Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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The princess had calmed considerably, fussing with her gown and touching up her make-up in one of the long mirrors that lined the walls of the large hall. Zaketa's hands no longer trembled as she dabbed carefully at her face, reapplying color from an assortment of waxy sticks and then dusting her face with a light powder.
With the realization that she'd been staring, Rhys turned abruptly away, clenching her jaw, determined to focus on the crowd, on the people surrounding them. Zaketa's well being might be her duty, but she knew better than to allow herself such an indulgence. She couldn't allow herself to become so concerned with the girl's emotions -- or her own.
Tonight was not a night for distraction. Guards lined the walls of the hall, silent, armed sentinels, a mix of men and women that Rhys had spent many long hours training with. She'd been present when they'd all been briefed on the rumors of potential assassination attempt on the princess, the many precautions being made. Each and every guard was placed and arranged with purpose and care.
A hum of excitement rippled through the crowd as the young bard stepped down from the stage, leaving the band to play soft background music. Yet it wasn't the shift in music or the bard taking his leave that had caused the mood in the room to change.
It was the king, costumed and masked, unmistakable in his costume of fur, a wolf mask obscuring his features. No one else would have dared to wear the mantle of a wolf at the king's own celebration.
Zaketa sighed. "I see father has arrived." There was a steely, determined edge to her voice. She tucked away the small pouch of makeup and smoothed down her skirts, chin raised. "Now the pageantry begins."
She took Rhys' arm, and they made their way towards the large curtained-off area at the front of the hall. As they made their slow progression, the curtains were drawn, revealing a stage, at which the center were two large, throne-like chairs.
Zaketa's grip tightened on Rhys' upper arm as the attention turned toward the dias. The music had died down to a barely audible trill of instruments behind the hum of chatter. The king settled into the larger of the two chairs, overlooking the spectacle before him, eyes searching the crowd-- for Zaketa, she Rhys realized.
It had become increasingly difficult for her to associate Zaketa with the massive man that she'd known as her lord while she'd been with the king's elite guard. It was strange, this disconnect that her closeness with Zaketa, her recent isolation from the guard, had created. Reality had shifted for her, and the impending drumbeat of change thrummed loud in her ears.
Rhys gave herself a slight shake. Now wasn't the time.
She glanced down at her mistress. Zaketa was stone-faced, shoulders back, chin lifted in that well practiced haughty disdain for those around her. She glided through the room, and the crowd parted for her. Though the flowery women scattered throughout the hall had created a sort of distraction, there was no mistaking Zaketa; the way she carried herself, the exquisite detail of her gown, glinting and glimmering with fine fabrics and jewels.
