silence. "It should be Joscelin here with you," Fortun said presently, his voice low. "He's right, I'm not trained to serve as a bodyguard. And he's the only one of us permitted to wear arms in the Queen's presence."
I leaned my head back against the cushion of the carriage- seat. "Joscelin is doing what he needs must do," I said, "as am I. Go where you are invited, listen and learn what you may. Don't grieve me on that score, Fortun."
"I'm sorry, my lady. Only..." He leaned forward, his gaze intent behind the eyeholes of his mask as he looked at me. "Begging your pardon, but anyone who does not choose to be at your side this night of all nights is a fool."
I smiled. "Thank you, chevalier. That is exactly what I needed to hear."
twelve
We entered the ballroom as the bells were striking nine.
"The Comtesse de Montrève!" shouted the crier, his voice half-lost in the din of music and conversation.
Nonetheless, it caused a stir.
It took some time, for eyes to see and rumors to spread. Favrielle had spoken truly, the costuming for the Midwinter Masque that year was ornate. Women, flounced and layered in swathes of fabric turned slowly, moving like galleons beneath the weight of their attire; the men were scarce less laden. Masked faces turned in my direction.
I felt it, the brunt of a hundred stares, as a path opened across the marble floor. In Cereus House, we were taught to move like a swaying willow, limbs disposed to grace, heads high with pride. I drew on all the strength of my training to make that passage, gazing at the crowd from behind my veil, feeling half-naked in my scarlet gown, ribbons trailing from my wrists. At my side, Fortun was a model of austere decorum.
And behind me, in the wake of the sight of my bared marque, the murmurs rose.
Truly, the Palace ballroom was a splendor that night. It is a vast, open space, pierced by a double row of slender columns. Wrapping around three walls is Le Cavaillon's gorgeous fresco of Elua and his Companions at banquet, and overhead, the ceiling is painted a midnight blue with gilded stars. In the very center of the hall stood a tree cunningly wrought of bronze, and from its branches hung a dozen fruits on silken threads; apples, pears, dates, figs and persimmons, plums and nectarines and others whose names I knew not.
At the far end, beneath the wall on which Elua, Cassiel and Naamah disported themselves, stood a small mountain crag and in it a grotto in which musicians struck a tableau as Hellene muses and played sweet tunes. Here and there stood false columns, hollow to the core, holding in niches clear glass lamps that gave a mellow light. Elsewhere, from the ceiling, hung chandeliers of glass lamps floating in colored waters, giving the illusion of fairy lights. Braziers burned sweet incense, and garlands of evergreen added its clean, resinous odor.
"Phèdre!" Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, cleaved a path through the revelers, her two grey-adorned Cassiline guards incongruously in tow. As was fitting, she was clad as the Snow Queen, in layers of frothing white gauze aglitter with diamonds. She wore the swan mask of House Courcel, an elaborate hood curving over her head, violet eyes behind the white-feathered mask. "I might not have known you with your veil, but with that marque, my dear! You did give warning. May I ask the nature of your costume?"
"Mara," I said, lifting one arm so the scarlet ribbons trailed from my wrist. "Naamah's daughter, gotten by a murderer, and Kushiel's handmaiden."
"Very apt." Ysandre's eyes looked amused behind her mask. "Well, near-cousin, I have greeted you properly and given sanction to your purpose here; let it not be said that I failed to give Naamah's Service its proper regard." With the effortlessness of one born and raised to command, she turned to find a servant exactly where she expected him, offering a salver with small glasses of cordial. "Joie," Ysandre said, raising a glass in toast. "May the Longest
I leaned my head back against the cushion of the carriage- seat. "Joscelin is doing what he needs must do," I said, "as am I. Go where you are invited, listen and learn what you may. Don't grieve me on that score, Fortun."
"I'm sorry, my lady. Only..." He leaned forward, his gaze intent behind the eyeholes of his mask as he looked at me. "Begging your pardon, but anyone who does not choose to be at your side this night of all nights is a fool."
I smiled. "Thank you, chevalier. That is exactly what I needed to hear."
twelve
We entered the ballroom as the bells were striking nine.
"The Comtesse de Montrève!" shouted the crier, his voice half-lost in the din of music and conversation.
Nonetheless, it caused a stir.
It took some time, for eyes to see and rumors to spread. Favrielle had spoken truly, the costuming for the Midwinter Masque that year was ornate. Women, flounced and layered in swathes of fabric turned slowly, moving like galleons beneath the weight of their attire; the men were scarce less laden. Masked faces turned in my direction.
I felt it, the brunt of a hundred stares, as a path opened across the marble floor. In Cereus House, we were taught to move like a swaying willow, limbs disposed to grace, heads high with pride. I drew on all the strength of my training to make that passage, gazing at the crowd from behind my veil, feeling half-naked in my scarlet gown, ribbons trailing from my wrists. At my side, Fortun was a model of austere decorum.
And behind me, in the wake of the sight of my bared marque, the murmurs rose.
Truly, the Palace ballroom was a splendor that night. It is a vast, open space, pierced by a double row of slender columns. Wrapping around three walls is Le Cavaillon's gorgeous fresco of Elua and his Companions at banquet, and overhead, the ceiling is painted a midnight blue with gilded stars. In the very center of the hall stood a tree cunningly wrought of bronze, and from its branches hung a dozen fruits on silken threads; apples, pears, dates, figs and persimmons, plums and nectarines and others whose names I knew not.
At the far end, beneath the wall on which Elua, Cassiel and Naamah disported themselves, stood a small mountain crag and in it a grotto in which musicians struck a tableau as Hellene muses and played sweet tunes. Here and there stood false columns, hollow to the core, holding in niches clear glass lamps that gave a mellow light. Elsewhere, from the ceiling, hung chandeliers of glass lamps floating in colored waters, giving the illusion of fairy lights. Braziers burned sweet incense, and garlands of evergreen added its clean, resinous odor.
"Phèdre!" Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, cleaved a path through the revelers, her two grey-adorned Cassiline guards incongruously in tow. As was fitting, she was clad as the Snow Queen, in layers of frothing white gauze aglitter with diamonds. She wore the swan mask of House Courcel, an elaborate hood curving over her head, violet eyes behind the white-feathered mask. "I might not have known you with your veil, but with that marque, my dear! You did give warning. May I ask the nature of your costume?"
"Mara," I said, lifting one arm so the scarlet ribbons trailed from my wrist. "Naamah's daughter, gotten by a murderer, and Kushiel's handmaiden."
"Very apt." Ysandre's eyes looked amused behind her mask. "Well, near-cousin, I have greeted you properly and given sanction to your purpose here; let it not be said that I failed to give Naamah's Service its proper regard." With the effortlessness of one born and raised to command, she turned to find a servant exactly where she expected him, offering a salver with small glasses of cordial. "Joie," Ysandre said, raising a glass in toast. "May the Longest
Similar Books
