almost angry, twitch of his chin. “They do not make life, they make changes, and their mistakes cannot be undone.” He touched the leather of the mask. “But there are masks that cannot be seen. You could speak clearly through such a glamour. Hamanu would grant you that. But I must leave now. He will come, and I cannot be seen beside him.”
And he was gone, before Mahtra could ask him his name or what he meant by masks that couldn’t be seen. She didn’t see him leave, any more than she’d seen him arrive. There was only a wind waft from the place where he’d been standing and a second against her back, which had been toward the golden doors.
Mahtra remained on the bench until she heard a commotion beyond the doors: the tramp of hard-soled sandals, the thump of spear-butts striking the stone floor at every other step, the deep-pitched bark of men issuing orders that were themselves muffled. A few words did penetrate the golden doors: “The Lion-King bestrides the world. Bow down! Bow down!” And though, at that moment, she would have preferred to hide behind the black boulder, Mahtra prostrated herself before the doors.
The doors opened, templars arrayed themselves with much foot-stamping and spear-pounding. They saluted their absolute ruler with a wordless shout and by striking the ribs over their hearts with closed fists. Mahtra heard every step, every salute, every slap of their leather armor against their bodies, but she kept her forehead against the floor, especially when a cold shadow fell over her back.
“I have read the message of Xerake, august emerita of the highest rank. I have heard the testimony of the woman, Mahtra—made of the Pristine Tower, and find it full of fear and truth, which pleases me and satisfies me in every way. My mercy flows. Rise, Mahtra, and ask for anything.”
The first thing Mahtra noticed when she rose nervously to her feet was that King Hamanu was taller than the tallest elf and as brawny as the strongest mul. The second thing was that although he resembled his ubiquitous portraits in most ways, his face was less of a lion’s and more of a man’s. The third thing Mahtra noticed, and the thing that made her gasp aloud, was a pair of dark amber eyes beneath amusement-arched eyebrows.
Vengeance? A mask that could not be seen? Or nothing at all, which she could hear Father’s voice telling was the wisest course. That smile—full-lipped, perfect, and cruel—appeared on King Hamanu’s face. For a heartbeat she felt hot and stiff as her innate protection responded to perceived threat, then she was cold as the cavern’s water. The king brought his hands together over her head. She heard a sound like an egg cracking. Magic softer than her shawl spread over her head and down her body. It had no effect that she could see or feel, but when she tried to speak, even though she could not join two coherent thoughts together, the sounds themselves were soft-lipped and pleasant.
“A mask that cannot be seen,” the king said with a slight nod. “An everlasting glamour, so you can do what I need you to do. As you brought me a message from Xerake, you’ll take another across the sand and salt for me. There is a man there—an ugly, human man, a high templar who owes me service. You will give him my message, and together you shall have your vengeance on Kakzim.”
Chapter Four
Pavek leaned on the handle of his hoe and appraised his morning’s work with a heavy sigh. He’d shed his yellow robe over a year ago. Exactly how much over a year had become blurred in his memory. The isolated community of Quraite that had become Pavek’s home had no use for Urik’s ten-day market weeks or its administrative quinths. By the angle of the sun beating down on his shoulders, he guessed high-sun was upon the Tablelands and another year had begun, but he wasn’t sure, and he no longer cared. He was farther from his birthplace than any street-scum civil bureau templar ever expected to find himself; he’d been reborn as a novice druid.
These days he measured time with plants, by how long they took to grow and how long they took to die. Elsewhere in Quraite, the plants he had spent all morning setting out in not-quite-straight rows would have been called weeds and not worthy of growth. The children of the community’s farmers hacked weeds apart