Before The Mask (21 page)

He drew forth the rune stones. He would know what She willed. The runes would tell him.

In the days of his solitude, the stones had been as constant a companion as Nightbringer.
He felt their strong assurance in the pouch at his belt, and in the day, when he longed
for the darkness and the serenity it brought, he would retire into the depths of the cave.
There, in the protective shadows, he would clutch the stones like totems. But he had not
cast them, had not even looked at them.

But now it was different. Now, in the red moonlight, where their edges glimmered like
veins of gold, he called on the Amarach to bode and prophesy.

“Say me the truth, stones,” he whispered. “No matter the laughter of soldiers, the scorn
of the mages.” Closing

his eyes, he breathed a brief prayer to the Seven Dark Gods, to the Lady, and to the
spirit of the runes, and cast three stones before him.

“That which was,” he muttered. “That which is. That which is yet to be.” He opened his
eyes and gaped in astonishment.

Blank. Blank. Blank. The same rune in all three positions.

Verminaard rubbed his eyes and looked again. He had not imagined it. The stark nothingness
of the blank rune stared at him from past, present, and future.

“Blank,” he muttered. “The absence of dark and light.” But there was only one blank rune
in the set of stones! How could ...

Quickly he rummaged through the discarded runes. Blank ... blank ... blank. The smooth
face of each stone stared at him mockingly.

That night, in the rubble below the cavern, Verminaard danced beneath the full red moon,
his tattered black robes brilliant in a bloody light.

The effect of the drus would not wear off until the next morning, and so the young man had
set aside the runes and offered worship to the shapes of the dark gods in the stars
overhead. He held up the mace to the tilting constellations, and he called for the old
powers to course through the weapon and into his willing blood.

Let the covenant be renewed, he told himself, as it was in the cave of the Lady, when I
took this mace. Then tomorrow night I shall return to Nidus. Aglaca and I have business to
contract. For Lunitari is full, and he will be my general. Or I shall take the girl and
destroy them both.

Verminaard blinked drunkenly and watched the stars pass over.

Hiddukel the Scales tilted angrily overhead, a memory of the old injustices, of the
betrayals that had brought him to Nidus in infancy and his cold, neglected boyhood.
Chemosh of the Yellow Robes brought the dead from the plains and the mountains, and
Verminaard exulted at the battered ogres who trooped before his sight, at the knights,
clad still in their dented and bloodied armor, who stared at him with milky, vacant eyes.

He laughed as well at the Hood of Morgion, the great mask of disease and decay, for he
knew firsthand the deception of masks, and the eyes of his brother Abelaard were blind and
vacant as well.

He exulted in the terrible red condor, Sargonnas of the Fires, and he remembered the fires
in the forest and on the plains south of Nidus.

But finally the queen emerged in the black skythe Lady of the Dragons, She of the Many
Faces. He knelt and adored her, the black mace quivering in his hand, pulsing and burning.
And in her presence, Verminaard of Nidus rose and began to dance.

Or perhaps Nightbringer drew him to his feet and turned him in a quickening spiral, there
amid the black rubble and the burned country and the mouth of the grotto. He did not know
whether his thoughts or those of the weapon ruled his body and heart.

But in the swirling moonlight, there on the hills that someday men would call the Dragon's
Overlook, the Voice spoke again to him out of the heart of the mace.

Dance, my love, it urged him. Dance, my Lord Verminaard, ruler of armies ... my love.

Daeghrefn knew that they all were watchingtwenty sets of eyes in the blackness of the
firmament, all eternally fixed upon this castle, this tower, this circle of candle and
torch.

How foolish he had been not to believe in them!

For they sang in the stars and rustled in the stones of the tower. And none of them
forgave him, for Verminaard had told them terrible things.

Daeghrefn had coveredthe mirror in his chambers, draping the polished glass with black
cloth, as though the castle were in mourning. It was a precaution, he told himself. He had
set the mirror by the window years a" go, to

illumine the bare interiors of his bedroom with reflected moonlight, but his invention had
now turned dangerous. Now the gods could watch him in it, mark his reflection always in
the mirror as he passed by, and his presence anywhere in the deep interiors of the tower.

Daeghrefn shivered and looked over the pass at Eira Goch, west into the black face of the
Khalkists. Estwilde was miles away, on the other side of the rangeor so his men insisted.
But Daeghrefn knew otherwise. At night, when the black moon shone on the slopes of the
mountains, the entire country crept eastward, its boundaries swelling over Jelek, over the
forgotten ruins of Gods-

home. ...

The dry steppes of Estwilde were moving at night, and Laca was at the head of the
armies-pale- eyed Laca, traitor for these twenty years.

Laca was not content to steal sons. He would steal Abe-laard's inheritance as well.

Daeghrefn leaned against the tower walls, turning south now toward the fire-blackened
forest. Holding aloft a sputtering torch, he peered into the shadowy, moonlit wasteland.
There would be no aid from that direction, nor from beyond. What help could he expect from
a band of Nerakans he had fought for nine years? Their leadera cutthroat named Huginhad
vowed to “skewer the Stormcrow on a pike and carry him like a flapping standard through
his own gates.”

He had overheard that vow in a dream. So it had to be true. And Verminaard planned to join
with the bandits.

Daeghrefn covered his ears. The incessant whine from the mountainsshrill and maddening,
like a choir of gnatshad begun again. The gods were mocking him, he was sure. Soon Nidus
would be alone on the plains of Neraka, crushed between two armies and sapped from within
by an ungrateful boy.

There was no escape to the north, where Gargath lay,

sacred to the dwarves and gnomes. He would find no refuge among the worshipers of Reorx,
for none of the gods forgave him.

But there was always the east. The high peaks of Berkanth and Minith Luc, and beyond a high

green plain, no doubt untouched by the ogres' fire, where a man could lose himself for
years, could vanish until the gods themselves could not find him. He looked hopefully
toward the eastern foothills, where Solinari was on the rise in the autumn sky.

Someone was dancing on the rocky cliffs above the castle, framed by the silver light of
the moon. He held something aloftsomething glittering and black.

Daeghrefn leaned over the parapet, craning for a better look. For a moment, he thought it
was Kiri- Jolith himself, the ancient god of battles, or perhaps black Nuitari rising out
of the silver heart of his sister.

Then he saw that the figure held up a mace, and he knew who it was, dancing alone in the
eastern mountains. “Verminaard!” he spat. “May the Dark Seven devour you!”

Frightened, fascinated, Daeghrefn leaned out even farther, until the bailey seemed to spin
below him. He strained beyond the torchlight into the chilling dark, and he watched as the
shadow rose to cover the moon, to block out the light with its black, leathery wings....

Then he remembered the druidess's prophecy: This child will eclipse your own darkness.

And the moon was engulfed in Verminaard's shadow. Alone on the parapet, awash in the thin
light of torches and candles, the Lord of Nidus shrank against the stone walls, his hands
shaking. In the firelight, he cast no shadow, and it occurred to him that his shadow would
not return, that he had no substance left to summon it.

I am becoming transparent, he thought, a wild laugh rising to his lips. Transparent, like
madfall beetles in the

cavern depths. He held up his hands, examining them closely. They were blue and
cadaverous, blanching as he watched.

Daeghrefn staggered into his chambers, crying aloud as he jostled the mirror. He wheeled,
tore the cloth from the glass, and glared at his own reflection.

His hair was straw-pale, and his eyes were light blue the color of vacant skies.

“It is my pleasure to come at the bidding of the Lord of Nidus,” Judyth began formally,
and“ the haunted eyes pivoted toward her. ”And to offer him tonic and balm for his malady."

“Then Verminaard sent you? And you treat with him? For he is the Lord of Nidus. Or so they
are all saying.”

Judyth did not answer. Nervously she fingered the pendant at her throat.

Daeghrefn cleared his throat and rose painfully from his chair. He was hooded, and he
shied away from the light as he spoke. Judyth felt as if she were talking to a wraith, to
a walking dead man.

“You're with Verminaard often,” Daeghrefn said. “You were there at his birth.” “Sir?”
Judyth asked, immediately confused. But she answered cautiously, “I see him little of
late.” That much was true. Twice she had seen Verminaard from the window of Aglaca's
quarters as he

paced over the battlements in the moonlighta cloaked shadow gripping that black, infernal
mace. He kept his distance now, Aglaca saidfrom the castle garrison, from the soldiers,
from all his old companionsand Judyth had begun to wonder if the hew Lord of Nidus wasn't
as mad as the old one who stood before her, muttering of

fire and snow and conspiracy.

“Even so,” Daeghrefn replied oddly, as though he had read her thoughts. He turned toward
the fire and braced himself against the back of the chair, which creaked and teetered
beneath him. “What does he want, druidess?” “1... I don't understand, sir. And my name is
Judyth.” "It's a simple question, really. What does Verminaard

want?"

Judyth shifted uncomfortably on her stool. "I don't

know, sir."

“Are you with him?”

“I beg your pardon?” Daeghrefn's questions were vague and needling. Judyth felt suddenly
hot and itchy, as though she were dressed in wool under high summer

sunlight. “Are you part of the mutiny, damn it!”

He was much too loud. The voices in the hallway stopped abruptly, and Judyth imagined the
soldiers who had escorted her to Daeghrefn's chambers now crouched at the door outside,
listening as their commander further

unraveled.

“No, sir. I would not conspire against you.”

"So there is a conspiracy. I knew it! What have you

heard, then?"

I must leave his presence, Judyth thought. I must get word to the west, regardless of
soldiers and mages and dragons. Nidus is fast becoming a madhouse.

She started to stand, but Daeghrefn's menacing stare fixed her to her seat. He slipped
into the shadows, crouching behind a statue of great Zivilyn, a spreading vallen-wood
carved from veined marble.

“I have heard little, sir,” Judyth replied uneasily. “Bits and snatches, but no more than
that. Actually, I'm not certain. I have only just met him.”

"You met him on a snowy night twenty years ago, in a cave south of here. Do not lie to me.
And you said then,

druidess, you said then, that his darkness would eclipse my own. Look upon your curse,
woman!" He emerged from behind the marble tree, and he threw back his hood.

Judith quietly gazed upon the dark skin, though somewhat paler for his confinement in the
tower, the dark hair, and the wild, dark eyes.

“Don't you see what he's done?” Daeghrefn insisted. “What you've done? I should have
killed you both that night. Had it not been for Abelaard ...”

Daeghrefn snorted and turned back toward the fire. Quietly, after a long, uncomfortable
silence, Judyth rose.

“I shall be leaving now, sir. That is, if you have no more questions.”

“You know much more than you are saying,” the Lord of Nidus declared calmly, solemnly. “Do
you remember how cold it was?”

“ 'How cold', sir?” “The night of his birth. In the mountains south of here. Before the
fire.”

Judith glanced nervously toward the door. Daeghrefn was shifting from time to time, place
to place. For a brief, nightmarish moment, Judyth lost sight of him in the shadows. Then
suddenly he was standing before the little chapel altar, a candle in his hand. His eyes
gleamed brilliantly, like twin flames.

“Oh, I know who you are. This innocence and Lord Daeghrefn, sir serves you ill, druidess.
I thought you were long dead, but, no, Robert failed me. He was worthless, and it is good
that I left him on the plains. Though perhaps you fooled him as well. I know that your
kind can change shape, altering like the seasons or like clouds in the summer sky, though
I recognized you at once by the pendant around your neck.”

“I still do not understand, sir.” Judyth covered the purple stone at her throat. “The old
stories are right,” Daeghrefn pronounced, turning to face the altar. “The druids do steal
babies.” “Steal babies, sir?”

“They take the promised son, the second child whose birth you await with joy for seven
long months, and in its stead they leave ... a night-grown changeling.” He laughed
bitterly.

“I do not”

“So you have said!” Daeghrefn roared. Then softly, almost wonderingly, he continued. “I
saw him dancing last night in the eastern hills, where the little copse of evergreen ...
where, on the night of the fire ...”

He fell silent. Judyth cleared her throat and waited for words that did not come as a
minute passed, then another. Finally she backed from the room, leaving the Lord of Nidus
staring into the fire.

As he looked at the flickering flames, Daeghrefn remembered another fire, another burning.
Suddenly, as though the Abyss had opened to receive him, his thoughts were consumed again
with a vision of dark, spreading wings.

Two figures walked the walls of Castle Nidus that night.

On the southwest corner of the battlements, Aglaca kept a lonely vigil, watching the
walls, the towers, and the bailey for a sign of his old companion. He had slipped his
guards by the stables, but it was nothing new. A lazy pair, they would no doubt wait for
him to return, knowing he was going nowhere without Judyth, without all his belongings,
left in the room he had stayed in since he was twelve years old.

Resting for a moment against the stone crenelations, the Solamnic youth gazed toward Eira
Goch, veiled in a deep western darkness, and smiled as he remembered how he had pointed
out the pass to Verminaard from

their bedroom window ten years ago, on the night after the gebo-naud.

Verminaard had known the name of the place and its history, but he could not locate it in
the dark. Aglaca had given Verminaard the dagger then, and though the little weapon lay
polished and well kept in the room upstairs, the promise of their friendship had suffered
far worse over the years.

It seemed somehow fitting. Fitting and circular. Aglaca would have to find the pass for
Verminaard again another kind of pass, through another kind of darkness.

For the last three weeks, Verminaard had kept to himself. No one knew where he was
quartered, nor had any in the garrisonfrom aged Graaf down to Tangaard and young
Phillipspoken with the new Lord of Nidus. All of them, however, had glimpsed him at
twilight, walking these very battlements.

Pacing in the moonlight. Clutching the mace. The men were afraid to approach him.

Aglaca was not afraid, but he waited as well, as the dark form stalked the battlements.
For Aglaca did not relish new meetings with Verminaard, nor the prospects of being asked
again to become the new Marshal of Nidus, second-in-command of a bleak legion of bandits
and mercenaries.

No. His part of the story did not lie in war and conquest.

That evening, standing on the cold battlements of Nidus, Aglaca had at last understood
that the story he was in was not really his own. It was not an easy thing to admit, even
for a gentle and generous soul such as Aglaca, but after he had spoken with the old man in
the garden, it came to him quietly that his was only a small part in a great unfolding
tale. While he had spent his time in Nidus, hostage in a pact of lesser nobles, large,
ungovernable forces had wrestled and warred in the mountains,

over the entire continent of Ansalonthroughout all Krynn, for that matter. At stake in
their vast contest was history itself, for whichever side in the struggle emerged
victorious, the world Aglaca had known would all be changed in a moment.

He knew as well, and with a strange serenity and relief, that his role in the coming
history, one way

or another, would be over soon. Soon the songs that the old man had taught him would come
of age. They were dangerous and volatile words, a god's magic to distract the mage and
save his friend. After the magic was spent, Aglaca could never use it again. Then he would
walk a path even more dangerous and volatile as Verminaard made a choice of his own.

But Aglaca would try the spell and brave the danger to free Verminaard from his own
gebo-naud with Night-bringer and the goddess who gave the weapon life.

“So be it,” Aglaca whispered, and a warm, unseasonable wind rose from the western slopes.
“I am almost eager for it to begin.”

But where was the mage? And where was Verminaard?

A strange shadow over his shoulder caused the young man to turn toward the western tower.
There, atop the battlements, a cloaked figure stepped into the moonlight. He recognized
the strides at once the broad shoulders and the hair as fair as his own.

Aglaca crouched at once, hiding in the shadows of the crenelations.