Faces by E.C. Blake Page A

your Gift. What can we not do, together? The Autarch cannot stand against us. No one can.”
    Mara didn’t know how to respond. After everything that had happened, everything her unwanted “Gift” had stolen from her, all the pain and misery it had visited upon her, the possibility that it didn’t have to be like that, that she could satisfy the constant aching desire to draw magic from others without harming herself or them, seemed too much to hope for—too good to be true.
    The Lady withdrew her hand. “Thank about it,” she said. “Walk by yourself for a time, or talk to your friends.” She smiled. “Or to Whiteblaze.”
    Mara looked down at Whiteblaze and the two wolves with the Lady. “And where did
they
come from?” she asked.
    The Lady shrugged. “I drew a half-dozen mated pairs from the wild with magic: the fact they responded to that magical call told me they had at least the beginning of the traits I desired. After that, it was a simple matter of selective breeding . . . and the judicious application of more magic at crucial times in their development.”
    Mara scratched Whiteblaze behind the ears, and his tail wagged. “Thank you for him,” she said softly. “You may have found the nightmares bearable when you were my age, but I do not.”
    The Lady smiled again. “Go on,” she said gently. “I will see you tonight, in my . . . our . . . tent.”
    Mara nodded mutely and slowed her pace to allow the Lady to draw ahead. For a time she toiled along in silence, her mind whirling, but her circling thoughts brought her no closer to deciding whether or not she could trust the Lady. She
wanted
to—oh, how she wanted to. But the guilt and pain and nightmares that had resulted every time
she
had drawn magic from living people, and even, in a strange way, the fact she so much
wanted
to believe there was a way to do so without suffering any of that, spoke against it.
    About an hour after she had dropped back from the Lady, Keltan caught up with her. “You didn’t come down last night,” he said, panting a little. “You promised.”
    â€œI . . . fell asleep,” Mara said. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou could have joined us at breakfast.”
    Mara glanced at him. “I was talking to the Lady.”
    â€œAnd how’d that go?”
    She frowned. She’d thought his flushed face was due to the climb. But there was also something odd about his voice. “Are you
angry
with me?”
    â€œMe? No. Why should I be angry?” Keltan carried a roughly trimmed wooden walking stick. He stabbed it into the snow as if thrusting a spear into the Autarch.
    â€œI don’t know,” Mara said, a little heat rising to her own face. “Why should you?”
    â€œMaybe because I thought we were . . .” He paused. “Together. After the ship. After everything . . .”
    â€œAnd because I chose not to come down to the camp for supper last night, you think that’s changed?” Mara said. She heard the ice in her voice, but she didn’t try to soften it. “I like you a lot, Keltan. And I know you like me. But that doesn’t make me your property.”
    His face turned redder. “I never—” He bit off whatever he’d intended to say. “Never mind.” He jerked his head at the Lady. “So what did the Mysterious Mistress have to say?”
    â€œDon’t call her that.” Mara pulled her cloak closer around her. “She’s earned her name.”
    â€œLady of Pain and Fire? Who would want to earn
that
?”
    Mara jerked her head toward him. “You know nothing about it!”
    â€œAnd you do?”
    Mara stopped. He took two more steps before he realized it, and turned back to face her. “What part of what’s happened in the past few months have you missed,