Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (11 page)

Grow, burn you. Grow!

But it didn’t grow. And his strength was giving out. Sighing in frustration, Gevarel let go of his magic and rocked back on his heels, contemplating the object of his failure. That stubborn little sprout seemed to sum up all the disappointment of the past few years. On angry impulse, he ripped it out by its pale hair-like roots and hurled it into the undergrowth edging the clearing.

Regret was instantaneous. What had Mentor Kesava taught him? To respect even the smallest and most insignificant forms of life. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure his mentor hadn’t seen.

But Kesava was busy a short distance away, teaching a youngling half Gevarel’s age how to form dew on the ground. Another exercise Gevarel still struggled with.

Something cold touched his knee, breaking into his line of thought. He looked down to find a sheet of frost forming over one of his boots, its icy crystals climbing up his leg.

“Sorry Gevarel,” said a black-haired female youngling, who was practicing nearby. “I was targeting that spiny shrub. I didn’t mean to freeze you.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “At least someone is succeeding.”

“Is that self-defeat I hear?” asked a sharp voice over his shoulder.

Burn him, but Mentor Kesava was as quick and stealthy as a fox when he wanted to be. How had he got here so fast?

“I’m trying my best, Mentor,” Gevarel told him, half-ashamed of the defiance in his tone but unable to crush the feeling.

“Trying at what? Trying to dwell on failure?” asked Kesava. “Trying to cultivate self-pity instead of the flora?”

Gevarel took a deep breath. The criticism wasn’t undeserved. “Why do you not give up on me, Mentor?” he asked. “Are you not satisfied by now that I’m not meant to be a Drycaenian mage? My nature magic is weak. Stunted. At nineteen summers, I’m the oldest pupil under your tutelage. Yet I’ve mastered only the most basic concepts. It is obvious I lack the talent to move on to the academy. They would never accept such a poor student.”

“The only thing you lack,” Mentor Kesava snapped, “is focus and discipline. It is your fear and defeatism that holds you back. Do not blame that on your magic.”

It was clear by the way the old man chewed his mustache that his store of patience ran low. Gevarel thought of apologizing. But his mentor was already stamping away to help the next pupil, a boy of around fourteen who was attempting to raise the temperature around a patch of bitter-berries. His efforts appeared to be wilting the plants, rather than ripening the berries, but at least he was trying. Something Gevarel had best get back to.

But before he could find another sweet-bean sprout to practice on, the peacefulness of the glade was shattered by a deep trumpeting sound.

All the younglings looked up from their exercises. “It’s a watchman’s horn,” one sandy-haired youth cried. “There must be trespassers coming this way.”

A buzz of excitement spread among the pupils, but Mentor Kesava raised his hand to quiet them. “This is no concern of ours,” he said. “The Watchers of the Wood will deal with the strangers. But I do think it would be wise if we abandoned our exercises for the rest of the day and retreated to the trees.”

But before anyone could move to follow the mentor’s orders, the sound of raised voices drifted through the trees, and a second later a pair of strangers burst out of the underbrush and into the glade.

“Would you just do as they ask Orrick?” one of them was demanding of the other. The speaker was female, a slender redhead dressed in a traveling costume of cloak, loose tunic, and green tights, with a hunting belt around her waist.

By contrast, her scowling companion was a big mountain of a man. Tall and muscular, he looked as sturdy and immovable as a tree and a good deal more dangerous. Between his size and the fairness of his hair and short beard, he seemed like a foreigner. But wherever he was from, he held the great sword in his hand as if he knew how to use it.

The two strangers had no sooner appeared in the glade than a group of Watchmen came running after them, light-staves raised and at the ready.

“You are commanded by the authority of the Watchers of the Wood to surrender your arms,” ordered the watchman whose leaf-patterned helm and breastplate marked him the captain of the troop.

The big stranger didn’t look impressed. Neither did he drop his weapon.

“I will not give up my sword to a lot of tree-dwelling stick-wielding primitives,” he growled.

His female companion urged, “But these people may be able to sell us the horses and supplies we need to make it to the baselands. Besides, as these woods are apparently riddled with Drycaenians, we’ll need their good will if we’re to pass through their lands.”

“Horses you say?” Mentor Kesava interrupted, stepping into the situation. He motioned the Watchers to lower their light-staves. They respectfully complied but kept the weapons ready.

“Horses are not easily found in these parts,” said Kesava. “May I ask who wants them?”

The pair of strangers exchanged a glance, the man frowning while the eyes of the female argued with him. Geveral couldn’t decide which of the two was in charge.

But it was the woman who spoke up. “I am Eydis Ironmonger, and this is Orrick of Kroad. We’ve been to Shoretown and are just returning from the coast.”

“I am intrigued to meet you both,” responded Mentor Kesava. “We do not often receive visitors from beyond the forest.”

“With this manner of welcome, I can believe it,” growled the barbarian called Orrick.

The mentor pretended not to hear. “My name is Kesava, or Mentor Kesava to my students. What may we do for you here in Treeveil?”

The one named Eydis said, “We travel toward Asincourt on an urgent matter. Time is of the essence to our mission, but we find ourselves improperly equipped for the journey.”

“If you would like to conduct trade in Treeveil,” said the mentor, “I invite you to accompany me to the treetops. But first you must surrender your weapons, for none are permitted in our village.”

“That,” said the barbarian, Orrick, “won’t happen in this life.” He hefted his sword to confirm his refusal, and at the motion, the Watchers lifted their light-staves.

“I would not advise challenging the Watchers of the Wood,” Mentor Kesava said easily. “Their quarterstaffs may appear crude, but the crystals affixed to the ends hold captured charges of lightning. The porous wood of the staff protects its bearer, but nothing would shield an adversary foolish enough to make contact with a metal surface, such as a steel blade.”

Orrick scowled. “And they say dryads are opposed to violence.”

Mentor Kesava smiled regretfully. “Do not confuse the Drycaenian race with our dryad ancestors. To survive in the modern world, our people have learned to adapt to its ways. Sadly that necessitates allowing for the defense of our villages and families. But do not fear too greatly. Our staves contain low levels of lightning. They would temporarily immobilize you but cause no lasting damage. I should know. I tested them on myself during their construction.”

Eydis asked, “Are you then the mage of this tree village?”

Kesava inclined his head. “It is my honor to be one of the mages of Treeveil. Our other mage handles the day-to-day management of weather and crops, while it is my duty to test our younglings for magical abilities. The gifted ones are tutored by me until they’re ready to be sent away for further education.”

Eydis said, “If you are a mage, you must have a great deal of influence with the village heads. Would you consider interceding for us?”

“In what way?” asked Kesava.

“We find ourselves in desperate need of horses but have little coin on hand with which to purchase them. If we could obtain the beasts on loan, we would make it worth your while when next we pass through these parts.”

Mentor Kesava scratched his mustache. “That sounds like a risky proposition,” he said. “How could we be assured you would ever return to repay your debt? Perhaps you are looking to take advantage of a lot of … what was it? Primitive tree-dwellers?”

Orrick narrowed his eyes, but Eydis laid a hand on his arm, as if to forestall a dispute. “We could pay something now,” she told Kesava. “With the rest to come within the month.”

Geveral waited for the mentor to dismiss the offer. Instead, Kesava frowned thoughtfully. “I might know someone just reckless enough to take up your offer,” he said. He called over his shoulder, “Geveral!”

Geveral started at the sound of his name and hurried forward. “Yes, Mentor?”

“What would you say,” Kesava suggested, “to taking these two home with you? I suspect your brother might be interested in doing business with them. He’s looking to sell that white mare of his, is he not?”

“He is,” Geveral agreed. “But Snowflake is—”

“Very good,” Mentor Kesava cut him off. He told the strangers, “It seems your stopping at Treeveil may work out to your benefit.”

Geveral had been about to say that Snowflake was so old she was unfit for any use but pulling mushroom carts in the southern glade. But when the two travelers focused their attention his way, he realized he didn’t want to disappoint them. Not the barbarian, Orrick, despite his coldly dismissive gaze. But especially not the woman, Eydis, who offered him the bare hint of a smile. Until that smile, he hadn’t realized how pretty she was. And because she lacked the finer features and pale skin of the Drycaenians, she seemed exotic too. How could he resist the opportunity to spend a little time in the company of a pair of exciting strangers from beyond the forest? Perhaps they would have stories to tell and news from the coast.

“If you will both come with me,” he said politely, “It will be my pleasure to lead you to my home.”

“But the weapons stay here,” Mentor Kesava reminded them. “They will be waiting when you return. You have my word on it.”

Eydis whispered something into the ear of her barbarian friend. Whatever it was, it did nothing to dissolve the scowl on his face. But it did persuade him to hand his sword over to the Watchers. Eydis followed suit with her small belt-knife.

“Excellent,” said Kesava approvingly. “You are now most welcome to enter our humble village.”

Geveral felt the curious gazes of all the students in the field following them as he led the visitors to the principal stairway ascending into the treetop village. The Watchers posted there let them pass unmolested when Geveral explained Kesava’s instructions.

“You must think us a very unfriendly people,” he said to the strangers, as they climbed the stairs. “We don’t mean to be. We just don’t get many unfamiliar faces around here.”

When he received no response, he realized they were distracted by their surroundings. Having been born here, he sometimes forgot how different Treeveil must seem to outsiders. For one thing, it was hundreds of feet above the ground. And while the spiraling stairway they followed was firmly anchored to a vast tree, many of the off-shooting walkways were more precariously positioned. For every wide platform perched on sturdy tree limbs and surrounded by strong railings, there were even more rope bridges suspended between trees. These creaked and swayed lightly in the breeze so that on crossing them, even the stalwart barbarian called Orrick looked uneasy. The red-haired woman, on the other hand, looked about her with bright inquisitive eyes.

Aside from its unusual height and construction, the village wasn’t so different from any other. There were squares for public gatherings, and small businesses were usually run out of people’s homes. And everywhere one looked, tidy cottages nestled among the thick branches, sheltered by the leafy canopy overhead. The suspended walkways between homes and public platforms were wide, and the torches positioned at intervals would be lit after dark, so citizens could move about safely even at night.

Geveral took a circuitous route to bypass the heart of the village and led them down an off-branching walkway to his house. He was suddenly intensely aware of the comparative dinginess of the thatch-roofed cottage he and his brother, Dalvin, called home. Funny, he had never noticed before how the door hung crooked on its hinges. Or how they still hadn’t got around to repairing that broken window with the temporary sheet of canvas pinned over it to keep out the wind. Even the crumbling flowerpots lining the narrow porch held nothing but dead leaves and stems. Looking at it with fresh eyes, he realized it really was the worst-kept cottage in the village. A hovel.

“You, uh, should look out for these steps,” he mumbled as he led the others up to the porch. Why hadn’t he ever bothered repairing the broken boards? He made a mental note to do that soon, before somebody got hurt.

“Dalvin,” he called, pushing the front door open. It squealed on rusty hinges, something else he really should fix.

“You don’t lock up?” the barbarian, Orrick, asked.

“Nobody locks their doors in Treeveil,” Geveral said. “It’s a safe community. We seldom have strangers here, and nobody carries arms, except the Watchers.”

He ushered them inside, out of the evening air, and called again, “Dalvin, we have visitors.”

The interior of the one-room cottage was illuminated by orange flames leaping in the open fireplace and the light of several candles burning at the table. A dark-haired disheveled figure was slumped on the bench there, head cradled in his arms, an empty pitcher of ale at his elbow. Half the candles around him had burnt down to pools of wax.

“By the First Mother’s eyes, Dalvin! Are you trying to burn the house down?” Geveral asked. “Come on, wake up.” He shook his brother roughly by the shoulder, but to no avail.

This was not happening. Not tonight. It wasn’t enough Dalvin had earned his reputation as the village drunk. He had to embarrass the family in front of strangers now?

“I don’t think you’re going to wake your brother any time soon,” Orrick observed dryly.

“He’s had a hard day,” Geveral defended, unsure whether he wanted to support his brother or strangle him. “This doesn’t happen often.” A blatant lie, but the visitors didn’t need to know that. “Here,” he added. “Help me get him over to that big chair, where he can sleep it off. He’ll be fine once he wakes and we get some
savrii
into him.”