Before The Mask Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.