The Mage In The Iron Mask

13

Eventually exhaustion had been sated, and the sleeping draught began to wear off. Rassendyll drifted into a lighter mode of sleep that was disturbed every time a movement would upset the center of balance of the heavy mask that encased his head. Despite the fact that he could not recall having ever slept in a more comfortable bed (for his quarters at the Retreat had always been in keeping with the ascetic ways of the older contemplative mages), he was unable to find a position that would allow him to return to the arms of Morpheus.

Realizing that he had received about as much rest as he was going to, he sat up in the bed and waited 'til he heard footsteps in the halls outside, before leaving the room that he had shared with the world-traveling Volo and the snoring Passepout. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and made his way down the corridor to the main hall in which dinner had been served.

The hall was empty, though he could hear the clatter of pots and pans in the nearby kitchen, where Hotspur the dwarf was undoubtedly making preparations for breakfast. Most of the torches from the night before had almost burnt down to their holders, which common sense told the masked man meant that sunrise would be upon them at any moment. Having nothing better to do, and not wishing to disturb his slumbering companions, Rassendyll retraced his steps to the foyer where he and Passepout had first entered the villa and stepped outside to watch the golden dawn.

As he walked out to the gate, a blanket held firmly around his shoulders to protect him from the dawn's early chill, he looked off to the horizon where he saw the beginnings of a new day. Odd, he thought to himself, less than two days ago I despaired of ever seeing another sunrise… now here I am, and it is beautiful.

So engaged in the rising of the sun was Rassendyll, that he did not even hear the telltale approach of footsteps coming up behind him. The senior Cloak McKern, aware of the seemingly oblivious state of concentration of the iron-masked man, decided to announce his presence more forcibly.

"Young fellow," McKern hailed before he had reached the subject of his and Fullstaff's private conversation the night before, "mind if I join you in your enjoyment of one of Toril's early morning attractions?"

"Not at all," Rassendyll replied. "Isn't it picturesque?"

McKern recognized the tone the young man had adopted in his admiration for the sun's wonder-the same tone taken by his own brother when he reminisced about his sighted days.

"Indeed," the mage replied, putting his arm around the young mage's shoulders to try to set him at ease. So entranced was Rassendyll with the morning sun, that extra becalming efforts by the mage were completely unnecessary.

"So you were a mage-in-training at the Retreat?" McKern asked.

"More than in training," Rassendyll corrected. "I was more than qualified to leave the Retreat as a full mage, had I so desired."

"Or if such an opportunity had been offered to you?"

Rassendyll closed his eyes in realization. His teachers had never presented him with the option of leaving. Had the events of the past few days not come to pass, he would probably have spent the rest of his days engaged in study at the Retreat.

"Even if it hadn't been," Rassendyll said haughtily, "I was more than a match for other mages of my age."

The iron-masked man immediately became deflated when he realized what he had said. "I was," not "I am." All of his years of study had come to naught, unless…

"Good and gracious sir," Rassendyll beseeched of the senior Cloak, "can you help me to retrieve the spells and powers that I seem to have lost? I studied for so long, and so hard. All I was ever taught was to be a mage, and I would no longer have a reason for living if I have to consider a life as anything else."

McKern chuckled. "No longer have a reason for living?" the senior Cloak repeated. "What about the sunrise and her sister the sunset? Are they not reason enough? The world has much to offer even the simplest of men, let alone someone with your lineage."

Rassendyll did not have a reply for that common sense wisdom.

The senior Cloak put his arm around the masked man and said, "I am afraid that no one can undo what the mask has already done to you. Everything that you have learned through your studies, the proficiencies that you acquired, the spells you learned to cast, the incantations that you had memorized, have all been leeched out of you by the magical conductivity of the iron mask."

"Then all is lost," Rassendyll said in despair and resignation. "I am now useless. I would be better off dead."

Mason McKern gave the young man an encouraging squeeze as one might do with a discouraged brother. "Yes, that which was there before is now lost," the mage conceded, "but look at it this way. Think of a bottle of fine wine, properly aged, and cared for. Imagine that the seal on the cork breaks, and slowly, because of the angle the bottle is stored at of course, the contents of the bottle, the finest wine in the land, is allowed to leak out, and evaporate."

Rassendyll turned his head so that he could look into the mage's eyes through the narrow eye-slits of the mask, as he did not see how this story was supposed to be encouraging.

"Now, the wine steward discovers what has happened," Mason continued. "The wine is gone, the bottle is empty."

"So?" Rassendyll asked still failing to see the point that the mage was trying to make.

"What about the bottle?" the mage asked. "Is it not still a bottle?"

"Well yes, but…"

"Can it be refilled and resealed?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"True, it would take time, more wine of course, and a desire to maintain the usefulness of the bottle, but would it not be possible?"

Rassendyll tilted his head down and looked at the ground, and conceded the mage's point with a slight nod.

"It's your choice," Mason acknowledged. "There is nothing to prevent you from starting again provided you want to, and I advise you to think about that. You never really chose to become a mage; the Retreat made that decision for you. For the first time in your life, the choice will be yours."

Rassendyll kept staring down at the ground, and asked woefully, "But what about the mask?"

"We will see that it is removed," Mason replied. "I recognize the mark that designates it as being the handiwork of my brother. He will remove it quite easily."

Rassendyll brightened slightly, but still did not look up.

Mason continued, "And I guarantee that we will have it off long before your beard causes you more than a minor irritation."

"It already does," Rassendyll pointed out.

Mason chuckled. "Well, at least you're not choking on it, as your brother desired," the senior Cloak countered. "Stop looking at the ground. You are wasting the sight of a beautiful sunrise. Choose to enjoy it now, and afterwards we shall dine."

Rassendyll looked up and enjoyed the rest of the dawn's early light, feeling a bond of closeness with the old senior Cloak that he had never felt with his teachers back at the Retreat.

When Volo awoke he discovered that Passepout was still sound asleep and snoring loudly, while their iron-masked roommate had apparently already risen. Pulling his pack together, he followed the scent of freshly baked muffins, and arrived back at the dining hall where Chesslyn and Fullstaff were just beginning their breakfast.

"Morning," he hailed as he once again took a place at the table right next to that of the secret Harper agent.

"And to you, sir," Honor replied, seemingly oblivious as Chesslyn and Volo exchanged smiles and silent greetings. "I trust you found your accommodations acceptable."

"Better than some," Volo replied, and with a wink to Chesslyn added, "and not as good as others."

"Oh, that's right," the host replied, "you are a travel author after all, and therefore always ready to rate the rooms, so to speak."

Volo thought carefully, and quickly adding, "I meant no disrespect, sir. I apologize if I might have seemed overly critical."

Honor belted forth a hearty laugh that immediately set the gazetteer at ease.

"No offense taken, my boy," Honor boomed. "Chesslyn was right. You are a well-mannered sort."

A groggy Passepout entered the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"And good morning to you, oh master thespian of the heavy-stepped gait," the host haled. "Your breakfast will be here momentarily."

"Uh, yeah," Passepout acknowledged, "thank you." The thespian took a seat across from Chesslyn and Volo and quickly brightening for a moment, added, "and a good morning to you, fair maid."

Chesslyn rolled her eyes, and secretly squeezed Volo's hand under the table.

"I trust you slept well," Volo said to his old friend. "You seemed to be out like a light when I got up."

"Indeed, I was," the thespian replied, "until the booming sounds of good company encouraged my wakefulness."

"Not to mention the roar of a stomach tempted by the aroma of early morning muffins," Honor observed. "Dig in, dig in. The bowls will be replenished as the need arises, my portly friend, and there is more than enough for everyone."

A full mouth and a swallow later, Passepout garbled, "Ufgphmmp."

"Come again?" Volo asked.

"He asked where Rassendyll and McKern were," Honor translated, and then turned in the direction of the young thespian. "They should be here shortly. Mason always was a sucker for an early morning constitutional, and I assure you he's never made a practice of missing breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day you know, provided you don't sleep through it."

"Aghmphlghj."

Volo and Chesslyn once again turned to Honor for the translation while the portly thespian continued to feed his face.

"Well, of course Rassendyll is probably with him," the blind swordmaster replied. "You might not realize it, but they do have a lot in common. Wait! I hear their approach now."

All seeing eyes in the room turned to the empty doorway. Ten seconds later Rassendyll and McKern entered.

Volo shook his head in astonishment, and whispered to Chesslyn, "How does he…"

"… do that?" Honor finished. "My hearing is quite acute. The wise men say that when you are deprived of one of your senses, it is easier to develop your others. Let's do an experiment while Poins and Hal bring some more muffins so that the sun-gazers can sustain themselves as well."

Honor quickly stood up and strode to a set of foils that were hanging on a wall fixture in crossed-swords fashion. Taking one in each hand, he called out, "Mason!"

"Over here, old boy," the senior Cloak answered.

Turning slightly, the blind swordmaster said, "Then you must be there," tossing the foil directly to the slightly bewildered Rassendyll whose catching of it was more a tribute to the swordmaster's precise aim, than to any quick thinking on the young man's part.

Mason took a step away from the masked man just as Honor shouted, "On guard!" and rushed toward the surprised Rassendyll.

The iron-masked man held the foil up in front of himself and protested, "No! You don't understand. I've never been trained in swordsmanship or anything."

"Of course, you haven't," the blind swordmaster retorted, using the iron-masked man's voice to zero in on his position, while carefully sensing with the foil as if it was some sort of divining stick. "Up until this point you've been a wizard-in-training, and swordsmanship would be grossly inappropriate."

"I am a mage, not a wizard-in-training," Rassendyll protested loudly, his foil just barely deflecting a shadow thrust from the master, "and wizards and mages don't use swords or foils, not even in jest."

"Who's jesting?" Honor said, in a tone markedly more serious than the one he exhibited while he had been seated at the dinner table on the night previous. "Since your head has been shelled in that cast-iron insulator, you're no longer a mage, if you ever were one, that is. All you are now is a marked man whose brother, and several others, I'm sure, want dead. Defend yourself!"

Honor lunged just slightly to the left of the terrified Rassendyll, the blade of his foil just making slight contact with that of his intended prey.

Rassendyll leaped back and held the foil forward, allowing himself more space between himself and the blind predator. Turning his wrist slightly without even realizing it, he adjusted his grip a bit to allow for a little more control of the foil.

Volo, remembering the uncontrollable rage that their host had exhibited on the night previous, moved to intervene, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Quickly turning to see the source of his restraint, he was surprised to see that it was Chesslyn.

The look in her eyes told him to hold back, Honor Fullstaff knew what he was doing. A scan to his left showed that Mason had further withdrawn to a more advantageous place for observation, and a scan to his right indicated that Passepout had interrupted his meal, and seemed to be frantically looking for a way out that would not put him any closer to the sword fight. Instead of approaching the duelists, Volo instead sidled over to his former traveling companion, and making eye contact, nonverbally advised him to stay in his place.

Passepout complied, but was so uncomfortable, he did not resume his meal.

With a series of pokes, prods, and slashes, Honor Fullstaff had maneuvered Rassendyll to a spot in the room from which, unnoticed by the spectators or the other participant, Hal and Poins had cleared away all furniture that might interfere with their movements. Fullstaff obviously had the playing field memorized, and wished nothing to get in the way of the test that he had planned.

When all had reached a certain point that Fullstaff had set, he lunged forward and with a loud cry, began to attack with full slashing fury.

Rassendyll, despite his lack of training, parried back as the sightless swordsman rallied a nonstop series of attacks, slashing the foil through the air as if it were a saber.

Chesslyn joined Volo on the other side of Passepout and whispered over the thespian's head and into the master traveler's ear, "He's just testing him. Had old Blind Honor really meant business, he wouldn't be treating his foil as if it were a saber, and I assure you he more than knows the difference."

"I don't doubt you," the master traveler replied, "but testing him for what?"

"I'm sure we will find out," the Harper answered.

"Indeed, all three of you will," interjected the senior Cloak who had joined the onlooking threesome, "but for now, just enjoy the show."

Volo could not help but be impressed by the pure artistry of the blind man's swordsmanship. Each attack was calculated to make its appearance within the visible sight limits provided by his opponent's mask, while never appearing to be anything artificial or staged. As Rassendyll parried and launched counterattacks, Honor deftly blocked each thrust, miraculously anticipating the path of his opponent's foil without the benefit of sight.

Even Passepout was eventually impressed. "He's pretty good for a blind man," the portly thespian commented as he began to sneak bites of hot muffins that had just arrived at the table.

"There never was any question of that," Chesslyn countered, "but watch Rassendyll."

Volo immediately noticed what Chesslyn was referring to. The iron-masked man was more than rising to the occasion. His awkward blocks and haphazard attacks had been replaced by more organic moves, mirroring the fluidity of his opponent. As Honor upped the degree of difficulty of each attack, Rassendyll countered, reclaiming lost territory, and gradually forcing the swordmaster back to the center of the room from which he had originally started.

"Enough!" the master swordsman announced, dropping his guard for a moment, and then quickly raising the foil in a salute to his opponent before turning to the left and the waiting hands of Poins who returned the foil to his proper place. "Back to breakfast. My keen sense of smell has determined that the second round of succulent muffins has indeed been delivered."

A quick glance to the left by the breathless Rassendyll revealed the presence of Hal who quickly recovered the foil from his hand, and placed it in its matched home next to Honor's.

"Come, come!" Honor ordered with nary a shortness of breath. "Breakfast is waiting, and believe me there is nothing that stirs the early morning appetite like a gentle workout with an evenly matched opponent."

The exhausted Rassendyll returned to the place at the table that he had occupied the night before, and after wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel provided by the ever-present Hal, he took a long swig of juice and reached for a muffin to sate his recently incited appetite.

In the High Blade's Study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

"Ah, Rickman," Selfaril said as the captain of the Hawks entered the High Blade's private refuge, "I understand there was a bit of a problem last night." The High Blade had summoned Rickman at the same time that he had ordered his breakfast and, true to form, the captain of the Hawks had beaten the morning tray by a matter of seconds.

"A problem, sire," replied Rickman, adding, "I'll take that," as the valet entered the study. Slater bowed slightly and handed the tray bearing the High Blade's breakfast to the captain of the Hawks, then quickly retreated from the study.

Rickman placed the tray in front of his sovereign, and removed the napkin that covered the tray of tasty early morning delicacies.

"Care to join me," the High Blade asked in an uncharacteristically jovial tone. "Slater can easily fetch another tray."

"No, thank you, sire," Rickman replied, "I have already eaten, but thank you for your generous offer, and, if I might say, you are in a fine mood this morning; rested and renewed, if I do say so myself."

"Do you really think so?" the High Blade said. "I must say that it was a most satisfying night, if the Tharchioness's scratches on my back are any evidence. And as they say nothing stirs the appetite like…"

"… the rest of the virtuous and pure?" Rickman offered.

Selfaril, his mouth full of pastry and jam smiled, swallowed, and agreed. "But of course. But this is not why I summoned you. Slater informed me that there was a trespasser in High Road Keep last night."

"Really nothing to concern yourself with, sire," the captain of the Hawks assured, making a mental note to be more wary of the High Blade's valet. "I am afraid that I may have made myself a few too many enemies among the Thayans. One such fellow was lying in wait for me in my office, but I dispatched him easily."

"Really?" the High Blade said, "I am impressed."

"Nothing, really," Rickman replied, and began to relate his carefully constructed explanation that interweaved truth with his own clever fabrications.

"A few weeks ago I ran into this Thayan at the Warrior's Arena tavern, at least I assume he was Thayan by the tattoos and such. He claimed to be a civil servant of some sort working for the embassy. I didn't think much of it at the time, though as I recall he did seem to be trying to bait me into an altercation. Mindful of your concerns for the delicacy of diplomatic matters, I let his remarks roll off my back."

"Well done," the High Blade remarked. "All of our opposition to those bald-headed barbarians must be done in secret."

"Of course, sire," Rickman agreed, then continued with his fabrication. "Well, last night, not being able to sleep, I decided to go back to my office and get some work done, when lo and behold I found the Thayan lying in wait for me. With a cry of 'This will be for the insult of the other night, and for all my people,' he came at me with a dagger. I reacted quickly and killed him first. The body has been discreetly disposed of to avoid any diplomatic unpleasantries. It was all nothing really, though I do admit that I am more than a little surprised that word of my minor altercation has already been detected by Slater."

"Yours are not the only set of ears in service to the High Blade," Selfaril commented. "So you don't attach any significance to the event."

"None, sire," Rickman said confidently. "I have in the past, and probably always will, attract my fair share of enemies, in bars as well as on the battlefield. I can take care of myself."

"I'm glad to hear that," the High Blade replied. "Many of the Blades and the Cloaks fear for my well-being, particularly due to the presence of so many Thayans in town. Tomorrow night, the First Princess and I will be hosting a public reception, for soon she must return to Eltabbar for something to do with that earthquake. I would hate to have to postpone the reception and her departure for security reasons."

"I really don't think that will be necessary," Rickman replied. "This was only an isolated and personal matter, nothing that should concern a High Blade."

"Well then, you may go," Selfaril said. "It would appear that the unpleasantries and worries of the past few days have fairly faded away, and I can get back to the more personal matters of state."

"That is the High Blade's duty," Rickman said deferentially, adding silently, and you won't be troubled by it much longer.

In the Dining Hall of the Villa of Sir Honor Fullstaff, Swordsman, retired:

As Poins and Hal began to clear the table, and Hotspur the dwarf began the neverending task of preparing the next meal, Honor Fullstaff leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach vigorously as if to outwardly encourage the inward savoring of the breakfast feast that he had just devoured.

The group had been strangely quiet since the unannounced exhibition of Rassendyll's swordsmanship. Even Passepout seemed cowed into silence, managing to avoid any embarrassing remarks that might get him in trouble, or, even worse, make him the object of some other previously unannounced test from the swordmaster. Once, during the end of the meal, he stole an encouraging look at his former companion Rassendyll, but gave up trying to make contact as the presence of the mask seemed to make such contact impossible.

Volo continued to take in the entire scene. Throughout the meal Honor and Mason occasionally exchanged some meaningless banter on the good old days, and the good lives that they had led up to this point. The master traveler looked at Chesslyn as if to ask, what are we waiting for, which was only met with a shrug by the secret Harper. He was about to ask that same question of their host when the awkwardness was interrupted by the arrival of a fourth heretofore unseen servant who arrived in the dining hall out of breath, and hastened to deliver a folded piece of parchment to the master swordsman.

"Thank you, Bardolph," the blind host said as he accepted the message. "You may rest now. You've had a busy night."

"Thank you, milord," Bardolph said, bowing slightly and hastening out of the hall to his quarters for a well-deserved slumber.

Honor Fullstaff unfolded the note, and gently passed his fingers over its surface as if trying to detect any imperfections in the grain with his fingertips. "Yes, yes," he said aloud as his fingertips did their slow-paced dance on the parchment's surface. "It is as we discussed, Mason. Though Bardolph was unable to locate your brother, my friends in the Company of the Blind have indeed confirmed the matters at hand."

Volo looked to Chesslyn as if ready to ask a question.

The secret Harper beat him to it.

"Who are the Company of the Blind, Honor?" Chesslyn asked her former teacher.

"Surely you don't wish to know all of my secrets, young lady?" the host answered coyly. "They're just a useless bunch of sightless men who provide the ears for certain concerns in Faerun who are willing to pay for their services. Occasionally I broker some information through them, for them, or from them. Those who are deprived of sight must stick together."

Volo was impressed. An entire network of sightless spies and informants that was previously unknown to him, the greatest gazetteer in all Faerun. He could already see his publisher, Justin Tyme, salivating at the exclusive news that would be trumpeted in his next guide book.

Rassendyll stood up and reached across the table to pick up the recently delivered note to scan its contents for himself. Honor offered no objection as the iron-masked man took it from his hand.

"It's blank!" exclaimed the surprised Rassendyll.

"Not really," Honor explained. "The message is imprinted for unseeing eyes alone. Feel the little bumps on the parchment. There is the blind man's message."

Rassendyll ran his fingers over the parchment, his fingertips sensing the irregularities in its surface, yet unable to decipher the subtleties of its message.

"What does it say?" Rassendyll demanded.

"I think that we have kept these youngsters waiting long enough," Mason pointed out.

Passepout, Chesslyn, and Volo all looked at each other, the same thought emblazoned on their minds. Indeed, it had been quite a long time since any of them had considered themselves to be youngsters.

"In a moment," Honor said, delaying just a while longer.

Honor stood up from his place at the table and approached Chesslyn, his hand affectionately seeking out her cheek.

"Chesslyn, my favorite student, I have no desire to set you at risk," the swordmaster stated.

"What do you mean, Honor?" she asked sweetly.

"Unlike the other youngsters here, you are a citizen of Mulmaster."

"So?"

"The penalty for treason, or even conspiracy to commit treason, is death by torture. I will understand it if you feel that your obligations to the state prevent you from taking part in what I am about to propose."

"Treason?" she repeated incredulously.

"Yes," Honor said. "I realize that you are apolitical, and though skilled with the sword, you have chosen to make your way in as quiet a manner as one who lives by the sword can. If you wish to excuse yourself before I bring the conversation at hand to the forbidden subject of treason, I will understand. You have chosen to live in Mulmaster after all."

Chesslyn looked at Volo as if to send a silent message, as if to say, see, he doesn't know everything about me, and then said to her former teacher. "You have taught me well in the past. If the lesson in now treason, then let's make the most of it."

"Good!" Honor exclaimed. "Then treason it is, and as for the rest of you, have no worry. The penalty for conspiring to overthrow the High Blade is merely death, minus the torture. In that regard it is sometimes better not to be a citizen."

Rassendyll, Volo, and Passepout all had one question on their minds, a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and terror (in the case of Passepout) more than evident in their thoughts.

What have we gotten ourselves into?