Author's Note: Short one-shot to kick off the New Year.
Disclaimer: The Wheel of Time series belongs to the late and much missed Robert Jordan. No revenue made, no disrespect intended.
Mirrors
'Old Kind Saul was a merry old soul.'
He raised a closed fist to his lips and wished a certain lady on his side.
'And a merry old soul was he—'
The dice scattered. Three turned up crowns. The fourth took longer, twirling gaily before showing its face. A crimson king.
'Gentlemen,' he drawled, palming coins from the paquin table.
They muttered as he left the game but he had other things on his mind, the brunette in the shadows being one; her bold gaze offered an opportunity of which he would have liked to take full advantage.
He smiled graciously and walked on, pretending intrigue in the dance.
His interest was soon genuine as he watched rows of couples meld new steps with ones surely not seen for centuries. The form was a simple contredanse and yet at times resembled a stately pavane, albeit with the men executing an extravagant entrechat every third cross.
The music too had an air of the experimental about it, the delicate virginals very nearly lost beneath the clamour of reed organ.
A long time since he had heard anything other than crude flute and strings. Tomorrow he would be dockside, dicing on uneven tables with sawdust floating in his ale, but tonight he felt at home with the gild and mirrors. He smoothed the breast of his green coat and turned to find she had arrived.
Her face should have been lost in that tumble of yellow hair, but was too exquisite to be outdone; a pale pointed heart, touched pink at cheek and lip. Guests entering the ballroom took care not to crowd her, doubtless noting her poise, her youth, her beauty. It was unlikely anyone else saw her smallest finger stroke a fold in her skirt, or the flicker at her delicate temple.
She was already blushing at his approach.
'Lady,' he said, bowing low and adding a flourish at the wrist. 'I shall not see you without escort.'
He straightened to find her eying him hesitantly. He put on his best smile and her pupils pulsed in response.
'Then I shall not refuse,' she said at last, taking his arm with warm hands.
Her crushed silk skirts barely whispered on the marble floor. It felt very fine to step out with someone scented with cologne rather than ale. He nodded at the admirers casting glances their way, flashed a wink at the outraged brunette.
The refreshments were artfully arranged in a candlelit corner and his companion accepted her cup gratefully. It was iced wine, he noticed; another near forgotten extravagance. Her eyes widened at the first sip.
'An acquired taste?'
'No,' she said hurriedly. 'It is very fine.'
Her cultivated accent slipped every third word or so, like yellowed lace peeping from velvet hems. Still he smiled his best smile, and she blushed and he knew she would have him.
'Do you dance?' he asked.
'Aye,' she murmured. 'But very ill.'
All the same she did not protest as he led her to the heart of the room.
It was a simple galliard that met them as they took their place in the rows of couples.
'Reverences,' he said urgently when she froze amongst the curtseying females.
She barely had time to bob reply to his bow when the musicians struck up the tune; Tumble in the Dawn he seemed to remember it was called, though that name was likely forgotten in all but books.
Within moments she had learned enough to avoid bumping into adjacent couples. Smiles replaced worried looks. Hands warmed, lips parted, flushed cheeks hinted at a different dance entirely. He tugged and she came willingly into an embrace that lingered longer than the dance dictated.
'You are a feather,' he laughed as she spun in the cage of his arms, her skirts flaring. 'The whole room is holding its breath.' He captured her waist and murmured close to her ear. 'Abine and Everell reborn.'
'Oh,' she gasped, her wide eyes rapt on his. 'A student?'
He smiled at her upturned face. He could kiss her. Oh yes, part of him wanted that.
He whirled her from him and bowed to signal the end of the dance.
She was chattering like a corncrake as he led her through the admiring crowd. Quickly, he handed her a glass of melting wine. 'You dance like a Queen.'
'I am of blood,' she said, breathless with excitement. 'On in my father's side. The last of the Wynsors, he said.'
She raised her cup to cover her blush at the boast. He allowed her moment by taking interest in a marble frieze that, on closer inspection, depicted all manner of depravity. When he looked back her eyes were on him, the clear blue of true Old World stock.
He leaned close and she nodded shyly at his suggestion, declaring warmth a fine reason for a turn in the garden.
There were no stars, but the moon, mid-wink as it was, illuminated enough. He kissed her in the shadow of a rowan tree, paid no mind to the hand splayed feebly against his chest. By the time they had reached her chambers she had ceased struggling with both him and modesty entirely.
She gasped as he pressed her to the door. 'This is my first.'
'To initiations,' he said, and covered her mouth with his palm.
Her threadbare stockings showed the pink of her knees, her laces were braided with string. But she was pretty, and pliant, and in the end he discovered enthusiasm more than compensated for inexperience.
Afterward, with moonlight streaking the sheets, he saw her step from behind the mirrored screen.
'That,' she drawled, gesturing at the motionless blonde on the bed. 'Was unnecessary.'
Grinning, he sat up, allowing the sheet to slide around his hips. 'You enjoyed it all the same.'
The dark skinned woman looked quickly away. 'I will never understand.'
'You have never given me the chance.'
'And hope to never have to.' She rounded the bed, turning the blonde's head to face the window. Lax pupils reflected the moon. She jerked slim hands away in disgust. 'It seems your work is done.'
'Then I have proved myself?'
A shrug as she turned for the door.
'Tell me,' he pressed, arm outstretched though she was beyond his reach. 'What is it I must do?'
She rewarded his agony with a smile. 'Maybe next time.'
'Please.'
She paused in the doorway, turned the weight of those large black eyes on him. 'What name would you take?'
To speak it aloud when he had not yet dared, and in front of her.
He bared his teeth in a grin.
'Balthamel.'
Something seized him, pried his joints from their meshing, disconnected every fibre. Blackness in his bones, his marrow. Tendons turned hooks. An image of him hanging, disjointed, and above him a face laughing a furnace roar.
He fell back on the bed, panting. 'Light.'
'Not for you,' said a voice behind the slowly closing door. 'Not any more.'
He lay breathlessly next to the dead girl, sweat freezing on his back, his belly.
His face.
He leapt from the bed, nearly careening into the mirror. Seizing it with both hands he forced it steady.
A little younger, perhaps. A trick of the light?
'Or dark,' he murmured, thumbing a corner of that glass smile.
A merry old soul indeed.