They pass fountains of mysterious liquid and shadowy rooms filled with giggles and gasps. At one corner, a trio of women egg on a man licking a gargoyle’s carved stone cock. The labyrinth isn’t too complex, and few sharp turns lead them to the massive central chamber.
More tables of food and drinks line this room, and stone benches host those who just want to watch. Everything angles around the central pedestal, a five-foot-tall marble construction inlaid with scalestone fragments. A shimmering protective shield surrounds the platform, keeping onlookers at least twenty feet from the action. Upon the platform are the stars of the night’s entertainment.
The two blood mages sit cross-legged, eyes closed, ten feet across from each other. The man wears a loose silk robe and piles of gold jewelry. His opponent is a woman wearing only a wyrmskin skirt. Blood-red tattoos swirl around her bare arms and breasts. Beside each of them kneels a grail, feeding the blood mages’ magic.
Rakos doesn’t know the mages or their grails, so he scans the crowd for familiar faces. He hasn’t socialized much outside of Parsk and Ostomar since enlisting, but he still recognizes a few nobles.
There are very few civilians at the masque, most of them are working like Teodor and Merry. While bloodmasques are open to all classes, they tend not to attract many civilians due to the potential for things to go very wrong. Common magic isn’t much protection against the forces at play here.
Rakos doesn’t spot any dragonriders in the main chamber. Lively music plays from an adjacent hall—maybe Rakos’s wing-kin are flocking to the dance floor. He takes a step in that direction before realizing Bell hasn’t followed.
Transfixed and sickly pale, Bell stares up at the dueling mages.
Rakos takes his hand. “What’s wrong?”
Bell shudders. “They’re killing each other.”
“That’s how a duel works. They try to kill each other.”
“I can see the magic gnawing at them.” Bell squeezes Rakos’s hand. “I can see it withering their lives away layer by layer. And the men beside them…”
“It won’t kill the grails,” Rakos says. “Burning grails out was outlawed twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago?” Bell echoes.
Only then does the horror of that recency strike Rakos in the gut. “Progress, right?” Rakos says, instead of fully dealing with that. “Hey, do you want to get out of here? I can show you a way better party back at the caravan.”
“No.” Bell forces a smile. “No, I want to stay. Let’s see what’s in the other rooms?” And when Rakos hesitates, Bell’s pout isn’t forced at all. “You said you’d trust my limits.”
“Those puppy eyes are a low blow, minstrel, but fine. Let’s dance.” Rakos wraps an arm around Bell’s shoulders, hot where their bare skin touches, and steers him towards a doorway.
He’s not sure why Bell is so determined to stay when he’s clearly disturbed by the duel. Maybe Rakos should push more for an explanation, but he has his own reasons to linger at the bloodmasque. Bell’s insistence works for him.
Rakos’s arm drops to Bell’s waist as they weave through the silk and leather-clad crowd. Bright-dyed hair catches his eyes everywhere, but there are no familiar patterns. Just nobles imitating dragonrider traditions. Nobody seems to recognize Rakos in his mask, with his hair muddy-brown, out of uniform. It’s kind of nice.
Not nice: the number of hungry eyes on Bell.
Rakos pushes Bell against the nearest wall, in between a gargoyle and a violet lantern. He presses his porcelain-covered forehead against Bell’s and growls, “This mask was a mistake.”
Bell touches his carved lips, and Rakos imagines the heat of his touch searing into his flesh, burning him to the core.
“A terrible mistake.” Bell’s hand drops to Rakos’s chest. His shoulder. Skates possessively down his arm. “Everyone keeps looking at you, and I can’t kiss you to scare them off.”
Rakos’s jealousy banks into a sweeter fire. His heart drums between his ribs in a very casual way, as his thumbscasuallytrace Bell’s hip bones beneath his loose shirt. “You can kiss me. Anywhere you like.”
Bell’s eyes flash bright behind his mask. He hooks his hand into Rakos’s hair and drags his head to the side. Bell’s teeth sink into Rakos’s neck without hesitation. His full body presses against Rakos, proving his arousal as he sucks a painful, triumphant bruise into Rakos’s skin.
They’re both dazed by the time they reach the dance hall, a long rectangular space in the southern side of the labyrinth. A live band plays a cheerful folk tune at the far end, and tall white flames illuminate the space from the surrounding wall tops. Rakos spots Teodor holding court on one of the cushioned sofas. The bed worker looks incredibly bored by the viscount fawning over him. Merry is nowhere to be seen.
Rakos pulls Bell towards the floor. “Do you know how to dance?”
“Of course,” Bell replies. “Do you?”
“Well enough.”
It’s been nearly seven years since Rakos last danced. A royal banquet after the Long Summer War. Rakos was nineteen years old, and he lasted three songs before he fled the lights and merriment to fly Sarka across the mountains. They flew till the sun rose before returning to the barracks.
Difficult to dance when the week before, Rakos burned ten men alive. At least, the party was difficult for Rakos. Nobody else seemed to have any trouble with it. He’s refused to dance at every banquet since then.
