FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But the mask’s power overwhelmed the poor handmaiden. It was full of anger and rage, but righteous anger, for Ria’s brethren had indeed wronged her. The handmaiden took it, and would have killed Ria had her own brother, another servant of Ria himself, not intervened. He convinced her to leave the house of Ria with him, and she went out into the world bringing terror wherever she went, for she convicted and punished people for their crimes.”

  “When Tarkund learned of this, he set himself the task of stopping the Terror, as the people began to call it, and he fashioned a mask that could match the Terror power for power. He called it the Guardian mask and he sought out the Terror and her brother, and he gave the Guardian mask to the latter. They were well matched. At first the Guardian permitted the Terror, his sister, to continue her work, albeit with more reserve and care. But Ria, angry with her handmaiden for her theft, sent a group of wizards to assail her and recover the mask. A terrible battle ensued, wounding the Terror and causing her great anger. None of the wizards survived, and the Terror returned to Ria’s house and slew her, along with half her kinsmen.”

  “The Terror began to roam once more, filled with passion and hate and consumed with the idea of justice. She tormented the land. The Guardian followed wherever she went and saved the people from the worst of it, but he eventually decided that the Terror had to be stopped. And he did so, at the cost of his own life, for they were equally matched in power, one having no advantage over the other.”

  The master let the words linger as he turned his attention back to the mask under construction. Elu considered the words, wondering if history could only help repeating itself. Must Thora die? Must he die? He unleashed her. She was his responsibility. Everything she did was his responsibility. How many now lay dead because of her? Because of him? He would stop her. If the only way to stop her was to kill her, then so be it. He could do it, that much he was sure of.

  But there must be another way.

  “So, my son. Do you wish to stay here awhile and learn with me? I can see from your mask that Goshorn taught you well—that the spirits bring the words of the chant to your lips. But I see something else as well. Adventure, perhaps? No matter. What do you say?”

  “I would be honored to learn from you, master.”

  “Not as apprentice, of course, for you have already assumed and fulfilled that role. But as companion, to learn together—for the ancients still teach me the craft after all these years.”

  “I understand. Again, you honor me,” said Elu.

  The next weeks brought needed respite to Elu. He learned at the side of the master of maskmaking by day, and explored the city by evening, often with his new friend, Zand the shapechanger.

  Elu knew he had found a kindred spirit, for the unknown called to Zand as it beckoned Elu. Zand’s mask, though not an adventurer’s mask, longed for exploration. Such is the nature of a shapechanger. To change an object’s shape means to explore new ones, and to change one’s own shape means one is willing to see the world with new eyes.

  Zand led him through the city, showing him the inns where he could get a free meal for telling a good story, the section of the city where young women tended to congregate in the evening hours, the outskirts of the city where travellers and adventurers from all over Terremar gathered to talk, or to trade, or sometimes fight. The fights happened in good fun and Elu especially enjoyed seeing masks of power duel each other, often flaring with fire or ice or raw force.

  “I’d like to see you duel one of those men,” said Elu one day as they watched two men jab at each other. “You would be a formidable opponent.”

  “I fear you are correct. I would.” Zand’s eyes gleamed with smugness.

  “Then?

  “But I fear there is no one here that could match the humblest of my skills.” His voice dripped with mock pride. Elu smiled, for in the few days he had come to know Zand he found the man to be one of the more generous and humblest people he had met, in spite of his blustery talk.

  “What about those men there? One of them has a mask of power—a wizard, I believe.”

  “Oh, I suppose. But this might be over quick—don’t pick your nose or you may miss it.”

  Zand set his satchel down and motioned to the man in the wizard mask and held up his palms, indicating his invitation to fight. The man nodded, and when the previous two pugilists had their fill of hard knocks—one of them broke the other’s mask—Zand and the wizard stepped into the street to face each other.

  They nodded slightly to one another to show respect, and when Elu blinked he saw that Zand had transformed into a hundir lizard and darted forward, snapping at the other man with his powerful, lightning fast jaws.

  The wizard appeared to be a conjurer of force, according to the dazzling sapphire adorning his mask and the explosions of earth that erupted all around the pair. Zand the hundir latched onto the man’s leg, and he yelled—not in pain, but annoyance, for they dueled not to kill, but for sport. The wizard kicked at it, and motioned with his hand, and Zand flew backward, receiving a flying clod of earth in his open jaws, flung there from a small pit in the ground, scooped up by the wizard’s power. Elu laughed and clapped, as did the other men watching from both sides of the narrow street.

  The two went back and forth, Zand occasionally transforming into a new shape, the wizard constantly having to defend against the new attack with his own magic of force, and in the enjoyment Elu saw something out of the corner of his eye. Just by chance.

  The wizard’s companion had crept around the group of men watching the duel, and with impressive stealth had taken Zand’s satchel where he had dropped it just a few paces from Elu. He kept his eyes on the man as he made his way back to where the wizard had left him, making sure he removed nothing from it.

  When the duel concluded with the wizard holding a wyvern-like beast to the ground with his force magic, Zand returned to Elu, panting and grumbling about poor sportsmanship. Elu pointed out the wizard’s companion.

  “I think I know why he was so willing to fight you. His companion there stole your satchel.”

  “Really? I wonder if he likes to duel too,” he said, rubbing a purple bruise on his arm. He approached the pair, Elu in tow, and as he drew near he raised his palm in greeting.

  “Well matched, friend! You fight well and I daresay I would rue any real confrontation with you.”

  The wizard met Zand’s palm with his own, somewhat warily. “You as well. You must have been holding back.”

  “I assure you I wasn’t.” He turned to the man’s friend. “And you sir? What did you think? Did you know your companion could fight so well?”

  The man looked nervous—Elu could see it in his mask, for the spirits writhed and twisted about, hiding themselves. “Yes, he is very skilled. And you, too, have my respect.”

  Zand took a step toward him. “I have your respect, and I believe you have something of mine.” He smiled.

  At first the man did not understand and nodded nervously. But the realization dawned on him that he had been discovered, and he sheepishly opened his own satchel to reveal Zand’s within.

  The wizard erupted. “Please believe me, brother, I had no idea my friend would do something like this. You must believe me….” The wizard turned to his companion. “Return it to him immediately.”

  The man passed the satchel back to Zand, who accepted it with a slight bow.

  “Thank you. Good day to you.”

  “Wait,” said Elu, “these men belong in the prefect’s dungeon. Had no idea, did he? Everyone knows the best place for a thief is either the prison or the grave. We need to alert the prefect’s guards, Zand.”

  The man stammered. “Please, you don’t understand. I meant no harm. I am a simple potter, and need extra money for my daughter. She is ill, and well, I think—”

  “Zand. Are we to believe this? I can read his mask as I can read a child’s. The spirits within writhe with lies and stories. I’d wager he has no daughter.”

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nbsp; “Peace, brother. It is not my place to judge his tales as lies or truth. There is no harm done here. I have my satchel, and he has his freedom to continue to provide for his sick daughter. In fact,” he reached in his satchel and pulled out a coin, flipping it over to the potter, “take this. I hope this helps with your daughter, and all your burdens.”

  Zand turned to leave, pulling a shocked Elu along with him, and leaving an equally shocked looking wizard and a stunned, gaping potter.

  Elu protested. “What are you doing? They will find some other unsuspecting traveller tomorrow and relieve him of some well-earned coins before he is the wiser. Why don’t we stop them? The guards will believe us—I am a friend to the master maskmaker and you are a man of power yourself….”

  “And what would that accomplish? I told you, I don’t know if the man tells the truth or not. And if he doesn’t, maybe this grace is what will convince him to live honorably. Whereas if he goes and languishes in a prison what good will come of it? At least my way has some hope of redeeming him, however small. Let it go, Elu. I have money to spare. Come. Let us go to the inn.”

  Zand seemed to grow in stature in Elu’s eyes in the days following, so impressed was he with the grace that came naturally to his friend. He thought back to Derry his first friend, and his wife, Londu. He missed Ri Illiath and longed to return. Oh, to be needed in a place again, with people thanking him for such an unremarkable task as making a child’s mask. He decided he would return if he survived dealing with Thora, and he would settle down in that small town. And maybe he would even find Karna and make for him a dignified mask, one that suited his nature and would not have him begging on the street.

  Elu grew to treasure not just his time with Zand but also his sessions with the master maskmaker, who had taken a liking to his new young friend. The ancient man quivered in the wind as Elu escorted him to an inn or to the healer who he visited often, but once at his workbench he resumed his work as with the strength and vigor of a man half his age, which would still make him a middle-aged man.

  “Elu, my son, you have never made a mask of power, correct?”

  Elu shrugged. “No master. The need has not arisen, and my mask has not seen fit to teach me how.”

  “Surely your mask will teach you much art and the necessary words for the chant, but what you should know is that you must be the mask. That is why it takes so long. If it is a healer’s mask you make, you must be the healer before you can understand the mask. You must summon the healing spirits that will inhabit the mask and you must commune with them, seeking their wisdom, begging their opinions on how the mask should be made, what adornments it should have. And so it is not just your personal taste, it is the tastes of the resident spirits within, whose combined knowledge and wisdom and memory will transfer to the bearer of the mask. They are the very ancestors that came before, and their preferences will be exacting. One stray cut in the leather here or too little shaving the wood there, and it will offend them. Often have I started a mask of power, only to toss the whole thing out after a few weeks and start over. With time, I have learned to work slower, only making a cut or a marking when I know it is right, that the spirits approve. Each move on my part requires deep meditation, often over several days, and much chanting.”

  “Yes, master.” Elu worked next to the older man, helping him with a set of new soldier masks the prefect’s steward had requested. He made them as the master described, but his spirit conspired with those of his mask and he added to each an extra touch—a bit of sand here, an extra rune there, making each unique and invested with some hidden power, mild and subtle though they were. The old man watched Elu out of the corner of his eye and grumbled occasionally, but often shook his head in approval and once opened his eyes wide in amazement at one of his innovations.

  “Master?”

  “Yes, Elu.”

  “How do you make a mask of legend?”

  “I tell you what I tell all who ask that of me. A mask of legend has only two ingredients. One mask of power, and time.” He shook with laughter, obviously pleased with his humor.

  Elu managed a small chuckle, finding the master’s laugh more humorous than the joke itself.

  “But I will tell you more than I tell a layman. The method for making a mask of legend is nearly identical to that of a mask of power. The difference lies in the nature of the sacrifice involved. To make a mask of power is a sacrifice indeed, for the maskmaker spends many weeks and months to build it. But the masks of legend require more. They require life itself. It is said by the ancients that all the good and wholesome masks of legend were filled by life freely given, either of the maskmaker himself who grew old and willingly laid down his life as a final act of ultimate creation, or by a voluntary sacrifice of another elderly or stricken associate of the maker. The evil masks on the other hand were filled by life stolen from others. Ria the Elder was notorious for taking the lives of unfaithful servants in her construction of the masks of legend we ascribe to her. The Terror, or the Justice mask, was filled in this way—a former servant had stolen some valuables from Ria and plotted to take her life. Ria responded by executing him, and filled her new Justice mask with the tormented life-force.”

  “That’s what makes them so much more powerful than just a mask of power, then,” said Elu.

  “Yes. And it’s what makes them so difficult to destroy. For as the creation of a mask requires the giving of a life, so also does the destruction of the mask. That is why the Terror’s brother, the Guardian, died. His final act was to take his own life to destroy her power. And it worked. In his sacrifice, the mask was ripped from her face and she flailed about, momentarily befuddled. A servant of Tarkund lying in wait to spy on events to report to his master took advantage of her confusion and slew her with a sword.”

  Elu waited for more but the old man had finished speaking, and concentrated on the mask before him. Images of his own death haunted his thoughts—he pictured himself writhing in pain at Thora’s feet, his mask scorching his face, and with his last mortal strength reaching up to her mask to channel his sacrificed life into its substance to destroy it. The grim reality of it settled on him.

  Zand and Elu’s friendship grew, and as the autumn waned and Elu saw no sign of Thora he began to feel less apprehensive and fearful that she would appear suddenly, albeit still well aware that with every day that passed, others felt and suffered from the terror that she brought.

  Elu began to question Zand about his mask, asking him about the powers it gave him and its limitations.

  “Here, take this,” said Zand, rummaging through his satchel and producing a less elaborate version of his own mask. “It was mine when I apprenticed to the shapechanger where I grew up. I keep it now for the day when I have my own apprentice. Try it.”

  Elu eyed it warily, aware of the evil that followed presumptuous use of masks. But the spirits within saluted him, recognizing him as a maskmaker eager to expand his knowledge. They would permit his curiosity.

  He fingered it delicately, exploring its many ridges and angles. He examined the runes etched inside the mask on the forehead—the rune of power, the rune of change, and the rune of exploration and discovery—that must be why he thought Zand an adventurer when he first saw his mask.

  Elu turned his head from Zand and quickly exchanged masks, slipping the apprentice shapechanger’s mask over his face. He felt the spirits directly know, mingling together with his.

  They were wild.

  And powerful.

  They swirled within his head, or within his heart—he couldn’t tell, and whispered excitedly to him, and as his maskmaker’s mask had told him of new materials and new masks, this one told him of new shapes. Looking around at the rocks and grass where they lay outside the city, Elu saw the world with new eyes—with eyes that saw shapes and lines and circles where before he had only seen wood and leaves and stones. That made sense to him—as the maskmaker, he was primarily interested in procuring materials for his next mask and theref
ore saw the world through a maskmaker’s eyes. With the shapechanger’s eyes, objects that before only spoke to him of utility, now cried out for him to copy them. He felt the urge to try to be them.

  “Do you feel it?” asked Zand, “how they beckon to you, inviting you to try their shape? To alter theirs?”

  “You can change the shape of other things? Not just yourself?”

  “Of course. Watch,” he said, pointing to a large stone several paces away. Elu watched as the stone expanded out to the size of a man, and changed color until it resembled an exact copy of Elu himself. Elu approached it, walking all around his double, touching and prodding it in places. It certainly felt real. The bones felt hard and the soft parts of his body squished like actual flesh.

  “Can you make it move? Talk?”

  “Some. A stone’s substance is not well suited for fluid movement or speech. But I could do it much more easily with a large animal. Even a tree would be better than a rock.” Zand closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. The stone Elu took a few haltering steps, tottered precariously, and fell with a crash back to the ground, quickly changing back into its previous, rigid state.

  “You try it. You’re a maskmaker. You can see the spirits within the stone. With the mask’s power, reach out to them. Suggest a new shape. Don’t command it—stones especially don’t like that—they are very stubborn, appropriately enough. Entice them with the shape. Convince them that they might like it better. At least for now—they can always change back if they want. Reach out with the power of the mask and reshape them when they give their consent.”

  “Reshape them? How?”

  “How? I don’t know, you just do it,” said Zand, shrugging. “Try it.”

  Elu stared down at the stone, searching its depths for the spirits within. He saw them, but without the eyes of a maskmaker they didn’t tell him what he usually heard from a stone. With his new eyes he only felt them say, we like being a stone.