Each year, in late spring, Tyra came alive in celebration. Gondola's draped in blooming flowers and bejeweled women lazed their way up and down the canals. Streamers fluttered in the breeze from every balcony and lamppost. Revelers took to the streets at all hours, dressed in their best. The young and the available donned masks of animals and mythical beasts —guises under which they could fall freely in and out of love as often as they wanted. For a few days, anyway.
There was still etiquette to be observed, to be sure. Discretion was the better part of valor. Everyone was allowed to be a stranger, if they wanted to be. In the end, it was another courtly dance. A series of steps to be followed, and if you danced well you may be rewarded with a kiss when the world became quiet.
At Midsummer in the Eastern Lands it was said that a maiden could look into a pool of water to see the face of her true love. During Carnival, it was the rule of three to have unto thee. Should a pair of masked strangers pass each other under the cover of darkness, each on their own, the man should call out, "Hark, fair traveler!"
A response of, "miles to go yet, wanderer" was a welcomed one.
Should a pair happen to meet thrice it was considered a boon. Boons can be declined, however, and many a meeting has been met with a call of, "'tis a dark night, wanderer, and the road waits."
He had explained the custom to her, blushing as he tried to sidestep the baser implications. His family spoke highly of the festivities and he had always wanted to go. So when the opportunity arose they set to the east and joined the glittering crowds.
A week of decadent food and tantalizing sights has passed. Afternoons passing plates of candied dates with his siblings as they floated down the canals, evenings wandering on their own among fire dancers and jesters, and sunrises spent on the beaches outside of the city—just the two of them and whatever new people she had found to keep them company.
They always seemed to lose sight of one another when the sun fell, and yet in the deep parts of the night they would find each other again. Near the canals, in the square, underneath the statue of Mithros in his brilliant, gold regalia—it was never planned but it always happened. From there they would slip away, greet the dawn together, and then retire to their own rooms to capture a little of the sleep they had forsaken the night prior.
He saw her first—copper wolf's mask glinting beneath the lamplight as she cut through a garden. The lantern lighting was that night. High above the city they rose one after one, like stars caught eavesdropping.
He picked up his pace to catch her when a voice cut across the garden.
"Hark, fair traveler!" A tall, lithe man with sandy hair and an onyx mask was descending the steps that led to the temples above.
She looked up and called back, "Well met, wanderer."
He stopped, recognizing the invitation. He had never received one, but was familiar enough with the custom—the one he had taught her. He watched as she lifted her mask and tilted her head back, accepting the man's kiss that was more than polite. He backed away, stepping softly so as not to disturb the strangers sinking into the shadows of the garden.