Masks

by E. C. Blake

  Mara gasped, and Ethelda held up her hand.

  “Some measure of it, I said. Not how much of it.”

  “But why? Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because,” Ethelda said, “I happen to know that the Warden might have a good use for an unMasked girl who can still see magic.” She regarded Mara. “Do you know what is mined here?”

  Mara nodded. “Magic. I saw threads of it running through the stone in the mines. This is where the Autarch’s magic comes from.”

  “Some of it, yes,” said Ethelda.

  “But I don’t understand. It’s just black stone. Why does it contain magic?”

  “More a question for theologians than Healers. But I will tell you what I know.” Ethelda folded her hands on the table again and said, as though beginning a lecture, “Magic comes from life.”

  “My father told me that,” Mara interjected, remembering. “‘All living things produce it,’ he said.”

  Ethelda nodded. “Exactly. And when they die, the magic seeps away, vanishes, unless it is near the black stone that is mined here, the stone they call black lodestone. Yes, I know,” she raised her hands, palms out, “there is another lodestone that attracts iron. But black lodestone attracts magic: draws it out of the world. In all of Aygrima, in all the world, it is found only in these mountains. Where it came from, no one knows. In fact, it is so strange some claim it fell from the sky and does not belong to our world at all.

  “There are two ways to gather magic. One is through wells, I supposed you would call them. Places where the black lodestone is close to the surface. A specially crafted basin of black lodestone, set atop a mass of black lodestone plunging deep into the earth, will slowly draw out the magic in the larger mass, so that it fills of its own accord.

  “That is what you found in the hut. There are similar huts throughout these mountains. Men like the one who found you, who have Gift enough to see magic but not enough to use it, travel the huts to gather the magic the huts harvest.

  “The other way to gather magic is to mine black lodestone and extract the magic it has already gathered to itself, deep under the earth. That is what happens here. The magic extracted from the rocks, by those who have the Gift to do it, is placed in urns, also made from black lodestone, which are then shipped to the Autarch. Deep beneath the Palace lie vast storerooms of magic, from which the Autarch draws what he needs and from which magic is allocated to the practitioners of various sorts within the city—such as myself and your father.” She hesitated. “And this is why I think you should consider telling the Warden you still have the Gift. I’ve heard rumors that the flow of magic from this mine has greatly diminished. The limited amount of magic I was allowed to use in the hospital supports that. Rumor also says that the Warden is concerned the mine may play out completely in relatively short order, and that he is increasingly desperate to find a new source of magic before this one fails and the camp is closed forever.”

  Closed forever? Mara’s heart leaped at the thought; then a second thought clamped it in an iron fist. “But if they close the camp,” she whispered, “what will happen to the unMasked?”

  Ethelda regarded her steadily. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  And, sickly, Mara did. If the mine failed and the camp closed, those unMasked already here—and any new unMasked that resulted from the apparently increasingly common failures of Maskings—would most likely simply be executed. They had no place in Tamita, no place in all of Aygrima, except here, hellish though “here” was. “What does all that have to do with my Gift?”

  “Rumor also says,” Ethelda continued in a low voice, “that the Warden has been requesting a young Gifted to help prospect for a new mine, young because the young are more sensitive to magic; young also because he needs someone small, presumably to better slip through narrow passages in the rock.”

  Mara felt a chill despite the near-stifling warmth of the windowless storeroom. “And you think he might want to use me for that?”

  “He might,” Ethelda said. “Particularly since the Palace has steadfastly denied his request.”

  “But . . .” Mara felt confused. “Why would the Autarch deny it? Surely he needs the magic from the mine?”

  “He does,” Ethelda said. “He needs all the magic he can . . .” She bit off what she was about to say and raised a hand that still trembled slightly to her Mask. “I suspect the Autarch himself has never even heard of the request, or that the mine is in jeopardy. The members of the Circle and their subordinates generally find it prudent to deal with such matters on their own rather than trouble the Autarch with trivialities.”

  Another shock for Mara. Ethelda seemed to be implying the Autarch was not the all-seeing, all-knowing ruler she had always imagined, that she had always been told. She felt a sudden flash of hope that maybe Catilla’s scheme to have her make counterfeit Masks wasn’t as mad as it had first sounded to her—a flash of hope instantly extinguished by the all-encompassing darkness of where and what she was.

  But then a flicker of that hope rekindled. Ethelda was offering her a way to, just possibly, stay out of the mines. She’d be helping the Warden, yes, and the Autarch, but she’d also be helping the unMasked trapped in the camp, whose very lives, miserable though they might be, depended on the mining of magic continuing.

  But would they thank me, if they knew? she wondered. If I step forward, and a new lode of magic is found, how many more unMasked will I potentially be sentencing to a long, lingering, miserable death in the mines? Wouldn’t they be better off dead?

  She had no answer.

  “Will you tell the Warden if I don’t?” she asked finally. “Is this really my decision, or are you going to make it for me . . . for my own good?”

  Ethelda looked down at the table. “I made this trip,” she said softly, “because the Warden sent word that you were here, where you were never intended to be.”

  Mara blinked. “How? There hasn’t been time for a messenger to make it all the way to the Palace and you to make the trip here.”

  “Child,” Ethelda said, “this mine produces magic. There are Gifted here, and among them are those whose Gift is to use magic to communicate with others who share their Gift. Distance is no object. The moment the Warden realized the wagon had been attacked, he sent a message; and your father’s position as Master Maskmaker is exalted enough that Stanik himself informed him of your capture. Naturally, Stanik also informed your father that you had found your way to the camp after all. And your father told me.

  “I promised him then that I would come, and tell you that you aren’t forgotten, that you are still loved. More, I promised I would do everything I could to protect you from the horrors of the camp. Horrors I didn’t even fully grasp until I released that poor destroyed woman in the bed opposite yours.” She hesitated. “By my promise to your father, I should tell the Warden what I know, Mara, in the hope that knowledge will save you from the mine. But I will not. Your father thinks of you as a child to be protected, but you are past the age of Masking, and that makes you an adult. As has what you have experienced these past two weeks. I will not take that choice from you.” She touched her Mask again. “I cannot lie if I am asked a direct question. But there is no reason I should be. No one but your father and I know you still have the Gift. No one knows you can still see—and apparently use!—all colors of magic. No one knows you killed Grute with magic.” She leaned forward and spoke urgently. “And whatever, if anything, you tell the Warden, do not tell him that. I do not know how the Warden, or the Circle, or the Autarch himself, would try to use your power, if they knew of it, but I do not think you would like it. They would see you as a weapon to wield against their enemies, and they wouldn’t worry overmuch if the weapon shattered in the wielding.

  “Or they might not try to use you at all. If any of the powerful, from the Warden to the members of the Circle to the Autarch hims
elf, decided you were a threat to their power . . .” She left the warning unspoken.

  “I understand,” Mara said.

  Ethelda leaned back in her chair and became businesslike again. “I cannot take the nightmares away. I suspect they are a function of having used magic in such a fashion. With enough magic of my own to draw on I could perhaps attempt to draw a veil over those memories, blunt their impact, but as you saw in the hospital, my resources are sadly limited here. The only magic I have to offer you is time.” She shook her head. “If you are given it.” She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “I will take word of you to your father. He loves you, Mara. More than you know. He never intended . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  And yet, whatever he intended, he’s the one that condemned me to this, Mara thought bitterly, and said nothing.

  Ethelda studied her face for a moment, but did not press for a response. She got to her feet. “I must see the Warden. I have a few comments to make on his treatment of prisoners.”

  She turned toward the door, but Mara said, “Wait!”

  Ethelda turned back. “Yes?”

  “Thank you for keeping my secret,” Mara said. “For–for respecting me enough to leave the decision up to me. And thank you . . .” Her throat closed. “Thank you for coming. To check on me.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Ethelda softly. “I wish you luck, whatever you decide.” She went to the door and opened it. “We’re done,” she called into the hall.

  The Watcher separated them at once. Ethelda was shown into the Warden’s office, Mara escorted back to the hospital. There she lay in her bed and stared at the white ceiling, torn by indecision. If she confessed that she retained her Gift, would she be saving herself but condemning unknown hundreds of unMasked to the horrors of this and any future labor camp? Or would she actually be saving their lives?

  Would they want her to?

  That was assuming, of course, that Ethelda had even guessed right about the Warden’s need for a child with the Gift. She might be mistaken.

  Or she might have been lying, Mara thought darkly. Maybe she’s telling the Warden the truth right now!

  She didn’t really believe that.

  She should have.

  SIXTEEN

  The Bargain

  MARA WOKE TO VOICES, and discovered the Warden standing at the foot of her bed. Two Watchers flanked him.

  “Hello, Mara,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me you still have your Gift?”

  Startled and sleep-fogged, she didn’t even think of denying it. “How did you find out?”

  The Warden shrugged. “I asked the Healer, Ethelda. I had my suspicions before that. When I talked to you in my office, you referred to the ‘hut of magic,’ but you shouldn’t have known that was what the hut was for. Cantic would have been as careful not to tell you as I was. The sources of magic are well-guarded secrets in the Autarchy. I intended to question Cantic about it the next time he was in camp, but it did occur to me that you would know the hut collected magic if you were still able to see it.

  “So I asked Ethelda. I could already see in her Mask that she was hiding something from me, and I suspected it had something to do with you.” Mara’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he said, “I have the Watcher’s skill in considerable measure. And once I had asked her, she had no choice but to tell the truth or risk her Mask.”

  Mara felt a flash of anger, but it ebbed away almost at once. Ethelda warned me she would have to answer a direct question, she thought. She just didn’t expect to receive one.

  I guess she was wrong.

  “She volunteered additional information,” the Warden continued. “She told me what you thought to hide from me: what really happened when the wagon was attacked.”

  The bottom fell out of Mara’s stomach.

  “Let’s see if I have it right,” the Warden said, mouth curved into a smile. Clearly, he was enjoying himself, enjoying his power over her, his ability to cut through her childish prevarications. “Brigands attacked the wagon. No doubt desperate: winter is coming. Perhaps they thought the wagon carried food. Instead, all they found were unMasked children. But rather than running away then, as you claimed to me, you were dragged into the forest. They gave you those clothes—probably figured you’d freeze in those prison smocks they put the unMasked in, and they were probably right, too. Grute, a sturdy lad by all accounts, managed to escape, and was smart enough to grab you. Unmarked face, daughter of the Master Maskmaker—you stood out. You were in the woods for some days, lost, avoiding the brigands, while Grute tried to find his way to the camp. And then, up at the hut, Grute attempted to force himself on you. Understandable, really, strapping young boy, lovely young girl, all alone . . .” The smile turned to a stern frown. “And you killed him.”

  Mara felt the blood drain from her face. He knows! He knows I used magic to kill Grute! Ethelda—

  “He chased you outside. You struggled. It was snowing, the rocks were icy. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps you pushed him. Either way, he fell to his death, leaving you alone and frightened . . . and remorseful, I’ve no doubt; Grute’s unwanted attentions surely did not justify his death. It’s no wonder you continue to have nightmares.

  “There Cantic found you the next day. He brought you here.” The frown slid back into that insincere smile. “That’s it, is it not?”

  Mara gasped, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I–I was afraid . . .” She didn’t have to feign a trembling voice. She had been afraid; terrified Ethelda had betrayed not only her secret but the unMasked Army. But she hadn’t. Because she wasn’t asked a direct question? she wondered. He said she “volunteered” the information. Did that make a difference?

  She didn’t know; she was beginning to realize she knew far less about the Masks than she realized. Who made Ethelda’s Mask? she suddenly wondered. Father?

  And if he did, did he change it? Weaken it in some way?

  What about his own?

  And if he could do that, what about mine? Why couldn’t he make me one I could wear that wouldn’t change me? Why did he put me through this?

  “Afraid you would face punishment for killing Grute?” The Warden interrupted the confused swirl of her thoughts. “Well, it was unfortunate, but these things happen in the heat of the moment. Perhaps we will retrieve his remains in the spring, if the scavengers have left anything of him.” The Warden sat on the end of her bed. “It is true, however, that you have deprived me of a valuable asset: Grute would have made a fine, strong worker and eventually, I suspect, a trustee. That would weigh against you if not for the fact you offer me something I need even more.” Teeth flashed in a predatory smile. “Someone with the Gift. Someone young. Someone . . . slim.”

  Remembering just in time she officially knew nothing of his plans, Mara said, “Why?”

  “In good time,” said the Warden. He stood up again. “I am going to move you into my house until you are fully healed. And then I will tell you what use I have for you.” He nodded to the Watchers, then turned and strode out.

  And so Mara found herself living in luxury while the rest of the unMasked continued to suffer and die in the mines and the barracks. Not that she thought of it that way at first. For the first day or so she simply reveled in the softness of her new bed, the clean clothes, the plentiful food. Her body knew what it wanted, and her brain more or less shut down and got out of the way while it got it. She slept, woke, ate, and slept again, there in the room at the back of the big house, up on the third floor. From the window she could actually see over the palisade and into the forest that sloped up toward the next ridge, beyond which shone the mountains’ icy peaks.

  But when she woke on the second morning, feeling more like herself than she had for some time, she stared up at the high wooden ceiling and thought, What about Katia?

  Katia had now been in the ba
rracks for several days. Mara could imagine her life there all too well, though she had no personal experience to tell her whether her imagination bore any relationship to reality. Not yet, she thought uneasily. She could also imagine, all too accurately, Katia lying in the hospital, maybe in the same bed she had been in, bruised, bloodied . . . or worse, still and pale like the woman the Healer had “released.”

  She looked around her spacious room, from the tapestries on the walls to the carved beams overhead, and guilt crashed down on her like a cave-in. She felt almost physically ill. I have to help. I have to!

  Another thought followed, one that lit a fierce little spark in her soul. And maybe I can if the Warden really needs me to use my Gift for him.

  An unMasked trustee, a middle-aged woman with a face like a hatchet and salt-and-pepper hair tied up in a severe bun, brought in her breakfast: a bowl of porridge, a good-sized piece of bread dripping with honey and butter, and a moisture-dewed glass filled with redcherry juice. The trustee put the platter down, with far more force than necessary, on the little table by the door, so that the juice slopped over the side of the glass. Then she gave Mara a look of pure poison. “Warden’s coming to see you,” she croaked. “I’d get dressed, were I you.” She went out, slamming the door behind her.

  Mara took the hint and quickly slipped off her white nightgown and put on the long brown woolen skirt and pale yellow blouse with which she’d been provided. Like the nightgown, they were both a bit large, but they were clean and they weren’t gray prisonwear, and they made her feel more like her old self than even the food and the sleep had managed. Then she sat at the table, spooning the steaming, honey-sweetened porridge into her mouth, until the door opened and the Warden came in, smiling behind his Mask.