Before the Mask

Chapter 3

"I shall… study your friendship as well, Master Verminaard," Aglaca declared politely, eyeing the other boy with cautious curiosity. He shifted from foot to foot, awaiting the courtly reply, the Solamnic greeting that traditionally followed an offer of service and goodwill.

Verminaard said nothing.

His young face was unreadable, like hard mountain stone obscured by mist and distance. Despite Robert's nudgings and coaxings, he refused to speak to the guest. He held his silence even as Daeghrefn's party returned on the high, snaking road east from the Jelek Pass, to where Castle Nidus awaited them.

Along the way, Aglaca reasoned with himself. Daegh refn's family did not do things like his own. There was no Measure, little ceremony. Perhaps it was what his father had said-that the garrison of Nidus was half-barbaric, little better than the Nerakans. Or perhaps Verminaard mourned his brother. He could understand that. Aglaca wished he, too, were home again, with his friends and his dogs, wished that this new and forbidding duty had not befallen him.

Then there was the vision that had come to Aglaca on the Bridge of Dreed-the pale, muscular young man… the mace descending.

So it will be, unless you take this matter in your own hands, Aglaca Dragonbane, coaxed the Voice, low and seductive, neither man nor woman.

It came to him as always, with murky promises and dire threats. As always, he ignored its urgings.

But he did speculate until the last hour of the night, after the long dinner that was his uncomfortable welcome to the East, to the Khalkist Mountains, and to his new family.

Daeghrefn was the first to be seated, as was his custom. Ignoring his standing guests-the small party of family, servants, and courtiers-the knight slumped into the huge oaken chair at the head of the table. He was distracted by the flicker of the fire in the hearth, the rustle of pigeons in the cobwebbed rafters of the hall.

It was a shabby chamber indeed-dusty and disorderly, inclined toward ruin. The Lord of Nidus had only a small staff of servants, and attended more to his falcons and wine than he did to the upkeep of house and grounds.

The wine, poured by the steward into a faceted crystal goblet, was a vintage from a dozen summers past. The goblet was the last of ten, a wedding gift to Daeghrefn from Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan, its nine mates broken in neglect over the twelve years since the death of Daegh-refn's wife. Last of a line it was, and when the knight lifted it and the light glanced off its facets and sparkled through the amber wine, Daeghrefn remembered a night more than a dozen years earlier-a night of fires and wine and a hundred reflecting facets…

It was bad almost from the start. The smell of a blizzard in the foothills, and cold daunting all but the hardiest travelers. Laca's wife, a bit further along than Daeghrefn's, was in her quarters, attended by midwives and physicians as the awaited day drew nigh. Daeghrefn had been glad of the extended visit, of Laca's warm guest hall, of reunions with his old friend after seven months' absence, and of the eager anticipation with which both men awaited the births of their children, most especially Laca's first.

Over dinner, with the wine abundant and the conversation ranging, Daeghrefn had almost forgotten the unsettling weather and wind and the strange disruptions among the castle servants.

Four-year-old Abelaard was sprawled over the knee of the man he called "Uncle Laca." Daeghrefn's wife was reserved and quiet as usual around the outgoing Solam-nics, and she was heavy with his own child-the second-born, whom he intended to raise toward Paladine's clergy. After a few cups, the words had come forth idly- Laca's speculation that in some families hair and eyes "turned sport," that despite Daeghrefn's dark coloring and the night-black eyes of his wife, the child she was carrying could be "as fair as… a thanoi hunter… a high elf…

"As fair as Laca himself."

Daeghrefn had laughed and pointed at Abelaard's dark hair and brown eyes. "I suppose that is 'turning sport,' " he joked, and Abelaard looked up at him curiously, his face a clear reflection of his father's.

But Laca kept with the issue, spoke of blondes and of fair eyes and of sport and sport until the wine and the turning of thoughts brought Daeghrefn to the one conclusion that the sly, teasing words could mask no longer.

"What are you saying, Laca?" he had asked finally, quietly, full knowing that the knight could give him no real answer.

"Tis only a talk of generations," Laca murmured, his pale gaze and crooked smile flickering toward Daeghrefn's terrified wife.

Daeghrefn stood, overturning his chair, his wineglass. The golden wine spilled generously over the table, onto the woman and Laca, and a servant rushed for water and cloth. Laca stood as well, more slowly, his hands extended, a look of puzzlement on his face.

"What have you made of… my idle talk, Lord Daeghrefn?" Laca asked, but Daeghrefn listened to no denial, no reasoning, asking the question again and again as he drew sword.

"What are you saying, Laca?"

Laca's retainers then burst into the room-summoned, no doubt, by the retreating servant. A sea of unyielding Solamnic Knights stepped between the friends turned adversaries. Daeghrefn waved his sword helplessly over a burly fellow in full armor, as the tide of retainers pushed him farther and farther from the man who had wronged him, who had implied… no, who had boasted of his deed, now that he thought again of it.

Daeghrefn had looked to his wife then. Her head was bowed, and the pallor of her face told him that what Laca had admitted, had proclaimed to all present-including lit tie Abelaard-was the truth.

The snow had been blinding, Daeghrefn remembered, and the guards at the gate of Laca's keep pleaded with him to stay, to take light and shelter. But he would accept no comfort from a false friend. After all, the infidelities of seven months past must have taken place at Nidus, in the heart of Daeghrefn's true hospitality. Under his protecting roof. Perhaps in his own chamber. He now remembered that Laca had declined the hunt one morning, saying he must be about his devotions.

Indeed.

In a frenzy of righteous anger, he herded his family from Laca's castle. It was the outcome of too much trust in friends, too much faith in the Oath.

Daeghrefn scorned the five days' path they had followed around the Khalkists. He chose instead a shortcut, which, even in clear weather, was a hard day's climb right through the mountains. But now it was obscured by snow and his own blinding rage. Gradually the steps of his wife j*rew slower, and she stumbled. Abelaard, only four, still duped by his mother's lies and wiles, stopped to help her. And the three of them straggled over the rocky road to Nidus into a new blizzard.

He would have guided them home that very last night. Perhaps the woman would have fallen in the mountains, even within sight of the castle walls, but she had been doomed anyway-doomed seven months before by the feverish promptings of her blood. Had the druidess not come, there would soon have been but two of them-Abelaard and himself-and there would have been no reminder of that betrayal.

None but this faceted glass he turned in his hand.

Daeghrefn shook his head, swallowed more wine, and plunged back into the memories.

Verminaard had always been underfoot, at the edge of sight, where his presence was a mocking reminder of that distant spring, the harsh revelations of that distant winter night. Only for Abelaard's sake had he tolerated the bastard at all. For Abelaard, and for a strange goading at the borders of his thought-some reason he could not put words around. But he knew that to injure the child or to abandon him would bring down fearful consequences.

Indeed, Verminaard had been such a thorn to Daeghrefn, such a torment and mockery. The gebo-naud seemed a just reprieve from his twelve years with the boy. With the Nerakans in the mountains forcing an alliance with his old enemy, he saw the gebo-naud as he wished to see it. Son for son meant he could give Verminaard to the Solamnics in exchange for Aglaca, sealing the alliance, ridding himself of Verminaard, and sending the boy back where he belonged, all in one thrifty gesture. And Abelaard would have understood. Eventually.

But the chance for that was past, the gebo-naud over and Daeghrefn's only son taken in the exchange. Daeghrefn's anger had not subsided. He thought of his own son, of Abelaard encamped somewhere in the western distances, and slammed the table with his fist. It shook the crystal and crockery; the faceted glass that had sparked his memory teetered precariously on the table's edge. Robert, rising from his venison long enough to notice, snatched the delicate object before it tumbled, then set it, almost reverently, beside his master's open hand.

"The druidess," Daeghrefn muttered absently, glaring at the flames. "What did she say? What?"

Robert blanched as he steadied the cup. He recalled the druidess as well-when the Lord of Nidus had returned with Abelaard and the infant, he sent Robert himself away into the mountains.

He could not do what Daeghrefn had asked. He found the druidess crouched among the evergreens, shaking the weight of snow from their branches. Her green robe and auburn hair shone against the faceless white of the drifts. She was lovely, a candle of warmth in the cold dusk.

He had slipped from behind the rock, sheathing his weapon even as he turned away. But she had seen him, had known he was there all along. She called him back, and they spoke briefly, their words falling amid wary silences. His heart had melted within him.

For the first time ever, Robert had disobeyed his lord. And though the druidess had promised her silence, had assured him that none other in Daeghrefn's service would see her again, he thought of her uneasily when the subject of druidry arose in the hall, or when the snow lay heavy on the juniper and blue aeterna.

Wide-eyed, pressing heavily against the back of his chair, Aglaca watched the pale seneschal steady the glass. It was like the jaws of Hiddukel, this dining hall-each man at the table doomed and damned, trapped in his own fears and gloomy thoughts. No one else seemed to notice Daeghrefn's outburst, and eyes and faces bent into the candlelight, to the bread and cheese and old venison, as fervently as if there were nothing else to eat in the castle.

His father had told him to be brave, that the war with Neraka would last but a matter of months. But he was only twelve, and the promised time in Nidus stretched before him like an eternal desert.

What would come of him here?

He whispered a prayer to Paladine over his untouched food. The childlike words were almost audible above the clatter of cutlery, the gurgle of pigeons in the eaves.

Cerestes did not hear the boy praying, but his fingers burned sharply at the words, and the knife shook in his long, pale hand.

Difficult. Aglaca would be difficult, with his Solamnic training and his mooning over Paladine and Huma and Kiri-Jolith.

The other one was a different matter. Verminaard had been lodged in these deep mountains, motherless and virtually tutorless, his father lapsed from the Order and no longer a believer in Oath and Measure-or even the gods themselves.

And yet the easy one was not always preferable. The Lady had taught him as much. Better to wait and watch and bide his time. Speratus's "unfortunate" fall and Aglaca's arrival had given Cerestes all the time he would need.

He leaned back in the chair, savoring the golden wine. Tilting the glass, he peered through the crystal toward the boy Verminaard, who stared back at him, his expression lost in the wavering candles and distortions of the wine.

But Verminaard, as he always did when someone new entered the fortress, was sizing the company, following the elaborate dance of eye and gesture with the hope that something would be revealed, some secret emerge from a sidelong glance, a subtle tilt of the hand.

He had learned this caution long ago in Daeghrefn's castle, where the violent, almost explosive moods of the knight were as unpredictable as the mountain weather. The angered Daeghrefn was a force to be skirted- avoided entirely, if he could manage it. There were alcoves in the halls where Verminaard could step aside from the dark processions of armor and torches and glowering stares; there was Robert's lodgings, as well, where a certain shelter could be found among the old seneschal's neatly arranged battle trophies, where the room smelled of oiled leather and fruity wine. But mostly the boy had learned the augury of instinct-that sometimes, in the instant before a voice rose or a hand descended, something undefinable in his father's face would either emerge or go away. It was his sense of this that had preserved him from Daeghrefn's enraged beatings and deprivations.

Verminaard had felt the outburst approach like the gathering of the mountains before an avalanche, when sound at the timberline rises beyond hearing until it is sensed only at the edge of the bones. When Daegh-refn had struck the table, Verminaard was already steeled, watching the others closely, learning the new terrain.

It was the boy, the Solamnic, who bore the most notice. Though the knightly training masked his fear, fear was there nevertheless. The pale eyes had widened just barely; the faint smell of salt sharpened the air.

Oh, yes, Aglaca was afraid. And Verminaard made note of that, for in a castle where uncertainty was the master, fear was the coin of the realm.

Verminaard glanced with great care at his father, and then at Aglaca again. From the slightest rise of the new boy's shoulder, Verminaard knew he still had not unclenched his right fist.

Dinner ended abruptly when Daeghrefn rose from the table and stalked to the hearth, empty wineglass clutched in his battle-scarred hand. He slumped into a low, straight-backed mahogany chair. The dogs skulked away, from him and the pigeons in the rafters fell quiet.

It was Robert's cue to stand up, to lead Aglaca up the stairs to his new lodgings. Verminaard's heart rose with them as the old man guided the noble hostage toward bed, for the stairway they chose led to only one suite of rooms, high in the western tower of the castle.

To Verminaard's room. If Father had decided to move Aglaca into Verminaard's quarters, Abelaard's rooms, now empty, would fall to Verminaard by right.

The room is yours! the Voice coaxed, singing in a dark minor melody, rising from nowhere, as though the table itself were talking. Yours now by right as the eldest. Did I not tell you? Ask him; ask him…

It was a small triumph, Verminaard knew. He did not understand why he was so delighted, why his eyes blurred and brightened and his hand shook as he thought of the prospect.

He looked for the mage, but Cerestes was gone from the room-vanished suddenly, as though he had melted silently through a portal in the air. Only Verminaard and his father remained in the dining hall.

Daeghrefn stared into the dwindling fire.

For a moment, Verminaard hesitated, clutching the back of his chair unsteadily as he rose from the table. Slowly, more for delay than for tidiness, he straightened his plate and cutlery, then snuffed the pale candle that guttered beside his cup. The first step toward his father seemed as if he were wading through waist-deep snow, but the second was easier, and soon, almost suddenly, he stood beside the hearth.

"Father?" he asked, and slowly, with an old resentment, Daeghrefn's dark eyes rose from the fire to stare somewhere beyond Verminaard's face. Then, his gaze unwavering, the knight hurled the glittering, faceted goblet into the dying fire.

The rafters erupted with the rustle of wing beats, with the frightened cries of birds. Verminaard winced as slivers of glass knifed through his leggings into his ankles. He shifted in fright, in pain, blood pointing the tattered clothe on his shins.

"What?" Daeghrefn asked with quiet menace, and it seemed as though the fire in front of them gasped and guttered and dimmed further, until the room contracted to a wavering circle of light. For the first time in hours, Daeghrefn had spoken to his second son.

"Th-the room, sir," Verminaard began, and daunted by his own stuttering, fell into silence.

" 'Room'?" Daeghrefn's voice was flat and repellent.

Verminaard backed against the mantle, steadied himself. His ankles stung and nettled. He broke into a sudden, dizzying sweat, and his voice failed him once, twice, before he could summon the words.

" Abelaard's room, sir. I… I believe that since Aglaca…"

Daeghrefn loomed even taller in the chair, the dim light of the fire magnifying him, casting his gigantic shadow on the far wall.

"I know what you're after," the knight said. "And you will sleep and quarter where you have always slept and quartered. Abelaard is gone, and his rooms will await his return."

He took the steps two at a time, his ankles bloody and swelling, each stride a stinging rebuke to his courage. At his back, the Voice was chiding him, soft and insinuating, speaking from the terrible dark at the bottom of the stairwell.

So it is and will be in this devouring country, where the raptor dives and the panther stalks… What did you expect from him, beyond this powerless mourning? Learn from me… from the panther and the raptor…

He stopped on the stairs, his thoughts whirling. A great anger rose in him, and he struck the stone wall of the landing fiercely, methodically. His fist stung with the impacts, and he fought down a sudden rush of tears. He thought of Daeghrefn as he battered the wall. Of the cold dark eyes and the shattered cup.

It would not do. You could not feel that way about your father.

Slowly, almost staggering with his own uprooted anger, Verminaard mounted the last of the stairs, cursing the stones and the dark and the stars in the clerestory windows. He reached the landing and opened the door to his quarters.

Aglaca sat on the topmost bunk, leaning out the window. For a moment Verminaard's thoughts were violent, and the voice of his imaginings blurred with the voice on the stairs….

If something happened to Aglaca, his father would have no choice but to follow the rules of the gebo-naud. So whatever happened to the boy… would happen to Abelaard…

And then Daeghrefn would mourn.

Verminaard caught himself, frightened by the largeness and power of his own speculations. He stared balefully at Aglaca, who looked back at him with curiosity and concern.

"Don't think that my possessions are yours as well," Verminaard menaced, rising to his full height, trying his best to obscure the doorway behind him. "You're an outsider here. Nobody wants you; you're here for the deal, and for that reason only. My brother is gone."

He took a long step toward Aglaca, who glanced out the window and then calmly returned a level stare to this new antagonist.

"If you remember one thing, Solamnic," Verminaard continued, standing in the center of the room now, clutching the back of his single chair as though Aglaca intended to take that from him as well, "remember this. You are a hostage in my presence. You are not my guest."

"He yelled at you, didn't he?" Aglaca asked, quietly and not without warmth. "I mean, Daeghrefn…"

"That is no concern of yours, Solamnic," Verminaard replied unsteadily, his stare wavering, his fingers nervously drumming the chair back. "I said you are a hostage…"

"I know," Aglaca said. "I am an outsider here. So you've told me. I can't take Abelaard's place, Verminaard. But I can be your friend."

Verminaard stepped back to the door and closed it. Something was quenched in him by the boy's unexpected kindness. His hand smarted, and he turned uncertainly toward the bunk and the boy who sat atop it, regarding him curiously.

"Then… you won't take or touch anything that is mine?"

"I won't, Verminaard."

"Swear," Verminaard insisted, extending his hand and searching Aglaca's eyes.

Aglaca met both his grasp and his gaze. "I swear. We're bound together, Verminaard. The gebo-naud binds us as firmly as it binds our fathers. And we're bound by more, I believe. I know it, and you do, too."

Verminaard looked away in confusion, in irritation. He remembered the young man in the vision-the gesture, the soundless chant, the draining…

He looked again at Aglaca in horror.

It's you! he thought.

But instead of visions and deceptive magic, the boy held forth a knife, hilt first, offering it to Verminaard. He took the jeweled hilt and examined the blade.

"It's yours," Aglaca declared. "As a sign of my trust."

"It's… it's wonderful!" Verminaard exclaimed. His eyes narrowed. "And what do you want?"

"It's yours," Aglaca declared. "I want nothing for it."

Verminaard danced gleefully across the floor of the chamber, waving the dagger like a sword, lunging at imagined enemies.

"It's not just a dagger, Verminaard!" the Solamnic boy protested. "It's a rune rister's knife. My father gave it to me. His mage said it would protect the wielder against all evil."

Verminaard lunged at the fireplace, whipped the blade through the chilly air. He wasn't listening.

"I know it isn't Huma's lance," Aglaca objected. "It's a small thing, and its magic is small as well. But it isn't a toy. It's… it's

…"

"It's a fine knife," Verminaard said. He glanced at Aglaca cautiously. "Thank you," he said abruptly.

Aglaca smiled. "Now come over and look out the window. If you lean just a little and peer as far as you can down toward the west… what's that pass called?"

"Eira Goch. It means 'red snow' in the old tongue."

"Really?" Aglaca asked, extending his hand once more. "Well, if you look down to the mouth of that pass, you can see my father's campfires. Let me give you a hand up to the top bunk."

Verminaard regarded the other boy warily. It was the first time he remembered anyone except Abelaard reaching out to him. But, despite strong misgiving, he took the offered grasp. For a moment, before he hoisted himself onto the bunk, risking a fall and his dignity to the questionable intentions of this hostage, he tested the boy's strength, pulling Aglaca toward the edge of the bed.

Aglaca gritted his teeth and braced himself, recovering only when he dangled dangerously above the larger lad, who pushed him back onto the bed.

Good, Verminaard thought. I am stronger.

Then, with a deep breath, he climbed onto the top bunk, boosted by his new companion. Together they stared out the window into the uninterrupted darkness and saw the faraway gleam of torchlight. Verminaard did most of the talking, explaining to Aglaca the landmarks visible from the heights of Castle Nidus.

Fifty feet below and across the castle yard, in the shadows of the eastern battlements, the dark mage Cerestes leaned toward the ancient walls and placed his ear against the stones. There the words of the boys- innocent words, but words they believed to be unnoticed and unheard-tunneled through mortar, through rock, and by a devious magic, into the dark chambers of Cerestes' mind.