Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (2 page)

In the scriptorium, he rifled through shelves of crumbling scrolls and dusty books until he found what he sought. The rotting cover of the ancient tome was inscribed with runes of the old tongue. Fortunately, Varian had the skills to read it. Laying the massive
Book of Sorrows
open on the table, he held a candle over the brittle, yellowing pages. Carefully, he turned the crumbling pages, scanning for the entry he felt certain he had seen here before.

And there it was. A sketch of the obsidian key, and opposite it, the inscription he remembered. Below the reference to the Unknown Guardian protecting the key within the crystal were vague portents of doom to befall any who removed the key from its hiding place. There were dire predictions of a dark cloud that would spread over Lythnia and all of Earth Realm if the black key, hidden by the early Speakers, fell into the wrong hands.

Varian wiped his palms, suddenly sweaty, against his coarse robe. Surely his were not the wrong hands alluded to? It was the earth shake that had broken the Guardian and uncovered the key. He was a good man with good intentions, and had only taken the key for safe keeping.

And used it to open a door, he remembered. One that custom dictated should never be unlocked. Nameless dread stirred within him, as he remembered the dark knight interred in his dungeon-like tomb. Clearly the first Speakers had put him down there with the intention he never be disturbed. Varian had been wrong to open the door. Should he do something about it? Lock the grate again and replace the broken Guardian with another statue?

Maybe the book would have some answers for him. He turned again to the tome but was startled by a sharp screeching sound from outside. Echoing down the subterranean corridors was the shriek of a rusty grate being opened, and then a sharp crash as it was thrown back.

Abandoning his book, Varian rushed down the passages, praying he was not too late to avert whatever disaster he had begun. A powerful wind came from nowhere, howling down the dark corridors and tugging with icy fingers at his clothing and hair. Wall torches were extinguished, but he knew the way even in the dark. The gale grew stronger as he approached the Green Chamber, and flashing light appeared ahead. Reaching his destination, he found himself in the eye of a storm. A hurricane swirled in the center of the room. Walls, floor, and ceiling were bathed in blinding light.

Squinting against the glare, he took in the scene before him. The grate lay open. The black-armored knight had ascended from his prison and hovered, suspended, at the heart of the whirlwind. Explosions of green light flashed like shards of lightning around him, currents crackling up and down his suit of armor. His helmeted head was thrown back in agony or ecstasy, and sparks sprayed from his gauntleted fingertips.

Then the wind stilled abruptly. The blinding streaks of light faded to an eerie glow. And the black knight’s massive boots hit the floor with a
boom
so loud the tiles cracked and the stone shook.

Varian was almost thrown from his feet. He watched, breathless, as the winged helm turned, surveying the room. He couldn’t see the skeletal face within the black helmet, only the fiery eyes glowing like coals within. The dark knight’s shadow loomed large across the walls. He hadn’t seemed so big when down in his tomb.

Varian’s heart almost leapt out of his chest when those glowing eyes settled on him and a terrifying voice thundered, “Who unleashes the spark? Who frees the Raven King of Earth Realm, the bringer of sorrows, the doomer of worlds?”

Varian trembled like a rodent under the scrutiny of a hawk. His voice shook as he confessed in a small voice, “T-that would be m-me, Varian Nakul, the c-custodian of this crypt.”

The dark knight’s response was unexpected. “For your service, you shall be rewarded,” he rumbled. “All of Earth Realm shall know your name and shall call you its destroyer.”

Varian swallowed, throat suddenly dry as parchment. “I-I would prefer n-not to take the credit. My part was really very s-small. Only an accident.”

The dark knight’s eyes burned into him. Varian imagined them scorching through his flesh and bone, boring into his very heart. Clutching the medallion around his neck, the one bearing the symbol of the First Couple, Varian prayed for strength.

“You are no follower of mine, Varian Nakul,” the dark knight observed. “But you will be. Bow to me now, servant. It has been long since I have felt the adoration of mortals.”

Varian blanched. “You are u-undoubtedly a powerful s-sorcerer, Mighty One,” he said, struggling to find his courage. “But I bow to none but the First Father and First Mother.”

The dark knight’s eyes blazed so intensely Varian felt their heat on his skin. Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

“I am the only father now.” The dark knight’s voice rolled like an angry thunder clap. “You are privileged to be the instrument of my rebirth.”

Varian’s eyes widened, and he forgot to stutter. “You do not mean you are the First Father reincarnated? The one adherents have waited for these many centuries?”

“Your feelings confirm it,” the dark knight answered indirectly. “You sense my immortal power.”

“Yes, I do feel it.” Awed, Varian dropped to his knees. “Forgive the doubt of this feeble vassal, Mighty One. I am yours to command.”

The dark knight circled him, massive boots ringing hollowly across stone. Varian didn’t dare raise his eyes.

“Good,” the knight said, after a pause. “You are weak now, but I shall fashion of you a worthy weapon. I have a great work to carry out.” He continued his circuit of the room, as though Varian were no longer of importance. Something dark fluttered down from the ceiling to light on his armored shoulder—the black raven that had escaped earlier.

“Yes, First Father,” Varian submitted, trying to remember if the prophecies and scrolls had ever associated the Father with ravens. “Should I call you First Father no longer? It is said you have an older name. One that has been lost to time.”

The knight made a dismissive motion. “You mortals have called me Rathnakar, the Raven King. But I have no true name but Master. A name I shall again teach the world, for this earthly realm has forgotten me.” He examined the bones resting in the loculi along the walls.

“It is true,” Varian agreed ruefully, “that the seclusionaries and isolatioms have fallen into disrepair. And the crown head of Lythnia no longer offers gifts for their upkeep. The number of adherents taking vows grows smaller by the year, and the common people grow irreverent. Many have ceased to entreat the First Couple or provide tokens on feast days. They doubt the existence of what their eyes cannot see.”

“Then we shall restore their faith.” The Raven King picked up an urn of ashes from a wall niche.

“As you say, Master,” Varian agreed. “But by what method?”

The dark king squeezed the urn in his great fist, until it shattered. “By blood.”

Streams of sunshine pierced the dappled shadows of the grove, its light glinting like gold off the surface of the Pool of Tears. Eydis slipped off her sandals and accepted a silver urn offered by a silent, white-robed attendant. As she tipped the urn and trickled the water over her feet, rinsing away the dust of travel, she could feel the purity of the cool sparkling stream. Truly she had done as the First Mother wished. A burden seemed to ease from her shoulders as not only the grime of weeks on the road but her cares and fears were cleansed away.

Clean now and standing in a puddle of the sparkling water, she undressed as the attendant indicated, dropping her clothing carefully over a screen standing nearby for the purpose.

On the edge of the pool she hesitated, toes curling over the stone lip, as her heart fluttered with renewed unease. She was aware of the watchful eyes of the green-skinned guardians lurking at the corner of the water, their hairless skins catching the light like fish scales, their serpentine bodies poised. For what? It was said they would drown any who desecrated the pool, their many hands dragging the sinner down to the depths. But who could say what might constitute desecration in their eyes?

Eydis shook the thought aside, hardening her resolve and stepping into the shallows. Her heart was pure, her motives worthy. The watery guardians must surely sense that.

Her lips moved with a soft entreaty. “Look upon me, First Mother, and if I be worthy, grant me your sight.”

One step. The emerald water, curiously warm, lapped at her ankles then her thighs as she descended the stairs deeper into the pool. It was at her waist now.

Another step. The bottom of the pool dropped sharply away. Instead of struggling to stay afloat, Eydis allowed herself to sink until the surface closed over her head. Through the crystalline water, shafts of sunlight pierced to the depths. Tiny air bubbles danced past, tickling her skin. Eydis’s hair swirled like red-gold moss before her eyes. Holding her breath she floated, weightless, in this silent watery world. She was utterly at peace, listening for the voice of the First Mother.

Only no voice came. Instead there was a sudden flash of light and a rushing sensation of speed. The pool and everything else receded, and her mind’s eye traveled to another place.

She found herself standing in a familiar room, her partially translucent feet dripping very real water onto the cold stone floor. The surrounding furnishings were simple. A sturdy, unadorned desk and chair and an engraving of the First Mother hanging on the otherwise empty wall. The room’s only light slanted from a small window high above. It did little to penetrate the gloomy atmosphere, but at least it revealed the face and form of the woman seated behind the desk.

The Head Hearer of the Shroudstone seclusionary glanced up but betrayed no surprise at the soggy apparition that appeared before her. She merely marked her place in the open book on her desk and set the tome aside.

“Child Eydis, I see you have arrived safely at Silverwood Grove,” she said. “I had no doubt you were equal to the dangers of the road.”

“Yes, Hearer.” Eydis shivered in the shadows, goose-bumps pimpling her arms. She might be only an insubstantial ghost in this place, but she could still feel the draft wafting up from the floor. She pushed a clinging tendril of hair out of her face and glanced around. “Why have I come here?”

“A pilgrimage to Silverwood and the Pool of Tears,” said the Hearer, “is part of the test every adherent must face before dedicating her life to the First Mother.”

“I meant, why has my vision in the pool brought me to your study back in the seclusionary? It has been only eight days since I stood here in the flesh.”

The Hearer shrugged. “The First Mother transports you where she wills. Who can know her reasons?”

“Does that mean she has chosen me? Because she grants me this vision?”

The Hearer didn’t meet her eyes, and Eydis could sense her reluctance. “It means she has not rejected you. She has chosen to acknowledge you. But there are more ways than one to serve the Mother. Dedicating one’s self to a lifetime of solitude in a seclusionary requires sacrifices for which few are suited.”

Eydis bit back her frustration, saying, “I stand prepared to make those sacrifices.” Hadn’t she lived alongside the adherents for the last ten years? Hadn’t she eaten the plain food and slept in a cold, hard bed in a tiny cell, identical to those of the adherents who had taken their vows? She knew the life and the work. What made the Hearer so reluctant to accept her?

The Hearer seemed to follow her thoughts. “No one has said you are unfit, Child Eydis. You have done all we have required of you, and you have much to offer the seclusionary. But if you are to be an accepted adherent, you must learn to squelch your anger and hold your impatience in check. Tumultuous emotions are indicative of a soul at war with itself.”

Eydis winced. The other woman knew her too well. “I understand, Hearer. I will learn to command my feelings.”

“I don’t doubt you will try,” said the Head Hearer dryly.

Her words barely reached Eydis’s ears before both the Head Hearer and her study slipped away without warning, receding into the shadows. Eydis was alone again, floating at the murky bottom of the Pool of Tears. Only this time her lungs were aching. The surface seemed a long way above. How long had she been under? She needed air! She kicked and flailed in an effort to get back to the top.

But the First Mother wasn’t finished with her yet. As a new vision took hold, her head jerked backward, her body arching painfully. She was transported again. This time when the dizzying rush stopped, she opened her eyes to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings.

The ghost of Eydis crouched in the shadowed corner of a dimly lit chamber with a high vaulted ceiling and green-tiled walls. There was a dampness in the air and a smell she associated with earth and old stone. Where was she? Torches flickered along the walls, and there was a lit brazier in the room. But neither was the source of the eerie green glow cast over the floor, the sculpted monuments, and the funerary relics arranged on shelves around the room. She caught a glimpse of what looked like a bony hand inside one of the shelves. Were those skeletons resting in the long niches?

She became suddenly aware of unfriendly eyes on her. Looking up, she found herself under the scrutiny of a pair of gleaming golden eyes, belonging to a large raven perched on a wall ledge above.

Her gaze darted away from the bird, drawn to the room’s other occupants. A giant knight in dark armor, his eyes glowing red from inside a massive winged helm, loomed like a monster over a smaller man on the floor. The slender human with wild, dark hair and plain clothing knelt on the floor, his pale hands sifting clumsily through what looked like a heap of ashes and broken pottery.

“I’ve found it, Master! It is here!” he exclaimed suddenly. Eager as a dog for the approval of its master, he passed the item he held to the black knight.

“Good…. Good….” The master’s voice was at once wind and thunder, a whisper and a roar. Eydis heard the walls shudder, felt the cold stone floor vibrate beneath her feet.

“For all these millennia, the amulet has slept, undisturbed,” the dark master rumbled, holding aloft a thick golden chain, upon which swung a disk the size of a saucer. “Take it. It will give you the authority to wake my army.”