Kushiel's Chosen

colonnade, I saw Ysandre de la Courcel, resplendent in her costume as the Snow Queen, surrounded by a coterie of admirers, her gaze fixed on the false mountain.
    When the Night's Crier reached its base, he sounded the tocsin one last time.
    All at once, darkness fell. There must have been servants at every candle, to snuff them with such utter thoroughness, and where the lamps hung suspended in chandeliers, they lowered rows of silver cones strung on ropes to extinguish them in all swiftness. Only the lamps in the hollow columns continued to glow, and a single lamp above the mountain crag.
    With a dreadful, grinding sound, the mountain itself split open to reveal a hollow core, a stair and a promontory; and on it, the Winter Queen, aged and hobbled, bearing her blackthorn staff. I have friends who are players, I know how such things are done. Even so, I gasped. Everyone bowed their heads, even Ysandre; I was hard put not to kneel, the habit deeply ingrained. From the far end of the hall, where the great doors were closed, came a measured pounding of a spear-butt. Once, twice, thrice.
    "Let the doors be opened to admit the return of the light!" Ysandre cried imperiously, and the great doors were flung open at her command.
    Through them drove a splendid chariot, hung with lamps and drawn by a matched pair of white horses. In it rode the Sun Prince, gloriously garbed in cloth-of-gold, his mask that of a beautiful youth, surrounded by gilded rays. A murmur of awe arose in the hall. Its team moving at an impeccably matched pace, it drew nigh to the foot of the split-open crag. Standing in the chariot, the Sun Prince pointed his gilt spear at the Winter Queen.
    She seemed not to move, and yet her garment was riven, falling away to reveal the slender form of a maiden within. In a single, bold gesture, she drew off her aged mask and showed herself to be in the flower of youth, shaking out golden tresses that fell to her waist. And light returned to the hall, tongues of flame snaking up long oil-soaked wicks strung to countless lamps, igniting them all at once. Suddenly, the hall was ablaze in light, seeming twice as bright for the darkness that had preceded it.
    We cheered; we all cheered. One cannot help it, at such a time. From the far corners of the hall, the musicians returned, playing with redoubled vigor. The Sun Prince leapt from his chariot, and the Winter Queen, now a Spring Maiden, descended from her mount to join him on the dancing floor. In a trice, they were joined by a dozen couples, and at the corner of the floor, Ysandre's coterie began to break up, vying for the honor of procuring her next glass of joie.
    I exhaled a breath I'd not known I held, leaning on Fortun's arm. It was a greater spectacle than the one at Cereus House, which is famed throughout the City, although I daresay they lay no odds on the players in Night's Doorstep. These were professionals, performing at the Queen's behest, with scores of artisans to assist them.
    "Shall we dance, my lady?" Fortun inquired.
    "And it please you, Comtesse de Montrève," a man's silken voice insinuated, "I would beg that honor."
    Turning, I espied my latest suitor clad as Hesperus, the evening star. His doublet and hose were of a deep twilight blue, and over them he wore a surcoat of a deeper blue silk, the shade of encroaching night. For a rarity, the cut was elegant and simple, flattering his well-made form. His coat was adorned with intricate brocade, and in it were set myriad bits of mirror, so that he glimmered with the subtle light of the evening sky, and a silver star mask obscured his features. I knew him by his voice, his grace and his black hair, that fell in a river of fine-linked braids down his back.
    "My lord Shahrizai," I said, keeping my voice cool. "Let us do so.”
    With an immaculate bow, Marmion Shahrizai escorted me onto the dancing floor.
    If I had had a dozen or more partners that night, and I had, not a one approached his skill. One trains as hard to be the perfect courtier as courtesan, I think, and the Shahrizai are without peer. Marmion swept me over the floor, one hand holding mine, one placed with surety low on my back, and I needed no more think to follow his lead than I need think to breathe. Indeed, I heard murmurs of admiration as we passed, for it is in the D'Angeline nature to admire beauty in all its forms. We were well-matched, he and I.
    In the scant inches that separated us, it was another matter.
    "So tell me," he said,