by E. C. Blake
“Yes, Grandmother,” said the presumptive King of Aygrima, and together they went out.
The door did not close, however. Instead, it filled with a boy and a large furry beast: Keltan and Whiteblaze.
Mara would have loved to have leaped up and run to both of them, but since she would have undoubtedly fallen flat on her face had she tried, she settled for reaching out. Whiteblaze bounded across the floor and licked her face enthusiastically. Keltan proceeded more sedately, probably because he had one arm in a sling and a bandage on his head.
“What happened to you?” she asked him, which wasn’t the greeting she’d intended a moment before, but Whiteblaze had rather preempted the “enthusiastic kissing” option.
“Disagreement with Hyram,” Keltan said. “After I saw him hit you over the head. I looked a lot worse three weeks ago and he looked worse than me. But he had backup, and I didn’t.”
“He was just following orders,” Mara said. “If he hadn’t done it, someone else would have . . . and probably harder.”
“I know that now,” Keltan said. “But I didn’t wait for anyone to explain it to me. And it wouldn’t have made any difference if they had.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Mara said. “I felt people die outside the throne room when the Sun Guards arrived . . .”
“Prescox and Lilla of unMasked Army. Three of Chell’s sailors. Eight Sun Guards and four of the Circle,” Keltan said.
“Antril?”
“Fought like a demon,” Keltan said. “He’s all right. We gave better than we got, but only because we had the advantage of defending the top of the stairs. Another few minutes and they would have killed us all. But then the Masks broke. Only two of the Sun Guards fought on. We thought it was almost over—and then one of Chell’s men deliberately let a Sun Guard past, screaming at him, ‘Kill the bitch for us!’” His voice shook with the memory. “Chell cut his own sailor down on the spot, and Hyram and I ran into the throne room, behind Whiteblaze. But you had . . . ah . . . dealt with the threat on your own.”
Mara remembered exactly what she had done to the man, and swallowed. She ruffled Whiteblaze’s fur. “And so here we are,” she said. “Exile.” She looked up at Keltan. “Are you really willing to come with me?”
“Not just willing,” Keltan said. “Eager.” He sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hand in his. “There’s nothing for me here. I’d just be another soldier, unless I wanted to go back to the tannery . . .” He grimaced. “Not likely. And then there’s the fact I’d have to serve under Hyram. Sooner or later I’d probably try to kill him . . . and since he’s about to become the Crown Prince of Aygrima, I don’t think that would end well for me.”
“Wait,” Mara said. “I just realized . . . does that mean Alita is going to be a princess?”
“If she marries him as they plan, then yes, I guess so,” Keltan said. “And Queen one day.”
“Her village will be so proud,” Mara said. She couldn’t feel any bitterness toward Alita, or Prella or Kirika. She hoped they all lived happily ever after, whatever happened to her. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as you’re strong enough,” he said.
“I’m already strong enough for some things,” Mara said, and pulled him down to her.
The iron Mask didn’t get in the way of kissing nearly as much as she’d feared.
···
They left Tamita on a wet, blustery morning ten days later, escorted by half a dozen of the unMasked Army, who kept to themselves and hardly spoke to either Keltan or Mara as they rode north. Mara only looked back once, as they crested the ridge that would hide the city from them once they descended its northern side. The clouds were so low they dimmed the tallest towers of the Palace, where the blue banners of the Autarch had been replaced by banners of red and gold, the chosen colors of Edrik’s soon-to-be-ennobled family. The half-repaired wall looked like a bruise from this distance, but already Gifted Engineers and workers were bustling around it, trying to have it intact in time for the coronation.
Mara was glad she would not be there to see the crown placed on Edrik’s head, or the circlet of the Heir Apparent placed on Hyram’s, or to see Edrik ascend the Sun Throne she had last seen splattered with the blood of the Autarch. The people loved him, or at least the idea of him, the great liberator who had freed them from the tyranny of the Masks. Her own role in that remained deliberately obscured from general knowledge.
She turned north again, and let Tamita sink out of sight behind them.
She’d thought to pay a visit to Jess and Filia in Yellowgrass, to tell them how bravely their son had died, but Catilla had forbidden it. “You’ve caused them enough grief,” Catilla had said. “I do not think they would welcome you.”
Mara couldn’t really argue. It’s probably for the best.
Indeed, Catilla had forbidden them from stopping at any villages, including Silverthorne, though Mara would also have liked to have told Herella how successful their Maskmaking had been. Instead they camped at night and rode during the day, eventually crossing out of Aygrima through the pass Mara had opened for the Lady scant weeks ago, and descending into the valleys north of the range, making their way to the Lady’s village.
The place looked half-empty to Mara as she viewed it from horseback high above. Keltan had told her that the unMasked from the mines who had fled there had mostly gone south again the moment the Masks were gone. “And some of them,” he said, “are going to pose a problem for Edrik. Many will end up in other prisons sooner rather than later.” He sounded rather pleased by the idea.
Mara had insisted on coming this way, instead of riding to the Secret City and up the coast. “I will not go into the village,” she had promised Catilla, “but I left some personal items in the fortress I would like to retrieve.”
“And how do you plan to get into it without going into the village?” Catilla had demanded.
“I lived there for weeks,” Mara said. “I know a way in I doubt anyone in the village will have found.”
“Very well,” Catilla had said. “But only with an escort.”
And so, as darkness fell, Mara, Keltan, Whiteblaze and three of their guards rode down into the narrow ravine behind the mass of rock on which the castle perched. There Mara found the wolves’ trail she had used when she had sneaked into the village without the Lady’s knowledge, all those weeks ago. Together she and the others climbed up it, and crawled into the fortress through the low, hidden opening in the wall.
The castle had been sacked. The beautiful tapestries were torn and burned, the rich furniture missing or smashed, the pantry empty, everything of value gone. But none of that concerned Mara in the slightest. She led the way to the Lady’s private chamber, found the loose rock the Lady had pried up in her presence . . . and took out the small chest containing the scrolls and books the Lady’s father had retrieved from the Palace Library when they had fled Tamita, the ones that contained everything the scholars of old had learned about the rare Gift that she and the Lady and the Autarch shared.
She did not open the chest in the presence of the unMasked, and they, having been given no orders to interfere, let her take it without question.
The next morning, they continued their journey to the coast.
On a bright sunny morning they emerged from the woods onto the warm, stony beach that had been covered with corpses and snow the last time Mara had seen it. She had expected to see the wreck of Defender still keeled over on the beach where the Lady had flung it, with men working around it, but instead she gasped in surprise: the ship floated offshore, gleaming with fresh paint, sails neatly furled. The Engineers and magic sent from Tamita had indeed worked wonders.
Tents dotted the shore. Someone looked up and saw them, and gave a shout—and a moment later Chell himself came striding across the beach toward them. “Mara,” he said. “Keltan.” His
gaze flicked to the wolf. “And Whiteblaze.” He looked back at Mara. “I have been waiting for you,” he said. “Word came that you had chosen to accompany us. I’m honored.”
“Catilla left me little choice,” Mara said. “But the truth is, I’m glad to be leaving Aygrima behind.” She looked at the unMasked who had accompanied them. “Your task is done,” she said. “Why don’t you ride on home to your mistress?”
“Our task is not done until you are aboard that ship and sailing away from these shores,” Hathar, the leader, said unsmiling. “We will remain in camp until that is done.”
“Don’t bother putting up your tents,” Chell said. “We’ve been ready to sail for two days.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Gifted Engineers are . . . amazing. Despite everything I had seen, I hadn’t realized until now just how much we lost when we lost contact with Aygrima.”
“Magic can be used for more than destruction,” Mara said. “Or so they tell me.”
Chell opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. “I’ll see you all aboard,” he said after a moment’s pause.
An hour later, Mara stood on the deck of the reborn Defender and watched Aygrima slip away, the tents on the shore blending into the hills behind them, which faded into the mountains, which were eventually lost in haze. After that, there was only the sea.
She slept a lot those first couple of days. Slept, and talked with Keltan, and made sure Whiteblaze was fed and watered and exercised. They had meals with Chell, but Chell said nothing about what would happen once they reached his homeland. Mara knew what he wanted—knew that he hoped her Gift could somehow be used in his kingdom’s war against Stonefell—but he held his tongue, and for that she was grateful.
Early on the morning of their third day at sea, she stood on deck with Whiteblaze at her side, staring over the rail at a school of flying fish glittering in the sun. Lieutenant Antril stood on the poop deck next to the helmsman, but otherwise the deck was deserted, the night watch heading to their bunks, the day watch still at breakfast.
They were galloping along, a brisk breeze filling the sails. A bit of spray splashed Mara’s cheek. She jerked back from the railing in surprise . . . and in that instant, the iron Mask suddenly and without warning dropped from her face, clattering into the scuppers. Whiteblaze sniffed it curiously, then sat on his haunches and grinned up at her.
She gasped and gripped the railing, waiting for a rush of magic, or anger, or memory, or madness . . . but nothing happened. She felt just the same. She loosened her grip and took a deep breath. Something fluttered in her chest like a bird released from a cage. Hope, she thought. I think that’s hope.
They were many days from Korellia. Many days before she had to make any decisions at all about what she would do in her new life.
For now, it was enough that she was free of the iron Mask, that she had left all of Aygrima free of the Masks that had enslaved them for so long; enough that she had Keltan and Whiteblaze with her.
She could feel, all around her, the magic in the bodies of the sailors in their ship. But the sea muted it. She didn’t crave that magic. She didn’t need it. She could leave it untapped.
For the moment.
She went in search of Keltan.
Behind her, the last Mask of Aygrima, forgotten and discarded, rocked gently to the motion of the great ship.
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