Clouds roiled in the eyes of her reflection as if she watched the sky. Then something else appeared there mirrored in her eyes, a flight of arrows, metal tips gleaming, as they sloped toward her in a deadly arc.
Her reflection in the mask did not move, did not waver.
Waited.
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?