Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

A Sidhe knight prowled along the path, dressed in black. Bel thought he might be Ashe, or Thorn, but she couldn’t tell for sure. His face was obscured by a harlequin’s mask, his long, dark hair bound back in a queue.

Black velvet bows and crystals adorned the trees, while invisible musicians played a sharp, tinkling music. Open flame from gigantic braziers lent a dash of heat and a feral quality to the scene.

Smiling jugglers performed for the crowd, and magicians pulled party favors made of paste and paint from behind onlookers’ ears. Occasionally, a delighted scream pierced the air as a magician revealed the gleam of a real jewel nestled in a painted robin’s egg.

The refreshments were equally fantastical, served by Dark Court attendants dressed in spotless white, intricately embroidered uniforms.

Baked cockatrices, a classic medieval dish created from half pig, half rooster, and cooked with saffron and ginger and gilded with edible gold, steamed in the chill night air. Strange, delicate meringue structures, sprinkled with sugar, tilted and swirled on glass plates. Savory jellies of lamb, lavender and lemon had been set in molds shaped like roses, the dishes interspersed with bowls of cherries, oranges, nuts, and sausages. A cocktail of brandy and champagne bubbled in ice fountains.

Everybody who was anybody traveled from all over the world and swathed themselves in wool, furs and jewels to attend the King’s masque.

Eventually, Bel knew, the fashion would change. It always did. Some other spectacle would become de rigueur, but in this age and place, Oberon and his strange, elegant Dark Court held sway. Despite the history of enmity between the two Courts, even the Seelie Queen Isabeau put in an appearance for a short while.

In order to attend without squandering months on travel, those who lived in faroff lands, such as the Elves in the South Carolina demesne, often bargained for transportation from the Djinn, to which the Djinn comfortably agreed.

Quick transportation was an easy task for the Djinn to perform, and in return they collected a fortune in favors. The winged Wyr smiled in pity at such pedestrian arrangements, and generally almost everyone found a way to feel superior.

Very few humans were invited to attend the King’s masque, although Bel noticed one or two in the crowd. Usually they were fantastically rich or well favored in Power or political standing. Oberon liked to cultivate opportunity wherever he might find it.

Worry nipped at her heels as she approached the dance floor and walked along the border, her gaze darting over the dancers.

The evening was young, well before midnight, so everyone went masked. Some wore plain dominoes, while others wore masks as fantastical as their surroundings, along with costumes of brilliant color that stood out against the black-and-white background.

The masks made it difficult to identify anybody at a distance with any surety. Magic swirled and eddied, dizzying the senses. Her attention caught on a trio of males, standing beside one of the brandy and champagne fountains.

The Great Beast might not have arrived, but two of his sentinels had. Over the millennia, the Beast had acquired a name, Dragos Cuelebre. Then he had become a Lord and ruled over his own demesne of Wyr, an event the Elves considered an act of outrageous ill fortune.

Of the Beast’s seven sentinels, those attending the masque were two of his most Powerful—gryphons Constantine and Graydon. They stood talking with another Wyr, the ever-courteous and enigmatic Francis Shaw, the Earl of Weston.

Despite her preoccupation, Bel paused to consider the men. No matter how she felt about Dragos personally, overall she enjoyed the Wyr. They had a sense of wildness and a connection with nature that appealed enormously to her.

Reputably, Weston was the one Wyr whom Dragos could not persuade to join him in governing the Wyr demesne in New York. Nicknamed the Eighth Sentinel, Weston had chosen instead to remain loyal to England, and to the family title which he had inherited many years ago. In recent years, he had worked tirelessly in the War Office against Napoleon.

Whatever truth was behind the story, there did not appear to be any ill feeling between the earl and the gryphons. As she watched, Constantine threw back his head and guffawed at something Weston said, his handsome face creased with laughter.

Beside him, his fellow sentinel Graydon grinned as well, his rugged features creased with good humor. While Weston’s slim height hinted at a falcon’s grace, the gryphons were heavier and taller, the rangy bulk of their muscles indicative of their Wyr form’s lion bodies.

Of the three men, Graydon was the biggest. He towered over the other two like a lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain, his masculine form broad and powerful. In defiance of the masque’s tradition to go masked until midnight, he had pushed his plain, black domino down so that it hung loosely around his neck like an extra cravat.