The wooden mask sat heavy on Tobia’s face. It was shaped like a wolf’s muzzle, with intricate details lovingly carved and painted on its worn surface in decorative geometries that evoked snowflakes. On its forehead sat an outburst of faded holly berries crowned in spiky leaves. Marion had fished it out from somewhere in her hoard, saying she’d found it ages ago, half-buried in the snow somewhere in the nearby forest, and refusing to elaborate any further. Which meant Tobia currently had three reasons to fear for his life.
One, he had no idea if Marion would kill him on the spot in case anything were to befall an object valuable enough to her she’d stashed it away in her hoard. Two, he was wearing something that might or might not be haunted by the vengeful ghost of someone who had died in a blizzard on their way to the festival, as far as he knew. Three, he, a wanted man, was headed toward the town, the place currently crawling with guards like some sort of malicious anthill.
His discomfort must have shown in his posture, because Lux bumped into his side with what looked like a hip-check they were too short to properly enact. Tobia couldn’t see what kind of face they were making underneath their bird-shaped mask, but there was palpable excitement peppering their voice when they spoke.
“You’ll tire yourself out before we even get to the library if you keep worrying like that,” they said, scampering ahead with a skip of their feet. How they managed not to slip on the half-melted sludge that covered the road Tobia couldn’t fathom; he was far too busy trying to keep upright in his too-fancy boots to marvel at Lux’s low center of gravity.
“I told you,” Lux continued, with their arms thrust outwardly as they skidded forward, “the whole place is going to be packed to the brim. No one’s going to spare you a second glance.”
“I think,” Marion said, “at least some of the people on this fool’s errand should retain a sense of what’s at stake here.” She sounded like her usual sensible self, the person he’d gotten used to in the few days he’d spent in her company, but Tobia thought he could see the hint of a spring in her step. She walked holding her head high, as if she knew how good her dragon mask would look with the light dancing on the gold-leaf details that adorned it. Truth be told, she stood out against the backdrop of the gentle, snow-covered slope like a beacon, stark against the white and green of the trees that lined the road.
“Precisely, yes,” Tobia said in her direction. “Thank you, Marion.”
She nodded his way, while Lux scoffed. The two of them spent the rest of the walk down to the valley floor explaining the details of the festival to Tobia, with Lux chattering away in the satisfied tone of someone used to a far less receptive audience. Apparently it used to be a ritual gathering to give thanks for the feather that kept the surrounding area alive with its warmth, but it had long since evolved into an excuse to come together and let loose. The mere idea of people celebrating the Apostate, even just one of her feathers, felt foreign, almost dizzying to Tobia.
The King would never approve of anything of the sort within the confines of the city, even though they had her cape to thank for the mild weather that graced them all year round. Whitewick had ears, and talking about the Heretic Flame could get you people knocking on your door. Best case scenario, just some guards asking questions. Worst case scenario, a Favorite. No one wished for a close encounter with Old Times magic, so people kept their mouths shut.
“Official celebrations in Whitewick are much more formal,” Tobia said, for lack of anything that wouldn’t come out as snooty and obnoxious. He’d seen how Lux’s golden eyes hardened when Tobia talked about life in the capital. It was an understandable sentiment, something he was trying his hardest not to step on. He thought about adding the city still had the best mulled wine—his own awkward attempt at a joke—but the words died in his throat when his gaze caught the walled perimeter of the town.
Guards stood in pairs at each side of the tall, unforgiving iron gate, sporting masks themselves. Tobia guessed they must have been locals, rather than a dispatch from Whitewick. The thought brought him a modicum of relief, though not much.
“Follow our lead and try to keep quiet,” Marion whispered in his ear as they approached the gate. She snaked her arm around his, mindful of their capes, while Lux flanked his other side.
As they approached the gate, the guards looked up at them. Tobia’s breath caught in his throat. He felt queasy and ready to bolt, but Marion and Lux’s presence steadied him. Greetings were exchanged and one of the soldiers, who had been slouching against the wall with a relaxed posture, heaved himself up right.
“We won’t tolerate any funny business this year, child,” he told Lux in the deep, gravely voice of an older person. “Understood?”
Tobia had no idea what that meant, nor did he have any inclination to find out. For all he knew, Lux could have tried to set the temple on fire with unauthorized pyrotechnics; he wouldn’t put it past them.
We’re just going to the library, he told himself for the umpteenth time, half-heartedly. At the very least, the air inside the town was far warmer than the outside, or even the village. It couldn’t compare to the weather in Whitewick, with its balmy, fragrant breeze gently washing over it, but Tobia saw smatterings of flowers hanging from some balconies, as well as a few trees in bloom. The atmosphere, mixed with the festive chaos that seemed to pervade the narrow streets packed with people, managed to calm him down a little.
This was a peaceful town, celebrating a peaceful festival. No one had a sniper rifle secretly trained to Tobia’s head; these people most likely didn’t even know what a sniper rifle was. Relics from the Old Times were confiscated the moment someone reported them, after all.
By the time they’d made it to their destination, he almost felt hopeful about what Marion had defined a fool’s errand.
The library was a tall, brown-ish building with arched wide windows to let the light in. It was built in a style that reminded Tobia of home, just like everything else in the town. The inside felt cozier than the castle library though, less pompous: the pavement was rich, brown wood paneling that softened the sound of their steps, the shelves glistened in the sun as the rays caught on their polished surface. Flecks of dust danced in the air, as if in tune with the muffled cheer of the festival that wafted in from the streets.
An avian woman sitting at the front desk smiled at them; her mask was resting on the desk close to her folded hands but, much to Tobia’s relief, she didn’t demand they take theirs off. “Call me if you need help with anything,” was all she said, smiling at Marion’s polite thanks.
Maybe out of sheer paranoia, Tobia had been expecting something big to happen. Instead, Lux sat him in front of a huge, leathery tome with the letters K-P engraved in gold paint on its spine. The pages made a crinkly sound when Marion opened it to what Tobia realized was the index of all books about ley lines the library had to offer. They’d put him on directory duty.
“Oh, there’s a few,” Lux said, peering over his shoulder. “I was expecting, like, maybe one.”
Ignoring their quip, Marion eyed Tobia over. “You okay with us wandering off to find these?” she asked.
“I can help,” he said, in what he hoped didn’t sound like petulant feet-stomping. “I’ve spent way too many afternoons making my way through the whole castle library collection, looking for whatever obscure, half-faded manuscripts my father needed. This is kind of my bread and butter. Especially if the books here are recent enough to, um, still retain ink.”
From behind her mask, Marion heaved a sigh. “Just don’t get lost, then,” she said with a shake of her head. “And try to keep to yourself.”
In the end, they split up on the condition they’d reconvene at the table by the next half hour. Tobia felt a pang of selfishness as he walked past rows of shelves, but he couldn’t deny it was refreshing to finally be by himself again. The undisturbed quiet of the place started to seep through him, chipping away at the knot of fear that he still held in his chest. Everyone in the village had been far too generous, especially given what they were risking sheltering fugitives, but Tobia needed a break from the constant company. If only to get his bearings after everything that had happened.
It might have been because of the soothing effect of the library that he didn’t notice something was wrong until a searing pain shot from his side all the way to his brain, like an ear-splitting scream. Tobia clutched his head with a strangled moan as his knees gave up from underneath him; there was a loud, ringing sound echoing around him, like struck metal.
“Woah, careful there!” someone said from above. For the briefest moment, he thought the voice sounded like metal too, coming from somewhere inside his mind.
Then, just like it had come, the pain dissipated. The ringing ceased, as if a hand had clamped around the tuning fork rattling about in his brain.
Tobia realized he was kneeling on the floor, half-slumped against one of the shelves and still cradling his head. Crouched in front of him was someone wearing a mask with stylized humanoid features and a mane of straw that had been dyed the same lilac as their cape.
“Are you all right?” the person asked. They pushed their mask up with a grunt, revealing the soft face of a child that couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen. Their wavy hair was pure white, like tufts of clouds. Feeling a little slow on the uptake, Tobia realized he had a young faerie in front of him.
“I…” He tried to speak, but his voice crumpled into a coughing fit instead.
The child started rummaging through their bag, then they handed him a flask. “Water,” they explained, holding the flask up to his face with an encouraging smile. “You’ll feel better if you drink some.”
Tobia hesitated. On one hand, taking his mask off was a bad idea: no matter how few people were around to potentially recognize him, he was still a wanted man. On the other hand, the faerie looked so innocent, just old enough to wander around without adult supervision. Their brown eyes held a confused sort of curiosity as they flickered from the flask, to Tobia’s hands, back to the flask. The possibility that they would know anything about him was laughable, nothing more than a product of his own paranoia. Tobia refused to let fear dictate his every action.
He pushed his mask up, mustering a smile for the child. “Thank you,” he said.
The child’s eyes narrowed in two slits. They watched Tobia take a swig from the flask as they reached for something behind their back. “No, thank you,” they said in a sweet, lilting tone.
Trained to Tobia’s head was the barrel of a pistol, glowing with magical energy.
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