Mistress Of Masks (Book 1) (17 page)

“The dryads and their Drycaenian descendants never returned?” she asked.

“I’m the first of my race to set foot on this island in centuries,” he said. “And I don’t believe that’s an accident. Fate brought me here, where the memory of my ancestors could warn me not to repeat their mistakes. Not to become so absorbed in comfort and safety that I neglect the greater responsibility of all beings who are part of Earth Realm. I have a duty to defend my world when darkness threatens. That’s why I will join you and the barbarian in your quest.”

She frowned. “You are certain of this decision?”

“I am. There is little left for me in Treeveil now that my brother and mentor are dead. One day I will likely return to see if Mage Jauhar has any wish to become my new mentor or whether all hope of attending academy is beyond me. But these are matters that must wait for another day.”

Another day.
If only what lay ahead was so short and simple, Eydis thought. But she could not tell him the magnitude of what he was committing to. She felt certain the oracle of Silverwood, were she here, would remind her that her duty to the First Mother and to Earth Realm was greater than whatever truth she owed Geveral. And so, she accepted his offer.

“It is settled then,” she said briskly. “Now all we must do is find Orrick and get ourselves away from this island. Preferably before any more ghostly encounters.”

He said, “Looks like we’ll get to fill our bellies first. It seems your barbarian friend did not forget to provide for us after all.”

She followed his gesture to where Orrick appeared, returning to camp with a pair of skinned rabbits.

After the meal, they broke camp and went down to the shore, where the boat waited. To Eydis’s relief, they didn’t meet any ghostly apparitions along the way. If the white lady was watching their progress, she did so from a distance. The water maidens, too, were nowhere in sight. Their absence presented a problem, because without the ethereal creatures to propel their boat, it would be slow going to reach the far side of the lake.

So there was a delay as Orrick walked up and down the shore, selecting suitable pieces of driftwood to serve as makeshift oars. The sun was high in the sky by the time their small party piled into the boat and shoved off from the island. They had lost time, Eydis thought, but at least they had not lost one another. Not yet anyway.

Ahead, the far shore beckoned.

The meditation chamber was so overheated the air all but scorched Server Parthenia’s nostrils as she stepped into the gloom and let the thick granite doors close behind her. Seated on her dais, the oracle did not look up at her companion’s entrance. But Parthenia had no doubt the Great One was fully aware of her arrival, as she wound her way past the glowing braziers and between the vents streaming their clouds of steam.

“The catalysts’ party has grown to three,” the oracle said, when Parthenia stood before her. “In Treeveil they were joined by a mage of dryad descent. He travels with them now.”

Parthenia concealed her distaste as the oracle’s snakelike eyes flicked over her. Sometimes it was difficult to remember the power bound within the form of this freakish-looking child. To disguise her discomfort, she answered, “Perhaps this dryad is the summoner of storms foretold?”

“The White Lady of the Isle of Mists must believe so,” said the oracle. “She has saved the dryad’s life and aided the travelers on their way.”

Parthenia frowned. “That is unexpected. The White Lady is no friend to the light. How is their quest to her gain?”

“All creatures choose sides when war looms between light and darkness,” said the oracle. “If the coming days are as dire as has been foretold, we will soon see all manner of life drawn toward light or shadow. There will be no place for neutrality under Rathnakar’s reign. Perhaps the White Lady has foreseen the wane of her power should he come to rule.”

That reminded Parthenia why she was here. “I have received reports from our spies of a sighting of hunger hounds in the Elder Forest. It seems difficult to believe such creatures could be running free in Lythnia, but my sources are credible.”

“Doubt it not, Server Parthenia. If Rathnakar has returned, so too will his old minions. Naroz and his hunger hounds were ever the Raven King’s creatures. As were the Aviads of the Lostlands.”

“Then the rumors are true? The birdmen did attack Treeveil?”

“I have seen it,” the oracle confirmed. “After the attack, the Aviads returned to the Lostlands—for now. Their faith in their master has been shaken, and it may take Rathnakar some time to restore it. Eydis Ironmonger and her friends fled to the Isle of Mists next. I do not know what drove them there. Possibly Naroz and his hunger hounds.”

“But they are safe for the moment?” Parthenia probed.

The oracle’s hesitation was as good as an admission of ignorance. Her Greatness never liked admitting the limits of her knowledge. “They tread a dangerous path,” she said evasively. “Rathnakar and his minions are not their only enemies.”

“Your Wisdom?” Parthenia queried.

The oracle’s gaze was reflective. “I have become aware of a mysterious force, a minor wizard without name, who has been summoning fire scorpions between the coastlands and the rangelands. I do not know his allegiances, whether he works for our enemy or for himself. But he will bear watching. Send out word to our spies. I want to know who this trifling wizard is and why he sends fire scorpions swarming toward the baselands.”

“You fear his scorpions will converge on the Asincourt seclusionary, where Eydis and the others travel?”

The oracle’s gaze was reflective. “The future is unclear. I see only that danger hovers over the mistress of masks.”

It was three days since they left the island on the lake. Three days of following the winding tributary river through the thick forest, hoping it would eventually lead them to the road Eydis was so sure was near. Three days of listening to Eydis and Orrick bicker over the map. But worst of all, three days without any decent food, except whatever small game they managed to trap along the way.

This morning there had been no breakfast at all, other than a handful of berries harvested from the bushes along the river. By mid-day, Geveral’s stomach was rumbling and his feet were blistered from the brisk pace Eydis set. So it was a relief when a dwelling appeared in a clearing up ahead.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to barter for food with the inhabitants,” Eydis suggested.

“Food
and
a change of clothes,” Geveral reminded her. He had washed his blood-stained shirt in the river already, but it was still the worse for wear after his encounter with the hunger hound.

Orrick said, “Our primary concern is survival, not comforts, boy.”

For the thousandth time, Geveral resisted the temptation to remind the barbarian that he had a name and it wasn’t “boy.” But he let it go because they were nearing the holding and he saw Eydis was frowning.

“Something’s not right about this place,” she said.

Geveral followed her gaze but saw nothing suspicious. The millhouse and surrounding yard seemed pleasant and peaceful. The only noise that met his ears was the singing of birds in the trees, the sound of the river rushing past, and the rhythmic splashing of the waterwheel against the side of the mill.

Eydis said, “At this hour the miller and his family should be busy about their chores. Yet nothing moves in the yard, and there are no voices from the house.”

She was right. The stillness did seem strange. The door of the millhouse stood wide open, as they neared, but no one stirred in or out. There was a chicken coop in the yard and a small livestock enclosure, but both stood empty.

“There’s a foul scent on the air,” Orrick observed. “A smell of death.”

Geveral sniffed the wind but smelled nothing but earth and pine. “Is it hunger hounds?” he asked, trying not to look as nervous as he felt at the thought of another encounter with the monstrous beasts.

“No, this scent is… different,” said Orrick. “We’d best pass the long way around.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eydis said. “We may not come upon another homestead for miles, and we need food. We’ll just have to approach with caution.”

Orrick scowled but didn’t argue, only drawing his heavy sword and holding it ready as they entered the clearing. The dusty ground around the house was covered in tracks, large animal prints like none Geveral had ever seen.

The barbarian’s face was grim as he examined them. “If these tracks were made by what I think they were, our miller is likely long dead.”

“We cannot know that yet,” Eydis said. “I’ll search the house for signs of life. Geveral can check the livestock pens, and you, Orrick, can look at the outbuildings.”

“We stay together,” Orrick corrected firmly. “We may need the advantage of numbers.” He strode off to the millhouse, leaving Geveral and Eydis to exchange glances, shrug, and follow.

Geveral wasn’t sure if their footsteps, as they crossed the creaky porch, were actually loud, or if his hearing was only heightened by his unease. The front door hung crookedly open, affording a partial view of the house’s gloomy interior. When Orrick kicked the door off its single hinge, the noisy crash should have summoned everyone in the place. But there were no startled exclamations. No frightened miller and his family came rushing to see who was breaking into their home.

The house was eerily silent as the three pushed their way inside. The space they entered was a low-ceilinged kitchen with a long table and chairs drawn around a fireplace. The tabletop was dusted with flour, as though someone had been abruptly interrupted while cooking. A blackened slab of pork on a spit over the embers also suggested business left unfinished, as though there had been a hasty departure.

“Maybe nobody’s home?” Geveral offered.

“They’re home all right,” said Orrick, pointing. Geveral followed his gaze to something pale sticking out from beneath the table. A human hand. There was no body attached, only a pool of dark blood around the severed limb.

“I’m afraid this is what’s left of our miller,” Orrick said. “Look at this,” he added, flipping the hand over. “The wrist bone wasn’t severed cleanly. It’s been crushed, not cut.”

“What does that mean?” Geveral asked.

Instead of answering, Orrick touched the blood pool. “The blood is fresh, so the miller hasn’t been dead long. It’s likely the creatures that killed him haven’t gone fair. We should get away from here, while we still can.” As he spoke, his eyes darted around the room, scanning the shadows.

Geveral swallowed. He didn’t want to see the kind of monsters that could instill fear in the big Kroadian.

Eydis said, “We can’t go anywhere before we search this house from attic to cellar. Someone could be lying injured and in need of our help. We mustn’t leave them to their fate.”

“Better it be their fate than ours,” Orrick growled. “You clearly don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“So why don’t you tell us?” Geveral cut in.

The barbarian hesitated. “If I’m wrong, you’ll call me mad.”

“We already think that,” Eydis put in. “But we have a right to know what we’re up against.”

Orrick glowered. “Have either of you ever seen a swarm of scorpions? I’m not talking about the little insects that hide in shadowy places and are as scared of you as you are of them. I mean fire scorpions from the Lostlands. Creatures bigger than a horse and more venomous than any snake. Their pincers can chop a man in half. Their stingers pierce flesh like daggers and drip with venom that paralyzes their prey, even while it burns like fire as it works through their body. That’s where they get the name fire scorpions. From the blazing agony caused by their venom. They’re seldom seen outside the Lostlands, but wherever they wander, they create havoc. Does any of this tell you why we should be swift to put this place behind us?”

Eydis’s eyes were round but she held firm, and Geveral respected her for it. “We’ll run as soon as I’m satisfied there’s no one here in need of rescue,” she said.

When Geveral quietly agreed, Orrick grumbled, “The dryad and the witch siding against me. Why am I not surprised?”

But he joined them as they searched the premises. It wasn’t until they left the house and looked into an outbuilding that they found another body.

“This isn’t our missing miller,” Eydis said, squatting beside the dark-haired young man who lay lifeless on the ground. “See, he’s still got both his hands. Maybe he’s the miller’s son.”

“I don’t care who he was,” Orrick said. “These marks confirm it was scorpions.” He pointed out the large red welts on the face and arms of the corpse. There was a wide puncture mark at the center of each, surrounded by blistered flesh, from which emanated a faintly acidic smell.

“What are you doing?” Geveral asked as the barbarian collected yellow puss from one of the oozing stings into a small vial from his belt-pouch.

“Scorpion venom has its uses. If nothing else, it’ll fetch a high price in the right quarters.”

Geveral frowned, saying, “This poor man is dead. Can’t you show a little respect?”

“Why?” asked Orrick. “He’s past knowing the difference. Anyway, if we hope to barter for supplies on the way to Asincourt, we’ll need something to bargain with.”

“He has a point, Geveral,” Eydis said. “We’d best let him do what he does best—look out for himself. And hope he remembers his promise to look out for the rest of us while he’s at it.”

If the barbarian heard her warning, he didn’t rise to it. “What I cannot figure out,” he mused, “is what fire scorpions are doing in the rangelands in the first place. Any skilled sorcerer can summon the creatures, but controlling them is almost impossible. They’re small-brained beasts and rampage indiscriminately, destroying whatever they encounter.”

Eydis shrugged. “Maybe that’s the intention of whoever created them? To cause confusion throughout the countryside?”

“Or,” Geveral put in, “our enemy, Rathnakar, is rallying more forces. Do you think it’s coincidence we encounter evidence of these dark creatures en route to Asincourt? Perhaps they’ve been summoned there.”