Blackveil

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.

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

Neff 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.

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.

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.

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.