Kihrin rolled his eyes and reached over to straighten the gilded, jeweled stretched leather mask on his brother’s face. “The sun. You see? You’re half the D’Mon crest, and I’m the other half, the hawk.” Then it was Kihrin’s turn to scowl at himself in the mirror. “Be honest, I look like a chicken, don’t I?”
“Oh no, not at all,” Galen said, putting his hand on the other boy’s shoulder as he looked at their reflections. He kept a straight face for as long as he could and then muttered under his breath, “Bwawawok!”
Kihrin tried to elbow him, which only highlighted the fact that his sleeve arms had feathers sewn along them. Galen laughed as he dodged his brother’s swing. “Okay, so maybe a bit like a chicken.” He picked up his brother’s mask from a table and tossed it to him. “Fortunately, we’ll be in disguise.”
“Aren’t you two ready yet?” Darzin’s voice called to them just before the man stepped through the door. Darzin wasn’t dressed as a hawk or a sun, but wore a suit of dark colors, green and black, savage and wild, with a helmet crowned by deer antlers. It looked feral and wicked.*
Darzin examined his two sons and snapped his fingers. “Come on, we’ll make the entrance together, then attend the greeting line. Once everyone’s seated, you’re on your own.”
Both young men nodded their heads, knowing better than to disagree. As they shuffled past their father, Darzin looked at Kihrin and shook his head. “Remind me to have our tailor whipped,” he muttered. “You look like a chicken.”
* * *
Each of the Houses held their own party for New Year’s, and since there were twelve Houses, and only six key nights (because no one dared throw their party on the Day of Death, and the Day of Stars was reserved for the Imperial Ball), the appointments for party times were drawn by lots. The losers were relegated to daytime positions with smaller crowds, since most Festival revelers were sleeping off the activities of the night before. Ideally, a House wanted a time either at the beginning of the New Year’s Festival—when they might be held as the standard to which all other Houses must aspire—or at the end. Then they might make the best and most lasting impression on drunken and malleable minds, before the casting of lots for council Voices.
The D’Mon party was on the penultimate night, and it was a grand masquerade. Therin had ordered the entire Third Court emptied and the outside walkways strung with blue mage-lights. Open manicured lawns became a hive of activity. Workers spent weeks installing plants imported all the way from the Manol Jungle; specialists employed by the House had grown them into fantastic sizes, shapes, and colors that existed nowhere in nature. The scent of blue orchids and rare, impossibly crested birds-of-paradise mixed with exotic liquors and rare spiced wines. Professional revelers skipped along tightropes and performed feats of acrobatics from high wires.
The greeting line was deadly dull, and it was all Kihrin could do to keep himself awake. There was a lot of shaking of hands and bowing.
And then he saw the girl.
His heart almost stopped beating. He nearly choked from an emotion he could scarcely name. She wore a dress of red metal scales, layered to resemble the skin of a dragon, the tail trailing on the ground while delicate metal bat wings stretched out to either side. Her hair was black, but it had been washed with some sort of dye so it shimmered crimson. And her eyes, underneath that draconic half-mask, were red.
“Who are you?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
She giggled and turned her head to the side. “Silly! You’re not supposed to ask that … this is a masquerade.”
Kihrin instantly knew he’d made a mistake. Her hair covered her head completely rather than forming a single stripe from front to back. Her skin was too pale and her eyes were a single tone. They didn’t glitter with the yellows, oranges, and reds of a roaring fire.
Still, what he saw of her was lovely, from her full lips to the ample cleavage pushed up by her tight raisigi. Kihrin leaned toward her and whispered, “What good is a masquerade if one can’t uncover a few secrets?”
Someone cleared their throat, and Kihrin realized he was holding up the line.
“Sheloran,” Galen whispered to him. “She wore that dress to the last masquerade too.”
“What?”
“Sheloran D’Talus,” Galen said. “That’s who she is. She’s the High Lord D’Talus’s youngest daughter.”
Kihrin smiled. “Ah. Good to know.”
There was a shadow over both, and Kihrin looked up to see that Therin D’Mon stood there, dressed in leather elaborately worked and gilded to appear as metal armor. He looked like a knight or a general, including the eight-span circle and dragon of the Imperial crest. “Come with me,” the High Lord ordered. “It’s time for your performance.”
Kihrin’s stomach flipped over. He hadn’t been sure Therin would remember, or would want him to go through with it.
“Good luck!” Galen told him.
All he could do was nod at his brother, before Therin’s hand took his arm, leading him off to the stage area. His harp, Valathea, waited for him next to a small stool. As Therin walked him over like a prisoner being led to the gallows, he saw the crowd contained a great many of the more important nobility. This included the High General and the Council Voice Caerowan, who’d overseen Thurvishar and Jarith’s duel. Lady Miya watched from underneath a shaded jungle tree whose branches had been twisted together with flowering vines to form a bench.
Basically, everyone was watching.
After the Reveler musicians announced they had a special surprise guest, he took the stage. Kihrin told himself he was still a musician, still back with his father: this was nothing more than a new commission.
He put his hands to the strings, wondering if he would freeze or faint or worse still, just play poorly, but no: Valathea would have none of that. He played with all that was in him. Reveler magic made sure every corner of the Third Court heard. Even the Revelers, he noted, gave him a grudging round of applause when he finished, loath to admit anyone might play as well as they. Afterward, he left Valathea for servants to take back to his room while he walked down, mask still present, to join the others.
Propriety and the honor of both House D’Jorax and House D’Mon were appeased by the fact that he had never been directly identified. Everyone knew, of course, but they could pretend his identity was a mystery. Perhaps House D’Jorax would even claim he was one of their own musicians in disguise.
Therin turned and left without saying a word, and Darzin had never been present at all. The young man knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but his gut still clenched and his throat tightened. He had thought that Therin at least might say a kind word …