Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (22 page)

But it wasn’t the green things that drew his attention. It was the roiling gray cloud forming like a thick fog near the glass ceiling. Another low peal of thunder sounded, rattling the walls and roof. Before Geveral’s eyes, a light mist descended from the cloud overhead, moistening the greenery below. Swiftly, the mist became a sprinkle, soft droplets of rain falling down on Geveral’s upturned face. Entranced, he didn’t care that his clothing was getting wet. He hadn’t seen magical weather manipulation since that night back in Treeveil. The night Mentor Kesava died driving the birdmen away with a wild hailstorm.

But there was no question he was witnessing nature magic now. And standing amid the indoor garden, head thrown back and arms outstretched, was the mage creating it, the bald old man in beggar’s rags. He appeared unaware of Geveral’s intrusion. His eyes were glazed over, his expression rapt, as the rain showered down on him. Geveral had seen that enthralled expression before, when Mentor Kesava or Mage Jauhar worked the weather. It was the look of one so immersed in nature he no longer knew his surroundings or what occurred around him.

Out of respect, Geveral waited in silence until several minutes passed and the cloudburst abated. Then the old man came out of his trance, becoming abruptly aware.

“I thought you might come,” he said, betraying no surprise at the sight of the waiting Geveral. His one good eye shone brightly. “I suspected you would be as intrigued by me as I was at the unexpected sight of you. Few of our people are left in the world, and even fewer are to be found in the baselands. What brings you to Asincourt?”

“I travel with friends,” Geveral said evasively, unsure how much to reveal to this stranger. Abruptly remembering his manners, he added, “My name is Geveral of the Elder Forest.”

“And I am Janya of the Ashwoods,” replied the old man.

“Janya, I fear curiosity led me to trespass on your property and interrupt you at work.”

The old one’s face split in an ugly, yet good-humored, grin. “Of the former you need not worry, as this is not my property. As for the latter, I have finished with the day’s rain.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking…” Geveral hinted.

“What am I doing with these crops?” Janya finished. He swept an arm around them. “What you see before you is my humble livelihood. In looking for a place to sleep, I once stumbled across this abandoned house of glass and realized it was the ideal place for growing small crops. The sun’s rays on the glass warm the interior in winter, the walls protect the sprouts from wind in fall, and I have full control of the weather in all seasons. The produce of my garden feeds me, and whatever is left I can sell at market. The profit is minimal but enough to keep an old man alive. The only difficulty is keeping my little garden secret. That nosey Lord Karol is suspicious of magic and forbids me to interfere with the city’s weather. And so I must confine my practice to this small space.”

“I’m sorry,” Geveral said, thinking not of the old man but of the difficulty Eydis might face, trying to win support from a lord who had no respect for mystical gifts. Perhaps their task in this city wouldn’t be as simple as hoped.

Janya didn’t follow his line of thought. “Never mind Lord Karol,” he said easily. “His eyes can’t be everywhere at once, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me. Anyway, enough of my troubles. I can see you have deeper concerns of your own.”

“What do you mean?” Geveral asked guiltily.

“I mean that magic block hanging over you.”

“Magic what?” Geveral glanced nervously toward the ceiling, half expecting a physical block to be hovering like a bolder above his head.

“A magic block is a barrier some of our kind are born with. It’s like a wall, holding back the swell of magic until it builds like flood waters rising behind a dam. Surely you can feel it?”

Geveral furrowed his brow. “My magic has been weak since childhood, but the mentor in my village never spoke of any barrier. He said time and training would grow my magic.”

Janya shrugged. “Every mage has his strengths and his blind spots. Perhaps your mentor simply couldn’t see what I do. If he had, he might have lifted the block for you.”

“Then it can be removed?”

“That depends on the block. I’d have to take a more thorough look.”

He came closer and took Geveral’s head in his hands. His eyes glazed over as they had when he worked his weather magic, and for the space of several heartbeats, all was still.

Then Geveral felt a strange sensation in his skull, like the easing of a pressure he hadn’t realized existed until it was removed. With it gone, everything instantly felt sharper and clearer, like a hazy cloud had been lifted from his mind. His skin tingled from scalp to toes, with a vivid awareness of the life around him. He had previously been conscious of the green growing things as a vague presence, but now he fully felt them for the first time. He was linked to them, just as he had briefly connected with the tree that saved his life the night of the hunger hounds’ pursuit.

Janya’s hands fell away, and his good eye grew focused again. “There we are. It is done,” he said gravely. “It was a simple barrier, easily removed. Almost any mage could’ve broken it down without effort.”

Geveral defended, “Mentor Kesava was a good mage.” But his heart wasn’t in the protest. He was too charged with wonder and excitement at the new world that had opened up before him. He felt almost powerful now, like he could do things he’d never done before.

“I don’t doubt your mentor’s competence,” said Janya. “But between a good mage and a great one, there is a difference. Me, I once had the potential to become one of the greats. But I didn’t attend academy and finish my training, so it all came to nothing.”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

“Then don’t try. No one born with the gift should be separated from it. Knowing I’ve helped restore the proper balance of things is all the gratification I need.” Janya glanced toward the glass ceiling, where the sun could be seen working its way through the sky. “Now the afternoon is wearing on,” he said, “and I fear there’s someplace I need to be.”

“Is there no time to talk?” Geveral protested. “I have so much to learn now that there’s no block between me and my gift.”

“Sorry, my boy, but I’m no mentor. I left the traditional life of a Drycaenian long ago, and now I’m just a kind of glorified gardener, struggling to get by in a land that’s lost all respect for your kind and mine. If it’s training you want, you should seek out one of the mage schools. Learn from my mistake and don’t neglect your education.”

Already, the old man was heading for the door, calling back, “You can hang about the place if you like but latch the gate on your way out. I don’t want my turnips pilfered by scavengers and beggar children.”

The door opened and shut behind him and he was gone, leaving Geveral alone in the glass house. He barely hesitated. He would start small, he promised himself, but practice he must. There was a burning need in him to test his newfound strength. Besides, the vegetables looked thirsty.

As she shoved her way through the noisy tavern to an empty table at the back, Eydis tried to think how she would break the bad news to her friends.
Sorry, but it turns out Lord Karol is a shallow fop who cares for nothing but luxuries. The fate of the seclusionary means less than nothing to him, and he wouldn’t heed a warning from the First Mother if she appeared in the flesh to deliver it herself.

That much had become clear early in their meeting. As the corpulent lord sat on his velvet cushions, sipping wine and twirling his mustache with a bored air, his lack of concern for the warnings she delivered was obvious. The seclusionary itself was insignificant for tactical purposes, he assured her, and its inhabitants were a lot of dried up female clerics no one had any cause to disturb. Least of all some imaginary sorcerer from beyond the grave. He was skeptical of her visions and her connection with the oracle, and even unimpressed with the mark she wore to prove the First Mother’s favor.

Truly, she thought, if the lords of Asincourt had ever possessed a sense of duty toward their people or a reverence for the Mother and her adherents, that had been many generations past. Lord Karol could hardly shoo her out of his presence quickly enough, so he could turn his attention to a more pressing engagement—the arrival of his clothier. Any hope Eydis had harbored for gaining local military support died at that point.

Collapsing into an empty seat, she rubbed her forehead. The reek of Karol’s perfume had given her a headache. Casting a glance over the smoke-filled room, she looked for Orrick, who ought to have been here before her, but there was no sign of him.

A freckle-cheeked serving girl appeared at her elbow, and Eydis ordered a meal, thinking it had been far too long since she’d enjoyed real food. When the aproned girl moved away, unblocking her view, Eydis finally caught sight of Orrick. Lurking in the shadows at the back of the room, he was locked deep in conversation with some stranger. At least, Eydis first thought the person a stranger.

But then she realized there was something familiar about him, something that held her attention. He wasn’t a remarkable sort. Of medium height, he wore a nondescript cloak and kept the hood up, despite the warmth indoors. No weapons were visible on his person, but still there was a threatening air about him that made Eydis wonder if Orrick might be in need of her support. Before she could decide whether to join the two, she saw a coin purse change hands between them.

The scene evoked a memory. Suddenly she was back in that icy tower in the mountains, spying from behind the columns as a silver-haired stranger tossed a jingling pouch of coins to a hooded assassin. There was no doubt that assassin was the same man she was looking at now, as she watched Orrick accept the money and the pair exchange parting words. Then the hooded man left, slipping easily through the crowd and out a side door.

Mind reeling, she tried to understand what she had witnessed. She was barely conscious of the serving girl returning with her meal. Her appetite had vanished. Given her visions and what she knew of Orrick’s past, she scrambled to make sense of this new development. How could she come to any conclusion other than that her companion was somehow in league with the assassin and the person he worked for? Why Orrick should conspire with them or what any of them wanted with her remained a mystery. She knew nothing of the silver-haired man, other than that he was a mysterious force who wanted her, the mistress of masks, destroyed. And now he had drawn Orrick into the scheme.

That troubled her more than it should. Over the course of their journey she had put aside her doubts about the barbarian, had ignored even the vision of him betraying her. She had come to think of him as, if not a friend, at least an ally.

“Everything all right?”

At the unexpected intrusion, she started so badly her knee banged against the table leg.

But it was only Geveral who lowered himself to join her on the bench. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he observed. “Or the White Lady of the lake.”

She rubbed her smarting shin. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” She couldn’t be sure whether taking action against Orrick at this point would alter the events she’d foreseen for the better or the worse. Best to keep silent until she’d mulled it over.

She realized water was dripping from Geveral’s clothing and pooling on the bench. “Where have you been to get yourself so wet? There’s been no rain today.”

“Actually there was a little cloudburst at the other end of the city,” he contradicted. “You must have missed it.” His eyes were suspiciously bright, hinting at some secret excitement, but she didn’t press for an explanation. The Mother knew she had her share of secrets too.

He changed the subject. “How did your meeting with the lord go?”

“Badly, I’m afraid. It seems we won’t be able to count on Karol for help defending the seclusionary. He made it painfully clear that as long as his hair dresser and personal tailor were safe, the rest of the world could go to rot.”

“He won’t defend his people?”

“Within the city walls I suppose he might. But he doesn’t consider the seclusionary on Asincourt’s doorstep to be his responsibility. Worse, I’m not sure he believed in my visions anyway.”

“Then it sounds like we’re lucky I found this man.”

At Orrick’s sudden arrival, Eydis started but covered her guilt quickly. Best if he didn’t know what she’d seen earlier.

“This is Torolf,” Orrick said, introducing a stranger at his side. Thank the First Mother it wasn’t the assassin with him now, but an older man, whose lined face and gray-streaked temples couldn’t hide a military bearing.

“Torolf is a former captain of the city guard,” Orrick said. “He’s heard of our dilemma and wants to help.”

“Exactly which dilemma is that?” Eydis asked. “The evil army probably marching across the countryside toward the seclusionary as we speak? Or the fact Lord Karol won’t move to defend the location?”

“Both,” put in the stranger called Torolf. “I may be retired, but I still hear the gossip from the servants at the big house. And news like this makes for a good story.”

“It’s more than a story,” Eydis said quickly. “The oracle of Silverwood Grove believes in my visions.”

“I know. That’s why I’ve sought you out. I’ve heard of the wisdom of your oracle and am inclined to believe her word and yours. And the fact is… the Head Hearer at the Asincourt seclusionary is a cousin of mine.”

“So you’ve come to measure the veracity of my claims and discover whether your kinswoman is truly in danger,” Eydis realized. “What would it take to convince you I speak the truth? That the danger is real?”

Torolf pursed his lips. “I’m not a clever man or an educated one. But even I recognize miracles when I see them.”

“So all you need is to see a little miracle? Would this do?” Eydis concentrated and, after a moment, felt a ripple pass over her face, as she assumed the features of the guardsman. She could see by his stunned expression that her effort was a success.