by Beth Alvarez
“We were able to find masks in the market here when we arrived.” Marreli smoothed her hair and righted the braids coiled around her head. “I think you’ll be all right if you don’t have a mask, though. Plenty of the other magelings left the market empty-handed. None of the Masters are wearing masks, either.”
“Oh, I have one, I’ll just need help putting it on.” Firal raised her mask for the group to see. The fiery swirls didn’t look like something she would have chosen for herself. “The Masters won’t be masked, you said? Is that tradition?”
“From what I gathered,” Kytenia said. “My guess is the court mages will be unmasked, too. Though all the Masters intend to wear white, so they’ll stand out among the crowd. We’ll help keep watch.”
“It’s not just the court mages I’d like to talk to. There’s one other Master in particular I’d like to see. After speaking with the king yesterday, I believe I ought to make my opinion of this whole affair clear.” Firal lifted her chin and settled her birdlike, flame-colored mask over her face. Marreli helped her tie it, careful not to snag her hair.
Kytenia frowned, but there wasn’t time to press for information. For now, she merely stepped forward to wrap her arms around her dear friend again, all of them smiling as Marreli and Rikka joined in.
A few peaceful moments with her friends were likely all she would get.
The event started with a banquet, guests and servants flowing between the dozens of tables that filled the banquet hall. The roar of the crowd forced the girls to raise their voices just to be heard by those across the table from them.
Firal had never liked crowds. They made her feel confined and breathless, and the noise set her on edge. She stared at her plate instead of socializing, awkward and without an appetite, while the other girls dug into their meals. It was not for lack of appealing food; her mouth watered at the sight of the lavish meal the servants placed upon the tables. It truly was a feast, boasting meats and vegetables likely imported from the mainland. Roast beef and plates of chicken halves and broiled fish decorated the table. A suckling pig surrounded by greens crowned the offering. Buttered and fried squash sat only inches from her plate, and though the look and smell were tantalizing, her stomach did not respond. Trays of various cheeses and breads were added to the selection as she looked, decanters of wine replaced almost as soon as they were emptied. Firal spooned small portions of things onto her plate, though all she found appealing was the goblet of red wine she cradled in both hands. Even the wine seemed to stir butterflies in her stomach. She tried to drink it slowly.
Countless lords and ladies surrounded them; there had been no reserved tables or assigned seating. Firal and Kytenia had managed to find two seats together on one side of a table. Shymin and Marreli sat somewhere on the other side, and none of them were sure where Rikka had gone. Firal did not recognize any other magelings, though with so many wearing masks, it was no wonder. Those with full-face masks removed them for the meal; some with half-masks still wore them. Kytenia’s leaf-shaped mask lay on the table beside her plate. Firal had not removed hers, grateful for the way the bold color drew attention away from her bare shoulders.
Little conversation was directed their way, though Firal didn’t mind. The incessant laughter of the woman to her left grated on her nerves, though she exchanged comedic looks with Kytenia whenever the woman’s shrill laughter pervaded the air. No one said particularly humorous and though some at the table giggled along, Firal took the notion they were laughing at the unpleasant giddiness of their company.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Kytenia whispered by her ear, glancing at the untouched food on her plate.
“Too nervous,” Firal replied. “It would taste like sawdust in my mouth.”
A new voice rose behind her. “Perhaps you’d like to dance first, then?”
Firal started and clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, Vahnil!” She breathed in relief. “Where is your mask?”
Vahn grimaced. “Just Vahn, please. Really. Unfortunately, the masks were all gone by the time I made it to market. I see that didn’t stop you, though. You’ll have to tell me how you managed the feat.” A hint of a smile twisted the corners of his mouth. He offered a gloved hand to help her from her seat, his eyes flicking toward Kytenia. His gaze lingered. “Is this one of your friends from the temple?”
“Yes, this is Kytenia.” Firal touched her fingertips to his hand as she stood. “The others are sort of scattered, so I’m afraid you’ll have to meet them later.” She started to ask Kytenia to watch her place, but stopped when she saw her companion’s expectant expression. A flush colored her cheeks at her own lack of manners and she added, “Kytenia, this is Vahn. He’s been kind enough to help me find my way around the palace.”
“A pleasure,” Kytenia said, though she gave Firal a shadowed, curious look.
“Indeed it is.” Vahn offered his arm to Firal. “Now, shall we? I’m certain it will help your appetite.”
“Please.” She tried to laugh, but the sound wouldn’t leave her throat. She coughed softly instead. “If you would lead the way?”
“I believe the gentleman always leads.” Vahn gave Kytenia a courteous nod before he swept Firal away. He led her between the large columns that supported the vaulted ceiling and guided her through the pair of great doors that stood open to welcome guests into the ballroom. The gleaming white marble dance floor was nearly empty, most of the guests still focused on the feast in the room behind them.
“You’ll have to dance with one of my friends next,” Firal said as Vahn took up her other hand to lead her into a waltz. She gave him a quick look-over as they moved into the first few steps. His clothing was not as fine as many of the guests, just a plain ivory shirt with a simple blue coat over the top. Silver embroidery decorated his lapels and coattails, while his blue trousers were unembellished. She mustered a smile as he twirled her about, though she felt clumsy on her feet. “If you don’t, they’ll kill me with gossip on the way home.”
“I’m sure I can do that. Wouldn’t want your dance partner to be the reason one gossips about you, after all.” He gave the jewels she wore a meaningful look. She turned red.
“Now listen here,” she protested. “I’m just trying to be a gracious guest. It’s not my fault the king decided to drape me in jewels. He has some mistaken impression of something between me and Ran.”
“And what is there between you and Ran?” The interest in his tone caught her off guard.
“Nothing,” she replied, a little too quickly. Her toe caught against the floor and she stumbled a step. “I mean, he’s a friend. Nothing more.”
Vahn grinned. “Well. That’s his loss, since you look as brilliant as a star in the sky.”
Firal crinkled her nose, swatted his chest and stepped back. “Go dance with someone else,” she laughed. As if on cue, another figure slipped past the others on the dance floor to join them.
“I hope you won’t mind if I borrow this lad for a dance or two.” Medreal’s weathered face creased with a warm smile she offered first to Vahn, then Firal. She wore no mask, but her elegant ivory dress was beautifully embroidered.
“Not at all, my lady.” Firal moved back.
Vahn gave her a sheepish grin and offered his arm. “I would be honored.”
“Flattery is a good thing to learn at such a young age.” Medreal chuckled as she laid her hand on Vahn’s arm, letting him lead her into the growing crowd.
Firal breathed in relief as her escort disappeared among the other dancers. She turned to start back for the banquet when gloved hands folded over her eyes from behind.
“Guess who,” a familiar voice whispered at her ear.
She touched the soft leather gloves and resisted the smile that tugged at her lips. “Ran?”
He chuckled. “Not quite.” He caught hold of one of her hands and turned her around.
Her smile faded. “Daemon.”
He was dressed in finery to match any lord, his high-collared
black coat and long black pants both worked with gold trim and embroidery. His new mask matched well and suited him perfectly, resembling the head of a black snake, the edge of each embossed scale painted with a hair-thin line of gold. His dark hair was neatly combed and tied in a short tail at the nape of his neck. Were it not for his snake-slit eyes, gleaming violet behind his mask, she doubted she would have recognized him.
“A pleasure to see you too,” he murmured, pulling her close.
She blinked in confusion as he led her into a dance, looking down as he guided her steps. His pants were just long enough to brush the floor, but the wide-cut legs were not enough to hide his clawed toes.
“Not a very effective disguise,” she said, trying not to frown. “You dance?”
He stifled a laugh. “Uncivilized as your stories portray my people, having rank among them does bring courtly demands.”
Firal’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“At the moment, I’m enjoying myself.” Daemon was more graceful than she expected, a much better dance partner than Vahn, though she was too aware of his hand on her hip to follow his steps well.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed in a whisper.
“I have just as much right to be here as you,” he replied, tone surprisingly venomous.
She snorted. “If you knew the reason this event was public, I doubt you’d be so quick to claim that. If you’re here because you think I won’t hold my end of our agreement, you don’t need to worry.”
“Full of ourselves, aren’t we?” He twirled her underneath his arm and reeled her in to hold her back against his chest. He squeezed her tight and bowed his head beside her ear. “I’m not here to see you.”
Her cheeks colored as he released her, though with anger or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. “Then what are you—” She turned and stopped short. A glimpse of black between the couples on the floor was all that proved he’d been there, and then that, too, was gone.
Kifel sighed as he watched the people dance. His position on the balcony above made it easy to watch and easier for lords and ladies to find him, but some small part of him missed the days when he’d been young enough to be out there. His Eldani blood kept his age from showing, but year after year a weariness washed over him, settling a little deeper in his bones.
He’d taken the crown young, though he’d never wanted to rule. Had fate been kinder, he wouldn’t have been an only child.
Of course, had fate been kinder, perhaps the celebration would have been for a different reason. A wedding, an engagement. Perhaps even the birth of a grandchild. He smiled ruefully at the thought, watching as another young man stepped in to dance with Firal.
“Are you still upset about our last visit?” The question was little more than a murmur beside Kifel’s ear. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand, but he didn’t move, waiting instead for the man in black and gold to step beside him.
Daemon leaned against the rail, his eyes following Firal across the ballroom, clearly having caught the way Kifel watched her.
“If you came to start a fight, you should have brought a weapon.” Kifel kept his voice low.
Daemon laughed mirthlessly. “If I wanted to hurt you, it would have happened before now. Shall I take that as a yes?”
Kifel ignored the question and tore his eyes away from the people below. “It’s either brave or foolhardy to come here as you are. With you, it’s hard to tell which.”
“I’m not afraid to show myself for what I am.” Daemon kept his gloved hands clasped and his elbows on the railing, the violet glow of his eyes eerily intense when he turned to meet Kifel’s eye. “Are you?”
Kifel frowned. “What do you want?”
Daemon looked back to the dancers beneath the balcony. “Right to the chase, then. All right.” He shifted his mask with a thumb. “You might still be angry, but I’m not. I’ve been thinking. I’ve decided there are some things you need to know.”
“And you think you can offer knowledge my eyes and ears can’t?”
“I can offer knowledge your eyes and ears won’t,” Daemon replied. “There are strange things happening in Kirban. The Archmage raises Masters without consultation from the Houses. In the small hours of the night, she calls for meetings with Masters from every major city on the island. The Masters of the Houses don’t know what these meetings are about. Your court mages don’t even know they’re happening. If she doesn’t tell her own Masters what’s going on, what isn’t she telling you?”
The king gritted his teeth at the casual way Daemon spoke, as if watching the temple was anything to be casual about. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the masked creature. The brazen way Daemon presented himself made him uneasy. “My dealings with the Archmage are no concern of yours.”
“Yes they are. You’ve ordered her to watch the ruins, so she watches me. And so I watch her, too. You think she’s missed the raids along the border?” Daemon cocked his head. “Relythes shouldn’t have your full attention. There’s a woman in the ruins. Someone I met while hiding from the mages.”
Kifel’s heart skipped a beat.
Daemon laced his fingers together and shifted his elbows on the rail, his shoulders bunching as he continued. “Something is about to happen in your temple. I don’t know what it is yet, but Envesi is planning something. The Underling queen plans something, too. She intends to steal a Gate-stone from the temple, though I’m not sure why. She says it will make things easier. But a Gate-stone doesn’t do anything I can’t.”
Kifel’s jaw tightened. Ignoring the Underlings had seemed the kindest thing he could do. Incredible how only a few words could change his mind. “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”
Daemon hesitated, looking at the people below. Kifel followed his gaze, noted how his eyes tracked Firal through the crowd. The uncertainty in the way he watched her said more than words ever could.
“There are good people in the temple,” Daemon said at last. “I don’t want to see any mages hurt, despite all they’ve done.”
Kifel bristled. “I am not at fault for the mages who have wronged you.”
“I never said you were.” Daemon spread his hands in a gesture of feigned helplessness, or maybe surrender. “Or perhaps I’ve misplaced the blame. Perhaps the only one at fault is you. You, supporting the temple so thoughtlessly, never considering what atrocities could come of it. What effect your selfish motives could have. What it could do to the people you loved.”
Silence hung heavy between them, an ache growing in Kifel’s chest. Not for the first time, he regretted the freedom he’d given the Archmage over how she used her magic. His eyes settled on the younger man’s gloved hands as he laced his fingers together again. The glance didn’t go unnoticed.
“Is it so wrong to want to walk in my own skin?” Daemon asked in a murmur.
“Do you really think anyone will give that to you? That the Underlings will?” The name left a sour taste in his mouth and the king frowned. “Is it worth clinging to that feeble hope, even knowing their queen will pit you against me?”
“She means to see me on your throne.” Daemon pushed himself away from the railing.
“And do you want her to succeed?” The question came weighted with challenge, and it was met with silence. Kifel snorted and moved toward the curved stairway. “She’ll be waiting a long time to see that, then.”
“Kifel,” Daemon called. The king paused. “Watch the temple. Please. Don’t risk what you can’t afford to lose.”
Kifel looked Daemon over again, his gaze lingering on the clawed toes that peeked from the hems of his pant legs. “I’ve already lost it.”
He descended the stairs.
Firal changed dance partners so often, she wondered what likelihood there was that Ran would have spent more than a moment with a girl who caught his interest. She caught fleeting glimpses of her friends and paused to exchange partners with them when their twirling steps carried them close. True to his wo
rd, Vahn danced with the others. The way he flirted so shamelessly with them put Firal oddly at ease. She’d seen him dance with Kytenia more than once and she was glad someone else was the focus of his attention. So long as he didn’t come back, expecting to monopolize her attention, Firal would be free to speak to the mages as soon as the meal ended.
“Do you mind if I cut in?” a voice asked from behind Firal. Her partner froze.
“Oh, Majesty, of course,” the young man said, bowing as he backed away.
Firal’s eyes locked with Kifel’s as he offered his arm. She regarded him suspiciously, taking a half step back.
“Please, allow me a dance. I’ll admit our last meeting ended poorly. I don’t mean for there to be hard feelings between us. Lomithrandel has few enough friends, I don’t intend to scare them off.” He gestured with his offered arm, his tone patient. “He’s capable of doing that on his own.”
Firal didn’t want to dance with the king, but she didn’t know how to refuse. Her eyes skimmed the crowd on the dance floor. Unable to find anything to use as an excuse to escape, she placed a hand atop his arm and let him pull her into a dance. “He really doesn’t need a ball, you know. I’m sure he could have any girl he wanted from the temple or anywhere else. Goodness knows Kytenia fawns over him enough. All you’d have to do is acknowledge his position in your household and he’d have to beat them off.” She paused and moistened her lips with her tongue. “Although I have to say, I don’t understand the secrecy. It’s not as if you can hide his identity forever.”
“I don’t try to hide it,” Kifel replied with sudden heat. “He was raised in my palace and he is my son. He may not be of my blood, but he is mine, crown or not. I have never tried to hide that. Hiding was his choice.”
She brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her pointed ear and mulled over a response. “I’m not sure I understand your relationship with him,” she admitted. “When I first met you at the temple, the two of you seemed like dear friends. Not really like a father and son.”
