FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “What will you do now? What was that which attacked you?”

  He sighed heavily. “It is the Terror. A mask of legend that has overwhelmed my friend, and now goes about bringing fear and death wherever she goes.”

  “And your mask? Can it not stop her? You appeared as a guardian of light when you bore it—but you took it off.”

  “I do not know if I can stop her. I am ill-fitted to that mask—it will not have me, and I know enough mask lore to fear the evils that would come to pass if I tried to bend it to my will.” He paused. “And you? What will you do? Do you return to your father?”

  The wyvern grunted. “No. He tried to take from me the one thing that was mine. This mask is my identity. It is me. I never knew who I was until I placed this on my face, and in doing so I was unmasked to myself—laid bare—and I understood finally who I was. I can never go back to him. Not unless he changes. Not unless he admits his error.”

  “Then you may wait until you meet in that other world, for men change slowly if at all, and when they do it is usually not by choice.”

  “So be it. And you, Elu, will you change?” She turned her scaly head to regard him. He winced looking into that large, unmasked face, until he remembered that the wyvern’s face itself was a mask, shielding him from the hidden glory underneath.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You say you seek adventure, but escaping from consequences often bears a striking resemblance to adventure. Tell, me, are you seeking, or are you running?”

  Elu opened his mouth, and shut it, unsure of what to say. His father had said something similar. Wyverns were ancient, wise beings, weren’t they? Even if they were murderous beasts. But this was no wyvern. This was a girl. Another blacksmith’s daughter.

  “I seek my fortune,” he said, noncommittally.

  “Very well, Elu, but as for me I will seek out my kin. They call to me. Somehow, they sent me this mask, and I must find them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I do not know. I only know what the legends say, that they came suddenly out of the north and east over the sea and returned there when driven out by Coron Indibar, but beyond that the tales are silent. People catch sight of a stray wyvern here and there over the long years but only from a distance, and fleetingly. So I will fly across the sea, and perhaps I may find them. If not, I will look elsewhere.”

  She gathered her wings and sprung off the ground, wheeling higher into the night until she disappeared into the blackness, and even after he lost sight of her the sound of her wings flapping against the wind punctuated the stillness of the air.

  Elu found an inn, paid its keeper the last coin he had taken from his master, and slept that night and all the next day.

  For many days he rested and ventured tentatively out into the city. Hartree, the seat of power of the high king of the land of Varnor was not so large a city as Glendon. It was barely larger than Ri Illiath, and yet it spoke to him of antiquity and history. No building seemed much younger than several hundred years old, and the streets sunk deep, suggesting that weather and the steady wearing of feet and hooves had tamped the dirt and gravel down steadily over time.

  The common masks of trade shouted their wares in the street, and the usual professions had their shops and tents: blacksmiths, bakers, wheelwrights, tanners, potters, but what caught Elu’s eye was the unusual abundance of masks of power. More than one wizard passed him in the street, witches and healers looked to be not in short supply, and many masks made their presence known simply by the aura of power he discerned about them while wearing his own maskmaker’s mask. He did not recognize them all, but felt their power. One man, whose mask seemed to be made of pure stained glass and leather, stood guard in front of a particularly imposing building. He couldn’t be sure but Elu felt animal spirits in his mask, mixed with those of its previous bearers and the potent spirits of the glass, fiery and implacable.

  He wondered at the bounty of masks of power this city seemed to possess, thinking that perhaps there was a school in Hartree to train those who the masters saw fit to receive such a mask. There was no shortage of grand, ancient buildings that Elu imagined such a school might reside in.

  Seeing a man come into the inn once day, a remarkable glass and steel mask on his young but scarred face, he decided to ask.

  “Greetings, sir. May I ask you of your mask?”

  “You may, but as you are a maskmaker I fear that you may be able to tell me more of it than I can tell you,” he said. His countenance was warm and his manner engaging, reminding Elu of Derry.

  Elu sat down next to him at the table, in awe of the array of food spread out before him. He clearly not only owned a mask of power, but also looked to be quite wealthy.

  “It is only that I have not seen that mask before. It is obviously a choice mask, of great power, and its spirits speak to me of curiosity and adventure, but that is no adventurer’s mask.”

  “It is the shapechanger’s mask,” he said, munching on a mouthful of bread.

  “I have never heard of that. Is it common?” And realizing how foolish he sounded, added, “I mean, for a mask of power, that is?”

  “Not so much. I’ve only ever met five or six others in all the land with the like, and that was right here in Hartree. A few of them have left to seek their fortune, but I stay here with a few others.”

  “I had wondered about that. Is there a school of some sort here? I mean, for those with masks such as yours? I have seen so many like you.”

  “School? No. There is no school to qualify you to wear a mask. You should know that, maskmaker.”

  Elu blushed a little, feeling quite grateful to his mask for its concealment. “Yes, I know that. But then, why are there so many masks of power in this city? It is not particularly large.”

  The shapechanger turned to regard him. “You’re new to Hartree, aren’t you?”

  “What gave it away?”

  “Hartree is the city of the prefect. All the kings of Varnor rule under him. Sometimes they call him the high king, but he prefers the prefect title. Where are you from, friend?”

  “The town of Gheb, south of the mountains.”

  “I have heard of it. I am from Karzad in the north. Do you know it?”

  “No. But I have heard that it is quite cold in the north.”

  “Yes. Karzad is cold for much of the year, but summer is pleasant.” He returned his attention to his meal. “Is Gheb terribly hot?”

  “Only on some days. Snow is rare, and it rains much,” said Elu.

  “Ah, very well, I shall have to visit it someday—I tire of the cold of the north. I hope to seek my own fortune to the south when I have finished my study here.”

  “But, you said there was no school.”

  “And I did not lie. There is no school. But there are the guilds. Hartree is not only the home to the prefect, but to the masters of many trades, including yours if I remember correctly. The master shapechanger is a counselor to the prefect and advises him in many matters. The rest of us come here to learn from him for he is wise, and knows much of the lore of shapes and essence.”

  “How long do you stay?”

  “I came two years ago, and I don’t plan to stay for much longer … maybe a year. There is still much he could teach me, but I grow weary of the city. My father is a trader in Karzad and he sent me here to learn my trade, giving me not a small number of coins hoping that I would stay here for many years and become the master shapechanger’s apprentice, but I have no wish for that sort of life—answering to a master everyday, dressing properly for life at court. I want to see the world. There are so many exciting things to discover, who knows what wonders one might find?”

  “Indeed,” said Elu.

  “You know of what I speak, then. And what of you? Why do you come to Hartree? Especially knowing nothing about it?”

  “I am a maskmaker, but an adventurer as well—both masks suit me. I served the town of Ri Illiath by my craft but that proved to be …
short-lived. I came north to find another place to establish my trade and sell my masks.”

  “And not to seek adventure? Why then do you wear the adventurer’s mask?”

  The question made Elu wistful. He thought of his wanderings as a child, of his travels in the world since—how exciting it would have seemed had he not been running from a dread evil. “Adventure never becomes what it seems when you set out.”

  “So it may be, maskmaker. But is the discovery at the end still not worth the journey?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The man finished his meal and stood. He extended his open palm and said, “Zand. My name, that is. And yours?”

  “Elu,” he said, placing his palm against Zand’s.

  “Let us meet again soon. If you wish, of course,” Zand said as he left the inn.

  Elu nodded his approval. “Yes, I should like that.”

  The door closed behind Zand and Elu decided he would try to find the master maskmaker, of whom his own master had spoken of before, but he never explained his position as the master of the guild of maskmakers. He did not even know there was a maskmaking guild.

  He looked for the palace and found it soon enough, an ancient, awe-inspiring building. It looked as if it had once been a fortress made for defense, but now after the many recent years of peace it seemed less functional and more beautiful, with gardens and flowers springing up everywhere. He recognized the guard out front as the man with the stained glass and leather mask of power, the vague sense of animal spirits within growling at him as Elu passed.

  A courtier led him to the master’s workshop where the man spent most of his time, still constructing masks even at his advanced age. His hands worked deftly and confidently, full of power and craft. And not just power but art as well, for he made masks both beautiful and elegant. He waited, standing near the man as he worked, patient to let him finish his task—well aware that when the spirits of the materials grant you inspiration you do not turn aside but stay at it until it is finished.

  He spoke. A high but guttural voice, creaking with age. “And you? Who are you?”

  “I am Elu, sir. I was apprentice to Goshorn, maskmaker of Gheb.”

  “And how is old Goshorn? I haven’t seen him in ages. He was one of my first apprentices, when I was just older than you.”

  “He is dead.”

  The master continued working, but in silence.

  “That is unfortunate. He was very skilled. Arrogant and cavalier in his youth.” He grunted. “But, who isn’t?”

  “He spoke very highly of you before he died. Said there was none greater.”

  He shrugged, as if it were common knowledge. “That is true. Of maskmakers there are none greater for I hold the mask that makes it so. Someday there may be one who is greater than I, but not until he holds this mask, and as long as my fingers can still move, I’m not giving it up!” he cackled, amused at himself.

  Elu watched the man work. His fingers, ancient and skeletal, but nevertheless deft and firm, confidently wove strips of leather into the wood frame. A child’s mask—a girl, from the spirits he sensed inside the frame. A small pile of glittering sand rested in a small pile amongst all the other ingredients of maskmaking on the table in front of him, including many rare and precious stones. Did the man have an army of apprentices out right now seeking the finest materials for their master’s masks? Or did he have the favor of the prefect, and access to the high king’s wealth to aid in his craft? Elu supposed that if he were here at the behest of the prefect, the maskmaker would have no shortage of fine materials.

  “You say you knew my master when he was young?”

  The master nodded, continuing his work, “Yes. He grew up in this very city, and I had my eye on him when he was a lad. He might have become the master of this mask had I not lived so long. But, alas, the spirits did not will it so, and here I am clinging to life.” He grimly smiled, glancing at Elu. “The spirits will all, you know. Nothing comes to pass without their consent.”

  “They make everything happen?”

  “They don’t make it. They consent to it, giving their blessing to what is meant to be. And if something is not meant to be, they curse it and rail against it. Which is why we never wear a mask not suited to us or make a mask ill conceived. That was almost the downfall of your own master.”

  “He mentioned his first mask of power that he made. Do you speak of that?”

  The master nodded, a frown on his face.

  “He left here at the height of his power, the peak of his craft. A prince of Varnor summoned him and offered to be his patron and proud Goshorn accepted it, not caring that the prince had dubious morals. Of all the princes of Varnor he was known as the most unscrupulous, the most ambitious. Which is why I suppose Goshorn was attracted to him—he wanted fame and distinction. He wanted to be the greatest maskmaker in this generation and saw the prince as his vehicle.” The master began coughing, holding his chest as the fit passed. “Age, my son. I don’t recommend it.”

  “So Goshorn knew of his patron’s evil nature? Did he know the prince would demand a mask of power?”

  The master grew silent. His eyes met Elu’s, each mans’ shrouded partially by their maskmaker’s masks.

  “Demand? The prince demanded nothing. The mask was Goshorn’s idea. He told the prince that he could make him a mask of great power that would elevate his standing among all the princes, and what prince wouldn’t jump at an offer like that? And so Halas, the prince, expended great wealth on materials for that mask, sending servants to the far reaches of Terremar for priceless wood and jewels. Goshorn requested a diamond, and Halas obliged, spending perhaps a quarter of his wealth on it. Servants brought back banda wood from the far reaches of the south where the heat of the sun makes the wood hard and the spirits potent.

  “Goshorn labored for a year, making every detail just right, carving the wood meticulously, spending weeks on each rune he inscribed, chanting until his mouth dried, and then chanting more. But he knew the mask would be ill suited for his master—any mask of power would be, especially one so opposed to the nature of the prince himself.”

  “What was the mask?”

  “A mask of persuasion. Charm. It was a diplomat’s mask, but much more. Properly worn, the mask had the potential to do great good—it should have been destined for the chief ambassador of the prefect, such that he could bring peace and respite from our enemies. The mask could persuade any from their intended purpose and in this the mask became great and terrible in the hands of Halas.

  “He demanded it, and at the last moment Goshorn repented of his folly, and foresaw the horror that Halas would unleash if he wielded it. And so he altered it before placing it on Halas’s face. He made it vulnerable, though unbeknownst to the prince.”

  “How did he make it vulnerable? To what?”

  “To truth. The mask would have its power to charm and persuade, but if confronted with the truth plainly spoken the mask would be powerless. But still the mask did great evil in the land for it was poorly matched and its spirits railed against Halas. They corrupted each other.”

  “And this was the cause of Varnor’s war? The war amongst itself?”

  “Indeed. Halas charmed half the other princes to be his vassals, promising them great wealth and glory. He challenged the prefect for his seat and brought his armies to bear on Hartree. The siege lasted a year and was broken only by the combined might of all the masks of power that the prefect could summon here. That is why the guilds are all located here, you know—as a relic of that war. But Halas was still not stopped. That came later, with a mask of power that I made.”

  “You stopped Halas?”

  The master scowled. “No. I was but the craftsman who made the tool that stopped Halas. It was a child’s mask—after all that—a simple child’s mask that rendered the prince’s mask impotent. It was not worn by a child, of course, I took a child’s mask and altered it, made it into a mask of power. The mask of Truth. It looked like a child’
s mask, of course, and that was part of its power. The man who wore that mask would not draw the suspicion from Halas that a majestic mask of power would have. It was just a child’s mask after all, and a man who wears a child’s mask humbles himself below all.”

  “The man chosen for the task approached the Halas, who paid him little notice. The man spoke to Halas, telling him, ‘I see you.’ ‘What do you think you see?’ Halas replied. ‘I see your spirit. It is full of hate and fear. You are afraid that all will see you and think you incompetent. You fear being thought a fool for that is what you think you are. You consider yourself a fool and yet seek to elevate yourself above all men. And the more you do so, the more miserable you become. You cannot hide that from me.’ And Halas summoned his guards to slay the man but the man’s truth temporarily lifted the spell, and the guards simply stood there, confused about what to do. The man lunged at Halas and slew him. A dagger through the heart,” he said, jabbing at his own chest with a gnarled finger.

  Elu sat down on the other chair in the small room. “A child’s mask slew Halas? What a thing this is!”

  “It was a mask of power, and one I still hold here for the day that the need arises again.”

  Elu considered this, and thought of Thora. The Terror. Would the truth somehow disarm her? Could it be possible?

  “Master, do you know of the Terror?”

  The old man looked pained. “Yes. The mask of legend, made by Ria the Elder in imitation of the great masks of Tarkund, her brother. Why do you ask?”

  Elu shifted in the chair uncomfortably. “Oh, my old master mentioned it once, briefly. You reminded me of it as you spoke of Halas’s mask.”

  The man set the child’s mask down and thought. “The tales bear some similarities, yes. Ria the Elder made her masks in jealousy, seeing the works of art Tarkund had made. She filled one with her rage and anger, for at that time her brethren had banished her from the land, and she made the Justice mask in order to right the wrongs and injustices she felt at their hands. That was its name—the Justice mask. No one called it the Terror until one of Ria’s handmaidens stole it. Ria was a cold hearted woman who ruled her house without mercy or kindness, and her servant rebelled, stealing the mask for herself and aiming to dethrone her mistress from her own household.”