I’d only been to the Illusionist’s Round a few times. As a siege major, knowledgable almost exclusively in the explosive Art of Evocation, there wasn’t much point in my visiting. The Masquerade was held outside in a meticulously landscaped square where unbridled nature and paved stone wove together in harmony. Cobbled stone paths wound through the grounds, broken up by patches of soft, dense grass. Bushes of orange marigolds burned with radiance in the golden glow of dusk and the canopy formed by the maple trees were fading from brilliant crimson to a subdued bronze.
Surrounding the courtyard were a number of boutique storefronts—most of which were dedicated to supplies all manner of illusionists might require. Lots of stationary and spell components dealers, but also bookstores, cafes, and study rooms.
Since Phrygia had a limited footprint by design—rising into the sky for most of the month and all that—city planners had to build up to make room for the growing population of students and entrepreneurs. The shops on ground level were topped with stacked, luxury apartments; cookie cutter boxes pre-furnished with handmade desks and beds and chairs, adorned with silk and suede and velvet.
There was a line of dressed up and masked individuals awaiting the greeters to open red dividers fencing off the square. I stood by an intersection, risking the mud splashes of passing carriages so I might get a brief moment alone with Marta before we went in.
“Perry!” Marta waved from down the block. She could have taken a carriage, everyone else was. But she didn’t. She walked here in her sensible shoes, as I had. Perhaps to enjoy the fresh air, perhaps to dodge the traffic, perhaps both.
That was how we first got to know each other last year. Strolling about the Citadel, talking and not talking. There was something rather enchanting about the quiet, the doing nothing in the presence of another.
I patted down the various pockets of my suit ensuring I had everything I needed in case the worst happened. Wand in my inner vest pocket—check. Ring of chameleon on my right ring finger—check. Ivory mask upon my face—check… though I couldn’t help but feel like I had forgotten something as I patted the empty front-pockets on my trousers.
“Marta…” I gasped as she curtsied and presented her hand so I may slip on the black lace corsage adorned with a few rare purple Skanu Lilies, which accidentally matched her gown perfectly. I had been on my way to purchase a bouquet of red roses, but seeing the lilies sprouting from a pot on an unoccupied porch, I couldn’t resist the serendipity. “You are an absolute treasure.”
She blushed, her olive skin flushing with copper as she brushed her dark brown hair away from her brown dark eyes. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—if the subtle curves shone through her study robes merely caught my eye, her gown seemed to be designed to drive a man like me crazy.
Her outfit was rather modest, covering her chest with lacy silk up to her neckline, though fitted in a way to accentuate the fullness of her chest. Flowing lavender fabric pooled and tightened in all the right places, showcasing how the small of her back dipped into her ample hips. Shivers rolled down my spine as I noticed the subtle slit in the revealing her thigh just above her knee.
Marta held my hand, which appeared smooth while I wore the ivory mask. Concern spread across her face. “What’s this? Your scars—”
“Still there,” I said flatly. I shivered, warming my voice. “I wanted to present my best self to you, tonight.”
“You didn’t need to…”
“I know.” I hadn’t known. “But I feel better like this.” I did.
“Perry…” A gaggle of loud underclassman piled out of a stagecoach down the street, breaking the spell binding us in that fleeting moment.
“Well,” she said, the left side of her painted lips curling into a smile. “You look very dapper. I’m proud to be here with you.”
“I’m proud you asked me.”
She laughed. “Who else would I have asked?”
My heart clenched as I considered myriad options. A woman like Marta had her choice of the pack, so to speak. “Anyone, really,” I mused. “But you asked me. And I revel in that.”
The line started moving as the greeters began admitting guests into the square. It seemed a bit early so I reached for my pocket watch, which was not in my pocket. Ah, that’s what I forgot. The realization put me at ease—as much as I could be on a night like this.
I offered my arm to Marta, and she intertwined her arm with mine. I hadn’t much experience courting women, but I had had a few dalliances before coming to the Citadel. Girls from my village, each spark snuffed within the course of a week or two, and each of them far shorter than I. With one of them, I’d have to painfully hunch my shoulders and slouch my back just to hold hands. Marta was nearly my height and I found her divinely comfortable to walk with as we made our way into line as a unit.
I didn’t know such a feeling existed, in truth.
“Marta,” I said, afraid to ruin this perfect moment. How I wished we lived normal lives (whatever that meant). “There’s something important I need to tell you, before we enter.”
She turned, straightening my coat before looking up at me with those round, deep brown eyes. “Anything, Perry. Tell me.”
“Well,” I said, a wave of discomfort coming over me like a hot flash. “You know the assignment given to me by Bastilion—rather, the Headmaster, himself…”
Disappointment seeped into her expression. She nodded and looked away.
“I don’t know for sure, but I have a hunch Haslow might turn up here. If he does—”
“Then you do what you need.” Marta finished for me, forcing a smile. “Until then, let’s enjoy the night, eh? Just forget about Haslow and the damned Citadel for awhile.”
I took her corsaged hand in both of mine, squeezing gently. “That sounds darling, my sweet.”
When we reached the front of the line, Marta donned a lynx shaped half-mask, gave the greeter our tickets, and together we entered the courtyard, presenting ourselves as a couple to society for the first time.
The event itself was a fine distraction. For a few hours I felt like my old self again—better, actually. I’d never been a socialite. I’d always preferred to stay in and read and write and pursue whatever foolish sorcerous projects that came to mind in my free time. Before meeting Marta, I’d never an excuse to put myself out there.
A Masquerade was an apt beginning for such things. Together we danced and chatted with classmates and professors. Sometimes one of us would sneak off to plunder a few extra orderves to share. The music was good—a string quartet brought in from Valencia. The air was cool and pleasant—late summer nights over the Black Sea. And I was just a teensy bit drunk—two glasses of high-end champagne.
When the quartet began a popular slow dance tune (Will You Share My Moonlight?, a classic even my country bumpkin parents knew), Marta and I swayed in each other’s arms, carried by the waves of a sea of amorous souls.
There had always been a spark there, between me and Marta. Even I couldn’t deny it. There had never been uncertainty or second guessing between, either. Even still, we were sorcerers of the Citadel. Our studies were our lives and thus romance always took a backseat. There were several well-known married couples in the Citadel, people who work together in love and in magic… but it is rare, all things considered.
Actually, I know exactly how rare it is. Only thirty-four percent of graduated sorcerers marry. Of those, eighty-seven percent marry another graduated sorcerer, while the rest marry non-magic-users who studies in a mundane Phrygian university or who live out somewhere else in the world (commutes aren’t much of an issue for those well versed in traversing the in-between). Unfortunately, sixty-two percent of those marriages end in divorce. Subsequent marriages have higher chances of failure.
This is why I’ve never even attempted to kiss Marta, despite the dozen chances she’s probably given me. I’d always wondered what it was she saw in me—now, more than ever.
Wreathed in gentle moonlight, my sweet was indelible—her resplendent visage that night will remain etched in my memory until the day I die. I found myself imagining the taste of the mauve dye she had used to decorate her supple lips. Another perfect moment, when viewed in isolation of the chaos that seemed to follow me at every turn.
As the song reached its crescendo, I pulled her close, savoring how soft and warm she was. Marta exhaled a sigh of relief, the kind you let out when you return home after a real ogre of a day.
“Perry,” Marta whispered.
“Yes?”
She clutched my back. Wet dots appeared on my vest. “I…” she trailed off, her voice quivering. “I am madly in love with you.”
The violinist let out a mournful refrain, the cellos bounding with a low rhythm like heartbeat. I stopped dancing and pulled away so I could look into her wet eyes. There was naught but raw vulnerability there, absolute trust.
I sucked in a ragged breath, struggled to stitch together a smile. Everything I yearned and feared had rolled into one before me. “And I… I love you just the same.”
She trembled, repressing a laugh despite herself. I was shaking too, could hardly breathe. We’d known, of course we did, but now we’ve said it after dancing around the topic for a year.
“I needed to tell you,” she said. “As you said, there’s no telling what could happen tonight—or any other night.”
“Marta…” I said, thoughts churning through my head like butter.
“Yes, Perry?”
“You’d love me,” I touched my mask, though I had not the courage to remove it. “Even with what I’ve become?”
Her eyes narrowed, her face becoming willful, as if I’d issued some sort of challenge. “I already do—I did before, and I did when…” her countenance shattered, and she was weeping in truth. “When you were asleep, as the miracle workers tended you—I didn’t think you’d make it. And I all I could think about was how I’d never told you…”
I was about to say something, but Marta placed a finger on my lips, then removed my mask. The muted sensation it granted evaporated, and I felt my new scars that look liked old scars crawl across my face and my body, ravaging the illusion of who I wished I could be.
“My face…” I stammered.
“This face was the greatest gift I’d ever been given.”
Marta, willful as she was, took my cheeks in her hands and drew me towards her for what should have been our first kiss. As the song ended, the violins hitting their resolving note, I was beset by a crippling wave of nausea, my stomach churning, my blood boiling. I stumbled and collapsed to the ground.
“Perry!” Marta knelt next to me.
“Water…” I panted. “Can’t—breathe!”
“I’ll be right back!”
Marta ran off. People around me murmured. No one tried to help. I panted, clutching my chest as my heart raced, my eyes darting frantically from place to place, a primal instinct commanding my body to search for the source of my pain though I knew my pain came from within.
Then my bleary eyes settled on sight I could ignore. On the second floor of one of the apartment buildings I saw a dragon with golden scales, assuming a humanoid bipedal form. Venati Goldenscale… He was shaking hands with a large man in a full faced mask, ushering him into the apartment.
That bloody fucking…
“Bastard!” I screamed suddenly enraged. I grabbed my mask and surged to my feet tearing my way through the crowd of indifferent bystanders. My head burned, as if I suffered a pitching fever that boiled my brain. I disappeared into unlocked doors of the building I saw Goldenscale and Haslow enter and began running up the stairs.