The Man Behind the Mask. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ than that—through the arching oak doors, out to the gallery, on past the high leaded windows and into the icy early-December darkness beyond.

      Overhead, massive iron chandeliers, blazing bright, hung from thick black chains. On the side walls trefoil stained-glass windows glittered, four-panel lancet windows below, also of stained glass. On one side, the windows held out the night. On the other, they stood between the ballroom and the gallery.

      At my end of the rectangular room: a two story-high fireplace. I swear to you, that fireplace was big enough to roast a couple of reindeer and a wild boar or two and still have plenty of room to spare. The fireplace led the eye up again, to arch upon arch, all very Gothic-looking, only somehow more opulent. The sheer complexity of it could make you dizzy.

      I stared up at all those interlocking arches until my neck got a slight crick in it. About then, it occurred to me that I’d lurked near that giant fireplace for too long, alternately gazing at the ceiling and into the fire where three whole tree trunks burned. Not that anyone was looking at me, or would even have cared if they were. But still. I had my pride and a firm determination not to sink too deeply into wallflower mode.

      I began working my way to the other end of the ballroom, smiling brightly at faces I’d never seen before—and a few I’d been introduced to but whose names were already lost somewhere in the unattended recesses of my mind. As a rule, I’m pretty good with names. But not that night. I guess I was kind of on overload. Mountains of new data coming my way, no time to process.

      Eventually I reached the other end of the room and just kept going, beneath the balcony on which the full-size orchestra was now playing something very Strauss. I finally came to a stop about four feet from a wall on which hung a huge, obviously antique tapestry. And I am not kidding when I say huge. The gorgeous thing started just below the balcony above and ended about a foot from the inlaid hardwood floor. It stretched a good ten feet in either direction. I stepped back a little and tried to take it all in.

      And I know what you’re thinking. There I was, a guest at the ball, surrounded by handsome Nordic types with “prince” in their names, and I was studying the ceiling and gaping at a rug.

      What can I say? It’s how I am. Two summers before, Brit and I had done Route 66—you know the song right? We did it backward. From San Bernardino all the way to St. Louis. We stopped in a lot of small towns, each complete with its own très atmospheric seedy bar. Brit would be hanging out with the locals in the main room, doing shots and getting hit on. And me? I’m in the back, copying the graffiti off the ladies’ room walls. You’d be amazed the bits of life-wisdom and philosophy, the stories of love and loss, you can find on the walls of a toilet stall, stuff I knew I’d use later, in some book or other.

      Also, in my defense that night in the ballroom, let me say that you would have to see the rug. We are talking intricate. At first glance, it seemed just swirls of muted color. And then there was that moment when it all spun into focus and I saw that it was a huge, gnarled tree with roots running everywhere and some kind of serpent-creature wrapped through those roots, defining the center of a series of circles, one on top of the other. In the branches perched an eagle, with some other smaller bird woven inside the eagle’s head. There were elves, dwarves, men or maybe gods armed with shields and swords, a dragon, deer—four bucks, with huge racks—women in long gowns with twining golden hair, crone-like figures leering with what I felt certain must be evil intent. I saw a squirrel that seemed to zip along the curve of a root and fountains that shimmered, as if truly wet…

      I found it enchanting and wondrous and I shamelessly stared.

      Someone behind my left shoulder said, “That tapestry is to represent Yggdrasil, what we call the world tree, or the guardian tree.” The voice was male—low and with a ring of authority, yet faintly thready, as with age.

      I turned to find a gaunt old man with long silver hair and a wispy beard to match. He had one of those faces that are all sharp bone and shadow, as if his flesh had melted away over the years, leaving the vulnerable shape of his skull revealed beneath the papery skin. His silver-gray eyes were sunken way down in their sockets. And they seemed, somehow, to glow there in the pools of darkness surrounding them. Eerie.

      But not scary. He looked otherworldly and infinitely wise. As if he could not only read your mind but also accept absolutely anything he found in there, no matter how evil or petty or banal. He also looked vaguely familiar, though I was certain I would have remembered if I’d met him before.

      “Yggdrasil,” I repeated, enchanted. The ygg was pronounced ig—short i—and the rest of the vowels were short as well, the same as the way you would say, Clearasil, with ig substituted for the first syllable. “I’ve never heard it pronounced before.”

      “The world tree—some sources say an ash tree, some a yew—links and shelters the nine worlds of Norse cosmology,” the old man intoned. He gestured with a graceful, skeletal hand. “Within the roots, you see the three levels of the worlds.” He looked at me again, one grizzled brow lifting. “Ah, but you know this, do you not?”

      “I have a…general understanding, I guess you could say.” Back when I wrote my epic fantasy—no snickering, please. Every budding writer should try her hand at epic fantasy—I did a little studying up on the major myth systems. Including the Norse one.

      The old man chuckled then, a dry but friendly sound. “A general understanding is quite enough, for a pretty young American. May I call you Dulcinea? It is a name as sweet as its meaning, a name that suits you well.”

      Anyone else would have gotten an automatic, “Please don’t.” I really do prefer Dulcie. But somehow, Dulcinea sounded just right when this magical old guy said it. Plus, he’d said I was sweet to match my name. From him, that sounded like high praise. “Thank you. Dulcinea is fine. And you’re…?”

      “Prince Medwyn Greyfell.”

      The metaphorical lightbulb went on over my head. No wonder he knew who I was. “You’re Eric’s father.”

      “And there you have it.” He gave me a small smile. Brit had mentioned him more than once. Besides being Eric’s father, Prince Medwyn was also the second most powerful man in Gullandria, the king’s top advisor, the one they called the grand counselor.

      Prince Medwyn held out that pale, veined hand. I gave him mine. He brought my hand close and brushed his thin, dry lips—so lightly, the whisper of dragonfly wings—against my knuckles.

      I realized I adored him. Who wouldn’t? “Tell me more.”

      “Concerning?”

      “Oh, anything. The Norse myths. Who wove this tapestry and how old it is…”

      “In 1640, it was presented as a gift from the King of Bohemia to King Velief Danelaw, in appreciation of Gullandria’s support in convincing the Swedes to withdraw from Bohemian soil. The creator, more likely than not a woman, as women are the weavers in our lands, is not known.”

      I turned to the tapestry again. “Artist unknown…” A heated flush crept up my cheeks. “I hate that. Someone labored for months, or even years, creating something so beautiful. And in the end, who remembers her name?”

      “Alas, Dulcinea. You do speak true.”

      “It’s as if the artist never even existed. It’s just not…” Turning, I saw that the place where the old man had stood was empty. I blinked and glanced around. Nothing. He was gone.

      It was pretty bizarre, how fast he’d СКАЧАТЬ