Just as the dancers lined up for a new set, the horns of the heralds blared across the vast space of the room. The orchestra and conversation fell silent and all motion ceased.
Ah, she thought. Fashionably late.
Figures in black silently slipped into the room from other entrances, even the balconies, unnoticed by guests more focused on the ballroom’s entrance. The Weapons stationed themselves unobtrusively against walls and sank into shadows. To Karigan, their presence was as much an announcement of the king’s arrival as the fanfare of the heralds.
Finally, the king and his betrothed had arrived. Karigan wanted to turn away, to not be interested, but like everyone else in the ballroom, she found her attention riveted to the top of the stairs, awaiting the entrance of the royal couple.
REFLECTED
Neff the herald stepped forward on the top landing of the stairs and bellowed, “I present to you His Highness, King Zachary, lord and clan chief of Hillander Province and high king of the twelve provinces, leader of the clans of Sacor and bearer of the firebrand, supplicant to the gods only, and his betrothed, Lady Estora of Coutre Province, first daughter of Lord and Lady Coutre.”
As Neff went on to announce other members of the entourage, including Estora’s sisters, assorted cousins, and various dignitaries, Karigan’s attention was drawn only to the two foremost figures of the king and his queen-to-be standing on the landing.
Estora was stunning. She always was. She wore silks of aqua and sea green, white ruffles flowing just beneath the hem of her skirts like the foam of waves. Teardrop gems sewn into her costume and woven into her hair sparkled like the sun on the water. She held a stick mask of ocean colors to her face, beaded so it too rippled in the light.
Someone near Karigan whispered, “She’s perfect.”
“Like a goddess of the sea,” someone else said.
Karigan could not disagree.
The king held Lady Estora’s hand as they slowly descended the stairs. The king was dressed in a deeper green, his longcoat of rich velvet, his waistcoat silvery gray. He wore a helm mask that was the fierce visage of a dragon, wings outstretched, its green enameled details shimmering with reptilian iridescence. He presented a brooding, mysterious figure, and even at a distance Karigan could sense his restrained power.
For a moment, she fantasized it was her hand he held, that it was she walking beside him, but when the couple reached the ballroom floor and the gathered guests bowed and curtsied to them, someone whispered behind her: “Do you smell something?”
The question was followed by loud snuffling, then a reply: “Yes. Something ... musty.”
Karigan’s dream evaporated. She was no queen, just a mildewed parody of one.
The guests parted so King Zachary and Lady Estora could approach the dance floor. They came so close Karigan could have reached out and touched them. She could smell the lavender scent of Lady Estora, catch the smiles the two shared with each other and no one else.
Karigan bowed her head as they passed, just one more supplicant among the many.
When King Zachary and Lady Estora reached the center of the dance floor, he placed one hand on her waist and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their leading hands were raised with palms pressed together. He said something, and she laughed in response. With a flourish the orchestra started playing again and the two flowed into a dance, gliding around the floor as if they’d always been meant to be a pair, her delicate beauty to his strength, one piece of a puzzle to match the other.
Karigan ached to be the one in the king’s arms, to be the one moving in such synchrony with him, to be holding his attention as Estora did.
I am nothing compared to her, Karigan thought, feeling ashamed of her Queen Oddacious costume and, in a rare moment of her life, actually regretted her commoner status. He deserves Estora, not me. She is a true queen.
As others entered the dance floor, Karigan tore her gaze away. She had to stop. She had to stop the dreams, the fantasies, the regrets. They only brought her pain. She and Zachary, King Zachary, were something that could never be.
Karigan resolved to push aside the pain. She would do so by giving her full attention to the food tables, though her appetite had deserted her. She turned away from the dance floor, and in her haste almost stumbled right into one of the tumblers. He was garbed in a black form-fitting costume. When she looked into his mask she caught her breath and fell back, for it was her own features that returned her gaze. The mask was a mirror, crafted of highly polished silver and formed into an oval bowl fitted over the tumbler’s face. It lacked openings for eyes, mouth, and even his nose, presenting an inhuman countenance stranger than any other she had seen this night.
The mask’s convex shape warped her reflection, and viewed this way, Queen Oddacious indeed appeared mad.
Disquieted, Karigan averted her gaze. “Excuse me,” she murmured, but when she tried to step around the tumbler, he was again in her path and she was forced abruptly to look at her reflection.
But not the same reflection.
It had altered, changed, so that she was no longer Queen Oddacious, but herself unmasked, without wig or costume, her own face staring back at her.
What? What is ... She wanted to run away, escape the strangeness of it, but could not, as if some spell held her fast, and she shuddered for she was not unacquainted with the power of mirrors.
Clouds roiled in the eyes of her reflection as if she watched the sky. Then something else appeared there mirrored in her eyes, a flight of arrows, metal tips gleaming, as they sloped toward her in a deadly arc.
Her reflection in the mask did not move, did not waver.
Waited.
THE LOOKING MASK
Karigan’s awareness of the ball fell away; the music, the chatter, became a drone in the back of her mind. The mirror mask held her captive under its spell.
But before she could see the outcome of those arrows on their deadly course, the mirror changed, darkened. It was like peering into the blackness of night, her reflection gone. Then slowly, her eyes adjusted as if she really were in the thick of night, and she began to perceive subtle changes, shapes and shading.
The texture of bark stained by rot. A burl protruded from a tree like a fist and her vision narrowed on it. The burl resembled a face, a face seeping red ocher. What was this? Where was it?
The scene expanded revealing an entire grove of similar trees, some with burls knotting their girths, some without, all afflicted with rot, gloom held captive beneath immense, spreading limbs, a mist ghosting among the trunks.
It could only be Blackveil, haunting her before she even set foot within its treacherous bounds.
The vision went up in flames.
Languid, flickering flames.
It was like gazing into a campfire, but through the blaze she saw another face. The face of an elderly woman, bags beneath her eyes, pallid cheeks gaunt, tendrils of gray hair falling over her forehead, which was beaded with sweat. Karigan knew her immediately: Grandmother. The leader of the former Sacor City sect of Second Empire. Like the previous vision, it was impossible to know whether this was past, present, or future, but it was as if the old woman looked directly at her.
Grandmother started speaking, but Karigan heard no words. Still she could not get over the feeling that Grandmother was speaking directly to her.
A phrase came to Karigan that she’d heard more than once before: Sometimes the mirror goes both ways.
“No!” she cried, surprised to hear her own voice, and she flailed away from the mirror mask, the spell broken. The tumbler bounded away.
Karigan reeled and would have fallen, but she was caught by strong arms and helped upright. The sounds and light of the masquerade ball came back in a rush that surged over her like a wave. She took some deep breaths, wondering how long she’d been trapped in the spell of the mask.
As she watched the spot where the tumbler vanished into the crowd, she silently cursed. What if that had really been Grandm
other trying to speak to her? Maybe if Karigan hadn’t panicked she could have learned something useful from the vision, like Grandmother’s location. Such information would be invaluable to the king. Maybe she should go after the tumbler and gaze into his mask again, to see if she could—
“One must not gaze lightly into the looking mask,” said the gentleman who had rescued her.
So intent on the mirror and her visions was she that she’d almost forgotten the helpful gentleman. She turned to him. Like all the other nobles at the ball, he was attired in the finest of silks and velvets cut in the latest style. His mask was made of gold leaf embossed with flowing, abstract designs. A pair of light gray eyes regarded her with amusement. There was something very familiar about those eyes ...
“Looking mask?”
“Why, yes. Are you not acquainted with the tradition?”
Karigan frowned. She knew this man, with his black hair tied back and his elegant gestures. The flash of a red ruby on his finger confirmed it: Lord Amberhill.
“No,” she replied, hoping he did not recognize her in return. Oh, he’d get a great laugh if he knew it was she in the horrid Queen Oddacious costume.
“Oh, well, you’ll often find a tumbler in a looking mask at a masquerade. It’s little more than a parlor game these days, but our ancestors probably took them more seriously, using them in sacred ceremonies. Legend says the ancient priests could see prophetic visions in them.” Lord Amberhill laughed. “They were probably so intoxicated by drink and herbs that they saw many things.”
He could not have been more wrong, but Karigan was not about to discuss it with him.
“I wonder,” Lord Amberhill said, “if my lady would care to dance?”
“What?”
He smiled. “It is a ball, and it is what people do. And I must admit, I am intrigued by the, shall we say, audacity of your costume. But perhaps you’ve another escort this evening?” He glanced about as if looking for her missing, nonexistent escort.
Dancing was the last thing Karigan felt like doing. The magic of the mask had wrung her out. She wanted nothing more than to return to her little room in the Rider wing and curl up in bed with Ghost Kitty, not dance with Lord Amberhill, who had a way of prickling her sensibilities.
“No, thank you,” she said. “Excuse me.”
As she started to walk off, he placed his hand firmly on her arm and leaned down to speak to her. “So are you just going to disappear again, my lady? Oh yes, I recognize your voice. Your eyes.” His words were quiet so only Karigan could hear him.
With a flash of annoyance, she tugged her arm from him. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t you? In the play, Queen Oddacious marries a horse. A black stallion, perhaps. You are familiar with that, aren’t you? The black stallion?”
Karigan froze. Was it possible Lord Amberhill had seen Salvistar? That he’d seen the death god’s steed with her that night in the Teligmar Hills when no one else had? If so, what did it mean?
“It’s a play and nothing more,” she replied.
“Is that so.”
She could not allow him to continue his line of questioning. Whenever he saw her, he persisted in needling her about “disappearing” and she was not about to play his game. She would not reveal Rider abilities. The secret had been kept so long as a means of protecting Riders from a populace phobic of magic. She would not endanger herself or her friends that way.
She drew herself up to her full height, and in the most haughty manner she could summon, she said, “I find your inquiry most inappropriate.” She spoke loud enough that anyone nearby could hear her, and indeed several looked her way. “You are a very crude man.” Chin held high, she turned on her heel and strode off fluttering her fan before her face. She smiled to herself wondering if he’d be able to persuade anyone else to dance with him after that.
She crossed to the far side of the room and decided to escape the crowds and warmth of the ballroom by retreating to one of the balconies. It was cold enough outside that she doubted too many others would be there. A footman opened a door at her approach and she exited into the fresh air, sighing in relief, the babble and music fading away behind her.
The only light was that which flowed from the ballroom through the glass doors. Clouds obscured stars and moon. She stepped up to the balustrade, and shivering in the chill, wrapped her arms around herself.
Yes, still winter, no matter how close spring.
Despite the cold, she found herself comforted by the relative quiet and dark. No Lord Amberhill here. No looking mask.
And then someone cleared his throat.
Karigan jumped. She had thought herself alone.
“I did not mean to startle you.”
She peered down the length of the balcony and at the far end, there stood King Zachary. He had removed his dragon mask and ran his hand through his hair.
Karigan’s mouth fell open, and then she remembered to curtsy.
He smiled. “Another refugee from the festivities, I see.”
Karigan realized he did not recognize her.
“Yours is the best costume I’ve seen tonight,” he continued. “Bold and festive, and loaded with metaphors. All the others ... I don’t know.” He stroked his beard. “Dull, I guess. So very proper. Who do I have the honor of addressing?” Before she could respond, however, he waved his hand through the air. “No, no. Don’t tell me. It would ruin the mystery, and that’s what a masquerade is supposed to be about, right? Mystery, hidden identity, secrets.”
Karigan’s hand went to her mask. Her fingers found the bow that secured it. She could not be this close to him and not reveal herself. It had been so long since they’d had private words. In fact, any words at all. How would he receive her? Would he be cold and distant? Pleasant and gracious? Or, more intense, like ... like another night three years ago when they’d stood on this very balcony with a silver moon shining overhead? It had been another ball, another time ...
Her hand trembled as she pulled on the ribbon. The mask did not fall. She tugged harder, only to realize the bow had become a knot.
“Your Highness,” she said, but just then the door at the king’s end swung open and Lady Estora rushed out onto the balcony and his attention turned to his betrothed.
Karigan receded into shadow.
“Zachary,” Estora said. “It is so cold out here. You’ll catch a chill!”
“Oh, I don’t think so. The air is bracing.”
“Even so, you are missed, and there is something you should see.” She took his arm and guided him toward the door.
“Very well.” He grabbed his mask and with a glance in Karigan’s direction, he paused and bowed to her, flashing her a smile. And then he was gone.
Karigan rushed to his end of the balcony and gazed through the door after them, her breath fogging the glass. The pair worked their way through the crowd, hand in hand, pausing now and then to speak with their guests.
Karigan turned away ready to tear wig and mask off and fling them over the balcony. Damnation! She’d been so close. So close to him, and the moment was lost.
In a fit of frustration, she kicked a column of the balustrade.
“Ow!” The column was made of granite. “Ow, ow, ow!” She hopped on one foot. “Bloody stupid fool,” she berated herself, perversely pleased by the pain.
After a few moments of this, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and limped into the ballroom on her smarting foot. She’d had enough of the masquerade ball, and now she would leave for the comfort of her own chamber in the Rider wing.
AMBERHILL’S MASQUE
Amberhill watched after the G’ladheon woman as she strode away from him, admiring how she swung her hips to avoid brushing her ample panniers against others as she worked her way through the throngs.
“Remarkable,” he murmured to himself. He supposed he would never get to the bottom of her ability to disappear, or persuade her to adm
it to her association with the godlike stallion, but he enjoyed trying.
He disregarded those who glanced sidelong at him, the men who moved their ladies out of his path. Karigan G’ladheon had probably ruined his chances of finding a dance partner this evening.
That was fine. He’d find other ways to amuse himself. For instance, there was trying to identify who was behind each mask. He picked out Lady Mella with the butterfly mask almost immediately. How could he forget the delicious contours of her body, which he, as the Raven Mask, had once known so intimately? Her husband was the ancient Lord Maxim and he did not think she got much pleasure from that shrunken piece of dried fruit. No, the night he’d crept into her bedchamber her exuberance and gratitude had been most agreeable.
Others were less easy to identify. There was the young man with the lion mask dressed in red velvet. While Amberhill could not figure out who he was, it was easy to see he was nervous about something, even with his expression hidden behind the mask. He stood off by himself, not attempting to converse with anyone. He played with the cuff of his left sleeve, fidgeted, and tapped his toe, but not to the beat of the music. He kept glancing this way and that as if fearing someone or something. Likely he was hoping to use the cover of the masquerade to make off with some lovely maiden beneath the nose of her father.
Amberhill continued on to one of the food tables. He passed on the jellied sea urchin, instead helping himself to a scallop wrapped in bacon, savoring the butter and juice that slathered it. He licked his fingertips observing, with consternation, the number of guests wearing some variation of a raven mask. He supposed he ought to be flattered, but more than a few of the gentlemen bore a generous paunch, which he found repugnant. It was not at all how he viewed himself as the Raven Mask, and he could not see these fellows managing to scale walls or leap across rooftops.
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