by E. C. Blake
For the moment, at least, the darkness that had been growing in her soul had retreated.
Hyram, returning from the camp two days after the others, had reported that the main gate had abruptly closed just before dawn the morning after the explosion. Shortly after that Watchers had emerged, but they had focused all their energy on finding their runaway horses. The unMasked had made it cleanly away. The Secret City remained a secret.
Mara had only spoken to Catilla briefly since awakening. She had agreed that Catilla had upheld her end of their bargain, and that she would, therefore, attempt to make the counterfeit Masks. “And learn to use your Gift,” Catilla had reminded her sharply. “That was part of our bargain, too. The power you demonstrated, in the camp, and healing Prella—”
“And learn to use my Gift,” Mara had agreed. “If that ever becomes possible.”
Catilla had had to be content with that. Mara’s Healing of Prella had exhausted the contents of the urn of magic they had brought back from the camp. “Among other things, you need to learn moderation,” Ethelda had told her severely. “You could have healed that wound with only a portion of that magic, and left some for future emergencies. And maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have knocked yourself out.”
But learning moderation, or anything else about using her Gift, would have to wait until they had more magic: and for the moment, there was no prospect of that.
Ethelda had explained that to Catilla, which was why Catilla did not press the matter of Mara better learning to use her Gift. Neither Ethelda nor Mara had told Catilla—or anyone else—where the magic Mara had used to stop the explosion had come from. Her ability to draw magic directly from living things remained a secret shared only by the two of them.
Given a room in which to work on Masks, Mara had examined the supplies stolen from the village Maskmaker and confirmed everything was there. Even the “recipe,” the black lodestone dust she now knew carried carefully crafted magic from the Palace had been brought, magic she would certainly not be incorporating into her fakes.
But what could I do with the Masks? she wondered now, as she stared out at the orange-and-gold water. With the power I have . . . ?
The power you dare not use, she reminded herself, as she did every day: every day, because with each day the memory of the pain she had felt when she’d saved the camp receded like the tide, leaving behind, like a glass float from some fisherman’s net tangled in seaweed along the shore, the shining memory of the incredible power that had filled her: the unforgettable feeling that she could do anything. And unlike that glass ball, which lost some of its gleam as it dried, the memory of power seemed to grow more and more attractive, more and more something she’d like to experience again, no matter what the cost.
The Autarch is an addict, she remembered Ethelda saying. Am I one, too?
If Catilla knew where my power came from in the camp, she wouldn’t worry about what using magic might do to me. She’d see me only as a weapon. She’d . . . what? Send me to Tamita to kill the Autarch?
She can’t know. I don’t want to be a weapon. Not like that. She remembered Ethelda’s grim warning. If I became a weapon, how long before I’d turn from weapon to monster, another Lady of Pain and Fire?
But she couldn’t help turning the idea over and over in her head. What if she could get into Tamita? What if she could kill the Autarch? Would that really be so bad? How could killing a monster make her a monster? Killing monsters was something heroes did.
“I wonder if there really are monsters out there?” Hyram said idly, his question so close to her thoughts that she started.
“Out where?”
“Out there. In the ocean.” Hyram waved a hand. “And how far do you have to go before you fall off the edge of the world?”
“Some people say the world is round,” Mara said, glad to talk about something, anything, that had nothing to do with what she’d been thinking.
Hyram snorted. “And how does that work, exactly? If the world were round, all that water would drain off. And if you walked too far in one direction you’d eventually topple over and fall.” He leaned back on his elbows in the sand. His bare feet were stretched out in front of him, and he wriggled his toes. “No, the world is flat. And somewhere out there is the edge.”
“There are stories about other lands across the sea,” Mara said, remembering books she had read in childhood. “Once upon a time, the stories say, people from other lands regularly visited Aygrima. We even traded with them. It was a long, long time ago, though. Before the Autarch. Before the days of the Autarch’s great-grandfather, in fact.”
“Other lands?” Hyram looked at her. “What do you mean, other lands?”
“Islands, I guess,” Mara said.
“With other people on them.” Hyram shook his head. “Children’s tales. This is the only land. We’re the only people. And the Autarch . . .” His face turned grim. “The Autarch rules us all.” Then he grinned fiercely. “For now. Because one day, we will be rid of him and everyone will walk free and unMasked.”
“I don’t know,” Keltan said, rather unexpectedly; he had been gazing off into space as if lost in his own head. “In Tamita everyone thinks the unMasked Army is a myth, nothing but a children’s tale, that it can’t possibly be real. Yet here I am, in the unMasked Army.” He waved a hand at the sea. “So who’s to say the children’s tales about other lands beyond the waters don’t have some basis in truth, too?”
Hyram snorted again. “I’ll make you a wager. If we ever find out there are other lands beyond the water, I’ll clean your boots and make your bed for a month.”
Keltan laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.” Mara looked from one to the other, and smiled. Maybe Keltan will be all right after all, she thought. Maybe I will, too.
With the sun almost gone, they went back into the Secret City, Mara walking between the two boys, enjoying their easy banter, the warmth of their companionship . . .
. . . and trying not to feel, deep in her mind, the insistent call of the magic within the two young bodies at her side . . . especially from Keltan, the boy she had already pulled magic from once before, and from whom it would be so easy, so pleasurable, to do so again . . .
She shuddered. I can control this, she thought fiercely. I can. I am not a monster.
They entered the Secret City. Behind them, darkness descended over the endlessly rolling ocean.
