Blackveil (39 page)
“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.
It was just as well she decided to remain along the fringes, near the shadows, for all the commotion, the swell of noise and swirl of color, was overwhelming. She was not interested in conversing with anyone, and certainly had no desire to dance. She had come to show support for her king, but what good was it if he wasn’t even here?
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.
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
N
eff 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.”
eff 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.
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.
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.
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.
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
K
arigan’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.
arigan’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.
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.
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 Grandmother 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.”
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