Blackveil (40 page)
He could not have been more wrong, but Karigan was not about to discuss it with
him.
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.
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.
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.
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
A
mberhill 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.
mberhill 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 admit 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.
He moved to the end of the table loaded with an array of sweets and pastries. As he surveyed the offerings, he overheard snippets of conversation, from the usual commentary on the weather to the price of silk. It was terribly mundane, but one conversation did pique his interest. It was between an older gent and a younger one.
“I weary of these parties,” the older man said. He wore a helm mask with a stuffed seagull perched atop it. Pinned to his lapel was a cormorant brooch.
Lord Coutre,
Amberhill decided. The voice sounded right. The younger man also sported a cormorant brooch, but he wore a more simple eye mask of black silk with silver-blue feathers pluming from it.
Amberhill decided. The voice sounded right. The younger man also sported a cormorant brooch, but he wore a more simple eye mask of black silk with silver-blue feathers pluming from it.
“It is your daughter who is responsible for several of them,” the younger man said.
Amberhill thought the fellow likely to be Estora’s cousin, Lord Spane. He was often in close company with Lord Coutre and served as Lady Estora’s chaperone and representative.
Amberhill hovered over the table pretending to be caught in indecision over whether to try a piece of lemon cake or a fruit tart as he continued to eavesdrop.
“I know, I know,” Lord Coutre said. “I wish we could just dispense with it all and get the two married and have done with it.”
“The solstice will arrive soon.”
“Not soon enough. But we must defer to the moon priests on the date since they believe it auspicious. The gods know we want it to be a prosperous marriage; prosperous with many children so Coutre maintains its influence on the throne. Think of it Richmont! One of my grandchildren will one day reign over Sacoridia.”
“It will happen, my lord,” Spane said.
“We must ensure nothing goes wrong and that it all happens in a way that makes Estora happy. Even if it means attending these damned parties.”
“You have done everything for her,” Spane reassured the older man.
“Yes, well, I want you to promise me Richmont. Promise me that you will see to it this marriage proceeds no matter what. The future of Coutre depends on it.”
“Yes, my lord, on my honor. I promise nothing will interfere with the marriage. Nothing.”
Amberhill caught, from the corner of his eye, Spane bowing to Lord Coutre. The man came across as a sycophant who would follow through on that promise no matter what, especially if there was some reward in it. Anyone who got between him and his goal would no doubt live to regret it.
Amberhill selected a tart filled with raspberry preserves and bit into it, reflecting that while court intrigue was entertaining to watch from the fringes, he had no desire to get caught up in it himself. Too much trouble.
He left the table thinking to make a circuit of the ballroom, but the tumbler in the looking mask bounded up to him. He grinned at his own warped reflection. “Just you, old friend, eh?”
But he gasped when his reflection misted over and vanished.
“What the bloody hell?”
The mist cleared, showing his face again, but not his present face. The mirror revealed him unmasked and his hair wild in the wind, his face unshaven. He could almost hear the cries of gulls, smell the salt of the sea, feel the sway of a ship on the waves.
No,
he thought,
this is not real. I am in the ballroom.
But he could not tear himself from the vision. The masquerade ball seemed miles and miles away.
he thought,
this is not real. I am in the ballroom.
But he could not tear himself from the vision. The masquerade ball seemed miles and miles away.
His reflected face glanced upward and a shadow fell across it. Amberhill thought he heard the beating of immense wings on the wind. He could not discern whether he should be terrified or in awe, or both. He felt the strain of muscles demanding he duck for cover.
The shadow dispersed and then nothing. Amberhill gazed at his own reflection in the present as if that’s all there had been all along. He took a step back and the tumbler somersaulted away.
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