by E. C. Blake
“You’re beautiful,” her mother said. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “My little girl . . .”
“Get Daddy,” Mara said happily. “He should see—”
Her mother wiped her eyes, and shook her head with a smile. “No. He won’t tell me anything about your Mask. Says he wants it to be a surprise. Well, let’s make this a surprise for him. The first time he sees you in it, let it be on your birthday.”
Mara laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face.” She looked down at herself. “I wish I had a mirror.”
“Milady has only to ask,” her mother said. Mara had been so taken with the dress she hadn’t even noticed the tall, cloth-covered object in the corner. Her mother pulled the cloth away, revealing the full-length mirror that normally stood in her parents’ room, a marvelously clear glass that had been a gift from a wealthy merchant in appreciation for a particularly fine Mask made for his Gifted daughter.
Mara looked at herself, and her breath caught in her throat. “I look like a grown-up!” Well, a very skinny grown-up, she amended. She needed to fill out quite a bit more in certain crucial areas before she could really show off the dress to its best effect.
“Wait until we have your hair done properly, and add a necklace and bracelets,” her mother said. “And then the Mask . . .” She paused. “You know that the Autarch will likely be present for your Masking.”
Mara’s breath caught. “What?” She turned to look at her mother in wonder.
Her mother nodded. “It’s true. For the last few months he has made a point of attending the Maskings of the Gifted. Your father attends many as well, of course, as a guest of the family, and in appreciation for his work. He has seen the Autarch many times.” She started to say something else; then stopped. “Many times,” she repeated after a moment.
Mara stared at her. “I never dreamed . . .”
“It is a great honor,” her mother said.
In that moment, Mara’s fears about the upcoming Masking evaporated. And the next few days, passing in a whirlwind of preparation, left no time for doubt. There were visits to the hairdresser, the manicurist . . . after which she began wearing shoes; she didn’t want to damage her toenails, which suddenly looked prettier than she’d ever imagined toenails could look . . . and the caterers. Two other children would be Masked at the same ceremony, but each family would hold its own separate reception afterward: and since Mara was the daughter of Tamita’s Master Maskmaker, her reception had to be top-tier, indeed.
Yet through all the planning, the decorating of the house with strings of silver sequins and garlands of preserved passionflowers of red and yellow and white, one person remained conspicuously absent: her father.
“Are you sure Daddy is all right?” Mara asked her mother as they worked in the kitchen just two days before the Masking. “The last time I saw him, he looked so tired.”
Her mother, polishing silver at the washbasin, remained silent for a moment. “I told you,” she finally said. “He’s not ill. He’s just . . . preoccupied.” She put aside a gleaming knife and picked up a tarnished fork. “And I think I know why.”
“Really?” Mara had her own polishing task: to make sure none of the crystal goblets had even the tiniest water spot to mar their glittering perfection. She lifted the one she held up to her eyes, peering critically through it at the window. “Why?”
Her mother moved on to a spoon. “It’s you.”
“Me?” Mara put down the goblet and stared at her. “Huh?”
“You’re his little girl,” her mother said. “But after the Masking . . . well, you’ll still be his daughter. But you won’t be a little girl anymore. You’ll be an adult. You’ll wear your Mask whenever you go out, and before you know it there’ll be some young man courting you, and then . . .” She sighed. “It’s the way of the world, and there’s nothing to be done about it. But it’s hard. Hard for me, too. But I think it’s even harder for your father. For all fathers.”
Mara picked up the next goblet and rubbed it with her soft white cloth. “Was it like that for your father?” Mara had never known her grandparents, who had died before she was born, but she knew her mother’s father had been a dye merchant, the success of his business bringing the family north to Tamita just before her mother was Masked. His warehouse still stood down by the Gate, although she didn’t know who owned it now: she’d seen big black wagons roll out of it, but had no way of knowing what they carried.
“Yes,” her mother said sadly. “He was different, after I was Masked. Like he didn’t know how to talk to me anymore. And I guess I didn’t really know how to talk to him after that, either. And before we ever figured it out, he and Mom got sick, and . . .” She pressed her lips together, and resumed polishing the silver, harder than ever.
Mara said nothing more about it, but in her heart she swore she wouldn’t let that happen to her. The Masking won’t change me, she promised herself. And it won’t change our family. We’re still a family. We’ll always be a family. Nothing can change that.
And then, as if time had suddenly leaped forward, it was the day of the Masking itself.
Mara saw her father again at last, in the front room as she and her mother came down that morning after spending an hour on Mara’s hair and makeup. His expression when she appeared in her beautiful dress was not at all what she expected. She saw a flash of the pride and wonder she’d hoped for, but then it vanished, as though shutters had been slammed closed across a brightly lit window. All that remained was the same withdrawn look of fatigue she’d seen a few days earlier at breakfast.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, but almost as if the words hurt him.
“Isn’t she?” her mother said. “My little girl. The Autarch will be—”
“The Autarch won’t be there,” her father said. As Mara’s mother gasped, he turned away and picked up his Mask from the stand by the front door.
“What?” her mother cried. “But the Autarch has come to almost all of the Gifted Maskings for the past—”
“Almost all,” her father said. “Not quite all. And this one . . . he has chosen to stay away from.” He settled his Mask on his face, and only then turned to look at them again, his expression hidden by the smooth copper surface. “But there will be another distinguished guest,” he continued. “Ethelda, the Chief Healer of the Palace. Healer of the Autarch himself. She will attend in the Autarch’s place.”
“Ethelda?” Mara’s mother said, sounding hurt and bewildered, and Mara couldn’t blame her. Daddy is already spending as much time with Ethelda as he does with us. Now she’s coming to my Masking?
A horrible thought struck Mara. Could her father be . . . be unfaithful? Her stomach fluttered at the very idea. No. It couldn’t happen.
But then why wasn’t the Autarch coming to her Masking? Why was Ethelda coming instead?
It’s because I lied about the magic I see, she thought suddenly. The Autarch knows. Maybe this Ethelda does, too. Maybe Daddy does, too. Maybe that’s why he’s been so distant. I don’t have the Gift at all. Or at least, not enough. Maybe I won’t be able to use it all. I won’t be able to be my father’s apprentice. . . .
All those thoughts raced through her mind in an instant, in the time it took her mother to press her lips together and then lift and don her own her Mask, pale blue with a pattern of white stars on the cheeks. Their true expressions hidden behind faint smiles of magical clay, Mara’s parents led her outside, and for the last time, Mara stepped into the cool morning air with her face uncovered.
They climbed silently up Maskmakers’ Way to the Maskery’s walled compound. The bronze-bound wooden gate in the tall stone fence stood open. Inside, rather than the cobblestoned courtyard she had expected, Mara saw a riot of color, flowering bushes growing in profusion on manicured lawns beneath tall trees whose leaves rustled in the light breeze. Liquid trills of birdsong filled the space, as t
hough avian composers had been specially commissioned to mark the august occasion.
The midmorning sun glinted off a path of crushed white stone that led to the Maskery, a circular building of white marble, topped by a golden dome and surrounded by a slender-columned portico.
The other two children being Masked that day already waited by the Maskery door: a boy and a girl Mara had never met. Though they obviously shared a birthday, they hadn’t shared a tutor. The girl, far more buxom than Mara, wore a shamelessly low-cut red dress that hugged her hips. The boy, all in black from head to toe, looked more like a twelve-year-old than someone who had just turned fifteen. A heavy dusting of freckles stood out in stark relief on his paper-white face, framed by big ears. He kept swallowing and clenching and unclenching his fists. Mara just hoped he wouldn’t be sick. That would certainly take some of the shine off the proceedings.
She didn’t feel nervous at all, she told herself, even as a bead of sweat slid down her exposed back. And she had a much nicer dress than the other girl, even if she didn’t fill it out in quite the same way.
Two Watchers in expressionless black Masks flanked the Maskery door. The door itself, though twice as tall as Mara, was so narrow that only one person would be able to pass through it at a time. Solid bronze, bearing high-relief images of four Masks, one above the other, it gleamed dully in the sunlight, far outshone by the Masker waiting in front of it: like Tester Tibor, he wore yellow, bright as a daffodil, from his Mask to his hooded robe to his sandaled feet. Even his toenails were painted yellow, Mara noted, then quickly raised her eyes and looked straight ahead again, feeling it must be somehow improper to be examining the toes of a Masker.
They all formed a line in front of the door, the Masker at the head, then the boy, the other girl, and Mara. The witnesses—her parents, a younger couple that seemed to be the girl’s parents, and an older couple she thought must be the boy’s grandparents—brought up the rear.
They stood there in silence for what seemed to Mara a very long time, until a final witness came up the white stone path from the Gate.
The newcomer, not much taller than Mara, wore a long white robe, belted with blue. Blue shoes slipped in and out from beneath the robe’s blue-embroidered hem as she walked. Blue also Masked her face; green gems glittered on the forehead and cheeks.
Ethelda. Mara’s gaze swung to her mother, who took one quick look at the newcomer, and then turned to face forward again. Mara wondered what expression lay beneath the shining pale blue surface of her Mask.
“Healer Ethelda,” said the Masker, gravely. “You are here as a witness for the Autarch, long may He reign?”
“I am,” Ethelda said. Her voice sounded slightly breathless, as though she had run most of the way from the Palace, whose tall golden walls loomed above them atop the crest of Fortress Hill.
The Masker nodded, then turned toward the door. Though he didn’t touch it, it swung silently inward. One by one, they stepped inside.
The first thing Mara noticed was the sound of running water, issuing from the dimness beyond the door. As her turn came to enter the Maskery, she discovered the source: just inside, a bridge arched over a shallow moat about five feet wide, filled with water that tumbled foaming out of golden spouts, shaped like the heads of mountain cats, set at regular intervals around the Maskery’s curved white marble walls.
Between the spouts burned white torches in golden sconces, their yellow flames the only source of light—except for the eyes of the golden mask at the very top of the dome, fashioned exactly, Mara saw at once, like the Mask of the Autarch. (Although on those rare occasions she had seen the Autarch, his eyes had not actually blazed with light like the eyes of this Mask, lit from behind by a skylight.)
At the center of the chamber rose a circular dais perhaps ten feet in diameter and two feet high, covered with gleaming white tiles that contrasted with the blue tiles of the main floor. Beyond the dais, white-tiled stairs led down through an opening in the floor. More torchlight flickered in the underground corridor beyond.
Mara had been told what would happen, so she knew to follow the Masker to the edge of the dais, but not to step up onto it until called. The three candidates stood side by side while the Masker took his place in the middle of the dais. The Watchers stood to either side of him. The Witnesses spread out behind the candidates, several steps back.
On a table beside the Masker rested three lumps, each covered with cloth of gold. Mara looked at them and licked dry lips. One of those, she knew, was her Mask.
The Masker looked down at the three children. “Perik Adder, come to be Masked.”
The boy jerked forward so suddenly he almost tripped over the edge of the dais, but caught himself just in time and stepped up onto the white tiles. He faced the Masker, his hands, Mara saw from behind, working more convulsively than ever.
The Masker turned to the table and pulled the cloth off the nearest lump. A white Mask, its cheeks and forehead marked with red stars, stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Not one of ours, Mara thought disapprovingly. She made a mental note to never make anything that ugly.
The Masker raised the Mask in both hands, and turned back to Perik. “Perik Adder, you have reached the age of fifteen years. It is now the will of the Autarch that you become a full citizen of Aygrima, with all the duties and responsibilities that entails, and that you serve him and his heirs for the rest of your life. Do you accept the will of the Autarch?”
Of course he does, Mara thought. He has to get his Mask. He can’t leave here without one.
“I do,” the boy said.
“Should you prove false, the Mask you are about to receive will reveal your treachery to the Autarch’s Watchers,” the Masker warned. “Serve the Autarch well, and you will live a long and happy life in his service. But be untrue, and that life is forfeit. I ask you for the second time, in the full knowledge of these truths, do you accept the will of the Autarch?”
Was it Mara’s imagination, or did the boy hesitate? But it was only for a second, if he did.
“I do.”
“So that there can be no mistake, for the Autarch does not want in his service those who do not come to it freely, I ask you for the third and final time: do you accept the will of the Autarch?”
The eyes of the golden Mask overhead dimmed suddenly as a cloud passed in front of the sun.
“I do,” said the boy.
The Masker inclined his head. “Then I welcome you to full citizenship, to adulthood, and to the service of the Autarch; and in recognition of your thrice-made vow, I present you with this Mask, symbol of your devotion, guardian of your thoughts.”
He turned the Mask and settled it gently onto the boy’s face. The boy gasped. Though it appeared to be made of glazed, fired clay—though in fact, as Mara knew well, it was made of glazed, fired clay—the Mask squirmed as it touched Perik Adder’s face. Then, abruptly, the movement stopped, and the Mask looked exactly like his face had looked—except, of course, in white clay. The boy swayed for a moment, then straightened; he turned to face the Witnesses. Polite applause pitter-pattered through the domed chamber. Mara glanced behind her, and saw the older couple hugging.
“You may join your family,” the Masker said, and Perik Adder stepped down.
The other girl—Jilna Patterner was her name, and a very silly name it was, too, Mara thought—was next. Her Masking proceeded exactly as Perik’s had. She stepped down from the dais, wearing a white Mask like the boy’s, though hers was marked with little pink roses on the cheeks (Mara didn’t roll her eyes at the sight, but she wanted to).
And then . . .
“Mara Holdfast, come to be Masked.”
Even though she’d known that call was coming, Mara’s heart skipped a beat. Bearing herself as straight and proud as she could, she stepped up onto the dais. The Masker turned to the table and pulled the cloth off the last lump there, and M
ara gasped. She had never seen a more beautiful Mask: gleaming, copper-colored, with rubies forming a fiery tiara across the forehead, more rubies sparkling like flickering flames on the cheeks. Tears started in her eyes. Oh, Daddy!
The Masker lifted that magnificent Mask and turned to face her. “Mara Holdfast, you have reached the age of fifteen years. You have been tested, and found to have the Gift.” Mara couldn’t turn around to see, but she hoped Jilna Patterner’s eyes had just narrowed in jealousy inside her silly rose-painted Mask. “It is a precious thing, the Gift of magic,” the Masker went on. “Precious, for it enables you to serve the Autarchy in ways that those without that Gift can only dream of. With your Gift in particular comes great responsibility, for you, Mara Holdfast, are apprenticed to your father, Charlton Holdfast, Master Maskmaker of Tamita.” The Masker nodded over her shoulder in the direction of her father. “Someday, your Masks will adorn and glorify the faces of generations yet to come.”
Mara shivered, goose bumps running up her bare back and down her arms. She’d never thought of it in quite such grand terms.
Doubts and fears forgotten, she felt only awe and gratitude. She focused her eyes on the beautiful Mask her father had so lovingly crafted for her. The skin of her face seemed almost to have a mind of its own, a mind that yearned for the touch of the Mask’s smooth clay . . .
“Mara Holdfast,” the Masker intoned, returning to the vow he had already administered twice. “You have reached the age of fifteen years. It is now the will of the Autarch that you become a full citizen of Aygrima, with all the duties and responsibilities that entails, and that you serve him and his heirs for the rest of your life. Do you accept the will of the Autarch?”
It was hard to even say “I do” through the lump in her throat, but all too soon, it seemed, the oaths were over, and the Masker stepped forward with the beautiful copper-colored Mask in his hands. “Then I welcome you to full citizenship, to adulthood, and to the service of the Autarch: and in recognition of your thrice-made vow, I present you with this Mask, symbol of your devotion, guardian of your thoughts!” The Masker raised the Mask in both hands and settled it onto Mara’s face.