Kushiel's Scion (38 page)
For the first time, I attended the Midwinter Masque.
I told myself it was for Eamonn's sake, though it wasn't entirely true. I wanted to go. I'd heard too many stories of the splendor and gaiety of the Longest Night. And this would be my only chance to attend it with a friend, one true friend, in tow.
If Joscelin was hurt, he didn't show it; I daresay he understood. He would keep Elua's vigil as always, while Ti-Philippe stood in as Phèdre's escort. For her part, Phèdre was pleased. Once the matter was determined, nothing would do but that we all accompany her to the salon of her couturiere, Favrielle nó Eglantine, to be fitted for costumes.
It was customary for the members of a household to be costumed around a single theme. Favrielle took one look at the four of us—Phèdre, Ti-Philippe, Eamonn, and I—and put her hands on her hips.
"What do you expect me to do with this, Comtesse?" she asked in an acerbic tone.
"I thought you might have some ideas," Phèdre said mildly.
Favrielle shook her head and muttered, pacing around the comfortable antechamber of her salon and studying us. She was a pretty woman, with disheveled curls of coppery gold and a delicate face poorly suited to its customary expression of ill-temper; but then, I suppose irascible genius doesn't choose its vessel.
"Stand up," she said abruptly to Eamonn. He did, towering over her. "Name of Elua! How am I supposed to handle a giant in your midst?"
Phèdre shrugged. "Are there no popular themes this year that would suit us?"
"Popular?" Favrielle shot her a scathing look. "I set trends, Comtesse. I do not follow them."
"Of course." Phèdre inclined her head, hiding a smile. "Forgive me, Favrielle."
Ignoring her, the couturiere walked around Eamonn, studying him as though he were prize livestock. He stood, patient and bewildered. The rest of us sat waiting while Favrielle nó Eglantine's sharp gaze flickered from him to us and back again. Finally she dismissed Eamonn with a wave of her hand, then resumed pacing, biting her thumbnail, deep in thought.
"I have an idea," she announced at length. There was a rare note of uncertainty in her voice. "You may not like it." She rang a bell, and an apprentice appeared. "Bring me Dorian's folio."
In short order, the apprentice returned with a handsome leather-bound folio. Favrielle handed it to Phèdre, who paged through it, gazing at the woodblock prints. Her hands went still, and she looked up at Favrielle. "These are Skaldic myths," she said.
Favrielle nodded. "I told you you might not like it." Stooping beside Phèdre, she pointed at a print of a handsome, hulking deity, a mighty hammer in one hand. "Donar, the thunder-god. That's who I thought of for the Dalriadan prince."
Eamonn peered over her shoulder. "I like the look of him!"
"Your country wasn't invaded by the Skaldi," Ti-Philippe muttered.
"It wasn't their gods who ordered it." Phèdre rose and walked a little distance away. "Believe me, I know." She looked at Favrielle. "What else?"
"Loki." The couturiere pointed at Ti-Philippe, then me. "And Baldur the Beautiful. For you, Comtesse, the goddess Freyya." She took a deep breath, expelling it through pursed lips. "Color. Everyone will be doing strong color, bright color this year. I'd keep you all in white; frost, ice, snow. Silver accents, nothing more."
Phèdre nodded at the folio. "Where did you get that?"
"The artist is Dorian nó Eglantine. He's a friend." Favrielle watched her. "He spent a year travelling through the southern reaches of Skaldia, gathering their myths and making the sketches on which these are based. But he's been afraid of going public with the prints."
"I don't blame him," Ti-Philippe said sourly. "He wasn't on the battlefield at Troyes-le-Mont."
Favrielle shrugged. "It's art, chevalier." She turned back to Phèdre. "I would not suggest this for just anyone. But you… you have earned a certain right. It would be respected as a gesture of peace and accord. As you say, it was not Skaldia's gods who made war upon us."
Returning to the folio, Phèdre traced the lines of one print with her forefinger. "This is strong work," she murmured. She met my eyes. There was a shadow in the depths of hers that only I understood. "What do you think?"
I answered in one word. "Erich."
There had been a young man of the Skaldi in the zenana of Daršanga. How he came to be there, I never knew. We never learned his story. No one spoke his tongue, and after the Mahrkagir had him gelded, he spoke to no one, until Phèdre arrived. He recognized her, though he did not say it for a long time. In Skaldia, they tell stories about her. I still remembered the words he spoke when he finally broke his silence, uttered in crude zenyan.
The defeated always remember.
Erich fought bravely for our freedom, though he did not live to see it. He kept his head when others lost theirs, and he spent his life protecting theirs. He took a dozen wounds before he died, and I had wept at his death.
"I made him a promise," Phèdre said quietly, remembering. "I swore I wouldn't blame the Skaldi for Waldemar Selig's war." She touched Ti-Philippe's arm. "Philippe, can you live with this? I will not do it if it pains you."
He sighed, studying the ceiling. "My lady, I would walk through fire for you, and well you know it. If it is your wish that I be attired as an Ephesian dancing girl, I will do it. If it is a Skaldic deity, I will do that, too. Whatever it be, I trust you have your reasons."
Phèdre kissed his cheek. "My thanks, Philippe."
I was watching Favrielle during the exchange, and saw her expression soften for a moment. It hardened the instant she noticed, and I smiled to myself.
"You people!" she exclaimed. "Name of Elua, it's just a Masque. Must everything always be a matter of life or death with you?"
So it was decided.
The costumes were gorgeous. How not? Favrielle was a genius, after all. She had a knack for making fabric sing like poetry, and whatever she might claim, she took a good deal of pride in dressing Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève and her household. On the afternoon of the Longest Night, she even sent one of her apprentices to assist with the preparations.
It was a lengthy process.
When it was done, I gazed at myself in the mirror and beheld a stranger.
As Favrielle had promised, I was clad all in hues of white. Mine was one of the simplest costumes. A shirt of ivory silk, open at the throat and fastened below with silver buttons shaped like mistletoe berries; a pair of white velvet breeches with a silver sash about the waist. Even my leather boots were white. So simple; and yet. Favrielle's apprentice had spent ages twining silver ribbons throughout my hair. It framed my face in an unlikely starburst, the silver bright against my blue-black locks.
Baldur the Beautiful, the Skaldi god of light, slain by a sprig of mistletoe.
But it was the mask that made all the difference. It was a half-mask of ivory silk, modeled on my own features, but motionless and still. The upper half of my face looked smooth and serene, distant as a god. I leaned forward, peering into the mirror. Yes, those were my dark blue eyes; those were my lips, looking unwontedly ripe. It was a strange interplay, the tension between the living flesh and the remote whiteness of the mask.
"Well, aren't you pretty!"
I jumped at Eamonn's voice. He leaned in the doorway, grinning at me, his mask shoved onto his forehead. He wore white boots, a cloak of ivory wool, and a long white jerkin trimmed with ermine, belted around the waist with a chain of silver links, leaving his brawny arms and lower legs bare. He lowered his mask to show me. Unlike mine, it was sculpted into an expression of thunderous intent. He hoisted a crudely shaped hammer covered in silver leaf.
"You look… imposing," I said.
"I feel a right dolt." He raised his mask. "Are we ready?"
"Nearly, I think."
Downstairs, Ti-Philippe joined us. He wore a doublet and breeches of ivory velvet, glittering with a tracery of silver embroidery. Like us, he had a silken half-mask, but his bore an expression of clever malice. Whether or not any of us looked like the Skaldic ideal of their deities, I doubt; I daresay we didn't. But we didn't look like ourselves, either.
And then Phèdre descended.
"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn whispered fervently.
She scintillated from every angle. Her gown was made of ivory satin, and it clung to her waist and torso as though it had grown there, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It was adorned with ornate bead-work, refracting light. Below the waist, it flared and frothed, breaking like the crest of a wave upon the stairs. Her dark hair was loose, but a hundred small brilliants were fastened in it, looking like a net of stars. An intricate necklace of silver links and pale gems circled her throat. Unlike the three of us, she wore a small mask; a simple white domino that lent mystery to her eyes and hid none of her beauty.
"Well?" Phèdre smiled.
Eamonn knelt, offering up his silver hammer. "Lady, I lay myself at your feet!"
"You look like a goddess," I said honestly.
Ti-Philippe merely gave a low whistle, glancing at Joscelin, who was following his consort down the stairs, clad in plain woolen attire. "Sure you don't want to change your mind, Cassiline?"
He laughed. "I don't think your costume would fit me, chevalier." Joscelin turned to Phèdre, touching her hair. His steel vambraces glinted dully. "I'll see you after sunrise."
"Joie," she whispered to him.
"And to you, love." He kissed her, then. "Joie to all of you on the Longest Night!"
I thought about him on the journey to the Palace. Already, the City was ablaze with mirth. We made slow progress through the revelers. At every intersection, someone darted up to the carriage, proffering a flask or wineskin. We declined, laughing, and tossed them silver centimes for luck. Somewhere, I thought, amid all this gaiety, Joscelin was making his steady way toward the Temple of Elua. While we would pass the night in revelry, he would spend it kneeling on the frozen ground, immersed in silent prayer. "This, too, is sacred."
The words startled me. I stared at Phèdre, the blood warming my cheeks, remembering how Emmeline of Balm House had spoken them. "What?"
"This celebration." She gestured at the revelers outside the carriage window. "We celebrate the passing of darkness and the return of the light. It's a sacred ritual, as old as Earth herself."
"I know," I said. "I was just thinking about Joscelin." She smiled below her mask. "In his heart, he will always be Cassiel's servant. The Longest Night means a great deal to him. Only know, this path is no less worthy."
"And a lot more fun!" Ti-Philippe added. I nodded. "I will be mindful of it."
By the time we arrived, I had already ceased to fret. The stories I had heard failed to do justice to the pageantry of the Midwinter Masque. Every inch of the Palace was ablaze with light. Although we were not late, the ballroom was already filled with a throng of masked celebrants. Favrielle had guessed rightly; it was a riot of color; jewel tones, deep and rich. We made a stark white splash as we entered, the herald bawling our names. Eamonn stared about him, his eyes wide behind his mask's thunderous scowl, his mouth agape. I nudged him. "Act like a god." He raised his hammer and roared aloud.
It was a bit more than I had intended, but what could one do? I thought about Erich the Skaldi and laughed. I daresay they are not so different, the Daldriada and the Skaldi. With sublime disregard for the whispers and stares, Phèdre took Ti-Philippe's arm and plunged into the throng; trusting us to follow, trusting the others to make way for her.
We did; and so did they.
"Phèdre!" It was Queen Ysandre herself who hailed us. She came toward us, Sidonie and Alais in tow, flanked by members of her Guard. The Queen was dressed as the personification of Summer, while her daughters were Spring. She gave Phèdre the kiss of greeting. "My dear, what are you tonight?"
"Freyya," Phèdre said calmly. "A Skaldic deity."
There was a little pause. The Queen's brows rose. "All of you?"
"I am Donar!" Eamonn said helpfully, brandishing his hammer. "God of thunder!"
Ysandre blinked. Her gaze passed over Eamonn and Ti-Philippe, coming to rest on me. "And you, Prince Imriel?"
I bowed low, my head heavy with silver ribbon. "Baldur, your majesty, god of light."
The moment made me tense, but in the end, Ysandre merely sighed. "You do like to make matters interesting, my dear," she said. "So be it. Let this be a measure of the peace we have established. Be welcome. May the Longest Night pass swiftly, and light return."
We toasted one another with joie. It is a rare liqueur distilled from flowers that blossom in the snowdrifts of the CamaelineMountains and its taste is indescribable; at once cool on the palate and burning in the belly. Alais' eyes widened as she sipped hers.
"Your first taste?" I asked her.
She shook her head vigorously. "No, Mother let me try it last year, but I'd forgotten." She laughed breathlessly. "It's my first Masque, though! I've leave to stay until the Sun Prince arrives."
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