The Deadly Mask: Oblivion, #1

By Joanne Faggian

  In a world of masks, the truth is hidden. An Assistant Cartographer for the King of Sedün lives in fear his tainted origins will be discovered. A young Maiden — glamorous with her mask of pearl and delicate briar roses — must marry an old man to save her family. A slave plots to free his people after centuries of enslavement.

  The forgotten history resurfaces when invaders attack the Kingdom of Sedün. Mythical creatures descend on the capital city of Tole'Mer, abducting its people. In the Palace, the Cartographer and the Maiden are the only Sedünen to survive.

  Fleeing the chaos, the former slaves use new gifts to defend themselves against the invaders. They save the young Sedünen: asking in return that the Cartographer draw maps to guide them safely out of the city.

  The Maiden and the Cartographer continue north alone, finally finding other survivors of their kind, yet hounded ever further into the wilderness. Until one day they rescue a mighty warrior — who they discover is not human, but a mysterious stone heart.

  The warrior reluctantly escorts them to Akreseil Keep, hidden high in the mountains. Their arrival is bittersweet: they have returned to civilisation, yet the Sedünen are refugees in a strange land. And the enemy is coming.

  As the Akritai warriors prepare for war, the Sedünen explore the ancient Keep, finally discovering the horrendous truth behind the beautiful masks of Sedün.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joanne Faggian
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393950912

Book preview

cover-image, The Deadly Mask

The Deadly Mask

© Joanne Faggian 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced or modified in any form, including

photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the author.

Cover art: Mia Pensa.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Prologue

'Un camino peligroso,

viajando sin saber el final.

Los pieds de exploradores:

les llevan siempre a lugares desconocidos.'

The Lay of Ironhand, the Book of the Blessed, AS12.

Chapter One

The Cartographer

The imposter slunk away from the Palace at midnight. He descended past elegant shopfronts, manors and garden spaces filled with bubbling fountains. Beyond the tree-lined King’s Avenue, the roads narrowed into gloomy laneways. Here trash rustled underfoot and smoke-stained buildings loomed menacingly.

In the slums of Tole’Mer, Marcel became anonymous. He stopped slouching, straightened to his full height and swung his arms loosely as though ready to fight those who watched from the shadows. He had to pretend to be strong, the watchers only picked on the vulnerable and weak.

In the filtered light of the gold moon, the smallest citizens of Tole’Mer went about their nightly business. Seagulls flapped like wind-swept handkerchiefs above the decaying roofs, while far below, the city’s rats scurried haphazardly — their red eyes sparkling like rubies among the piles of gilded waste.

Anarchy defined the architecture in this part of the city in a blatant disregard of right angles and straight lines: women in lurid pink masks leaned out from wonky balconies, while others of unknown intent lurked in crooked doorways. He walked past quickly: it would be wise to take a different route back to the Palace.

He tasted the tangy salt air as he crossed the last narrow thoroughfare. Far below, the River Melrovin lapped against wooden piers that supported a jumble of houses clinging to the riverbank. Marcel climbed down rickety wooden steps and past several crumbling dwellings. The steps ended before a weathered door, on a small landing jutting out over the water.

Marcel waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark inside. The fire had gone out, but at least the room still retained its warmth.

Across the room, his mother lay on her small bed. A sliver of light from the gold moon reflected on the metal mask that covered the upper half of her face. Shadowed by the mask, her eyes were black pools. Marcel remembered the metal had once been painted pale green with vibrant orange flowers scrolling around the edges. But the paint had worn off over time, revealing the dull grey material of the mask. In the moonlight, though, the mask shone with liquid gold, as though illuminated from within.

With a few steps, Marcel arrived at her bed, gently touching her shoulder.

'Mother,' he said. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Aye, I’ve been waiting for you. I must have dozed off. How are you?’

‘I am fine. I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night.’

‘You have your work. Your father would be so proud you are following in his footsteps. Light the fire for me, son, so I may see you better.’

Marcel unloaded wood he’d brought with him in his back sack and started a fire in the little hearth.

‘There, and you have enough wood to get by for the next day.’ 

Marcel brushed his hands and sat on the small trundle bed, taking her hand.

‘Thank you, I like the warmth.’

‘Has Jeb been bringing you food and checking in on you regularly?’

‘Aye,’ she sighed, resigned. ‘When he’s not too busy being drunk.’

Jeb was an old widower who lived in the next house up; a scavenger, like most of those who lived on the banks of the River Melrovin.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, son. I was worried. I hadn’t seen you for days.’

‘You know how difficult it is for me to get away,’ he said, trying not to feel guilty. ‘Work has been busy. The King asked my Master to re-draw a map of Sedün. But the Master has asked me to do it. It’s odd, I know this should be such an honour, but the Master keeps looking over my shoulder. Like he’s looking for mistakes.’

‘You’ll be fine, you have your father’s rare gift.’

Marcel wasn’t so sure he’d be fine. If the King was displeased, he would literally lose his head — executions were a favourite pastime in the Kingdom of Sedün.

His mother smiled at him.

‘I’m just glad you’re here now, son.’

‘Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? I’ve brought you some food.’

‘Thank you, my darling. Don’t worry about me, I’d rather know that you’re well fed.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said laughing. ‘The Velacroise bring me huge meals — there’s plenty left over for you.’

His mother coughed. Her eyes glinted feverishly from within the mask.

‘I hope you treat your Velacroise well. The poor creatures suffer greatly.’

She believed that the slaves were ill-treated.

‘No, Mother,’ Marcel said, trying to remain calm. ‘The Velacroise look after all the artisans in the Palace. It frees us up to do our work.’

‘Yet they can’t even walk properly, because of the shackles they wear. How is it acceptable to God we treat creatures in his own image like animals?’ 

‘Mother, you’re working yourself up about this. You know this won’t ever change.’

She coughed violently, falling back on the pillow he’d placed there. He stroked her forehead gently, exasperated and fond in equal measure.

His mother seemed worse than before. She had no family and his father had left when he was a baby. His father’s family was a different story. They were wealthy and powerful Hedese, an aristocratic family that had served the Crown for centuries. His Grandfather had disowned his parents because his mother was a Renderen — a low born, who lived a pitiful existence foraging for mud crabs on the banks of the River Melrovin. But his mother had desired a better future for her son. So, she had begged her husband’s father take Marcel to live with him. His Grandfather had agreed, taking Marcel away from his mother when he was seven. Marcel went to live in a manor house, with Velacroise servants answering to his every need and lessons from the best tutors in Sedün. Meanwhile, to disguise Marcel was born of an illegal union —  the law banned aristocratic Hedese from marrying low-caste Renderen — his Grandfather said his mother had died in childbirth. Expanding on this deception, the official story was Marcel’s mother had been a Hedese from neighbouring Illunya, who his father had met on his travels.

This lie ate away at him: stealing his sleep and disturbing his concentration. Three years ago, when he’d come to live at the Palace as a teenager, he’d sought out his mother. He hadn’t seen her since he’d left to live with his Grandfather — yet somehow he’d found his way back home through the twisting laneways of the river slums. The joy of being reunited with his mother was marred by the discovery she was ill, yet Marcel was determined to look after her. His plan was to complete his apprenticeship and become a full-fledged Cartographer for the King of Sedün, or one of the Dukes. It was his only option, since his Grandfather had recently died and left the entire family Estate to his eldest male cousin. Fortunately, Marcel retained his title and Hedese ranking as a Royal Cartographer. From this, Marcel was sure he would earn enough to buy a comfortable cottage in the country for his mother.

'Your father was special,’ his mother said suddenly. ‘He had a different way of looking at things.'

Marcel caught his breath. His mother was usually reluctant to talk about his father.

'What do you mean by that?’

‘He liked my company — he didn’t care that I am Renderen. He saw me as his equal. He loved me, too; he believed we could be together. That’s why he left. He wanted to find us a better life.'

This was made no sense. Even had his father hoped to be with her, there was no escaping that their marriage was forbidden. He’d learnt about this as a child, when his Grandfather had beat him bloody because he’d asked to see his mother.

Interrupting Marcel’s thoughts, his mother reached out and gripped his hand.

‘You are so like your father. You see the world as it should be.’

He nodded, but didn’t understand. His mother used to say similar things when he was young. These were odd remnants of a happy childhood — one largely displaced by years of intense study and fear of his Grandfather.

Marcel propped her up so she could watch while he warmed the stew he’d brought. She savoured each mouthful, stopping to breathe in the aroma and throw him grateful glances. He vowed to be back in two nights, rather than three. She might deny it but his mother needed him. Marcel did pay Jed to bring her food and water, but he suspected the old vagabond pocketed some of the money to buy more alcohol.

****************

Towards morning, Marcel left the slums and ran back to the Palace. His lungs felt like they were on fire; he didn’t usually do much exercise. After he’d crossed the King’s Avenue into the trader’s district he slowed to a walk, gasping for breath.

Here the streets were empty under canvas awnings; the shops barred and doors bolted closed. Yet above, the city stirred. Second-story windows opened; welcoming in a breeze that teased at clothes hung out to dry on balcony railings. From inside came the sounds of mothers soothing children; men cursing the workday’s early start; and crockery clunking onto tables for the first meal of the day.

The Fall air was still balmy, but Tole’Mer never really got cold.

Marcel entered the Upper Hedese district, a peaceful place of stately gardens and large porticoed buildings. He couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that he didn’t belong. If not for his father, he would never have dreamed he’d be walking along these clean and manicured streets. Renderen in Tole’Mer didn’t usually stray far from the trade and manufacturing districts, or their homes along the River Melrovin.

Nearing the Palace, Marcel’s gaze was drawn up the fortified walls. High above, the black walls cut across a purple and gold pre-dawn sky.

The Palace was built was on the apex of a hill. From here, one could look out over the silvery expanse of Tole’Mer’s harbor. Along the edge of the harbor, tiny Dockers loaded sea-going vessels moored along old stone wharves. Inland, the tidal river Melrovin meandered between hills, curling and curving until it disappeared from sight.

Marcel idly ran his hand along the weathered stones. The ancient structure had been built to protect the aristocratic Hedese families from the Kingdom’s slaves, the Velacroise. The slaves were quiet now; had been for centuries. After the last failed rebellion the Hedese had bred only the most docile Velacroise slaves to eliminate any aggression.

The trades’ gate was still open. Two sleepy looking guards recognised him and nodded lazily as he passed. Possibly they thought Marcel had been out courting a lady, which was a ridiculous notion. Girls didn’t talk to boys, unless they were related or promised in marriage. Marcel had never even properly spoken to a girl, other than polite chit chat to his Hedese cousins at formal occasions. But they were always disdainful. He’d decided he didn’t want a wife, girls seemed to be such vapid creatures.

The fading light of the gold moon glinted on the guard’s silver jacket buttons and spear tips. The soldiers were purely ceremonial. There was no crime in Tole’Mer — everyone in the city feared the Legislators, who prowled the city like sinister black crows looking for lawbreakers to punish.

The Palace was a maze of ancient stone buildings, randomly connected by grand corridors and porticos. It was believed to be thousands of years old, although no one really knew for sure. The Kings of Sedün had ruled from the Palace of Tole’Mer for seven centuries. Before that, history was the stuff of fairy tales. Marcel remembered listening to such stories when he was little. His mother was a wonderful storyteller; he had snuggled up to her while she told mythical tales about black giants and evil elves that roamed the land, looking for naughty children and stealing them from their beds. He had made sure to be good.

Marcel moved quickly through the Palace. When four figures emerged from under the broad eaves of a portico he kept a steady pace, as though nothing was amiss. Soon enough he could see it was only two guards, escorting Maidens of the Hand. Marcel averted his eyes as they passed, catching a glimpse of their pearlescent masks. The Maidens ignored him and continued on, talking quietly to each other. Their guards – grumpy at being made to go anywhere so early – didn’t pay him any attention.

Nightingales trilled their dawn song as he rounded a final corner. He stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door and detecting nothing out of the ordinary, slipped inside. He paused until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Dust motes danced in the cool pre-dawn light from a high circular window. His workstation seemed untouched; everything was in its place. Bundles of reed paper were stretched out under heavy weights, ready for copying. Rulers, styluses and ink bottles stood in careful order. His current work — a commission from the King of a map showing new Duchy borders — covered half the table. The intricate drawings, insignias and Duchy shields were mostly done; some were awaiting final colors that he had yet to mix.

Marcel had been procrastinating on finishing the last of the new boundaries. He’d already drawn the rivers, towns, castles, swamps, sea, forests and mountain range that would define the changed boundaries. He peered again at the list of changes he’d received from the Master, trying to compare it with the topography, the features of the land. But everything swam before his eyes.

He wondering anew why he’d been given the Duchy map revision. Surely he was too inexperienced. What if he failed? Displeasing the King meant having your head cut off — something he was very keen to avoid.

To wake himself up, he splashed icy water on his face from the clay pitcher. Marcel removed the metal nib from its cleansing solution and dipped it in the rare indigo ink he’d procured at an exorbitant price — quality shouldn’t be compromised on a map for the King.

His hand moved unerringly over the thin skin of the parchment, tracing the course of a river he’d sketched earlier. The ink flowed like water under his sure guidance, every curve perfect as the original. Rivers finished, Marcel paused to review the list of landmarks that were to be used as markers for the boundaries. This new map revised a much older map of the Kingdom of Sedün — increasing the size of some Duchies, while significantly reducing others.

Marcel had no idea why the Duchy boundaries had changed. Nor did he care. The politics of Kings and Dukes were beyond him; he had no interest in understanding their world. He simply did as he was told.

After a while his head started to ache. Marcel decided he had time for a quick nap; he’d just nodded off when there was a knock. He lurched to his feet, fearful it was his Master coming back to check on his progress.

‘Come in,’ he croaked.

The door opened cautiously. A tall slave shuffled in, light brown hair hanging forward to cover its face. The slave, a Velacroise, was carrying a plate of food. By the Blessed Shores, was it lunchtime already? The delicious smell reminded him he was hungry. He’d requested Velacroise slaves bring his meals to his room otherwise he’d literally forget to eat.

When he’d gone to live with his Grandfather, Marcel had adjusted to Velacroise slaves doing everything for him. And after he’d graduated to Assistant Cartographer, he’d been assigned Velacroise to clean his room and bring him food. He was so used to them he barely even noticed the gentle clink of the metal chains that bound their ankles.

Marcel squinted at the Velacroise.

This Velacroise looked suspiciously like the one he’d found intently studying one of his maps yesterday.

Marcel had told him to leave and never return. And yet, here he was again.

The Velacroise race were tall and strikingly fair, with sea-coloured eyes and golden hair. They towered over the small and dark-skinned Sedünen. This Velacroise, however, had light olive skin and brown hair — closer to the swarthy colouring of Marcel’s people.

The slave laid out his food on the one clear corner of the table. The long muscular arms bore evidence of hard physical work. Typical of his kind, it had a long thin nose and high forehead above large, luminous eyes. The slave stumbled and Marcel instinctively lurched forward, ready to save precious ink bottles from being knocked over. As he did so, he saw that the chain and shackles binding the slave’s ankles were missing. Instead, the Velacroise’s ankles were covered with scabs and bloody sores.

Marcel blinked, thinking he was seeing things.

‘Slave, where are your chains?’ He hated that he sounded scared.

The Velacroise stopped what it was doing and turned around slowly.

Granite coloured eyes assessed him coolly from a great height, over a short distance.

Unnerved, Marcel edged towards the door.

‘Where are your shackles?’

This came out as more of a squeak.

The Velacroise didn’t answer for what seemed the longest time.

‘They were taken off for repair... Sir.’

The Velacroise was lying to him. Shackles should never be removed: they helped keep the slaves obedient. Had done so for centuries. An unchained slave was dangerous.

Marcel knew he should escort the slave immediately to the Slave Master, but part of him felt repelled by the idea. The slave stared at him in fear.

‘You are lying,’ he said. ‘Slaves would never be allowed to walk so freely. For the third and final time, where are your shackles?’

The slave blinked its large dark grey eyes.

‘They… came off.’

The tall Velacroise was a formidable figure, but Marcel felt fear giving way to anger. The creature was hiding something.

‘And yet you walk freely within the Palace? What’s your name?’

‘Danton.’

‘We will go now to Slave Master to confirm this matter.’

The slave’s olive skin paled further.

‘I beg you, Sir, please do not.’

Unable to help himself, Marcel glanced down at the wounds on the creature’s ankles.

‘Please Sir, the chains were removed so my wounds can heal. They’re still so painful. The Slave Master does not care.’

‘The chains will be restored when your wounds heal?’

‘Yes, Sir. In a few days.’

Marcel wanted to believe the slave. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was speak with the Slave Master, who skulked about the Palace like an evil spirit. Also, the Magister upheld Sedünen law. And Marcel feared the Magister would somehow recognise him as a fraud.

‘Please Sir,’ the slave said, holding his head a fraction higher. ‘I give you my word.’

Trusting this Velacroise would be an additional risk. One he couldn’t  really afford. But somehow the slave reminded Marcel of himself: they were both living on a sharp knife’s edge – one slip and the cut could kill.

He’d so often heard how the Velacroise were less than human. The Priests said the Velacroise had only themselves to blame for being slaves. It was their punishment for worshiping false gods.

Yet, even knowing this, Marcel paused. His mother’s words echoed in his mind. He reached for the small stunner weapon he habitually carried in his belt pocket — he’d nearly forgotten he had it. He drew the weapon out, so the Velacroise could see he was still in control of the situation.

‘Prove it. Prove you will do as you say.’

The slave’s eyes narrowed, considering.

‘My word is my word. But know this: you are in danger,’ the Velacroise said. ‘We hear and see things in the Palace. Someone means you harm. Let me go and I will find out who.’

Someone knew his secret? He swallowed nervously.

‘Very well. But you must report back to me within three moon cycles. After this, if you are still unshackled, I will report you to the Slave Master.’

The Velacroise nodded.

'Thank you, Marcel. You have my gratitude.’

How did the creature know his name? There could be truth to what the Velacroise said.

‘Be sure you keep your word, Danton. I will keep mine.’

‘Of course.’ The Velacroise was again deferential, as though nothing of significance had transpired. It bowed and turned to leave.

‘And it’s Sir or Master. Do not ever call me by my given name again.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Then the Velacroise was gone, the door clicking closed behind it.

Marcel felt ill. He may have committed a grave sin, but he had no choice.

And what difference was one more illegal act?

  Chapter Two

A New Map

Marcel wolfed down the beef stew and collapsed on the bed, intending to rest his eyes only for a moment. He must have fallen asleep, because a loud banging woke him. He staggered across to the table and leant over the map, just as the door flew open and the Master Cartographer strode in.

Marcel smiled weakly at his Master.

‘Have you been asleep, boy?’

‘Uh, no, this is my usual look.’

‘Well, you look a mess. The pressure must be getting to you.’

The Master’s smile revealed decaying teeth, tiny gravestones in his mouth.

‘No, Sir, I…’

‘Enough of your excuses. Are you finished?’

‘I’m almost there, sir. Please, would you care to look?’

The Master Cartographer approached the desk. His face wore a perpetual scowl that compacted his eyes into tiny black beads. The Master was a wine barrel on legs, topped with a balding head upon which clung greasy wisps of grey hair.

Time passed and the wine barrel said nothing. Marcel began to sweat in anticipation. The Master never had anything good to say about his work.

‘You say you’re almost there, but you are still missing the last two boundary changes!’

‘I…I should have them done by this evening.’

‘See that you do, boy. While you still have a long way to go with articulation of topography, for this purpose it will suffice. You will present the map to the King and the Dukes at a gathering of all of Sedün’s ruling houses tonight.’

‘What?

‘You heard me.’

‘Why... when?’

‘After the dinner bell. I strongly advise that you improve your slovenly appearance.’

‘But, sir...’

‘Go to the East Wing of the castle, the guards there will escort you. I do not know why the King has asked for my lowly assistant to present this map to him. Clearly, it is I who should have been invited,’ the Master said, eyes narrowed to pinpricks, anger radiating from him like heat. ‘Whatever the reason, we expect you to conduct yourself with behaviour becoming of our Guild.’

The Master left, slamming the door behind him so the table reverberated like Marcel’s unsteady legs.

Marcel couldn’t believe it. Why would the King ask for him? By the God, what was happening? Did the King somehow find out his mother was Renderen? He wracked his brain for any other reason. Even if it was nothing, the Master would resent him even more — Marcel knew he was already more skilled that other cartographers. Possibly the Master included.

No time to overthink things. Marcel quickly scrubbed his teeth with charcoal, changed into his best cream wool tunic and brushed his wild hair into some semblance of order.

Then he saw something white on the floor. It was an envelope. Addressed to him.

Someone must have pushed it under the door while he was asleep. Marcel quickly scanned the hand-written note, his stomach sinking even further:

To the Assistant Cartographer to the King’s Master Cartographer,

I know your secret. You have fooled many, but rest assured, you will not escape the King’s wrath when your treason is revealed. And trust me when I say this will be soon.

There was no signature.

The Velacroise had been telling the truth. There was no escape. Someone knew. Marcel thought he would cry but no tears came. For a moment he struggled to breathe, feeling as though he was drowning in air. He steadied himself on the table.

One thing that hadn’t changed was the work he had to do. He rubbed his shaking hands together, re-read his marker notes and carefully sketched the last two boundary lines.

Sometime later there was a knock on the door. He spun round, relieved beyond measure to see it was only Joss.

His friend Joss came from an undistinguished Hedese family. Marcel and Joss had become friends on that first day when they were assigned a bunk bed in the student dorm. In the four years since, they’d done nearly everything together. They had no other friends and were careful to avoid unwanted attention. But being outsiders, they attracted bullies without even