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 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.”
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.