Blackveil: Book Four of Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “Tee-gon, my dear!” the woman exclaimed when they all reached the top of the stairs, and she hastened over to them and placed her hands on Tegan’s shoulders and air-kissed each cheek.

  “Hello, Leadora,” Tegan said, grinning.

  “Tee-gon, where you been all this time, eh?”

  “Oh, you know, working for the king.”

  Leadora clucked her tongue. “He write so many letters? You do not come to the thee-ator and it will wither your soul.”

  Karigan found Leadora’s accent strange. She could not place it.

  “My employer takes my service very seriously,” Tegan said. “You know how it is.”

  “Yes yes yes.” Leadora swiped her hand through the air dismissively. “And who are these?” she asked, glancing at Karigan and Mara. Karigan caught her quick double take when she observed the burn scars on Mara’s face.

  “Leadora, meet my friends Mara Brennyn and Karigan G’ladheon. Mara and Karigan, meet Madam Leadora Theadles, head seamstress for the Magnificent’s theater troupe.”

  Leadora’s gaze sharpened as it fell back on Karigan. “G’lad-hee-on? Of the cloth?”

  “Er, yes,” Karigan replied.

  Leadora clapped her hands together. “Very good cloth. Very fine quality.” Then she waggled her finger at Karigan. “But very expensive! Too expensive for stingy troupe manager.”

  “Leadora,” Tegan said, “why are you up here? It’s nicer, but why have you moved?”

  Leadora put her hand to her hair as if to claw at it, her expression one of misery. Karigan began to wonder if the troupe’s acting occurred only on stage.

  “Most terrible!” Leadora cried. “It was a flood.”

  “What flood?”

  “That terrible, terrible cellar we worked in. It leaked. The snow, the rain, the freeze, the melt. One morning I come in and our shop, it is full of water. We move into this nicer place, eh? Was shop and storage for another tenant—cabinet maker, but he move.” Then Leadora scrunched her face. “He leave all his sawdust and wood chips. We must sweep and sweep.” Then she sighed. “So now we are much busier. Most all our cloth and costumes wrecked by flood. Gone! Worthless, destroyed.”

  “Uh-oh,” Tegan said.

  “Yes. Is very bad. We try to make new for the next production. We must make everything from—how do you say?—from scratch. The girls work very hard now.”

  “So much for that idea,” Tegan muttered.

  “Idea? What is this?”

  “Well,” Tegan said, “Karigan here is in need of a costume for the king’s masquerade ball tonight, and seeing as you owe me a favor, I thought you could maybe help out.”

  “Oh my dear Tee-gon!” Leadora started pacing about spouting a stream of incomprehensible words.

  “Where is she from?” Mara whispered.

  “I’m not actually sure,” Tegan said. “But I kind of suspect she’s from right here in the city.”

  Karigan and Mara both stared at her.

  “She’s a brilliant seamstress sure enough, but the rest?” Tegan shrugged.

  “Aha!” Leadora’s exclamation made them jump. She tapped her measuring stick on the floor. “I may be able to help. Then debt repaid, eh?”

  “If you can supply Karigan with a proper costume,” Tegan said, “yes, it is.”

  Leadora smiled.

  MAD QUEEN ODDACIOUS

  Upon their return to the castle, Tegan took charge of Karigan’s preparations for the masquerade ball.

  “I will not wear the wig,” Karigan said.

  “But it’s part of the character,” Tegan replied. “And I think black hair will suit you. Besides, the crown won’t fit without it. At least give it a go, and maybe try being a little less grumpy about it.”

  “You’d be grumpy if you had to wear this ridiculous thing.”

  She gazed down at the dress with its garish red and white diamond pattern, highlighted with silvery threads. At the bottom of the skirts among the frills were sewn the images of playful cats. On her left sleeve was a great big velvet heart. Panniers made her hips jut out in a style not seen in several generations. The material was a poor quality of satin that appalled the textile merchant in her. It undoubtedly shone well enough in the stage lights and likely satisfied the troupe manager’s stingy wallet, but closer inspection clearly revealed its inferiority.

  She just knew that, in contrast, the nobles in attendance would be wearing nothing but the most elegant styles, their costumes constructed from only the finest materials. None of them would deign to wear so clownish a costume as this.

  If the garishness of her costume was not enough, it smelled of mildew and there was some yellow staining located in an embarrassing spot on her backside. It had not, evidently, entirely escaped the flooding. Leadora supplied a train that she hoped would conceal the stain.

  The costume had been created for a person much larger than Karigan—the role was often, though not always, played by a man—so Leadora, wielding her measuring stick like a field commander, marshaled her seamstresses to alter the costume and make it fit. Karigan had feared being stuck to death by dozens of sewing needles flying about her, but she needn’t have worried. The girls had known exactly what they were doing and were accustomed to working rapidly and precisely. She had not been pricked even once, and thanks to their expertise, the costume fit very well. That was something, anyway.

  Tegan had found a large mirror in which Karigan could get a better view of herself than in her own little hand mirror, and set it on her desk. Karigan frowned at her reflection as Tegan lowered the wig onto her head. It was a very large horsehair affair, ludicrously tall with lots of curls. Tegan then proceeded to tuck Karigan’s own brown locks beneath the wig. When that was accomplished, she placed the crown atop the wig and pinned it into place.

  Some crown, Karigan thought, her mood growing darker by the moment. Little bells hung from the points of the crown like a jester’s cap. The slightest movement made them jingle.

  “That about does it, Your Highness,” Tegan said. “When we get to the ballroom, I’ll help you with the mask.”

  The mask lay on Karigan’s desk. Since the costume’s character did not wear a mask on stage, Leadora had to improvise. She found a plain black half-mask and directed Nina to glue red sequins and feathers on it.

  Karigan could not help but wonder what the Weapons would make of her getup. Undoubtedly there would be more than a few on duty guarding the king and Lady Estora. They’d probably find her appearance undignified in the extreme and regret having made her an honorary member of their order. Maybe they’d ask her to return the bonewood staff.

  “You must admit,” Tegan said, “this costume is better than the cat or mouse. And definitely better than the horse!”

  Karigan wasn’t so sure. What she was sure of was that the Riders loitering outside her door would not allow her to live this down.

  “You could have been the horse’s back end,” she suggested.

  “Ha! But I was not invited. Now are you ready? The ball should have begun by now.”

  When Karigan grumbled an affirmative, Tegan helped her rise. At least her shoes fit. She’d been careful to pick a comfortable pair from the pile in Leadora’s loft. She also ensured Tegan had not cinched the corset too tight so she could breathe unrestricted.

  “You look very ... um ... audacious,” Tegan said with a smile and a glint in her eye.

  Karigan frowned and steeled herself to exit her chamber for the outside world where she’d have to reveal her ridiculous appearance to all and sundry.

  Tegan opened the door with a flourish and announced, “Here she is, Her Highness, Queen Oddacious!”

  The reaction of the assembled Riders was pretty much what Karigan expected: lots of laughter and jokes.

  “Don’t you mean Mad Queen Oddacious?” Yates called out, foremost of those crowded around her. “Where are your kitty cats?”

  Karigan rapped him on the shoulder with a folded fan that came with the costume. Y
ates grinned unrepentantly.

  Someone meowed, and several of the Riders joined in until there was an entire chorus of mewing.

  “If you keep it up,” Karigan told them, “Queen Oddacious will be mad. Real mad.”

  “Hey, where’s your husband?” someone cried out in the back. Karigan realized it was Fergal. “I hear he’s a real stud!”

  This was followed by more uproarious laughter.

  “I have become a walking pun,” Karigan muttered.

  “Who wears her heart on her sleeve,” Tegan reminded her.

  Karigan knew she should have declined the costume, but she’d been desperate. The play Mad Queen Oddacious was a farce about a despot queen. There was a song in the first act and Tegan knew some of the verses:Mad Queen Oddacious has twenty-one cats

  Each named Precious and wears a hat

  Mad Queen Oddacious married a horse

  Her subjects are mice she rules by force ...

  Then there was something about the twenty-one cats eating the mice, and a raunchy verse about the queen and her stallion husband, which Karigan suddenly realized Yates was reciting to the great amusement of all.

  “He bade her mount and—”

  Karigan smacked him harder with the fan.

  “Ow,” he said, rubbing his head.

  “Come, Tegan,” Karigan said. “I’ve had enough of these little mice.”

  This was met with good-natured jeers.

  As she and Tegan left the Rider wing, she reflected that as much as the play was a farce, it had a more serious subtext. Tegan explained the play had been based on a real person from the distant times before Sacoridia had had a high king and the Sacor Clans were tribes spread across various territories, the clan chiefs governing their tiny realms like petty kings. According to history, they were constantly at war with one another.

  One clan named a woman to be their chief, which was unusual in those days. Her rule proved hard and she nearly drove her territory into ruin by loving her treasures and horses more than her people. The people rebelled and severed her head, or worse, depending on who was telling the story. Much of the truth of the tale was lost to the darkness of time, but the play served as a cautionary tale for those with power to wield it wisely and well. In the last act of the play, Queen Oddacious’ husband transforms from a horse into a handsome warrior and slays her. All the mice feed on her flesh.

  Karigan rather wondered if the play were more a warning specifically to women who dared aspire to power from men who loathed the mere thought of being ruled by them. Tegan said the play had enjoyed a resurgence in popularity during the reign of Queen Isen, who had not shown the least tendency toward despotism.

  It was a long walk to the ballroom and Karigan caught more than one amused look cast her way from servants and other castle personnel.

  The strains of music grew as they approached the ballroom, and when they paused near the entrance, Karigan’s spirits sagged as she observed ladies and gentlemen in very sophisticated attire streaming through the entrance. Just as she imagined, the gowns of the ladies were exquisite and the costumes understated. In her Mad Queen Oddacious costume, she would stand out like a dandelion among roses.

  “Time for your mask,” Tegan said.

  “Right.”

  As Tegan tied the mask on, Karigan felt like she was wearing blinders; it cut off her peripheral vision.

  When Tegan finished, she stepped into Karigan’s view. “Remember,” she said, “you are Queen Oddacious and the world is your tart.”

  “Oh, gods,” Karigan murmured. There was another line from the song about Queen Oddacious’ love of tarts, followed by other vulgar verses that rhymed with it.

  “Have fun,” Tegan said. “It’s not everyone who gets to attend the king’s masquerade. Besides, if you don’t want anyone to know who you are, you don’t have to remove your mask.”

  Then how, Karigan wondered as she approached the entrance, would anyone know that the king’s knight and Green Rider was here to show her support for him if she did not reveal herself? Where was the logic in that?

  With a sigh she stepped up to the door where guards checked invitations.

  “Entertainment uses the servants entrance,” one growled at her.

  Karigan held back a sharp retort and thrust her invitation at him. He looked it over, then scrutinized her with a skeptical expression on his face.

  “Er, my mistake,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Karigan took a deep breath and stepped through the entrance into the ballroom.

  MASQUERADE BALL

  Karigan paused atop a broad stairway that led to the ballroom floor below, where couples swept around and around dancing to the music of the orchestra. Others clustered in groups conversing or hovered over tables overflowing with food and drink. Chandeliers suffused the scene in a dreamy golden light.

  “My lady?”

  Karigan pulled her gaze away from the ballroom to discover Neff the herald beside her, attired in his usual tabard, but wearing a simple black eye mask.

  “My lady,” he said, “would you care to be announced?”

  “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed, and she perceived a narrowing of his eyes behind his mask.

  “Rider G’ladheon—er, Sir Karigan, is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Interesting costume.”

  “I suppose it is,” she replied.

  The bells of her “crown” jingled as she descended the stairs, but were soon submerged beneath a sea of sound: the harmonious tones of the orchestra as it moved into a waltz, the rise and fall of conversation and laughter, and the swish of silk and brocade as dancers rushed by. She did not see King Zachary or Lady Estora anywhere and wondered where they might be. They were, after all, supposed to be the hosts of this event.

  The ballroom’s decorations suggested a sea theme. Silk banners and streamers, dyed in oceanic blues and greens, hung from the ceiling. Stirred by the motion of the dancers, they rippled and flowed like waves. A pair of barnacle-encrusted anchors had been placed at the bottom of the stairs, and ice sculptures of mermaids, whales, and fish presided over bowls of punch. Seashells, fishing nets, and dried seastars ornamented tables and walls.

  Most impressive of all was the sloop, so very far from the nearest harbor, placed against a near wall with sails hoisted and held taut by lines so it appeared they were filled with the wind, the mast unimpeded by the high ceiling. Through a break in the crowd, she could see the hull was filled to the rails with ice and raw oysters and other delicacies she would investigate later.

  Karigan suspected Estora’s hand in planning the decorations. The ocean theme resonated of Coutre Province. Not that the king’s home province of Hillander, or Karigan’s own of L’Petrie, were not coastal, but their harbors were more tame, more protected. Coutre and the other eastern provinces occupied the boldest coast of all, exposed to the wide open ocean and all its fury, separated from the rest of Sacoridia by the Wingsong Mountains and the turbulent currents around the Blackveil Peninsula. The geography had tempered a proud and independent people.

  Karigan was relieved to find the ball’s theme had not extended to costuming in any way she could perceive. She would have hated to stand out anymore than she already did. While the dress of other guests was understated and sophisticated, masks came in a variety of shapes and colors. Some bore grotesque countenances with long curving noses, protruding chins, and demonic horns, or appeared to be inspired by animals like catamounts, bears, and wolves.

  Others were beautiful works of art fashioned of gold or silver leaf, or plumed with the feathers of exotic birds. Some helmlike masks featured entire stuffed birds on them.

  Of the birds represented there were an unusual number of crows—men attired in black with variations of black-beaked masks, then she realized they must not be crows at all, but ravens. Raven. Mask. The Raven Mask. They must be fantasizing about being the gentleman thief who once stalked Sacor City’s finer neighborhoods stealing
jewels and seducing ladies in their own bedchambers. The real Raven Mask had met his end trying to abduct Lady Estora, and Karigan thought anyone who would wear such a costume an insensitive clod lacking the wit to imagine the terror their hostess had endured at the hands of that infamous thief. At the very least, it probably wasn’t the best way to curry favor with their future queen.

  As she wandered the perimeter of the ballroom, she caught more than a few curious and amused glances aimed her way, and even laughter. To make matters worse, she found it difficult to judge the proper amount of clearance her oversized hip panniers required.

  “Sorry,” she said, after bumping a man in an antlered headdress.

  “Anytime, my dear,” he replied with a sardonic smile.

  She moved on, cheeks burning, only to brush against a woman wearing a beautiful purple silk mask. Her apology elicited only a glare. Karigan decided that on her journey into Blackveil she would not need the bonewood staff the Weapons had given her to defend herself. No, she could just wear the panniers and take down all adversaries with a swing of her hips.

  Her passage around the ballroom did not reveal a glimpse of King Zachary or Lady Estora, but among the dancers was a sight that made her want to pound her wigged head on the wall: military officers not costumed, but attired in dress uniform with simple eye masks. This was how she could have dressed, but she hadn’t known and no one informed her otherwise. She tried to console herself with the fact that she didn’t have to contend with the tight collar of her own dress uniform.

  Entertainers circulated among the guests, juggling, tumbling, and swallowing swords. They were costumed more brightly than Karigan, but not by much. A couple of gentlemen—one in a boar mask and the other in a furred raccoon mask—stepped into her path and waited as if expecting her to produce juggling balls. She scowled and walked around them, careful to give her hips enough space, and fluttered her fan before her face. Every time she heard someone laugh, she winced, certain it was directed at her.