Faces

by E. C. Blake

  Had the food not been as good as it was, the silence would soon have seemed oppressive. The Lady did not speak again until the last plate had been whisked away by the attentive servants. Then she folded her hands on her laps and said to Catilla, “I trust everything is well in your camp? The villagers have helped you settle?”

  “Well enough,” Catilla said. “No one is starving, and if we aren’t as warm as we were accustomed to in the Secret City, I cannot fault you for that.” She did not look at Mara, but Mara thought she could hear an unspoken, “But I can fault you,” directed at her. “But the tents will not take us through the full brunt of another winter.”

  “Nor will they need to,” Arilla said. “We will build new houses through the summer. By winter’s descent, everyone should be under a proper roof and warmed by a proper hearth, just as I have made sure you are already.”

  Catilla inclined her head stiffly, as if her neck hurt. “I thank you for that.”

  The Lady glanced at Chell and Captain March. “And your men? How do they fare?”

  “They are healthy enough,” Chell said. “But they chafe against their confinement. They want to return to the ships and commence repairs.”

  “Repairs?” Arilla looked amused. “You really think you can repair those broken hulks?”

  “We have excellent shipwrights among our crew,” Captain March growled. “It would take many weeks of work, but from the wreckage of both ships I believe we could craft one that could be ready to sail by fall . . . if we were allowed to work on it.”

  Arilla shook her head. “I’m afraid my answer is still no,” she said. “As I told you, I may need your men to overthrow the Autarch.”

  “This is not our fight,” Captain March said. “You have no right—”

  “You invaded my territory,” the Lady said softly. “I have every right.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Quiet, Captain March,” Chell ordered. His voice was soft, but carried a tone of command Mara had only heard once or twice, and which never failed to get results.

  Captain March pressed his lips closed and jerked a nod.

  “Then tell me, Lady,” Chell said, smoothly picking up the thread of conversation, “how do you plan to achieve this overthrow? And if my men fight for you, will you assure me of your help in my own conflict? You know what I seek: magic and the Gifted to wield it in battle against Stonefell.” He glanced at Mara. She saw it out of the corner of her eye but didn’t turn her head an iota.

  “Your men will fight,” the Lady said. “Whether I agree to aid you or not. They have no choice.” But then she softened the harsh words with a small smile. “But I promise you, Prince Chell, that once the Autarch is overthrown and I rule Aygrima, I will look favorably upon your request and will provide what aid I can.”

  For some reason Chell glanced at Mara again before saying, “I take you at your word.”

  “As you should.”

  “You will rule, Arilla?” said Catilla.

  “Benevolently,” said Arilla.

  “As you do here.”

  “Indeed.”

  Catilla pressed her lips together, but she said nothing more.

  “Then perhaps,” Edrik said, “you will tell us exactly how you plan to achieve this miraculous outcome. That is presumably why you called us here, rather than just to show off the skill of your cooks.”

  “Quite right,” the Lady said. “It is time. So . . .”

  She raised her hands. Mara, alone among those in the room, saw the magic sheathing them, white light streaming to her from the wolves. Arilla flicked one finger, and the torches went out, doused by flecks of magic that darted to each like an arrow from a bow. She flicked another, and a splash of magic dimmed the fire to glowing coals.

  Then she folded her hands together for a moment, concentrated, and spread them wide.

  The air above the table shivered and glowed, and from the gasps of the others at the table Mara knew that they, too, could see this manifestation of magic: a representation of the mountains that formed Aygrima’s northern border, in brilliant color and detail. “When I fled the Autarch’s attack as a girl little older than Mara here, it was through a pass whose existence had been previously unexpected, because it can only be accessed by a network of caverns which—to my great good fortune—emptied into the very ravine where I made my final stand.” She flicked a finger, and a winding trail of green appeared among the miniature mountains, leading to a not-to-scale representation of the redoubt in which they were even then seated. “Those caverns are now sealed, of course, collapsed by the Autarch’s final attack, but shifting a few tons of stone is a trivial problem. Either I or Mara could easily reopen the path.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Mara saw the others glance at her, but she kept her own focus squarely and resolutely on the Lady.

  “However, it is there, I am certain, and along the shore, that the Autarch will concentrate his forces against our potential return to Aygrima—because he does not believe there are any other routes through the mountains. Which is just what I want.” Arilla smiled. “For while examining the mountains from this side, I discovered . . . this.” Another flick of magic from her finger, and a blue trail appeared, far to the east of the green one, emerging right where the northern mountain range blended into the eastern one that likewise formed one of Aygrima’s borders. “A second pass . . . well, a potential pass . . . far from the path along which I fled, and one that leads into Aygrima in a place where there will be no defenses. It’s completely uninhabited. Our forces can move freely in Aygrima for days before the Autarch is even aware of our presence.”

  Catilla sat up straighter. “That,” she said, “is excellent and unexpected news.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Potential pass?”

  The Lady shrugged. “The borders of Aygrima are currently closed to me. The Autarch has access to the magic the ancient rulers of Aygrima crafted to seal off the then-kingdom from the plague ravaging the world, the same magic, I believe, that forced your ships aground. That magic prevents me from reentering Aygrima. The Autarch, uncertain if I were truly dead, put that protection in place within days of our final confrontation, before he even returned to Tamita.

  “But it does not prevent ordinary people from entering. And it will not be activated by Mara here.” She nodded in Mara’s direction again. “With my instruction, she can break that protection . . . only in the small area of the pass, but that is all I need to allow me to return to Aygrima.”

  “How can you be certain she will not likewise be attacked by this magic?” Catilla said. “Why would he not set protections against her return just as he did against yours?”

  Arilla snorted. “Because he can only set those protections in person. Do you really think there is the slightest chance that the Autarch would risk his august personage on a journey to the northern mountains knowing that a new rebellion is afoot?”

  Catilla inclined her head. “Fair enough.” She studied the map. “So. We get our small force into Aygrima without being detected. We have some time to maneuver. Where do we maneuver to, and to what end?”

  “There are two places in the north we must take before we even attempt to move south,” Arilla said. “They are relatively close to each other.” She flicked magic, and two red dots appeared, both close to the mountains, one slightly north of the other.

  “The mines,” Edrik said.

  “The mines,” Arilla agreed. “The new one to the north, identified with Mara’s unwilling help, has barely begun to be developed, but already magic is being shipped from it—and a lot of that magic is going to the force of Watchers the Autarch has positioned near the ravine, and the garrison at the Secret City which guards the shore.”

  “Why hasn’t the Autarch sent a force after us?” Chell said. “Why won’t they simply come into this valley from the west as we did, following our trail?”

&nb
sp; “I cannot match the magic of the Gifted who crafted the barriers around all of Aygrima,” the Lady said tartly, “but I can manage a barrier to prevent that. They cannot pursue us. All they can do is what they are doing, and try to defend their own borders.”

  She turned her attention back to the two red dots. “So. First we take these two mines, to cut off the Autarch’s supply of magic. He has substantial stores in the Palace, of course, but they are far from inexhaustible . . . and without that magic, his Gifted fighters are just ordinary men. Whereas Mara and I . . .” She smiled a cold smile. “We do not need the magic mined from black lodestone. We have other sources.”

  Catilla gave Arilla, and then Mara, long, level looks. Her expression betrayed nothing of what she was thinking. Then she turned her attention back to the map. “And then what?”

  Arilla shrugged. “We march south. We attack Tamita. We take the city.”

  “With our tiny force?”

  “The size of the force is sufficient to achieve its sole purpose: to allow Mara and me to reach Tamita.”

  “To do what?”

  Arilla smiled. “Allow me some secrets, Catilla. I will make that part of the plan known to you in good time. Its success depends entirely upon secrecy.”

  “You ask us to take a lot on faith,” Catilla said.

  “Faith?” Arilla said softly. “Have you not seen enough by now, Catilla, to know the power both Mara and I command?”

  Is that true? Mara thought suddenly. Am I really capable of everything the Lady of Pain and Fire is?

  That was the fate she’d tried hard to avoid. And now she welcomed it?

  She felt a sudden surge of doubt. Again she wished she could talk to Ethelda about it. But Ethelda was dead. The Lady of Pain and Fire herself had taken Ethelda’s place . . . had taken everyone’s place . . . in Mara’s life.

  Do I really want to become like Arilla?

  Have I already?

  The discussion of how best to organize their forces for the march into Aygrima began, but Mara had suddenly lost interest. She stood up. “Excuse me,” she said. “I . . .”

  Arilla waved a hand in her direction. “Go,” she said. “No need for you to worry about all this. We’ll talk later.”

  Gratefully, Mara turned and went out through the screened passage. But she did not return to her room as she had planned. Instead she made her way once more onto the battlements, and stared down again at the village and the tents of the unMasked Army. Keltan was there, presumably, eating the rougher food of the camp instead of the rich meal provided by the Lady.

  She’d thought a lot about what he had said in the days since she had met him surreptitiously, a meeting the Lady had never found out about . . . or at least, Mara told herself honestly, never saw reason to mention.

  He’d said he loved her. She’d thought about that quite a lot. But she’d also thought about what else he’d said, trying to make her doubt the goodwill of the Lady, trying to turn her toward Catilla. Now she knew why the Lady needed her. She, and she alone, could break the wardstone keeping the Lady from entering Aygrima. The power to either take the first step toward toppling the Autarch or halt the Lady’s plans for revolution forever both lay within her—a different kind of power from the power of her magical Gift, but in some ways even greater.

  The fate of Aygrima rests in my hands, she thought. It sounded absurdly pompous when baldly stated like that, but it was undeniably true.

  She walked to the corner of the fortress wall, and this time looked south at the mountains that lay between them and Aygrima, their snow-covered peaks painted silvery blue by the moon.

  The truth was, without meaning to, Keltan had accomplished the exact opposite of what Catilla wanted. She would do what the Lady wanted her to do. She would use her power as required. And together, she and the Lady would overthrow the Autarch.

  Turning her back on the spectacular view, she headed back to the Great Hall. The Lady had given her permission to sit out the discussion of the march into Aygrima, but she no longer wanted to do so. Nobody will ever manipulate me again, she thought as she had before. I choose my own path.

  And I choose to follow the Lady of Pain and Fire.

  When at last the delegation had departed, the Lady took Mara once more to her private chambers, where hot herbal tea and sweet nutty pastries waited. They settled in what had become their usual places. The Lady filled their cups. “And what did Keltan want to talk to you about, when you saw him last week?” the Lady said, just as Mara lifted hers.

  Her hand jerked, almost spilling her tea.

  The Lady laughed. “Did you really think you could walk around the village without word getting back to me? I heard how you were skulking around.” She shook her head. “I told you not to go down there, and I am not happy you disobeyed . . . but, I suppose, no harm done, and young love . . .”

  “Young what?” Mara said.

  “Your young man . . . the one named after the Autarch’s horse . . . fancies himself in love with you, I’d wager. No doubt he hoped for a kiss or two. No doubt you hoped for the same. Did either of you get what you wanted?”

  “That’s not why I went down there.” Mara’s face felt hot. She told herself it was from the tea. Even though she hadn’t touched it yet. She raised her cup, sipped from it, and carefully set it down again. “I just wanted to tell him how well my training was going. I wanted him to know he had nothing to fear—none of them have. I wanted him to know I wasn’t going to become . . .” She let the final words trail off.

  “A monster?” the Lady said softly.

  Mara sipped more tea to avoid answering.

  “And was he impressed?”

  Mara sighed. “No. He told me . . . he tried to warn me about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Tried to make me think that . . . that you’re as bad as the Autarch. I think Catilla put him up to it. He was talking to her just before I arrived.”

  The Lady nodded. “Most likely,” she said. “So he was trying to drive a wedge between me and you?”

  “Yes,” Mara said.

  “What did he say, exactly?”

  Feeling uncomfortable, Mara told her. “He said you are stealing magic from all the villagers all the time, making them docile—stealing their humanity, just like the Autarch is doing with his new Masks. He said your Cadre is no different from the Autarch’s Child Guard.”

  The Lady’s eyes narrowed. “And did you believe him?”

  “No,” Mara said. “You’d never do what the Autarch does. You hate him too much.”

  “Yes, I hate him,” the Lady said. “And how did his accusation make you feel, Mara? Angry? Betrayed?”

  Mara nodded miserably.

  “That’s good.”

  “Why?” Mara said. “I don’t like feeling that way.”

  “Of course not,” the Lady said. “But you can use it.” She leaned forward. “You have done some amazing things with your magic, Mara. Stopping the explosion in the mining camp. Blowing down the city wall. Killing multiple Watchers at once. And every time, it was because of some powerful emotion: fear, rage . . . hate.” She leaned back. “I learned very early on, Mara, that magic responds to emotion. Yes, you can use it with fine control and accomplish many things. But the truly astonishing achievements come only with deep emotion. When I fought the Autarch, I drew on hatred and anger in every encounter . . . and if I’d also had this,” she touched the amulet, “I would have destroyed him then and there.”

  “But you can’t control emotion,” Mara said. “You either have it or you don’t.”

  “You can generate it, Mara,” the Lady said softly. “You have so many memories to draw on that will help you. So many injustices you have witnessed. And, most powerful of all, your father’s death. Your anger and hatred is always there, even if you don’t think you’re feeling it. You’re con
trolling it without even knowing you are. Reach down inside yourself and find your rage and hate, Mara. Don’t fear letting it out. Learn to use it to power your magic. Do that, and there is almost nothing you cannot achieve.” She reached out and took Mara’s hand. “There are those who will tell you that love is the most powerful emotion,” she said in a soft, savage whisper. “Perhaps Keltan is one of them. But he is wrong. Hate is more powerful than love. Grief is more powerful than joy. And both can feed anger, the most powerful of all. You cannot let them consume you. But you can use them. And I will teach you how.”

  Unbidden, the memory of her father’s death, the sound of his neck breaking as his naked body fell from the gallows, rushed into her mind. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice thick. “I’d like that very much.”

  SEVEN

  Return to Aygrima

  SIX WEEKS LATER, Mara stood staring up at a notch in the mountain skyline, trying to see the spire of rock she had to destroy. “I dare go no closer,” the Lady had said when they had emerged from her pavilion into the early morning light. “You must approach it alone.”

  “Are you sure I can do this?” Mara had asked.

  “I am sure, or I would not ask it of you,” the Lady had replied.

  Am I sure I can do this? Mara now asked herself, and her own answer was nowhere near as reassuring.

  But she had no choice. She turned and looked behind her. She stood on an outcropping a quarter of a way up the slope from the camp of fighters, just over three hundred in all, assembled from villagers, the unMasked Army, and Chell’s men; mostly men and older boys, with a sprinkling of the strongest single women. She knew well it was not a formidable force, though even now she could hear the shouts of captains putting squads through training exercises with sword and pike and bow. It was certainly not enough to take on the Autarch’s Watcher Army in open combat. Their only hope was stealth: and the only way they could stealthily enter Aygrima was through the pass blocked by the obelisk of black lodestone preventing the Lady from passing the borders.