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 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.
“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.
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.
Did I truly see that? Or was it some
fancy?
At some point he had
crushed the remains of his tart in his hand, raspberry preserves
oozing between his fingers like blood. Whatever he did or did not
see, it left him feeling off balance. No wonder Karigan G’ladheon
had been so disoriented after gazing into the looking mask. What
sorts of things had she seen? She who had access to powers
...
He glanced at his
dragon ring, but it revealed nothing more than its usual ruby
radiance. What had he expected? Some flare of magic? For the gold
dragon to wriggle around his finger? He shuddered. Whatever the
looking mask had shown him, real or not, was damned
disturbing.
He could have
wondered about it more, but there was an outcry from the center of
the ballroom floor.