“Mistress, we are finished, would you like to observe?” The handmaiden’s sotto voice cut through Ceridwen’s contemplations. She had been far away, daydreaming of...something.
Back to awareness, an image of herself most resplendent greets her through the mirror. The three handmaidens stand around, fidgeting slightly. Her hair has been brushed and decorated like flowing waves, her makeup expertly done in the fashion of the court, and her stormy ocean evening gown accents her form perfectly.
“Mistress, do you wish any change? We are happy to serve.”
She turns slightly, studying the woman in the mirror. “No.” Finally, “You have outdone yourselves, it is excellently done for tonight’s ball. You may be excused, Vanya. Thank you.” A deep and respectful curtsey, and they exit, leaving her alone in the stateroom.
Tonight’s events are rudimentary, some Essandian dignitaries wanting to talk trade, various nobles currying favor, merchants hawking promises. It was not significant, but still she had a role to play and an appearance to make.
Turning again, she studies herself carefully in the mirror, not out of some vain preening, or even to scrutinize for some errant strand or imperfection. Instead she sees...through the depths of the reflections another set of eyes watching her. Her own. It’s impossible. But through the myriad for a moment, she thinks she glimpses herself. Herself, and not herself all at once.
The girl who stares back at her is wearing armor. Has swords and daggers on her person, a horn at her waist, braids woven with briars. And her eyes. Her own eyes. Violet and green, mismatched. Her own eyes.
Blink.
And she is gone.
Just a noblewoman, in a gown, staring back at her.
Who was-
A heavy knock at the door, “Lady. You are summoned.” A rich baritone voice. Quarentus, the General.
She shakes her head, not quite forgetting the strange image, but mind turning to other things. The heavy stone door she opens effortlessly, and the General stands at ease before her door, greying and aged like a benevolent Uncle. Garbed in his parade-armour finest, he bows low.
“Princess, I am to escort you to Our Lord, that you may walk with him to dinner.”
“Of course,” with elegance, she takes the General’s arm, “Tell me about the evening, what entertainments are planned?”
The General affects a genteel smile, without looking directly at her. “I’m told there will be an esteemed bard tonight, especially skilled who can play any of your like.” he coughs politely, “Meaning no offense Princess, but perhaps you should refrain from asking too much of the players tonight.”
She laughs, a little too sharply, “My lord father asked you to say that.”
“Well, your knowledge of ballads and tales is...unparalleled as they say. Maybe your requests can be kept to the courtly fashion. Again, meaning no offense.”
She pats his arm lightly beneath her gloved fingers. “I will...temper my expectations. Any others?”
“Ah, there will also be a visiting artist. A man of exceptional talent, his name is Valen Fulci.”
Her muscles stiffen, and a chill draft slides past her. Long courtly skill masks it with an inquisitive, attractive tilt to her head.
“Oh? Fulci...why is that name so familiar?”
“I could not say, Princess. But certainly some of his work is beginning to adorn noble houses of Tirond. I’ve not yet had the pleasure of seeing them in person however. Ah, but here we are.”
Standing before the massive oaken doors, she disengages herself and curtsies prettily. “Thank you for the escort, General.”
“Of course,” He pushes the door open, and heralds her in, “Princess Ceridwen L’Auderain, adoptive daughter of the Lion, The Fang of Tironde.”
And behind her, walking through the mirror and glass, striding through nowhere is Ceridwen nee Sedriks, who watches and waits with death.
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