Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (12 page)

Between them, he and the barbarian dragged the unconscious Dalvin over to the fireplace and dropped him into a deep chair. While they moved him, the woman, Eydis, poked around among the pots and ladles above the fireplace. She found a kettle and filled it with water, hanging it on the hook over the fire. Geveral took over from there, dropping in a strainer and adding the sweet-beans.

While they waited for the water to boil, Orrick paced the room, seemingly unable to light anywhere. But Eydis joined Geveral, kneeling before the fire.

“This may seem a strange question,” she said to him. “But I must ask if we have ever met. Your name and face are familiar to me, but I cannot place them.”

Geveral was grateful for a distraction from the awkward silence. “I’ve never been beyond the forest,” he said. “So I do not see how our paths could have crossed.”

She shrugged, changing the topic. “So is it just you and your brother living here alone?”

“For the past three years,” he said. “Ever since we lost our mother to the blood-fever.”

“And your father?” she probed.

“I never knew him,” Geveral admitted uncomfortably. “He left a long time ago. Dalvin remembers him, I think, but he gets prickly when I ask too many questions.”

“I imagine the memories are painful for him,” she offered.

“Maybe.”

But at least Dalvin
had
memories, he wanted to point out. At least he knew what their father looked like, which was more than Geveral could say for himself.

He stretched his hand over the kettle, conducting a faint flow of magic into the fire to heat the water more quickly. Even such a small trick cost him effort, but it was satisfying to see the flames leap a little higher.

“There must be a draft in here,” Eydis said.

“It’s no draft, it’s me,” he corrected. “This is one of the few magical feats I can pull off. It’s one of the first tricks Mentor Kesava taught me when I entered his tutelage.”

She looked impressed. “Can you do other tricks like this?”

“I know of many but cannot execute them,” he admitted. “My skills are weak. Stunted.”

She appeared unaware she had unearthed a sore spot. In fact, her eyes shone. “A stunted nature mage,” she mused aloud. “The stunted will grow and the dryad will summon storms of light.”

“If that is a poem, it’s the worst I ever heard,” he said. “It doesn’t even rhyme.”

She waved that aside. “It’s no poem, it’s a prophecy. These words came to me in a vision while I meditated in the Pool of Tears at Silverwood Grove. The Mother spoke to me there and showed me many things. Parts of her message slip in and out of my memory like a fuzzy dream. But that piece comes back to me now.”

“So you’re an oracle?” Geveral asked.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, toward her pacing friend. But Orrick was out of earshot.

“Something like that,” she said vaguely. “I am on a quest for the First Mother. It is that which brings Orrick and me to Treeveil. We thought we came to your village for supplies. But now I see the Mother’s hand in our coming and wonder if we were not meant to find more.”

“Well, you won’t find a great dryad mage in Treeveil, if that’s what you search for,” Geveral said. “Even Mentor Kesava cannot summon anything worthy of the term ‘storm’. Only gentle mists to water the crops in the glade. Manipulating weather requires a great deal of power.”

“I’ll bet you could do it,” she said, her tone strangely eager.

“Me?” His laughter was uneasy. “I hate to disappoint you. But even after many years under Kesava’s tutelage, I can barely raise dew over a small patch of earth. My powers are… inconsistent. Unpredictable. So if you’re hoping to find a summoner of storms, he is not me. Nor anyone else in Treeveil.”

“I think you are wrong,” she said. “Why should your name and features be so familiar to me unless they are an emerging memory from my vision in the Pool of Tears?”

Before he could answer, their conversation was interrupted by a moan, coming from the depths of the nearby chair.

“Sounds like Dalvin is coming to,” Geveral observed. He removed the strainer and beans and sloshed the fresh savrii into a tin mug he grabbed from atop the mantel.

“Mmmmph… My head…” Dalvin groaned. “What in the Mother’s name is that pounding noise?”

“Nothing,” said Geveral. “Only Orrick’s boots pacing the floorboards.”

“
Whose
boots?” Dalvin slurred.

“Never mind, I’ll make introductions later,” Geveral said. “For now, pour a little of this down your throat and get rid of the ale head. We’ve got visitors, and you’re in no fit state to talk business.”

“Business? What sorta business?” Dalvin sniffed suspiciously at the mug Geveral pressed into his hand. “You didn’t make this, did you? ’Cause your savrii tastes like dog’s bile.” He cast a suspicious glance over the rim of the mug at their guests. “Who’re the strangers?”

Geveral said, “These are Eydis and her friend Orrick. Strangers on their way to the base of the mountains.”

Dalvin ignored Eydis, fixing a suspicious eye on Orrick. “A Kroadian, eh?” he asked. “Didn’t think we allowed murderous barbarians around here.”

Geveral headed off any trouble. “They’ve stopped in Treeveil for supplies, and Mentor Kesava invited them to stay and trade. He thought we might sell them Snowflake.”

Dalvin snorted and raked a hand through his greasy hair. “Since when does that old meddler tell me what to buy or sell?”

“He’s only trying to help,” Geveral argued. He stepped closer and whispered, “I think he knows we’re in need of the coin.”

“We need nothing,” Dalvin said. But his eyes were greedy. “What would you pay me, Kroadian, for a good horse?”

Eydis cut in. “We aren’t prepared to make an offer until we have seen the animal. She must be in good condition, able to carry our supplies as far as Asincourt.”

Geveral looked at the floor while Dalvin lied, “Of course she’s in excellent condition. Would I try an’ sell you a bad horse, woman?”

He tossed his mug, now empty, to Geveral. “C’mon. I’ll take you down to the southern glade right now and we’ll have a look at ‘er.”

“But it’s almost dark out,” Geveral protested, as his brother lurched unsteadily to his feet. “Shouldn’t we wait until morning, so they can see her in daylight?”

“Ridiculous,” Dalvin muttered. “How much is there to see? It’s a horse, with four legs and a tail.”

He weaved across the room and threw open the front door.

Instantly, an arrow planted itself in his chest.

“Dalvin!” Geveral cried, as blood blossomed across his brother’s chest from the arrow lodged directly over his heart.

He wanted to run to Dal, but his feet seemed frozen in place. It was the barbarian, Orrick, who caught Dalvin’s collapsing form and lowered it to the floor. By the time Geveral reached his side, Dalvin’s gray eyes were open, staring lifelessly toward the ceiling.

He couldn’t be dead. This was some kind of joke. Any moment Dal would sit up and have a laugh at everyone’s concerned expressions.

Only that didn’t happen. Geveral felt dizzy, the pulse pounding in his ears so loudly it muffled the conversation taking place over his head.

“What’s happening?” demanded Eydis.

Orrick quickly yanked the arrow from Dalvin’s chest. “This arrowhead is formed of igneous, the hardest volcanic rock,” he said. “Means it could come from only one bow. A birdman’s.”

“Aviads? That’s impossible. Not this far into the rangelands,” she argued.

“Tell it to them,” Orrick said, nodding toward the door.

The words had barely left his mouth when a series of unearthly howls sounded outside, followed by closer cries—human screams this time.

“There’s a whole band of them,” said Orrick, looking outside. “You two barricade yourselves indoors.”

“While you do what?” Eydis demanded. “Run out there and get yourself killed? We’re unarmed in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Then find me a weapon. If we allow this village to be overrun by Aviads, we’ll all die like rats in a trap anyway. Is that what you want?”

She bit her lip, casting a quick glance around the cottage. “I cannot summon a sword out of thin air. There is a limit to my power.”

The barbarian gritted in frustration and was out the door before she had finished speaking. On the walkway opposite the porch, he grabbed a blazing torch off its pole and ran off, brandishing it like a weapon.

“Wait!” Eydis screamed at his back. She snatched a red hot poker out of the fireplace and then she too was out the door.

“Bolt yourself inside,” she shouted at Geveral, and then she was gone, pounding off down the walkway toward the village square.

Alone, Geveral sat watching the pool of blood from Dal’s body spread over the floorboards. He ought to get up now. He ought to run after Orrick and Eydis and fight to defend himself and his village. Or even shut the door and hide. But he did neither. Instead he sat paralyzed, while the flickering firelight played over Dalvin’s face and the screams and sounds of running feet continued outside.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he became aware of a long shadow falling across the floor. Looking up, he found a startling figure filling the open doorway. It was a creature unlike any he had ever seen.

Tall as the doorframe, the Aviad possessed the golden head and massive wings of an eagle but the muscular body of a man. There was a thick torq around its neck and a lapcloth encircling its waist, while the rest of its body was bare. It had a hooked beak that looked as deadly as the curved talons tipping its fingers and toes. But the bow slung over its shoulder and the bloody spear clutched in its hands were more threatening still.

For the space of a second, Geveral and the silent birdman locked tense gazes. Then the Aviad charged, spear raised. Instinctively, Geveral coiled his muscles and threw himself out of the birdman’s path, feeling the wind as the spear passed close by his cheek. Desperately, he looked for something to defend himself with, as the Aviad rounded on him. A broken broomstick, a heavy frying pan, anything. But the birdman blocked his access to anything that might have served as a weapon. And now it closed in on him. Faced with the quick jabs of the creature’s spear, Geveral grabbed the only furnishing available, a rickety wooden chair, and held it before him like a shield. If he couldn’t fight, he would at least keep his enemy at a distance. They circled the room, the Aviad easily driving Geveral backward until he was forced out the open doorway and onto the front porch.

The scene outside was chaos. Treeveil was overrun with birdmen, and as Geveral watched, another wave of them flew in, swooping on massive wings beneath the branches of the trees to light on rooftops and walkways. They were torching cottages and murdering villagers, largely unopposed. But here and there, villagers defended themselves with what tools were at hand. Geveral caught a glimpse of Eydis on a distant walkway, battling a birdman twice her size. The fire poker she swung at the creature looked pathetic, but she used it with skill enough to stay alive. Of Orrick, Geveral captured only a fleeting glance as the barbarian defended a neighboring cottage. Shoving a blazing torch in a birdman’s face, Orrick stole the creature’s own spear and used it to run him through.

Geveral could take in no more of the fight because he had problems of his own. Retreating at his enemy’s advance, he stumbled down the porch steps and onto the walkway. Before he knew it, the railing of the walkway was at his back and there was no place left to run. He couldn’t flee without exposing his back to the birdman’s spear. His heart pounded, and fear sweat broke out on his forehead despite the sudden chill in the air.

As thunder rolled overhead, the Aviad flinched. It was the first sign of emotion Geveral had seen from the creature. Surely it couldn’t be afraid of a thunder storm?

Whatever its concern, the Aviad recovered quickly and made a feint to Geveral’s left, before leaping again to his other side. Startled, Geveral jerked backward, leaning his weight against the railing behind him. Too late, he heard a cracking sound and felt the rail give way. He teetered precariously on the edge, trying to regain his balance, before plunging over the side.

As he fell, the world dropped away. The birdman, the walkway, and the cottage beyond, shrank in the distance. He landed hard, flat on his back. Pain and dizziness were overwhelming. Struggling to recapture the breath knocked from his lungs, it took him a few seconds to realize he wasn’t lying on the forest floor hundreds of feet below. His fall had been broken by the platform of a lower level. This was an exposed space housing storage barrels, outdoor tables, and a roofed pavilion for open-air meetings. Beneath the pavilion, many frightened village families huddled, driven from their burning cottages. The surrounding torchlight flickering across the scene revealed death and destruction.

Storm clouds hovered directly overhead, although the skies in the distance were clear and starlit. It was as if the storm was centralized around the village. A light hail began falling, chunks of ice bouncing from the boards around him as Geveral rolled onto his knees. There was a heavy thud, and the boards beneath him shuddered. With a sinking feeling, Geveral looked up to find his winged adversary had followed him. There was nothing to shield him this time. The chair that had protected him before had fallen with him and was scattered in broken bits of kindling. Pinned in place by the merciless eyes of his enemy, Geveral knew he faced death.

“Geveral!”

Following the sound of his name, he saw Eydis looking down from the platform above. “Geveral, catch!” she shouted over the wind and the distance as, leaning around the broken rail, she dropped an oblong object.

The iron poker fell, landing with a clatter only inches from his hand.

Desperately snatching the weapon, Geveral brought it up just in time to knock aside the descending spear that would have skewered him to the spot. But his grip was weak and clumsy. As the spear glanced off it, the poker was knocked from his hand, spinning away out of reach.

On his knees and defenseless again, he waited to die. The Aviad took aim. And then there came a wild cry and the pounding of running feet. Geveral looked up to see the barbarian, Orrick, rushing toward them. He would never arrive in time. But at the last possible moment, he skidded to a halt, took aim, and hurled his spear like a javelin. The spear caught the birdman in the heart, and with a gurgling sound, the creature crashed to the floor and lay still.