Masks

by E. C. Blake

  “There’s magic in that basin right now?” Edrik set the urn aside, then leaned over the basin. He put his hand into it, his finger sliding beneath the surface of the magic but coming out clean. “I don’t . . .”

  “Watch,” Mara said. There was so little magic on her finger, surely it would be safe to use it to . . .

  She walked over to the stump of a candle set on the topmost of the shelves holding the black jars, touched her finger to it, and willed it to light.

  Her finger stung as though she’d shuffled across her bedroom rug on a cold winter day and touched the metal door latch—and the wick burst into flame.

  She turned back to Edrik. He was staring at the candle. “I guess . . . I guess I believe you,” he said.

  “About time,” she said tartly, and didn’t feel at all sorry that he looked down, shamefaced. She turned her gaze back to the magic.

  “Is there enough to fill some of these urns?” Edrik said, an odd tone in his voice.

  She looked up. “Yes,” she said. “Two, at least.”

  “Then fill them. We’ll take them with us.”

  Mara wanted that, wanted to have magic close, just in case, but . . . “Grelda said I shouldn’t use magic.”

  “Oh, I know. She warned you against using it, and warned me against letting you use it,” Edrik said. “But remember what I said?”

  “That if it’s necessary, I should use magic to save those who are risking their lives for me and my friend,” Mara said slowly.

  “Exactly.” Edrik nodded at the basin. “Fill the urns. So that you have it . . . as a last resort.”

  “All right,” Mara said. The finger she had used to light the candle still hurt, sore as though stung by a bee. But she didn’t tell Edrik that. Nor did she tell him that despite that pain, she longed to touch the magic again: longed to touch it, longed even more to use it. She couldn’t explain it to herself, so how could she possibly explain it to him?

  “I’ll leave that to you, then,” Edrik said. He snorted. “I can hardly help but leave it to you when I can’t even see the stuff.”

  “It will only take a moment,” Mara said.

  Edrik nodded again, and went out.

  Mara picked up the nearest urn. It was lighter than she’d expected, and she remembered what Pixot had told her about the stone being much less dense than it looked like it should be. “Now,” she muttered to herself, “how does this work, exactly?”

  She’d thought it would be a simple matter of dipping the urn below the surface of the pool and letting the magic flow into the urn like water. But when she took a closer look she realized that could not work, because the urn was so fat and round she would barely be able to get its mouth beneath the surface at all, certainly not enough to fill the urn.

  She looked around for a ladle, or some other means of putting the magic into the jar, but saw nothing but urns, urns, and more urns, a dozen in all. Well, she thought, I guess I’ll get what I can.

  But the instant she dipped the urn into the pool she realized why no ladle was provided. Rather than flowing like water, the magic crawled, like something alive, oozing up and over the lip of the urn, slithering down inside, and then . . . coiling was the word that came to Mara’s mind, like a fat snake in a cozy gap in a rock. Mara knew magic was not a liquid, that it had to be something else, but her brain had insisted on seeing it as a kind of colored liquor right up until that moment. Now she swallowed, looking down in the magic-filled urn, the swirling, shifting colors as beautiful as always, but also deeply, deeply, disturbingly weird.

  She simply set the next urn down inside the basin, and watched the magic crawl up the urn’s side and pour down into its open mouth, like an overflowing milk jug in reverse. When it was done, only the faintest glimmer of magic colored the curved stone bottom of the basin.

  On the lowest row of shelves lay stone lids, one per urn, with clever locking mechanisms, metal bars on hinges that lifted up and then snapped into place. With the urns sealed, Mara hefted each in turn. As far as she could tell, they weighed exactly the same as they had before the magic filled them. And yet she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that they were full. They might not push down harder on her hands, but they pushed down harder on her mind.

  Also, she suddenly realized, her fingertips tingled. Not much, hardly noticeable, but the sensation was definitely there, definitely real.

  She swallowed. Her Gift enabled her to use magic—but the more she was exposed to it, the more she realized that she didn’t have a clue what it was, or how to control it.

  The last time she hadn’t controlled it, and it had almost killed her. What would happen if she tried to use the magic she had gathered in these black urns?

  A last resort, she promised herself, carrying the urns out of the hut whose floor was white with the dust that was all that was left of Grute, whose air was thick with nightmare memories. I’ll only use it as a last resort.

  TWENTY

  Waiting and Watching

  THAT NIGHT, Mara did not wake screaming. She woke instead, the next morning, to Illina’s gentle touch. “You slept,” she said, smiling.

  “I did,” Mara said with pleased wonder. She yawned hugely. She felt more rested than she had in forever, it seemed. It was almost as if her return to the site that had figured so prominently in her nightmares had, at least temporarily, laid Grute’s vengeful ghost to rest.

  Not that I believe in ghosts, she hastened to assure herself as she got up, with a helping hand from Illina and only a tiny groan. Grute is dead and gone. He is definitely not wandering around the woods as a headless spirit seeking revenge on . . .

  Stop it! She shook her head, released Illina’s hand, and then went in search of the latrine and breakfast, in that order. The cut in her calf still ached, but now she was able to walk without limping. Her head didn’t hurt at all, though the new scar itched.

  Edrik called them all together once the horses were loaded. “We’re only a few hours from the mine,” he said. “We’ll set up camp in the valley to the north, then reconnoiter from the same place on the ridge we used before. Once we know what’s what, we can finalize plans for the actual rescue attempt.” He glanced at Mara. “An attempt that will only be made if we are certain this friend of yours is still in the Warden’s house. Are we clear on that?”

  Mara nodded.

  “Good.” He turned and mounted. “Let’s ride.”

  The morning passed without conversation. Everyone seemed busy with his or her own thoughts, and in any event, Edrik had made it clear that this close to the camp, with the risk of hunters or even Watchers in the woods, they must be quiet and alert. Keltan and Hyram rode behind and ahead of Mara, respectively, but neither rode beside her, and they hadn’t seemed to be talking to each other even before they’d set out on the day’s travel. Mara thought they were both being silly. All she’d done was hold Keltan’s hand, it wasn’t like she’d kissed him or anything, but she figured they could sort out their differences on their own. What makes them think I’m interested in either one of them? she told herself. They’re just friends.

  Aren’t they?

  She sighed.

  They followed a tumbling stream along the bottom of the valley north of the camp, Edrik constantly scanning the southern slope. Shortly after noon—before they had yet stopped for their midday meal—he halted the column and pointed up the ridge. “There,” he said.

  Mara, peering up, saw a distinctive spire of silvery gray rock against the blue sky. Edrik turned and pointed the other way, at a clump of trees across the stream. “Same camp as before, in the clearing in the middle of that wood.” He looked back up to the spire of rock. “We’ll send scouts up there on foot. I’ll go first, with Mara and,” he looked around, “Hyram. He’ll act as runner if I need to get word back down here in a hurry. I’ll sort out watches for the rest of the day once I get back.” He slid ea
sily out of the saddle. Mara slid out a little less easily, but found the ground just the same. She hesitated, glancing at the urns of magic slung on either side of her horse. She put out a hand toward one, but Edrik shook his head. “We’re just scouting,” he said. “We shouldn’t need any ‘last resorts.’”

  Hyram was off his horse, too. Grinning smugly, he handed his reins to Keltan. Keltan gave him a dirty look, but took them.

  “Let’s go,” Edrik said, and as the column, now led by Tishka, splashed across the stream toward the clump of trees, he led Mara and Hyram up the slope.

  The steep climb through stunted pines and over slippery grass and shifting stones would have left little breath for talking, even if there had been anything to say. And there wasn’t, really. Mara’s pulse quickened more than the climb could account for. Was Katia still in the Warden’s house? Was she even still alive? If she wasn’t, Edrik would do nothing. The camp would go on unmolested. Unlike the women trapped in it, she thought bitterly. Edrik’s reasons for not launching a full-scale attack on the camp made perfect sense. But she still wanted desperately to bring the whole noxious hellhole crashing down around the ears of the Warden, the Watchers, and the trustees.

  And how could they be certain where Katia was from way up here? If she didn’t emerge from the Warden’s house—and why should she?—how would they ever know? Edrik would do nothing without proof, and how could they possibly get it?

  Unless . . .

  Her foot slipped on a rock. Hyram, following her, grabbed her waist and steadied her. His hands lingered, but she hardly noticed. The idea that had just occurred to her was possibly the most horrifying she’d ever had, more horrifying even than what she had done to Grute. But horrifying or not, she knew she would follow through with it if she had to . . .

  . . . or never sleep again.

  It won’t come to that, she told herself, and fervently hoped it was true. Perhaps they would see Katia from their vantage point high above the camp. Perhaps their plans for rescue would work perfectly. Perhaps they’d all be safely back in the Secret City within a few days.

  Perhaps.

  They reached the spire of gray rock, blotched with brown, green, and orange lichen. Rounding it revealed a copse of tall pines, swaying and sighing in a chill wind Mara had hardly been aware of down in the valley but that now made her shiver despite her warm coat. Hyram noticed, and grinned at her. “If you think this is cold, just wait,” he said. “Come winter, the wind up here will flay the flesh from your bones.”

  “I hope we’re not up here that long,” Mara said. Hyram laughed.

  “Less noise,” said Edrik without looking around. He pointed at the trees. “In there. Slowly.” He led the way, slipping from trunk to trunk, Mara behind him, Hyram following her. About halfway through the clump of trees, Edrik said, “Now we crawl,” and got down on his hands and knees. Feeling both silly and apprehensive, Mara followed suit. She watched Edrik’s dusty boot heels, while the trees thinned ahead of them. Just before they reached the edge of the copse, Edrik dropped to his belly and wormed the rest of the way. Mara wriggled up beside him, and Hyram came up on her left, sandwiching her between him and his father. She lay there, panting, her leg wound throbbing slightly, and peered out through the tall grass.

  Just beyond the last row of trees, the ground dropped steeply away, all the way to the camp. Mara could see the path she remembered following with Pixot and the rest, which traveled a considerable distance to the east before beginning its switchbacking climb to the top of the ridge. Her heart raced at the sight of the palisade, the Warden’s house, the longhouses, and the endlessly grinding water wheel. Even up here the constant pounding of the man-engine beat against her ears.

  The morning shift change was long past and the evening one hours away, so the only people in view were a couple of Watchers patrolling the long boulevard, the trustee servant from the house—not Katia, unfortunately—digging in the gardens between the Warden’s house, and a man, a tiny figure with a pitchfork, mucking out the stables at the far end of the camp. Mara glanced at Edrik. “You can’t shoot arrows into the stables from here,” she murmured.

  “I never said we could,” he replied. “But we can do it from there.” He pointed across the camp. “See how the road to the main gate runs between two hills? From the top of the hill on the left, you can shoot into the compound. It’s a blind shot—you can’t actually see the stables over the wall—but it’s definitely within bowshot.” He glanced at her. “Let me worry about things like that. All you’ve got to worry about is spotting this friend of yours. Is that her in the gardens?”

  Mara shook her head. “No. I told you, she’s only a little older than me.”

  Edrik grunted. “Well, you’d better hope she shows herself. Every day we’re this close to the camp, the more likely it is someone will spot us or stumble over us. If we can’t confirm she’s in there within a couple of days . . .”

  “I know,” Mara said. “You can’t try a rescue without being sure the person you’re rescuing is in there. I understand.” And she felt a renewed chill.

  Edrik looked at Hyram. “Go back down. Send up Skrit and Skrat. They can watch with Mara for the first shift. I’ll stay here until they get back.”

  Hyram nodded and wriggled backward out of sight.

  Mara kept staring down into the camp, willing Katia to make an appearance. But, of course, she didn’t.

  Nor did she for the next twenty minutes, until the twins replaced Edrik, nor for the next five hours after that, until it started to get dark and they all descended to the camp, Tishka taking their place: not with any hope of seeing Katia in the dark, but just to watch the Watchers in case they took a sudden notion to ride north.

  On the journey there Mara hadn’t talked much to the twins, quiet young men as alike as two kernels of wheat. She didn’t talk to them much during the hours they spent together watching the camp, either (taking turns to stretch and take care of other needs as the afternoon wore away), since they seemed convinced that the Watchers far below had ears like foxes and would hear so much as a whisper. But as they began the descent to the camp in the twilight, Skrit (she thought) said, “All those people we saw, coming out of the ground, going into the ground, none of them was your friend?”

  Mara shook her head. “She’s in the big house,” she said. I hope.

  Skrat (probably) said, “And the camp is like that all the time? All those unMasked, disappearing underground, coming out again looking half-dead, day after day?”

  Mara nodded again. “If they come out,” she said, thinking of Shimma. “It never stops. Day after day. Until they’re too sick to go down, or—if they’re girls—they’re sent to the Watchers in the barracks.” She’d only spent two days in the mine, and the dark and the damp and the weight of stone hanging over her head had made regular appearances in her dreams since, the sense of doom and dread at least making a change from the hyperreal visions of Grute’s head exploding, although not offering as much relief as she could have hoped.

  Skrit shook his head. “I hope we can get your friend out. I wish we could get them all out.”

  Mara felt a surge of gratitude.

  The unMasked Army’s tents were tucked so far back in the thick, shadowy stand of woods that she didn’t think she could have found them without the twins’ guidance. The gloomy, fireless camp and the cold supper of dried meat, hard cheese, and crusty bread provided little cheer. Mara sat in the silvery light of the three-quarter moon, munching on her food with her back to a tree trunk, staring at nothing in particular. Keltan and Hyram hadn’t been around when she entered the camp; now she saw them emerge from the woods together. Both were limping. They came over to her and sat down on either side of her.

  She glanced from one to the other. Though it was hard to see in the moonlight, she thought Keltan had a black eye, and there seemed to be a smear of blood on Hyram’s upper lip. “
Run into something mean in the woods?” she said.

  They exchanged looks and grinned. “You could say that,” said Keltan.

  “Absolutely,” said Hyram.

  They were fighting, Mara realized. Over me? It was a strange—and strangely exhilarating—thought. But she couldn’t exactly ask, and they didn’t volunteer to tell her. All she knew was that something had changed: the tension that had been building between the two had broken, and they joked and laughed with her for the next hour as if nothing had happened. It was all very strange, but also quite wonderful, and she relaxed and entered into the banter and didn’t think about the mining camp or Katia for sometimes four or five minutes at a time.

  Until that night. Headless Grute stayed away, but taking his place in the fierce competition to rob her of sleep was an interminable dream of being trapped deep underground, trying to find a way out while water rose from ankles to knees to waist to chest to neck to . . .

  She woke, gasping, saw a hint of light in the sky, realized it was pointless to even try to go back to sleep, and crawled out of her tent, hoping that today would be the day she saw Katia. If she didn’t, it might instead be the day she did something really, really stupid.

  The wind of the day before had blown in thick, low, scudding clouds that hid the tops of the mountains even after the light grew bright enough to see them. It had turned colder, too, and without fires to warm either them or their food, everyone was out of sorts that morning. No doubt Keltan most of all, Mara thought: he had taken the midnight-to-morning watch atop the ridge and must be half frozen, though he hadn’t yet descended to complain about it.