Masks (2 page)

Tests

O
N THE DAY SHE TURNED SIX YEARS OLD,
Mara held tight to her daddy’s hand and looked doubtfully at the darkened doorway before her. “It’s all right,” her daddy said, his voice deep and reassuring. She looked up at him and saw his blue eyes shining at her through the eyeholes in his Mask of burnished copper. The torches illuminating the staircase they had followed down from the surface into this strange underground hallway struck bright-red sparks from the diadem of rubies across his forehead and spirals of rubies on his cheeks, the unique insignia of the Master Maskmaker of the Autarchy of Aygrima. Through the mouth opening she could tell his lips were curved in a smile. “The First Test is nothing to be frightened of.”

“I’m not frightened,” Mara said. And she wasn’t. Well, not
really
. After all, she wasn’t little anymore, she was six years old today, and she was with her daddy. But the room she had to go into all by herself looked so awfully dark that she suddenly found herself reluctant to let go of her daddy’s hand.

Instead, he let go of hers. “Go on,” he said. “Tester Tibor is waiting inside. Remember, I introduced him to you yesterday at home.”

She remembered. She’d liked Tester Tibor, a big round man with a bright yellow Mask. He’d given her sweets he’d bought in the market on the way to their house, and he’d made her laugh. He was nothing to be scared of, either. And she
wasn’t
scared.

I’m not scared!

All the same, her lower lip trembled a little as she walked forward on her own, leaving her daddy behind, and stepped into the dark room.

Well, not
completely
dark. The door was open, after all. But it had no windows, and very little light made its way in from the torches in the stairway.

She could just make out the Tester, seated next to a small covered bowl made of black stone, set atop a pedestal so short that even a little girl like herself could look down at the bowl. She was glad she’d met Tester Tibor the day before. Otherwise she might have been frightened by his dark, shadowy bulk. But now she wasn’t.

I’m not afraid.

“Hello, Mara,” Tester Tibor said in the deep, kind voice she remembered. “Happy birthday!”

“Thank you,” she said, because her parents had taught her to always be polite.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” the Tester said.

“I’m not afraid,” she said, out loud this time.

“Good!” Tester Tibor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know how this works. I’ll lift the lid of the bowl, and you tell me what you see.”

Mara nodded.

“Ready?”

She nodded again.

“Here we go!” Tester Tibor took hold of a small handle at its center and lifted the cover off the bowl.

Mara gasped.

Light filled the basin—light of every color she could name, and lots more she couldn’t: so many beautiful colors, all swirling and mingling, painting the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the Tester’s yellow Mask and robes and her own white dress in ever-shifting hues.

“It’s so pretty!” she breathed.

Tester Tibor chuckled. “It is, isn’t it?” he said. “And that’s it, my dear—you’ve passed the Test.”

He put the cover back on the black stone bowl. Mara gave a little “Oh!” of disappointment as the beautiful colors vanished.

The Tester stood and took her by the hand and led her out to where her daddy waited in the dim hallway. “She’s Gifted,” he said. He looked down at Mara and smiled. “Not that I ever thought there was much doubt she would be.”

“Thank you, Tibor,” her daddy said.

“My pleasure, Charlton. Tell the next child to come down, will you?”

Daddy nodded, and Tester Tibor went back into the darkened room.

“Was that magic, Daddy?” Mara asked as her father led her back up the stairs to the little room where three other children, two girls and a boy, awaited their turns with the Tester.

“Yes, Mara.”

“It’s so beautiful!”

He looked down at her, blue eyes glittering like sapphires behind the copper sheen of his Mask. “Yes, it is. Almost as beautiful as you.”

“Does this mean I can be a Maskmaker like you when I grow up?”

“I hope so, Mara. I hope so.”

Together they walked out into the sunlit morning.

···

Two weeks before her eleventh birthday, Mara Holdfast sat on a padded bench in the tutorhall’s lecture room and heard about the Lady of Pain and Fire for the first time.

She was listening with just half an ear: the main topic of the lecture, after all, was the wonder and glory of the Autarch, and over four years of schooling she had, in between learning how to read, write, do sums, build a fire, cook a simple meal, and sew, been told over and over (and over and
over
) how their magnificent leader had squashed the rebels who had murdered his father, instituted the Masks to ensure no one could ever rebel again, established the Watchers, who watched the Masks for the magical signs that the wearer might pose a threat, and blah blah blah perfect society blah blah blah practically a god blah blah blah.

But when Tutor Ancilla mentioned the Lady of Pain and Fire, she blinked and looked up from the Mask designs she’d been doodling on her slate. “Who?” she asked.

Tutor Ancilla wore the plain white Mask of the unGifted, marked in black with the insignia of an open book on each cheek, symbol of the teaching profession. Her mouth, just visible, turned down into a frown and her eyes narrowed. “The Lady of Pain and Fire, Mara,” she said. “Did you not read today’s assignment?”

Mara bit her lip and looked down. “No, Tutor,” she answered.

On her right, her friend Mayson, a skinny boy with shaggy blond hair, sniggered quietly. Tutor Ancilla’s gaze immediately shifted to him. “From your reaction, Mayson, I assume you
did
read it. Perhaps you would care to fill in Mara on what she obviously overlooked?”

Mayson’s snigger died. “No, Tutor Ancilla,” he said. “I . . . I mean, I read it, but I don’t . . .” His voice withered into silence in the heat of Ancilla’s tutorial glare.

“As I thought,” Ancilla said. Her gaze shifted to Mara’s left, where her best friend Sala sat quietly. “Sala? I know
you
did the reading.”

“Yes, Tutor,” Sala said demurely.

“Then please stand and tell the class what you learned.”

With an apologetic glance at Mara and Mayson, Sala stood, her bright red hair, too fine to ever be entirely controlled by a ponytail, forming a wispy halo around her head. “In the aftermath of the Great Rebellion,” she said, clearly reciting (Mara exchanged a resigned glance with Mayson; they’d both long since gotten used to the annoying fact that Sala could memorize anything she read almost instantly), “our glorious Autarch faced a terrible trial: an evil sorceress called The Lady of Pain and Fire, who hated everything the Autarch had done to make the Autarchy such a safe and wonderful place. She used her terrible magical powers to destroy entire villages in the north, razing them to the ground and slaughtering everyone who lived in them, men, women, and children. The Autarch personally led a force of Watchers to root her out of her stronghold in the foothills. He threw down a mountain on her head, and she was never seen again, for her dark sorcery was no match for our glorious Autarch’s mastery of the magic of purity and light.” Sala stopped. “Was that all right, Tutor?”

Tutor Ancilla gave Sala an indulgent smile, clearly visible even through her Mask. “More than all right, Sala. Thank you.”

Sala gave Mara another apologetic look and sat down. Mara resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.

“The Autarch’s defeat of the Lady of Pain and Fire occurred sixty years ago today,” Tutor Ancilla continued, “and that is why—”

The noontime gong shivered the lecture-hall air. Tutor Ancilla glanced through the open windows into the street, brightly lit by the autumn sun. “That is why class is over for the day. Enjoy your half-holiday, children, and I will see you tomorrow morning. Those of you who have not yet done so,” she gave a pointed look to Mara and Mayson, “should take time to finish reading Chapter Five of
The Annals of the Autarch: From Triumph to Triumph
. Dismissed.”

There were twenty-three children in the lecture hall. Within a minute, all of them were outside, scattering to the four winds. Sala, Mayson, and Mara didn’t have to ask each other where they would go: they headed downhill toward the Outside Market.

“Tutor’s pet,” Mayson said to Sala, but without any real rancor, as they went down the first flight of stairs that led from the fifth terrace of Fortress Hill to the fourth.

“If you’d just do the assignment,” Sala pointed out.

“I did,” Mara said. “Or at least I tried to. But . . .”

“But it’s boring!” Mayson complained. “We’ve heard it all before. The Autarch is wonderful. The Masks are wonderful. We live in a wonderful time. Isn’t it wonderful?” He made a face. “I can’t wait until the Second Testing,” he said. “Then we can start learning real stuff—how to use magic.”

Mara shot him a frowning look; he caught it, blinked, and suddenly blushed. “Sorry, Sala, I didn’t mean . . .”

Sala giggled. “You may have more magic than I do, but I’ve clearly got more brains.”

To Mara’s relief, Mayson just laughed at that. Mara grinned, glad her two friends hadn’t argued this time. Sometimes they went at it like cats and dogs, with her caught in the middle.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” Mara said. “You’re lucky. At least you’ll have a choice. Once Mayson and I have the Second Testing and find out what kind of magic we can see and use . . .”

“I think I’d like to be a glassblower,” Sala said.

“Stand aside, please,” said a gruff voice behind them, making Mara jump. She turned to see a baker descending the steps with a huge tray laden with bread, his beige Mask marked on each cheek with stylized loaves. The three children squeezed to one side. Mayson mimed reaching out and snatching one of the delectable-smelling loaves from the tray as the baker passed, but Sala slapped his hand. He stuck out his tongue at her.

With the baker safely past, they continued their descent. “Why a glassblower?” Mara asked.

“Glass is so beautiful,” Sala said, face alight. “And you can do a lot more than just make bowls with it. My mother and I were shopping in the Inside Market along Processional Boulevard last week and saw an amazing display in a shop. It looked like a garden, but everything was made of glass! Reds and greens, silvers and golds, it was so beautiful . . .”

“So boooo-tiful,” Mayson said, and now it was Sala’s turn to make a face at him.

“No need to ask you what you want to do when
you
grow up,” Sala said to Mara. “You’ve said so often enough. You want to be a Maskmaker like your father.”

“More than anything,” Mara said. “What could be better than being apprenticed to your father?”

“Not being apprenticed to your father?” Mayson said, an edge of . . . something . . . in his voice. Mara exchanged a guilty glance with Sala. Sala’s father was dead, but she was very close to her mother. Mara loved her parents and doted on her father and couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up without them. But Mayson . . . Mayson seldom mentioned his parents. And more than once he’d come to school with a black eye or a sore shoulder. Mara thought she knew why, but she didn’t know how to talk to him about it.

“What do you want to be?” she said instead, though she already knew; he’d said so at least as often as she’d said she wanted to be a Maskmaker.

“A Watcher,” he said promptly.

As if on cue, a pair of Watchers crossed the street ahead of them: black-Masked, black-helmed, black-cloaked, wearing mail and heavy gloves and high, polished black boots. Their Masked faces turned toward the children for a moment, and as always, Mara found herself running down a quick mental checklist of her recent activities to make sure she hadn’t been up to anything that might get her in trouble. She hadn’t, but still, there was something about those blank, black Masks that sent a chill up her spine.

“Why?” Sala asked in a whisper; she’d obviously had a similar reaction to Mara at the sight of the Watchers.

“They’re not scared of anybody,” Mayson said; and then, as if he’d said more than he’d intended to, added, “And neither am I,” but somehow, Mara knew that wasn’t true.

···

A month before she turned thirteen, Mara once more sat in the lecture hall. This time, though, she was alone with Tutor Ancilla, and the Tutor sat on the bench with her and talked quietly to her instead of lecturing. “In a month,” Tutor Ancilla said, “you will turn thirteen years old. And that means . . . ?”

“. . . my Second Testing,” Mara said dutifully. It was hardly a surprise: she’d known about it for years.
Could any Gifted twelve-year-old
not
know about her Second Testing?
she wondered. It seemed unlikely.

“Your Second Testing,” the Tutor said, nodding. “In preparation for which, I am required to ensure that you understand what the Testing is all about. So . . .” She tilted her head to one side, her bright brown eyes locked on Mara. “Tell me.”