“How did she come by the mask? Was it given to her? Did she find it?”
The chief judge grunted. “She claims that a traveller gave it to her as she walked along the road just outside the city near the coast. According to her, a man began walking by her side, seemingly out of nowhere. After a short conversation, he presented her the mask and disappeared as suddenly as he came. She went home to her father and announced she would be leaving the house to fulfill the calling of her new mask and her father dragged her straight here.”
Elu looked around at the men gathered. Dil shifted uncomfortably. Dilly smiled broadly. The so far nameless assistant looked on intently, and the chief judge—his lips curled greedily behind his mask, went on, his voice hoarse but strangely gleeful.
“And so we come to your service to us. We need you to pronounce to my court what the spirits of the mask say. Can you do that?”
Elu nodded. “I can.” He felt confident enough in his abilities to at least do that.
“Excellent. And what the spirits will tell you is that the mask was ill-gotten, and should be placed in the care of the court.”
Elu stared at the old man, dumbfounded. “Excuse me, sir?”
“The mask was clearly stolen and should be placed in my care. I would have ordered it already but I am required by our law to have the expert opinion of a maskmaker in disputes of this nature.”
“But, do you not want me to divine what the spirits of the mask actually say?”
The judge snapped at him. “I am telling you now what they will say. I have seen her face and I know of her guilt. You will announce to the court that the mask clearly does not belong to her. Say that they are a poor match, or whatever you need to say.”
“Are you telling me to lie?”
His question hung dangerously in the air between them all. He caught Dil’s eye. He subtly moved his head back and forth, as if in warning.
The chief judge leaned forward in his gold encrusted throne and smiled a cold, wicked smile.
“Surely not. Lies are banished from my court, as this is a court of justice. And of mercy. I am simply telling you what to expect when you finally look into that mask of hers. And I very much hope you will confirm what I have seen of her guilt,” he paused, and added very slowly, “for it will go very well for you here if you do.”
Elu understood. This man, the man wearing the chief judge’s mask, clearly had no place as its bearer. He only sought riches. Money and power. And they surely would have known that he, as a maskmaker, would have recognized immediately that the chief judge had no standing to possess the mask that he did. But they counted on him to cooperate just as the maskmaker across the street, for Elu now recognized the source of that man’s wealth as well. They counted on him because Elu was easy prey.
What could he do? He was trapped. If he cooperated, he became just as guilty as them. If he refused, well then, he was just a stranger in their land and at the mercy of the chief judge’s soldiers at the back of the room, for Elu could feel the martial spirits of their masks, just out of sight.
“I understand,” he said.
“Good.” The chief judge turned to the assistant, who, Elu just realized, also was richly dressed and wore all manner of precious stones and gold on his fingers and chest, and said, “Send them in.”
The people involved in the case filed in: the blacksmith, his daughter, a representative of the king, the scribe of the court, other court assistants, and spectators. Before long the room filled with people sitting on benches next to the walls. They all circled around the two chairs in the center of the room, which faced forward and up to the gilded throne of justice, upon which perched the imposter, the chief judge of Glendon.
Dilly approached the chief judge. “You have had the chance to question these two supplicants, oh wise one, and now, in accordance with our law I present to you a maskmaker. For as the dispute centered on the ownership of a mask, an expert in their affairs must examine the mask in question and tell us what its spirits say. Elu! Come forth.”
Elu stepped to the center of the room, still looking expectantly at Dilly.
“Go on. Inspect the mask.”
She clutched it in her hands. Her father still had not taken it from her, for fear that she actually might be telling the truth. Elu approached and extended a hand, waiting as she reluctantly relinquished it.
He looked into its eyes. Its substance. The mask was smooth, constructed of fine wood. Not elmore wood, which was remarkable, since the few other trees that inhabited this part of the world bore wood unfit for masks. It was unlike any mask he had every seen before. The judge was correct—it clearly was a mask of power, for it seemed to pulse in his hands. Not visibly—at least not to the common eye—but it throbbed with an unknown power that Elu did not quite comprehend. Looking inside, he greeted its spirits and called to them, inviting them to show him their purpose. They flooded him with answers and the tumult of their reply made it difficult to understand what they said.
He glanced at the girl, who sat before him wearing her simple girl-child’s mask, the mask of her youth. Her spirit spoke to him of longing, of nostalgia. And of danger, though he didn’t flinch, for the threat was not aimed at him. Her eyes. They shone red. But wait, no, they were brown, like most, but Elu, looking at her with his maskmaker’s eyes saw them clearly as smoldering fire. He considered the spirits of the mask, and felt them calling to her. Hers called to them. They clearly were kindred. Peers.
And now he must decide.
He cleared his throat and addressed the assembled people.
“They are kindred. The mask is hers.”
The blacksmith jumped to his feet in a rage. The guards darted forward to restrain him. Elu looked up and saw a dangerous shadow pass over the chief judge’s eyes. Dilly shook his head. Dil stood stock-still, but stared straight at him with his eyes wide and his head slightly turned as if trying very hard to tell him something. Elu studied his mask—something he had not done earlier that day since Dil seemed aloof and rather uninteresting. But now the spirits of his mask chattered excitedly, and Dil’s gaze penetrated Elu with a new interest and zeal, and, he now understood, hope. Hope for what?
“The maskmaker has spoken,” said the chief judge, now at his feet. “My judgment is that the girl shall keep her mask. The blacksmith, in my estimation, has no claim on her now for she possesses a mask of power—what power that is none can say,” he turned and glared at Elu, “unless you can. Did you discern the purpose of the mask? Surely it must not be terribly valuable.”
It is priceless, thought Elu. Priceless and wildly beautiful. It should never be sold. It would be worthless or worse in the wrong hands—in anyone’s hands but the girl’s, and probably disastrous in the hands of anyone chosen by the chief judge, who most likely would sell it for a handsome price to some rich merchant craving more power.
“I could not tell, sir. The spirits are potent indeed and they have much to say, yet I cannot discern their purpose or their power, not in so short a time. But their intention was quite clear. They wish to be with the girl.”
The chief judge pursed his lips together behind his mask and glared at him. He raised his hand quickly to the crowd in dismissal, turned on his heel, and strode out the rear door of the chamber.
The girl arose from her chair, visibly more at ease than when she entered. She tenderly held the glittering mask close to her chest and turned to her father, now calmed a little and waving off the guards.
“Father. I understand your feelings. And all is forgiven. I—”
Before she could speak another word the man shifted his mask to the side and spat on the ground in front of her. Anger still binding up his mask he rushed out of the hall. The girl shook her head and began to walk out as well, before stopping and looking up at Elu.
“Thank you, master maskmaker. My name is Brea. You do well by me, and by …” she drifted off, and looking around her, she approached Elu and leaned in to whisper, “and by the wyverns, the wise
st among us, whose mask this is.”
No. It could not be. He told the truth, for this? What did she mean, whose mask this is?
“Are—are you telling me the wyverns made this mask? Or that it belongs to them? Or that … what is it, exactly, that you are telling me?”
Her voice rose barely above a whisper, and she eyed the people around them warily. “I had little understanding myself when I first received it, and a complete knowledge eludes me still for I have had the mask but less than a day and worn it less than an hour. But it comes from the wyverns—that much I know. How it came to me I know not. But it is mine as you plainly saw, and I am to wear it and accept my destiny, whatever it might be.”
“And this does not frighten you?”
“A little, yes. But why be frightened of your destiny?”
Elu had no answer. She straightened up, bowed slightly, and left, calling back to him as she exited the door, “If you ever need help, find me and I will do what I can.”
The crowd had mostly dispersed and Elu turned to leave as well but felt powerful hands grip his arms.
“What—”
Four large guards surrounded him, two holding him immobile, one stood behind him and removed his mask, and a fourth faced him, grimacing somewhat as Elu scowled at him, barefaced, his shiny scars marking his first encounter with the Terror. The guard lifted up a white mask to his face, one without eye holes or a mouth hole, but had crude painted versions of each on the front.
The prisoner’s mask. The guards strapped it cruelly to his head—double strapped and knotted securely in place with little regard for Elu’s cries of pain as the taut straps cut a little into his neck and pressed hard against his scars, which still smarted in places.
“What’s going on?” he said through gritted teeth, for speaking through the prisoner’s mask clamped to his head was difficult.
“A girl was found dead today. We have several witnesses claiming you were the last to be with her. The judge has ordered you held until he passes judgment.”
The judge. Elu underestimated the amount of time it would take the corrupt man to have his revenge. Or perhaps they had this all prepared ahead of time in case he did not cooperate. The guards jostled him down a flight of steps to a dank smelling chamber with little light, for it had only a few small slits in the stone walls looking out at the street above. They threw him into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it tight. Elu reached down frantically, feeling for his satchel, but it too was gone along with his maskmaker’s mask.
He sat on the floor, head in hands, wondering how he would escape from the situation, preferably with his masks but at the very least with his life. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the blank wood of the prisoner’s mask in front of him and felt the spirits within jeer and taunt him. He could immediately tell this mask had never been washed, never been purged of the unfortunate and pitiful spirits that had borne the mask in the past. They were all there, hundreds of them, laughing at him for his stupidity, his carelessness at having found his way to such an ignoble thing, this mask without eyes or tongue.
He struggled with the straps on the back of his head but they were tight, knotted beyond hope of untying without a knife.
They will kill me, he thought. I am a dead man. And in his sorrow, his thoughts turned to Thora. The anger he felt before for her now subsided to pity. She would be stuck with that mask now forever, corrupting her and twisting her. She would rise up and become a terrible dark queen, holding the land in thrall under her power. And he would not see her again, for he would be dead by morning. He was sure of it.
Chapter IX
Brea Indys
TIME SEEMED TO STAND STILL for Elu. Why had he done it? He could have cooperated. He could have done as the chief judge asked, and then escape in the night. He owed nothing to that girl. She was just a blacksmith’s daughter, after all.
A blacksmith’s daughter. Mistreated by her father. Abused by the town. He knew her story all too well. Of course he helped her. How could he not? How might things have been different had he somehow helped Thora instead of dragging her all over the countryside seeking after thrilling sights and other trivialities?
“Elu!”
“Dil?”
Elu could see nothing through the prisoner’s mask, but recognized the voice of Dilly’s son. He had half a mind to ignore the man, so involved was he with the evil his father and the chief judge had inflicted upon the people.
“Elu, I’m so sorry this has happened. I usually try to reign in the excesses of my father and his master, but it is difficult, you realize.”
“Difficult? Yes, I suppose your life is incredibly difficult. Trying to figure out which person to swindle, deciding which maskmaker to bribe or coerce into assisting with your schemes. What a cursed life you lead.”
Dil did not speak, and Elu thought he might leave. But the man stood there, motionless. Elu could not hear the redness of Dil’s cheeks.
“Yes, you are right, I am part of the evil here. But I do not know how to stop it. I am but one man. You see how it is here—if you stand up in opposition to the power, you get struck down. Elu, I must warn you, the chief judge is not lightly crossed. He intends to see you dead tomorrow for embarrassing him.”
When they met, Dil seemed to search deep into Elu’s mask, and later, at the judgment, seemed to look into his mask with hope. The spirits in Dil’s mask cried out then—with excitement and joyful expectation. Did he tell the truth? Has he been searching all these years for a way out? For help? Only one way to find out.
“Then I need to escape. Can you bring me my satchel?”
Dil shifted uncomfortably. “Your satchel? How will your satchel help a man in your position?”
Elu hesitated. He did not want to tell Dil of the precious mask of legend inside, nor did he especially want to use it for fear that Thora would instantly find him and unwittingly carry out the chief judge’s will.
“It won’t. But that blacksmith’s daughter, Brea, she can help me. I need my satchel because after you beg her to rescue me, she will come and I will want my satchel with me as I escape.”
“Brea? That girl? What in Varnor could she do to help you? You’re in the most heavily guarded prison in the land! There are no fewer than ten guards between you and your freedom. What will a girl do to them?”
Elu raised his voice and spoke with some authority. “I am a maskmaker, and as such I looked into her mask and saw the power within. When she puts that mask on, ten guards will be to her as ten mice are to us. It is a mask of power, and one does not trifle with masks of power—advice that your chief judge would be wise to have learned by now. And your father.”
The last words bit deep into Dil and he winced behind his mask.
“Very well. I will fetch your satchel and plead with Brea to come for you. Please know, Elu, I did not want this. I wish for things to change here, but I do not know how to begin. I do not know what to do. The chief judge is, as you have seen, an awful, wicked man. The people all live in dread fear of him for they know that if they are brought before his throne the judgments usually go in favor of those with the heaviest pockets. I know you cannot forgive me for my part in all this but I will do my best to send you away from here with my goodwill.”
Dil left, leaving Elu to his thoughts. And that was when the unease in his heart returned.
Not the regular fear that had struck him when he realized the chief judge meant to kill him the next morning. That fear was more real. Manageable.
This new fear unsettled him. Filled his heart with a dull terror that for all he tried to shove down, down into some dark corner of his mind, he could not avoid it.
Thora had found him. She was coming.
Or had she? Was he imagining things? He forced his eyes open and stared at his prisoner’s mask. Perhaps it was the malevolent, idle spirits within the mask that caused him to feel this way. They continued to jeer at him, assailing him with their insults and jealousy—for he was still a
live and they not.
He convinced himself that they were the cause of his unease, for he realized now that the feeling had been building within him ever since the guards had brutally tightened the mask onto his face. It felt like a prison—an effect of the mask he supposed was intentional, and quite brilliantly done for the wide leather straps holding the mask tightly to his face, stifling his very breath, felt like prison bars. The lack of sight through the mask seemed to him worse than the darkness of the prison, and the evil spirits within its dull wood now created in him more fear than Thora or any other force in the world had been able to stir within him yet.
It seemed that hours upon hours passed away, yet Dil did not return. The light from the falling midsummer’s sun slanted low through the narrow cracks in the wall above his head and the sounds of the street outside grew quieter. He began to wonder if Dil had decided against helping him. No one would ever know, of course. No one would ever be the wiser if Dil simply let justice proceed as it should.
As the time passed the prisoner’s mask’s spirits whispered to him, and he felt their dank fetid breath wash over his face, but the breath was not air but fear and panic. The unease within him intensified and he began to wonder if maybe he was right. Maybe Thora was near after all. He paced the small, cramped room of the prison, probing the uncaring stone walls with his fingers, looking for something, anything that would help him escape. A few rusty hooks in the wall, a chamber pot, straw scattered in the corner, and a very short length of frayed rope, probably the remains of a previous prisoner’s arm restraints.
Dil surely was not coming. Why had he even thought the man would help? His only interaction with him had been dull and unpleasant. He felt sure that the only reason Dil had talked to him at all earlier in the day was to give Dilly time to arrange affairs should Elu decide against assisting in the evil schemes of the chief judge. But that would all not matter now. Thora approached. He was sure of it. He was sure—
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 271
