Betrayal (37 page)

He touched the demon mask on his face. It made him smile that its ugliness was actually less intimidating than the grotesque face behind it. He thought again about the Prime, wondering briefly where the soldier might have disappeared to, but the thought vanished when he caught sight of a young woman with golden hair, dancing.

She wore the mask of a cat. It could almost be Alyssa but Alyssa would not be here so boldly. No. She would conceal herself for as long as possible in the sanctuary of Caremboche; but she would have to show herself at some point. Then he would have her.

Perhaps he might have Gynt too. Now that was a satisfying thought. The great Torkyn Gynt at his mercy. He would soon wipe that arrogant smirk from the physic’s face. How convenient that the person he wanted most and the person he hated most were both in the same place at the same time. He congratulated himself once again on his perfect timing.

While Goth was shivering with anticipation, Alyssa shivered with gloom. It was as though she could feel Goth thinking about her. She touched the disc on her forehead and drew strength from its pledged security.

She looked again at the fox mask lying on her cot. She was ready, dressed in the traditional crimson robes worn by the Academie women every decade at Czabba. It occurred to her now that perhaps the deep red symbolised the blood shed on that terrible day centuries ago when many dozens of the Masters of Goldstone were felled by the angry god Orlac. A few
days ago such a thought would have been fanciful; now she could easily believe that the story behind these robes was embedded in the tale of Nanak.

Alyssa’s palms felt moist. Her nerves were betraying her. She smoothed her hands against the thick fabric of her robes and begged herself to remain calm. The other girls had long gone to the scenes of festivity outside. They would not be missing their chance to dance, even flirt a little with the men.

As Alyssa’s thoughts turned to Xantia, the door opened and in she walked. The awkward silence between them was broken as Alyssa deliberately reached for the fox mask.

‘Really, Alyssa, I thought you would come up with something more sophisticated than that. It’s so common.’

‘I like it. I think foxes are intelligent and handsome,’ she countered.

‘That’s interesting because most people think they’re just vermin. Far too cunning and best seen hung out on fences to discourage other foxes from pursuing what isn’t theirs. Actually, it suits you perfectly,’ she said sweetly. She pulled on the mask of a beautiful maiden with overly rosy cheeks and full red lips. The hair cascading around it was flaxen.

She posed for Alyssa. ‘Well, aren’t you going to comment on my mask?’

Alyssa would not be drawn but the likeness to herself was not lost on her. Xantia was behaving like a fool. Not wanting to risk further confrontation, she was relieved when a couple of acolytes their own age
knocked on the door and asked if they were ready. Both squealed with laughter at Xantia’s mask.

‘The Righteous Virgin. Oh, Xantia, you’re wicked! It’s perfect,’ said one.

Alyssa pushed past, pulling on the fox head as she went. She tried to keep her voice even and friendly. ‘Come on, girls. Let’s not miss the fun.’

The four girls emerged into the cold night and Alyssa instinctively scanned for any sign of Goth. Xantia immediately assumed her wide-eyed search was for Tor.

‘He’s over there,’ she said, pointing towards a brazier in the corner of the main courtyard where Tor, obvious despite his pig mask, was talking with a group of excited young acolytes.

‘I was looking for someone else,’ Alyssa replied coolly.

‘Good. Then you won’t mind if I keep my promise to seek out your friend.’

Alyssa’s patience snapped but her calm voice belied her irritation. ‘Do what you will, Xantia. I’m tired of you.’

She had no idea what Xantia felt at this dismissal. The mask of the virtuous virgin remained serene. Alyssa briskly walked away in the opposite direction towards where the main gates were flung open for the first time in a decade and city folk, curious visitors and pilgrims walked freely between them. She could see fires burning and around them people twirled to a frenzied series of steps known as the Cleffyngo. Hard, furious and noisy, they banged
their feet and clapped to the rhythmic sound of drums and cymbals.

It would be a while yet before her participation in this Festival became necessary so for now she kept herself as inconspicuous as possible and watched carefully for Goth or any of his men. By joining a large group of revellers she was able to stay on the fringe of it, in shadow, but still have a good view of the proceedings. She watched Tor.

Just looking at his tall, broad stature which towered above most of the people he stood with made her heartbeat quicken. She wanted to hold him; to lay with him. Alyssa smiled ruefully behind her fox mask. She had never thought she would have the urge to be touched by a man again. Older and wiser, she realised the incident with Saxon had just been her way of reaching out for affection. She had been so young back then; inexperienced and terrified by her introduction to the ugliness of an unwanted touch. Perhaps Saxon had represented safety.

His encouragement of her relationship with Tor was curious. Saxon keenly wanted them to pursue it; his note said so. It occurred to her that he must have had it scribed in Ildagarth for her. What did Saxon know that she did not?

She turned things over in her mind. If Merkhud and Sorrel had orchestrated the reunion, then clearly they too expected something to happen between herself and Tor. And if Merkhud and Sorrel were being manipulated by some higher magic, as Saxon
had been all of his life by Lys, then should Alyssa also accept Tor as her destiny?

And what about Cloot? Alyssa figured out that the falcon must have a similar role to Saxon: Cloot had been sent to protect Tor. How else could one explain his transformation unless by powerful magic?

Her thoughts were suddenly disturbed by a wolf, grinning from ear to ear, who asked her to dance. No one was permitted to refuse a dance on the night of Czabba and she allowed herself to be led to one of the braziers to join the twirling figures. Her wolf partner shouted above the noise to reveal he was a local shopkeeper at the bazaar. He sold sugars, he told her, rather impressed with himself. She smiled politely, just pleased he was not the real wolf who wore the purple sash.

There were no purple sashes to be seen, in fact, and Alyssa danced twice more, not without fear but safely. Escaping back to the gates and into the shadows, she almost screamed when someone grabbed her waist. Spinning in alarm she saw the face of a pig.

‘Well, how about once around the bonfires for me?’ Tor asked.

Relief turned to laughter but the arrival of the Virtuous Maiden brought back all of the tension.

‘You two seem to be hogging one another today, don’t you?’ Xantia’s voice was laced with hatred, or so it sounded to Alyssa who knew her well. She wondered again at how their friendship had come to this and in such a short time.

‘Hello, Xantia. Having a good time?’ Tor was all politeness.

‘You promised me a dance, Mr Pig.’ She emphasised her last word so it sounded as an insult.

‘You two go ahead. I’m exhausted anyway and in search of cool water,’ Alyssa offered.

She was surprised that Tor made no protest.

‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Alyssa, this young maiden cannot be refused,’ he said, turning on his charm.

Alyssa watched Xantia’s eyes widen behind the mask; it was as though she could hardly believe what she was hearing. Suddenly she was girlish and coy. Alyssa turned away so as not to say anything she may regret.

‘Why, Tor,’ Xantia cooed, ‘I’d be delighted.’

‘The pleasure is truly mine. Meet me by that bonfire,’ he said sweetly and pointed towards the largest fire outside the gates. ‘I must fetch my trusted guide a cup of water and I’ll be with you in a moment. Be quick, don’t miss our position. I love to be at the front of the Cleffyngo, don’t you?’

Xantia’s mask gave away nothing but her eyes narrowed behind it. ‘I do. You will come straightaway then?’

‘I promise. Chivalry calls, though. My King would be disappointed if I showed anything less towards Alyssa.’

There was nothing Xantia could do but head towards the gates. The second she turned her tall, slim shoulders in their direction Tor gripped Alyssa’s
elbow and forced her to sit on an old tree stump, conveniently in the shadows.

‘Wait here,’ he said urgently and ran off towards the long tables where pitchers of water were regularly replenished from the Academie’s well.

He returned swiftly and handed Alyssa a cup. Before she realised what he was doing, he had pulled off her mask and touched her forehead. Immediately a familiar, almost unbearable rush of colours, sounds and smells came to her. He had removed the archalyt disc and dropped her mask back down before she could say anything. No one had noticed, he had been so deft and had deliberately blocked anyone’s view with his broad body.

Alyssa felt the welcome, gentle slice of Tor’s link.

Now, isn’t that better?
he said walking away without looking back at her.
No one will suspect anything as your mask covers the truth. Behave normally and keep the link open. I need to be able to speak to you from now on.

Hurry up and get that dance done,
she replied.
And remember who you’re promised to.

Her lightness of heart was short-lived; she caught her first sight of purple silk. It was not Goth but it meant he was not far away.

I see it,
Tor said, hoping to calm her.
Goth is not here. You must remain steady, my love. You will draw more attention if you do not act normally.

Alyssa watched as he took Xantia in his arms and said something to her which obviously made her laugh for the maiden’s head flipped back coquettishly.
Then the thunderous beat of the Cleffyngo began. Alyssa rejoiced that it was too loud for conversation between dancers and within a moment Tor’s voice was back in her mind.

Whilst I keep Xantia happy, make any excuse you have to go to the crypt. Go fast. Beneath the stone where you found the books is a new mask. No one knows about it. Do it now.

She wasted not a moment but Elder Iris caught her hurrying into the Academie. Alyssa’s expression turned to one of terror beneath the safety of her fox guise.

‘Is that you, Alyssa my dear? It is. What are you hurrying for, child? Our ceremony begins in a few minutes.’

Alyssa thought fast and steadied her voice. ‘I know, Elder Iris. That’s why I’m hurrying. This fox mask has something sharp inside which is hurting me. I thought I might see if I could adjust it a little but I know we mustn’t take them off during the Festival so I thought I’d better do it in my room.’

The woman nodded. ‘Be quick then.’ The Chief Elder could not think anything bad about Alyssa and it would never occur to her to question the acolyte’s integrity. She moved on and Alyssa ran for her life.

In the crypt she was amazed to find the mask of a ghoul with a wig cunningly attached. She was impressed that Tor had not selected raven hair which would be the obvious disguise for her bright, fair hair. Instead the wig was crafted from the dullest of light browns; completely unspectacular
and cropped without any regard for vanity. His note told her to tie up her own hair and fasten it tightly to the back of her head with the clips he had supplied. She found a new crimson robe which he told her to ensure she wore. It swamped her petite frame but this was deliberate on Tor’s part and he insisted she tie the garter very loosely. To complete the hideous ensemble he had provided boots with an amazingly tall heel. She had never seen boots like this before and when she pulled them on, apart from finding them uncomfortably tight, she was sure she would be unable to take more than two steps in them.

Are you ready?
he boomed into her head.
I’m feeling dizzy from twirling Xantia around this wretched fire!

What are you thinking about, Tor, with all of this?

Your beautiful head still attached to your slim neck and resting against my shoulder, at which time I shall kiss it and be glad that you are safe.

I can’t walk in these things.

You will walk in them and you must promise me to do it confidently. Remember, Goth is looking for a small, slim, golden-haired woman. You will be a saggy, overly tall ghoul with dun-coloured hair, which is real, by the way. I paid a fortune for it!

His humour helped but only a little. Her palms, no longer just moist, felt permanently damp. She stuffed all the unwanted things back into the hole and managed to cover them with the stone. Where she found the strength she would never know but put it
down to extreme anxiety. As she teetered off towards the crypt stairs, she wondered how in Light’s name she was going to carry off this bizarre disguise.

Tor had just finished telling Xantia what an extraordinarily fine dancer of the Cleffyngo she was when Cloot sliced open a link.

Goth is about to arrive.

Tor could tell Cloot was nervous. His plan was simple but audacious and even his loyal falcon was questioning his sanity.

He went through the checklist in his mind.
Is Saxon ready?

As ready as he’s ever going to be. Sorrel is with him. So is a donkey.

Tor was making polite sounds about fetching Xantia a cup of wine. He stopped when he heard the last part of Cloot’s message.

A donkey?

Yes, you know—long ears, strange beast, not quite a horse, makes an odd braying sound.

Tor bristled. This was not a good time for Cloot’s sarcasm.

‘Xantia, allow me to fetch you a glass.’ Without waiting for her reply, he stalked off.
I know what a donkey is,
he snarled across the link.
What is he doing with a donkey? It will slow us up.

Search me. I’m not sure you’ve noticed this, Tor, but Saxon’s a strange fellow. Perhaps the donkey’s
important to him and at this stage of your precarious, dangerously underplanned plan, I think it’s the very least of our worries, don’t you?
Cloot snapped closed the link.