The Faceless Mage - Kenley Davidson

Prologue

He awakened into darkness. Crushing and total.

The last thing he remembered was running through the snow. Panting with exhaustion. Fleeing from… something, with blood running down his arm.

He lifted one hand to check for the wound and found his fingers stiff, difficult to move. No, not stiff—encased in a rigid glove. A gauntlet.

He never wore gauntlets.

That same hand fell to his chest and encountered more armor. A breastplate. Heavy and uncomfortable.

Sitting up, he felt the weight of it pull on his shoulders, and felt the press of something even against his…

Face. Slowly, he raised both hands to his jaw, somehow feeling no pain from that recently suffered wound. No pull of stitches. Had he dreamed the chase? Dreamed the rivulets of blood down his arm?

But he forgot the question of blood when his gauntleted hands touched his face and found only hard, smooth metal—a mask. Stretching from his forehead down to his neck, where it met a gorget.

Panic swelled. He tore at the edges of the plate covering his face, but it didn’t move. The gauntlets, the chest piece—they would not come off.

He tried to surge to his feet and was met by a command in a firm but unfamiliar voice.

“Sit.”

He sat. Without thought or question.

But why? He wanted to stand. Wanted to tear off the unfamiliar cage of this armor and discover what had happened since that memory of blood and snow.

So he tried again to stand and received another command.

“Lie down.”

He obeyed.

The next command echoed not through the air but through the burgeoning confusion inside his head.

Stand and open your eyes.

And he did. How had he not realized that his eyes were still closed?

The light rushed in, dim and flickering, visible only through narrow slits in the mask that seemed bound to his face. He stood in a round room without windows. There were three tables against the wall, their surfaces fully covered with glassware, papers, books, and other tools of magic.

Yes, magic. It, too, flickered dimly all around him. Not the cool, soothing flow of life, but a harsh and grating symphony against his nerves.

Don’t move.

And then, he simply couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Even to blink.

“It appears to be working,” said a new voice—young, male, and weary. It also sounded more than a little angry. “Only I suggest you not give blanket orders like, ‘Don’t move,’ or you might find that he stops breathing and all your efforts will be wasted. Now, I did what you asked, and you have what you want, so go away and leave me alone.”

You may move, but stand still. The order released him to blink. To breathe.

“Where am I?” he burst out. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”

At least, that’s what he tried to say, but his tongue was frozen. His throat clenched, but no sounds emerged.

“I will not leave yet.” The first voice again. It was also male, but older. “You must ensure that my control is absolute.”

“Or what?” the second voice asked contemptuously.“What can you threaten me with that you haven’t already?” He sounded as if he were little more than a sulky young boy.

“The truth,” the older voice replied coldly. “I can always ensure that everyone knows the truth.”

“And who suffers more from that? Me? Or you?”

The words paused.

Then the first voice spoke again, his tone soft and menacing. “Perhaps you may think the consequences worthwhile, but will she? If you defy me, I will be forced to explain exactly who bears the blame for her suffering.”

Bitter laughter. “Yes, let us speak of blame. Let us hear how you plan to lay this abomination at my door.”

“How many times must I repeat myself? You know why this is necessary!”

“I know you’re obsessed.”

“Do as I command, or you will both suffer the consequences,” the older voice snarled. “Remember that her life and future is in your hands.”

He tried to turn. Tried to see who spoke. Tried to cry out.

He could not.

He could only wait for orders.

Could only follow his captor as they left the mysterious underground room and emerged into the light of a day without end.

That day and the next and the next. He could only wait, while horror and hatred gathered within him.

Wait, while his hands and his gifts were turned to the service of another. Wait, while life became an endless moment of threats and terror and blood, only some of it his own.

Wait, not for hope, but for vengeance.

In the end, that was the only thing left to him. His life, his