Before the Mask

Chapter 2

The Bridge of Dreed arched narrowly over the canyon, a dark, knobby spine against the bright autumn sunset. It was the northernmost of three bridges across the gorge. The southern two were made of vallenwood and were old as the Cataclysm. But this structure was far older, a narrow stone footpath, one man's width, that had spanned the great chasm for as long as the histories recalled and the legends remembered. At its very top, a level, slightly wider area had provided this ceremony a perfect platform.

Barely twelve years old, Verminaard shifted nervously in the saddle. Of course, he had heard much about this place. Indeed, he had seen the Bridge of Dreed once before, from a distance, when he and his brother had been goat hunting in the high reaches above Daeghrefn's castle. It had seemed menacing even then-a black, crooked bow spanning the gorge from east to west. Abelaard had pointed it out to him, then steered him to lower ground as the younger lad glanced back at the ancient structure, his thoughts filled with legends of how the world was made.

The finger of Reorx, the forge god. A handle for the mountains he had raised in the Age of Dreams, as the stories told.

Two years after that hunt, and much closer now, the bridge looked no less grand and precarious. It arched from one side of the gorge to the other, and, below, there was a breathtaking drop of three hundred feet to the ragged igneous rocks on the chasm floor. The stones were littered with brush, dead wood, and old bones.

He would walk that narrow span of rock and exchange places with Laca's son. He would live in a foreign land and learn to be a knight, for his father said Laca still kept to the Order.

It was a place for solemn oaths indeed, the boy thought. And he closed his eyes amid the company, the armed men around him oblivious to his silent prayer.

He prayed that his knighthood would come in another way, that the two quarrelsome fathers-their rift as old as the night just before his birth, as wide as the spreading chasm before him-would knit their discord in the face of the coming war. That Daeghrefn would go back to the Order. Surely the organized Nerakan army, impelled from somewhere in the dark heart of the mountains, would persuade Laca of East Borders and Daeghrefn of Nidus to relent, to trust each other at last. Couldn't they join swords in good faith, without the approaching dance of deal and transaction? Couldn't they postpone the swapping of sons until the Nerakans were subdued?

He prayed he would do his father proud in this exchange. But he knew his prayers tumbled like loose stones into the chasm below him, away from the starry hand of Paladine, from the eyes of Majere and Kiri-Jolith-far from the various gods Daeghrefn once revered and worshiped…

Then renounced, when he left the Order.

Daeghrefn stood behind the boy, masking his smile due to the solemnity that would follow. It was perfect, this gebo-naud, a prime arrangement of fortune and war and politics. As the years had passed, the Lord of Nidus feared more and more that the secret of his cuckoldry would be guessed by the other knights. As Verminaard grew, the boy looked the very picture of Laca.

Who had played nicely into his hands with this treaty and exchange.

He would be rid of Verminaard, Daeghrefn thought with a grim contentment. And Laca would have his own bastard visited on him. It could not have been better arranged.,

Verminaard started. You will bid your brother farewell today, the Voice told him. Oh, yes, farewell, for you will not see him again, though good riddance will it be. And you will be the elder, the scion, your father's eventual heir.

It always took him by surprise, that sinuous suggesting. The Voice had been with him for years-for as long as he could remember. Melodious and haunting, its tone neither masculine nor feminine, it would merge with his own thoughts and rise suddenly into hearing, its suggestions always a mixture of despair and grief and a strange, dark longing. He had never spoken to his father about it. Daeghrefn would not hold with voices.

What does this mean? Verminaard puzzled, wrestling as always with the Voice's dark prompting. It is an exchange of noble hostages, not a giving away!

And as always, the Voice was silent when he argued, slipping back into some dark recess, some alcove of mem ory, leaving him alone to bicker and wrestle with its insinuations. I will return! Verminaard assured himself. But the Voice was gone, leaving him to his rising dread and misgiving.

He opened his eyes and turned in the saddle. Abelaard, seated importantly amid the armed escort, winked at him solemnly.

Let it be over soon, the younger boy thought. If the exchange must take place, as the fathers have sworn on their swords and honors, let it take place quickly.

"You have your instructions?" the stern voice prodded behind them. Abelaard turned to Daeghrefn, murmuring something hasty and obedient.

Verminaard looked the other way-toward the chasm and the arching bridge and the impossible distance to the western side.

Daeghrefn moved between them, his dark horse snorting and capering in the brisk evening air.

"No one will attend you, Verminaard," the knight said. "Laca has not allowed as much."

Verminaard cast a sideward glance at the Lord of Nidus. Daeghrefn cut an imposing figure indeed: the chiseled nose, the dark thick brows above piercing eyes. The boy could understand why the soldiers feared him, why they had followed him out of the Order, become renegades along with their gloomy commander.

He looked closely at his father's face-a frightening, opaque mask of Solamnic instruction. Daeghrefn would show nothing of himself to Laca this evening. But the boy remembered Daeghrefn's smile two nights ago, when the last version of the treaty had reached him by the shaking hands of a Solamnic courier. Then Daeghrefn knew at last that the Lord of East Borders would accept Nidus's terms in the exchange. But now that triumph was contained behind a mask of cold composure.

"What is keeping them?" Daeghrefn muttered, shielding his eyes and looking into the sunset, into the westernmost reaches of sight. "They ought to be here by now."

"You don't suppose that the Nerakans-" Verminaard began, a dark thought rising in his mind.

"Rest at ease, Brother," Abelaard whispered. "Laca will be as well armed as we are. The Nerakans would not dare cross swords or paths with a Solamnic company."

"'Tis heartening to hear that, Brother," Verminaard replied brightly, though his spirits sank at the words. Of course Laca's forces would be armed, and hundreds strong this far into the mountains. The Nerakans were moving in numbers and with tactics even the oldest men could not recall and had not expected.

Everywhere along the Khalkist Range, from Sanction to Gargath and still north, to where the mountains tumbled into the foothills of Estwilde, the Nerakans threatened the borders of more civilized country. Worse yet, the men of Estwilde and of Sanction had joined with them. The forces arrayed against the Solamnic Knights and their scattered allies were large enough and organized enough to pass for an army. Goblins and ogres even joined the bandit ranks, or so the scouts reported.

So all along the lofty spine of the Khalkists, the border lords were uniting in response, in mutual defense. Whether they were Solamnics or not, whether they were long-time friends or had feuded for years, commanders such as Daeghrefn and Laca formed alliances of blood or honor or urgency. Better to ally with a civilized foe than fall to the relentless, motley onslaught from the east.

It was why men always went heavily armed in the mountain passes. It was why, twelve years after the stormy night of Verminaard's birth, the last alliance would be sealed.

A month ago, after the Nerakans assaulted East Borders and pillaged the homesteads within a mile of Castle Nidus, Daeghrefn and Laca had communicated for the first time since that ill-omened night, exchanging information, then uncertain tokens, then veiled assurances… arguments…

And now sons.

"There they are!" Abelaard exclaimed, pointing to the dark banners weaving through the western pass. The waning sunlight glittered red on their armor, and each crimson standard at the head of the column bore the silver kingfisher of the Order.

Daeghrefn rose in the stirrups, again shielding his eyes against the sunset. "It's Laca on the gray, I'm certain," he pronounced. "And the boy with him, on that horse's twin, must be his son."

He shot a curious glance at Verminaard, who met his gaze eagerly.

Daeghrefn turned away, speaking softly to Abelaard as the Solamnic column approached them in the distance. Verminaard strained to hear the conversation, but the words slid teasingly out of earshot.

Something about intelligence, it was. About couriers and signs.

Then his father sat back in the saddle, his veiled eyes red, as though he had looked too long into the westering sun.

"Where is the mage?" he asked the sergeant beside him, his voice troubled and hoarse. "We needn't linger over ceremony and drama."

Now Verminaard could see them, the two riders at the head of the column, framed by the kingfisher standards. A tall man, bareheaded amid a helmeted escort, his hair as white-blond as Verminaard's own. A small, lithe companion, dwarfed by his own horse. The boy was supposed to be twelve years old, born within minutes of Verminaard himself, in the warmth of the distant castle.

Abelaard had said they had much in common.

"Where is the mage?" Daeghrefn repeated, and the sergeant wheeled his horse in search of the man in question.

Laca's party arrayed itself along the edge of the chasm, a formidable column of seasoned cavalry. Their commander leaned forward, awaiting some sign from the eastern edge of the gorge, and the slight rider beside him dismounted slowly.

Verminaard started at the touch of Abelaard's hand on his shoulder. His brother drew him close, embraced him. "Be strong," Abelaard whispered quickly, "and remember that whatever comes to pass, whatever befalls, I-"

"The boy is approaching, Abelaard," Daeghrefn interrupted. "There is no need to keep him waiting."

Abelaard nodded and gave his brother a long, encouraging glance. Verminaard leapt from the saddle.

Abelaard looked away, his eyes unreadable as he heard Verminaard's footsteps in the gravel at the bridge's edge. Abelaard had cared for his younger brother ever since his birth. And for Verminaard, it was as though his father had long ago handed him over to Abelaard, like a horse or a hunting dog.

I am going now, Verminaard thought. No matter what, I am going. Must gather myself… must stay under control. Father cannot see me shake… cannot see me…

"Where is the damned mage?" Daeghrefn thundered.

From behind him arose the sound of whispers, of urg-ings. Then the mage, Cerestes, brushed by, the hem of his dusty black robe grazing Daeghrefn's boot. He was young, dark-haired, handsome in a reptilian sort of way, his eyes golden and heavy-lidded.

"Where is Speratus?" Daeghrefn demanded. He little liked mages, keeping one at the castle only for defense. But this was not his archmage, only a mere pupil.

Cerestes presented his hasty services after a short explanation: The old mage, Speratus, had been found at the bottom of the chasm, no doubt besieged when he rode out alone to prepare the ceremony. His red robe had borne ragged evidence of the furtive, hooked daggers of Ner-akan bandits.

One mage was the same as another, Daeghrefn told himself. This young Cerestes seemed confident, even wiz-ardly. He would do. Anything to be rid of the boy. Solemnly the mage saluted his new employer and ushered Verminaard onto the spindly bridge.

"May the gods speed you, Verminaard," Daeghrefn breathed. He looked past the young wizard to the boy, who looked small and lonely as he neared the crown of the lofty arch. "At last you return to your father."

Abelaard looked up at him with a blank face, as unreadable as the soaring cliff, as the scattered rocks on the floor of the canyon.

The Bridge of Dreed was even more narrow than it appeared from the safety of the bordering cliffs. At the height of its arch, where the gebo-naud-the Solamnic rite of exchange-would take place, there was scarcely room for the two lads to stand side by side.

Verminaard moved steadily out toward the middle of the bridge. The Solamnic boy was less assured. He pulled on his hood and walked, heel cautiously in front of toe, weaving uncertainly, like an amateur ropewalker. As he approached from the west, the autumn winds ruffled his sleeves and the gossamer green of his family tabard.

Cerestes, as surefooted and sinuous as one of the huge panteras that were the bane of mountain herdsmen, followed Verminaard. At the last moment, the mage slipped impossibly past the lad and glided to the center of the bridge. There, standing between the two boys, he raised his hand to begin the incantations of the gebo-naud.

Suddenly there was an outcry from the platform.

Daeghrefn shifted uneasily, his eyes on the two boys.

"What's wrong, Father?" Abelaard asked. He asked again, and again, until Daeghrefn's seneschal, an older man named Robert, took pity on the lad's persistence.

"It'll be all right," Robert offered, leaning across his mare's neck toward the attentive boy.

"Hush, Robert," Daeghrefn ordered. "The ceremony begins."

But it did not begin. Cerestes strode westward from the center of the bridge and waved for one of Laca's retainers to meet him.

When the mage returned to the platform, he instructed the Solamnic boy to wait and brought Verminaard, bewildered, back to Daeghrefn's party.

"Lord Daeghrefn," he chimed, "the gebo-naud calls for the exchange of oldest for oldest. We will have your son Abelaard come forth."

A disembodied laugh echoed through the chasm as Laca received the same news. Daeghrefn clenched his teeth. Abelaard? he thought. This is ludicrous! I didn't agree to this.

Cerestes motioned for Abelaard to dismount and follow him.

"Hold!" Daeghrefn shouted. "There will be no exchange of oldest for oldest! Let Laca laugh, and let him die beneath Nerakan boots. It wasn't my castle that the hordes beseiged."

Cerestes turned. He spoke in hushed tones that melded with the tireless wind. "You cannot refuse now, Lord Daeghrefn. To end a gebo-naud once begun is an act of war."

Daeghrefn's face darkened, his eyes sparkling, inscrutable. He could defeat Laca in war, he was fairly certain of that-perhaps even hold at bay the Nerakan hordes while he did so.

As though listening to his lord's thoughts, the golden-eyed mage offered in conspiratory whispers, "You would more easily defeat Laca in alliance than in war, my Lord."

"You won't let Abelaard go!" Verminaard protested suddenly.

"Silence," the dark man growled, drawing tightly, reflexively, on his mount's reins. Daeghrefn lifted his head defiantly and whispered something through his bared teeth.

Only Robert heard him.

Flashing an iron-hard glare toward Abelaard, the Lord of Nidus spoke. "Go." He gestured broadly toward the awaiting mage, who extended a hand to the boy. With stone-hard features, the boy stepped from his mount and, sparing not a glance at his father, followed the mage.

In moments, the first words of the gebo-naud filtered to them in the midst of a shifting autumn breeze. The mage Cerestes lifted his hands, and a dark cloud pooled in the bottom of the gorge below. A hundred lights floated on its surface, until the cloud swirled and eddied and glittered like quicksilver.

"Let the mountains know," the mage began. "Let all assembled here-the garrisoned captains of East Borders and those of Castle Nidus-swear on their swords that they see what they see, and let them honor the change and surety of blood between these houses.

"Let the traded sons, Aglaca of East Borders and Abelaard of Nidus, find shelter and board, honor and comfort in their opposite homes.

"Let alliance rise from the commingling of houses.

"And if ill befall one lad, let the same ill befall the other.

"It is an oath secured by rock and air, by the bridge across the gap of the world."

Daeghrefn shifted in the saddle. These terms, at least, were the way he reckoned them.

Then the mage began the chant that would seal the bargain, would exchange one lad for the other in unsteady alliance.

"Son to son and truce to truth, Peace for blood and youth for youth, In high passages of stone The heart returns to claim its own."

The Solamnic boy moved forward to exchange places with Abelaard. For a moment, he wavered in his balance and looked down, light hair and light robe caught in a sudden gust of wind. The black cloud Cerestes had summoned rose now beneath the bridge, and tendrils of vapor wrapped about the boy's ankles, threatening to pull him down into the abyss.

He is frozen up there, Verminaard thought. Perhaps he won't do it.

Then the boy gathered himself and continued, urged on by his father. Cerestes spoke the second verse as the lads joined hands over the swirling mist.

"Let the words pass overhead, Heard by the memorious dead, Confirming what hearts have begun, Truce for truth and son for son."

Verminaard shuddered as the power of the words coursed over him, binding him as they did his father, his brother, and the pale Solamnics. This Aglaca was his brother now, his blood by oath until the Nerakans were subdued.

He was sure he would not like the boy.

Suddenly Verminaard felt dizzy. His sight flickered, failed him, and he weaved on his wobbly legs. In front of him, the bridge seemed to vanish, and with it the ceremony-the boys and the black-robed celebrant.

All Verminaard could see was darkness and a wavering point of light at the furthermost edge of the gloom. Slowly the light expanded, and he saw a blond youth on a dark, windy battlement, a lithe, blue-eyed, older image of himself.

Not me, he thought. A twin… my mirror image.

Not Abelaard, but still my brother.

The young man in the vision gestured toward him. His lips moved desperately in a soundless incantation, and Verminaard felt weaker, felt power drain from him…

And then the vision ended in cold sunset and the high, thin air of the mountains. Cerestes lifted his hands from the lads at the center of the bridge, and black lightning danced across his arms.

What has happened? Verminaard asked himself, his thoughts a confusing swirl. Desperately he sought the Voice-its advice, its melodious assurances.

Only silence.

Shaken, Verminaard looked about. All eyes were trained on the arch of the bridge. He breathed another prayer to any listening god and turned back toward Cerestes.

From that point on, the ceremony was a ritual of its own silence. The boys turned, faced each other, and removed the ornamental tabards that covered their tunics. Solemnly they exchanged the thin garments, Aglaca wobbling again for a brief, nightmarish moment. Then slowly, almost reverently, each lad undertook to put on the other's tabard.

Verminaard smiled a bit then. Abelaard was at least four years older than the Solamnic boy and hardened by the hunt and the mountain climates. Aglaca's tabard was much too small for him, so after a brief, halfhearted attempt, he draped the garment over his shoulder and began to walk toward the Solamnic column on the western side of the gorge.

Laca's knights opened their ranks in a silent welcome.

It was now Aglaca's turn. Lost in the red folds of Abe-laard's tabard, the boy waded carefully across the bridge, the garment trailing on the stones so that he looked like a gnomish enchanter, like an alchemist whose concoctions had backfired. A sharp wind buffeted him, and he drew his hood closer.

Steadily now, his steps gaining assurance the closer he came, Aglaca approached Daeghrefn on the narrow span. Behind him, Cerestes performed the last of the ceremonial rites. Breathing a prayer to Hiddukel, the old god of deals and transactions, the mage knelt and drew an obscure sign with his finger.

Verminaard peered from his place, straining to see. This mage had great power, he could tell. But Cerestes was too far from him, the gestures too veiled and intricate to see clearly. The clouds in the gorge rose to cover the mage, and for a moment, he seemed larger, darker in the thickening mist.

You could do such things as well, Lord Verminaard, the Voice soothed and tempted. Raise clouds and magnify and bring down the bridling dark. You could rival the great spell-masters, Lord Verminaard, and write your name in the gray, metallic swirl of fog and dangerous rumor…

Verminaard listened and, bathed in dark suggestions, felt almost comforted, even though Abelaard was gone.

From out of the mist, Aglaca approached, the mage emerging from the cloud behind him, slender and stooped, diminished from the monstrous shadow he had cast at the end of the ceremony. But Cerestes was strangely unwearied, his gold eyes glittering like the metallic swirl he had conjured from the depths.

It was all Verminaard could do to draw his eyes away from the mage, to rest his gaze on the Solamnic hostage.

"M'Lord Aglaca," Cerestes announced. "May I present your… host, Lord Daeghrefn of Nidus."

The boy bowed politely, and Daeghrefn extended his hand.

"May your presence remind us… of one who is away,"

Lord Nidus announced, his voice thick with emotion, "and of the alliance his bravery affirms."

"1 shall endeavor to be worthy of your honor and gra-ciousness," Aglaca replied and turned to greet Verminaard.

"And you," he said, brushing back his hood, "will be my new brother in the war to come, alliance of my alliance."

Dumbstruck, Verminaard gazed into the face of the Solamnic boy. It was a revelation-the pale eyes, the thin nose, the white-blond hair and brow. It was his own face, his mirror image.

Somewhere deep in the mountains-whether from west or east, they could not tell for the echoes-the oracles of Godshome began to murmur and hum, and the druidess L'Indasha Yman looked up from her icy augury and nodded.