimed by nature, being overgrown with tall grass and saplings.

  But it wasn’t toward this ruin the old man scurried. He approached a smaller structure, an oblong building like a small house but constructed from panes of glass. Slipping through the gate, Geveral waded through the weeds after him, ducking out of sight only when the old man stopped to cast a quick glance around before entering the glass house. The glass panes were too grimy for Geveral to make out more than indistinct dark shapes inside. He hesitated, unsure why he felt compelled to go in. Maybe it was the pull to be near one of his kind again. Or maybe he was curious why the stranger had been watching him and why he had crept into that glass house with such stealth. What did he fear?

  As Geveral considered, a reverberating sound reached his ears, like the deep roll of thunder. Only it wasn’t coming from the sky, but from that house of glass.

  Emboldened by his curiosity, he let himself in the same door by which his quarry had entered. Once inside the shadowy interior, he stopped cold. The place was filled with row upon row of lush green plants and small trees, some growing out of clay pots, others sprouting from trays atop rickety wooden tables. He recognized fruit trees, stalks of vegetables, and a collection of herbs.

  But it wasn’t the green things that drew his attention. It was the roiling gray cloud forming like a thick fog near the glass ceiling. Another low peal of thunder sounded, rattling the walls and roof. Before Geveral’s eyes, a light mist descended from the cloud overhead, moistening the greenery below. Swiftly the mist became a sprinkle, soft droplets of rain falling down on Geveral’s upturned face. Entranced, he didn’t care that his clothing was getting wet. He hadn’t seen magical weather manipulation since that night back in Treeveil. The night Mentor Kesava died driving the birdmen away with a wild hailstorm.

  But there was no question he was witnessing nature magic now. And standing amid the indoor garden, head thrown back and arms outstretched, was the mage creating it, the bald old man in beggar’s rags. He appeared unaware of Geveral’s intrusion. His eyes were glazed over, his expression rapt, as the rain showered down on him. Geveral had seen that enthralled expression before when Mentor Kesava or Mage Jauhar worked the weather. It was the look of one so immersed in nature he no longer knew his surroundings or what occurred around him.

  Out of respect, Geveral waited in silence until several minutes passed and the cloudburst abated. Then the old man came out of his trance, becoming abruptly aware.

  “I thought you might come,” he said, betraying no surprise at the sight of the waiting Geveral. His one good eye shone brightly. “I suspected you would be as intrigued by me as I was at the unexpected sight of you. Few of our people are left in the world, and even fewer are to be found in the baselands. What brings you to Asincourt?”

  “I travel with friends,” Geveral said evasively, unsure how much to reveal to this stranger. Abruptly remembering his manners, he added, “My name is Geveral of the Elder Forest.”

  “And I am Janya of the Ashwoods,” replied the old man.

  “Janya, I fear curiosity led me to trespass on your property and interrupt you at work.”

  The old one’s face split in an ugly, yet good-humored, grin. “Of the former you need not worry, as this is not my property. As for the latter, I have finished with the day’s rain.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking…” Geveral hinted.

  “What am I doing with these crops?” Janya finished. He swept an arm around them. “What you see before you is my humble livelihood. In looking for a place to sleep, I once stumbled across this abandoned house of glass and realized it was the ideal place for growing small crops. The sun’s rays on the glass warm the interior in winter, the walls protect the sprouts from wind in fall, and I have full control of the weather in all seasons. The produce of my garden feeds me, and whatever is left I can sell at market. The profit is minimal but enough to keep an old man alive. The only difficulty is keeping my little garden secret. That nosey Lord Karol is suspicious of magic and forbids me to interfere with the city’s weather. And so I must confine my practice to this small space.”

  “I’m sorry,” Geveral said, thinking not of the old man but of the difficulty Eydis might face, trying to win support from a lord who had no respect for mystical gifts. Perhaps their task in this city wouldn’t be as simple as hoped.

  Janya didn’t follow his line of thought. “Never mind Lord Karol,” he said easily. “His eyes can’t be everywhere at once, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me. Anyway, enough of my troubles. I can see you have deeper concerns of your own. “

  “What do you mean?” Geveral asked guiltily.

  “I mean that magic block hanging over you.”

  “Magic what?” Geveral glanced nervously toward the ceiling, half expecting a physical block to be hovering like a boulder above his head.

  “A magic block is a barrier some of our kind are born with. It’s like a wall, holding back the swell of magic until it builds like floodwaters rising behind a dam. Surely you can feel it?”

  Geveral furrowed his brow. “My magic has been weak since childhood, but the mentor in my village never spoke of any barrier. He said time and training would grow my magic.”

  Janya shrugged. “Every mage has his strengths and his blind spots. Perhaps your mentor simply couldn’t see what I do. If he had, he might have lifted the block for you.”

  “Then it can be removed?”

  “That depends on the block. I’d have to take a more thorough look.”

  He came closer and took Geveral’s head in his hands. His eyes glazed over as they had when he worked his weather magic, and for the space of several heartbeats, all was still.

  Then Geveral felt a strange sensation in his skull, like the easing of a pressure he hadn’t realized existed until it was removed. With it gone, everything instantly felt sharper and clearer, like a hazy cloud had been lifted from his mind. His skin tingled from scalp to toes, with a vivid awareness of the life around him. He had previously been conscious of the green growing things as a vague presence, but now he fully felt them for the first time. He was linked to them, just as he had briefly connected with the tree that saved his life the night of the hunger hounds’ pursuit.

  Janya’s hands fell away, and his good eye grew focused again. “There we are. It is done,” he said gravely. “It was a simple barrier, easily removed. Almost any mage could’ve broken it down without effort.”

  Geveral defended, “Mentor Kesava was a good mage.” But his heart wasn’t in the protest. He was too charged with wonder and excitement at the new world that had opened up before him. He felt almost powerful now, like he could do things he’d never done before.

  “I don’t doubt your mentor’s competence,” said Janya. “But between a good mage and a great one, there is a difference. Me, I once had the potential to become
one of the greats. But I didn’t attend academy and finish my training, so it all came to nothing.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

  “Then don’t try. No one born with the gift should be separated from it. Knowing I’ve helped restore the proper balance of things is all the gratification I need.” Janya glanced toward the glass ceiling where the sun could be seen working its way through the sky. “Now the afternoon is wearing on,” he said, “and I fear there’s someplace I need to be.”

  “Is there no time to talk?” Geveral protested. “I have so much to learn now that there’s no block between me and my gift.”

  “Sorry, my boy, but I’m no mentor. I left the traditional life of a Drycaenian long ago, and now I’m just a kind of glorified gardener, struggling to get by in a land that’s lost all respect for your kind and mine. If it’s training you want, you should seek out one of the mage schools. Learn from my mistake and don’t neglect your education.”

  Already the old man was heading for the door, calling back, “You can hang about the place if you like but latch the gate on your way out. I don’t want my turnips pilfered by scavengers and beggar children.”

  The door opened and shut behind him and he was gone, leaving Geveral alone in the glass house. He barely hesitated. He would start small, he promised himself, but practice he must. There was a burning need in him to test his newfound strength. Besides, the vegetables looked thirsty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Eydis

  As she shoved her way through the noisy tavern to an empty table at the back, Eydis tried to think how she would break the bad news to her friends. Sorry, but it turns out Lord Karol is a shallow fop who cares for nothing but luxuries. The fate of the seclusionary means less than nothing to him, and he wouldn’t heed a warning from the First Mother if she appeared in the flesh to deliver it herself.