Shadows (14 page)

“Thank you,” she said again, and ventured out onto the stone paths, leaving him behind. She breathed deep of the fresh air, and glanced up at the stars beginning to prick the darkening sky. Had it only been two nights since she and Keltan and Chell had crawled through the walkway into the city? Less than forty-eight hours since she had spoken to her father?

Where is Keltan?
she wondered.
Did he escape? What will he and Edrik do?

What did Chell tell the Autarch?

She thought again of her father. He would not know she was locked up in the palace, not unless someone told him . . .

And then she felt a chill of fear.

He promised to visit the Palace Library, promised to find out what he can about this strange Gift of mine,
she thought.
If he is discovered doing so, and they put two and two together . . . they'll realize he knows I escaped the camp, maybe even realize I went to see him when I sneaked into the city. And if they know that . . .

Mayson
, she thought.
Mayson could get word to him, tell him I'm in the Palace. Stop him from doing anything foolish.

Or spur him to do something even more foolish?

No!
She shook her head. She couldn't ask Mayson to do anything of the sort. He was a Watcher. Maybe not as bad as some of them—at least not yet—but he still wore the black Mask, still answered to Stanik and the Autarch. He would likely report her request—he would have to. And that might bring the very suspicion on her father she was trying to avoid.

She shuddered, and tears sprang to her eyes again. How had everything fallen apart so fast?

And Chell. The thought of him was another cold wind blowing through her soul. What was he doing here? What was he up to?

She had reached the central fountain, the plashing of its water masking all other sounds from the Palace. A stone bench encircled it, and she sat down on it and buried her face in her hands.
I shouldn't cry beneath an iron Mask
, she thought.
It might rust.

But she cried all the same.

And then she heard, or thought she heard, someone whisper her name. She raised her head and looked to her right. She could see Mayson, still leaning against the pillar. He was not watching her; very
carefully
not watching her, it seemed to her.

“Mara,” came the whisper again, and Mara turned her head left to see a shadowy figure on the bench.

“Who's there?” she whispered back. “How do you know my name?”

“It's Chell,” came the reply.

Chell?
Mara stiffened. “What do you want?”

Chell answered her question with one of his own. “What are you doing here?”

Two could play that game. “What are
you
doing here?” she countered.

“My duty,” he said. “To gather information for my King.”

“And betray the ones who rescued you from the sea?” Mara hissed back.

“I have betrayed no one,” Chell said. He lowered his voice even more, so that even sitting so close to him she could barely hear it above the sound of the fountain; no one else could possibly have heard a thing. “I told them I landed well south of where I actually landed, and made my way inland alone. I have presented myself as an ambassador from the court of Korellia, seeking to restore the trade that once existed between our realms. And so I have had the opportunity to see exactly how your land is ruled, and by whom.”

“And how goes your trade mission?” Mara said bitterly. “Will gold from Korellia soon be flowing into the Autarch's coffers and strengthening his hold over Aygrima?”

“It goes poorly,” Chell said flatly. “I met the Autarch, yes; but I was not treated as an ambassador: the Watchers took me bound before him as though I were a common criminal.” The anger in his voice took Mara aback. “The Autarch, it seems, has no interest in trading magic, and the Gifted who can use it, for anything we have to offer: not gold, not weapons, not food, not even ships. He says Aygrima has all the gold it needs. He says with magic at its beck and call, Aygrima needs no weapons. He says Aygrima has ample food for all. And he says Aygrima has no need of ships, because no one from Aygrima will ever be permitted to sail away from its shores.

“He also warns me that if Korellia thinks to sail against Aygrima in force, that he will unleash such powerful storms against our fleets that not a single ship will return to tell the tale.” He shook his head. “He is a tyrant, and these Masks that everyone wears . . . they're an abomination. The whole Autarchy is a prison. Everything Catilla and Edrik told me is true.”

“Why are you free to wander the Garden Courtyard, if he has treated you so badly?” Mara said. She heard the bitter tone of suspicion in her own voice, and didn't care. “How do I know you have not traded your knowledge of the Secret City for your freedom?”

“I am free to wander the Garden Courtyard,” Chell said, “because I am seen as no one of importance: not even enough of a threat to keep under close guard. I am confined to the Palace, of course—they cannot have an unMasked man seen in the streets. At some unspecified time in the future they will take me to the coast and provide me with a small vessel in which I can sail north to find my own ships. I am to convey the Autarch's warning to my own King. And no one from my land is ever to sully the shores of Aygrima again.”

“Then your mission has failed,” Mara said.
As has mine.
“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Accept it,” he said. “And sail north . . . but not to my ships. I will return to the Secret City, and offer assistance from the Kingdom of Korellia to the unMasked Army for their campaign to overthrow the Autarch. The question . . . is how I can take you with me.”

Mara dared not look at him; Mayson might not be watching, but there were others in the Garden Courtyard, and here in the heart of the Palace, with all its interlocking webs of intrigue, it clearly would not do to assume no one else would take an interest in any conversation between Mara and the stranger from another land. But even though she couldn't see Chell, he had clearly seen her. “What is that on your face?”

“It is an iron Mask,” Mara said. “It prevents me from using magic.”

“Using . . .” Chell's eyes widened. “You're Gifted?”

“Yes.”

“But you were captured all the same?”

“I had no magic to draw on when the Watchers found us.”
No magic I dared use, at any rate
, Mara thought, wishing now that she had risked it.

“But you were found without a Mask. Why didn't they execute you on the spot?”

Mara hesitated. The reasons for not telling Chell anything about her Gift seemed no longer operative. He could not tell the Autarch anything the Autarch did not already know about her. “I have . . . a special form of the Gift,” she said at last. “A particularly powerful form of it. I can see, and use, all kinds of magic. They do not want to discard someone with such a rare Gift. And so . . . they are training me.” She could not stop the bitterness flooding into her voice. “And holding my parents hostage against my good behavior. I must serve the Autarch faithfully, or my parents die.”

“Monstrous,” Chell breathed, and Mara felt a surge of gratitude toward him for that. “If there is anything I can do—”

“There's nothing,” Mara said.

A bell chimed from somewhere in the Palace. Mara glanced at Mayson; saw him straighten and start toward her. “You should—” she whispered, turning back toward Chell; but he was already gone.

Mayson took her, not down to the dungeon level as she feared, but to a comfortable room (though not as comfortable as the one in Stanik's quarters where she had spent her first night in the Palace) on the second floor of the north wing, with a small window looking out over the Great Courtyard. “Better than my quarters,” Mayson said, looking in after her, though he stayed in the hallway. “Good night, Mara.” He hesitated. “Be safe.” Then he closed the door and locked it.

Mara stared at the door, wondering again if she should have asked him to take word to her father. But the arguments against that course of action hadn't changed. She went to the window and stared blindly out at the starlit flagstones, and the occasional dark figure crossing from the Palace toward one of the outbuildings under the wall or vice versa, until supper arrived: a savory stew, fresh-baked bread, creamy cheese, pickled beets and carrots. She was even given a small pitcher of sweet white wine. She would have felt more like a guest than a prisoner if not for the sharp click of her room's door as the white-Masked servant who served her withdrew.

Still, prisoner or guest, she was ravenous after her day of training. She polished off the meal. She hesitated over the wine, then finally decided there was no reason not to drink it, and poured it into the pewter goblet provided. It tasted far better than the wine she had shared with Keltan and Hyram and the others that had made her so sick a few weeks before, and it relaxed her. She sat by the fire sipping it, staring through the iron Mask into the flames, her thoughts as aimless as its flickering, twitching tongues, until she felt her eyes closing at last, helped no doubt by the wine.

A small door in the room's corner led into the greatest luxury of all, a bath, complete with hot and cold taps like the one in Stanik's luxurious quarters, though the bath itself, of glazed porcelain, was not nearly as grand. She stripped and soaked, dried herself, pulled on a nightgown she found in a chest at the foot of the bed, and crawled beneath the covers.

She was so tired she hardly noticed the Mask still clinging to her face. Sleep claimed her quickly, and during the night she discovered one side benefit of the iron Mask, and possibly the wine: she dreamed no dreams of those she had killed or seen the killing of.

But then, her ordinary dreams, of the Secret City burning, of Keltan or her father naked, hanged, and left to rot on the gallows of Traitors' Gate, of her mother publically whipped and driven into the streets to starve, were quite bad enough.

The Prince in the Bathroom

F
OR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Mara trained with Shelra eight hours a day, learning to use magic as a fine tool instead of a blunt instrument. The days fell into a routine: breakfast was brought to her in her room, a Watcher (though she kept hoping, it was never Mayson) took her to the hidden chamber in the basement, Shelra removed her Mask and took the lid from the basin full of magic, and then the work began.

By the end of the second day she was able to distinguish dozens of unique hues in the swirling mass of the magic. By the end of the first week, she could tug out the precise color she wanted and use it as delicately as an artist might use her finest paintbrush: a sliver of scarlet to emboss a fine network of molten gold across a black rock, a touch of turquoise to bring a wilted flower back to full bloom, a bit of blue to heal her own scraped knee after she tripped on the flagstones.

By the end of the
second
week she could dip her hand in red and crush a rock the size of her torso to powder simply by clenching her fist. And on that day, the Autarch once more had her brought into his presence.

The throne room looked exactly the same as before: the Autarch and the Child Guard might have been frozen in place since she'd left. At first everything proceeded as before, as well. The Autarch had Shelra remove Mara's iron half-Mask. Once more she felt him pawing at her mind, trying to tear her magic away from her—and once more, she blocked him, without difficulty. But
this
time, once she had done so, the Autarch said, “Put the Mask back on her. Then clear the room. Everyone but her and the Child Guard.”

Mara heard Shelra's sharp intake of breath, and waited for her to say something: but the Mistress of Magic clearly thought better of it, because she exhaled in a whoosh. She stepped forward and settled the Mask on Mara's face once more, cutting off her sense of the magic in the room. Then she turned and stalked out, the waiting Watchers following her, leaving Mara alone with the Autarch and the Child Guard. Mara glanced at the Masked youths, wondering which one was the son of the couple she had met at the farm; but her curiosity faded in a hurry as the Autarch gripped the arms of the Sun Throne, pushed himself upright, and came down the steps toward her.

She stared at him through the eyeholes of the cursed iron Mask, anger a hot, bright flame in her mind.
If he'd left me unMasked, I could kill him now
.
Maybe I could anyway
. For an instant she pictured herself leaping forward, grabbing the Autarch by the throat, throwing him to the ground—he was an old man, she was young, how hard could it be . . . ?

But she didn't move. Just because he had ordered everyone out didn't mean that no one was watching through hidden peepholes, that hidden guards weren't waiting to strike her down with crossbow bolts or magic. And then there were the Child Guard. How those strange Masked children would react to an attack on the Autarch she had no idea.

The Autarch loomed over her. He was tall, far taller than she'd realized while he sat upon his throne, and stood straight despite his age. “You are a problem for me, Mara Holdfast,” he said from inside his golden Mask.

“I apologize, Mighty One,” Mara said.

The Autarch hardly seemed to notice she had spoken. He began circling her, his boots scuffing across the stone floor, staring at her from all sides, though what he thought he might learn she couldn't imagine. He couldn't even sense her magic while she wore the iron Mask, any more than she could sense his.

At last he stopped in front of her and stared down. “You are a problem,” he said again, “because you present me with a dilemma.” He cocked his head to one side. “You have a rare Gift: the ability to see and use all colors of magic. The Mistress of Magic shares the same ability. That is how she rose to her exalted position. But aside from her, and you, the only other person currently living in Aygrima with that ability is myself.”

She said nothing, keeping her head down, carefully not meeting his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn't move; but his hand gripped her chin and forced it upward, so that against her will she was forced to look into his eyes: very blue, she saw, a pale, washed-out shade, like a blue dress laundered so often all color had faded from it. “By rights,” he said, “I should have you executed. You are past the age of Masking. You were found unMasked in the city at night. The penalty for that is known to everyone in this city from a young age.”

She swallowed.

“But your Gift could be of immense benefit to the Autarchy. Shelra has told me what she is thinking: nothing less than grooming you to replace her in a decade or two. The question, of course, is, ‘Can you be trusted?' So tell me, Mara Holdfast. Can you?”

He can't sense anything from me when I'm wearing the Mask
, she thought.
He couldn't sense anything from me even when I wasn't. He's watching my face; that's all.

I wonder how good he is at reading faces?

I wonder how good an actor I am?

“Yes, Mighty One,” she lied. “I came back to Tamita in the hope of finding mercy; in the hope that if I told what I knew of what happened at the mine I might be permitted to live. I'm only fifteen years old. I want to live.”

The Autarch kept his hand on her chin, staring into her eyes; then he grunted and released her. “No doubt you do,” he said. “As do we all.” And knowing what she knew of the lengths to which the Autarch was willing to go to postpone his own death—she was keenly aware of the strangely silent youth of the Child Guard flanking the Sun Throne—she hoped that he would believe the desire for survival would likewise outweigh all else for her.

He stepped back, but he kept staring at her. She wondered if he was about to say something about the other strange thing he must have noticed, that he could not draw on her magic as he could on others who were close at hand . . . but of course his ability to do so was as important a secret for him to keep as her ability to do so was for her to keep. In the end he said nothing, simply turning away and returning to the Sun Throne, grunting as he planted himself on it once more. “Let them back in,” he said, and, confirming her suspicion that they had been watched the entire time, the throne room doors swung open and Shelra and the others who had been ordered to leave came in once more.

“Take her away,” the Autarch said to the Mistress of Magic. “Continue her training . . . for now.”

Shelra nodded. “Yes, Mighty One.” She took Mara's arm. “Come.” They turned their backs on the Autarch and walked away, but despite the presence of the iron Mask, Mara imagined she could feel that pale-blue gaze burning into the back of her head.

She was glad to return to the magic-shielded room, glad to return to her training. She loved everything she was learning, loved the sight of the magic when the horrible iron Mask came off her face, mourned the blocking of her Gift when the Mask was replaced. She loved the hum and tingle of magic in her fingers, the warmth as it flowed through her body . . . and yet, it wasn't enough.

She felt the magic inside the body of the Mistress of Magic, and she wanted to pull
that
magic to her, as well.
That
was the magic she wanted, even though she knew it would hurt her if she gave in to that desire, even though she knew it might drive her to madness. She hated the thought of being like the Autarch, sucking magic from others like mosquitoes sucked blood . . . and yet there was something about the feel of that pure, fresh, unfiltered power coursing through her, though it had burned her, though it had scraped her raw inside, though it had almost killed her, that made her lust after it.

Lust
. The word came to her one day as she soaked in the bath, the day's training running through her mind, and she snorted.
Oh, and you're the world's expert on lust, are you?
she teased herself.
You've never even kissed a boy.

Well, no
, she admitted to herself.
But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to . . . someday . . . and then, someday, maybe even . . .

She closed her eyes, thinking about it.
Who will it be?
she wondered.
Keltan? Hyram?

Mmmmm. Or Chell.
Taller, more mature . . . more handsome, really, she had to say. That long, lean body, those strong arms . . . she imagined his lips against hers, his arms around her, pulling her to him, tight against his body . . .

“Mara?” a voice whispered from the door behind her, and her eyes flew open, her head slipped off the edge of the tub, and she plunged into the soapy water, emerging spluttering and choking a moment later. “Mara?” came the voice again. “It's Chell.”

Chell?
Chell?
“Don't come in!” she squeaked. Heaving herself out of the water, she grabbed her towel, wishing it was considerably bigger than it was, wrapped it around herself as best she could, and pressed herself to the bathroom wall next to the door so the only way he could see in would be to physically enter the room. “How did you get in here? What do you want?”

“Shh!” he hissed. “We need to talk. Let me come in.”

“No!” Mara looked down at herself. The towel could cover her top or her bottom, but not both—not adequately. “I'm naked!”

There was a moment's silence, then her dressing gown, which she had left on the bed, entered the doorway, held by Chell's outstretched arm. Mara dropped the towel, grabbed the dressing gown, wrapped it securely around herself, and then tied it tight. “All right,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Now you can come in.”

He stepped in. He wore nondescript clothes, gray pants, gray shirt, black vest, black boots, a shapeless black hat jammed haphazardly onto his head.

“How did you get in here?” Mara said again. “The door is locked—”

“I have some skill with locks,” said Chell. “And no Watcher currently stands guard. I came in, saw you were in the bath, and—”

“You saw?” Mara squeaked.

“I mean, I saw you weren't in the main room, but I could hear you in here. So I said your name.”

He sounded utterly sincere. Mara wasn't sure she believed him, and her ears burned. He could have been standing behind her for several minutes, just watching her.

“I can't stay long,” he continued. He was staring at her face; he reached out a hand and touched the iron Mask. “This blocks your Gift?”

She nodded.

“Can't you just . . . take it off?”

“It requires magic.”

“Then I will get you some.”

Mara blinked at him. “What?”

Chell hesitated. “Mara, I came to talk to you because I have not been entirely honest with you.”

No kidding
, Mara thought, but did not say.

“I am something more than just a scout,” Chell continued.

“You're an ambassador,” Mara said. “You already told me that.”

Chell sighed. “I'm afraid I am somewhat more than just an ambassador, too. My full title is,” he took a deep breath, “His Royal Highness Chell cor Chell cor Arriken, Prince of the Golden Shore, Duke of the Southern Deep, and Protector of the Holy Fountain.”

Mara stared at him. “You're a
prince
?”

He raised his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “A minor one,” he said. “My father had five boys and three girls and I am the youngest of them all . . . and the last; my mother died shortly after I was born. For me to become the king of Korellia, my entire family would have to be wiped out. I am, in short, as expendable as it is possible for a prince to be . . . and thus the ideal candidate to lead what seemed to most within the court a wild and probably fatal adventure to a quite possibly mythical land.”

“Then you
have
no captain to report to,” Mara said. “You're the one in command!”

“Well, there
is
a captain,” Chell said. “Two of them, in fact. Captains March and Gramm. One for each ship. But, no, I don't report to them, they report to me.”

“Is anything you told me the truth?” Mara said, feeling a surge of anger. “You told us, in the Secret City, that your kingdom needs magic from Aygrima. But now you tell me it's nothing but a ‘wild adventure'?”

“We do need it,” Chell insisted. “That was the truth. It's just . . . not everyone believes it still exists.” He sighed. “Though we have histories that speak of the magic of Aygrima, there are many in Korellia who think magic is no more real than the sea serpents and giant, ship-crushing flying lizards the old records also speak of. No one has seen one of those in living memory, and no one has seen anyone use magic, either.

“But
I
believed in magic,” he went on. “I believed the old tales. I believed I could sail to Aygrima, though the same legends claim that at the time of the plagues no ship could get close because of the vicious storms that swirled constantly around its shores. I reasoned that if magic were real, those storms might have been
created
by the people of Aygrima to ensure their land was not affected by the plague—and since the Autarch has threatened me with them again, I think I was probably right about that. I thought it unlikely those storms would still be active; but I also thought it
likely
, if my theory were true, that Aygrima would be untouched by the plague: just cut off from the rest of the world. After all, the legends also agree that the people of Aygrima were never sailors, always relying on others to ferry them across the seas to ply their magical trade.”