Was this his just deserts for all the things in his life he had done wrong?
And if all my calculations are wrong, and they do decide I’m behind this . . .
Everything I’ve consigned myself to will seem like a pleasant garden stroll.
* * *
—
He had expected Star to squeeze him into some new, elaborate outfit for the “Blind Feast,” since it was supposed to be so important. But the Doll just brought him the newest and most immaculate of his outfits, kitted him out with everything, including the Spitter, and made sure there wasn’t a speck of dust on him. Then Star followed him down to the Dining Hall, where he found himself joining the tail of something he had never seen here before.
A line.
This, it seemed, was where he and everyone else were supposed to be kitted out with their “helmets.” When he got to the head of the line, the people before him were fitted with something that looked like a helmet with a blank visor; it was fitted to their head, and the visor pulled down. His mage-sight gave him a little flash of some unknown spell being invoked when the visor came down, then the person was led away carefully by a Doll.
No words were exchanged when it was his turn. Interestingly, the two people putting the helmet on him were human. Junior mages, perhaps? At any rate, the helmet was put on his head.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when it tightened down around his head and a bit of his face, as if to make certain he couldn’t remove it or shift it himself. It felt incredibly intrusive, and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Then the visor came down. And—well, you couldn’t say he could see nothing, because that wasn’t true. His vision filled with blue, as if he was gazing into a cloudless sky.
This was the only thing that kept him from having a screaming case of claustrophobia.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and one on his elbow. “This one will guide you,” said a Doll’s voice. He couldn’t tell if it was Star or not, but he groped after what would have been the right hand, and felt the Valdemar pin, and relaxed a little. Why that should have made a difference, since all the Dolls were his allies, he didn’t know. But it did.
Star deftly guided him for what seemed an interminable length of time, then stopped. The Doll turned him, then put his left hand on the back of a chair. Using that as his guide, he managed to get into it without falling over, and Star pushed the chair up to the table.
Now the visor cleared, and he could see a little; the view was just his hands, the glass, the cutlery, and the plate in front of him. There was a bread roll on it. Completely without an appetite now, he picked it up and began taking it apart, one tiny crumb at a time.
He had gotten down to the crust when the tiny plate full of crumbs was taken away. By now he could tell that all the chairs around him had been filled, and there was the murmur of voices.
I have to make conversation.
But . . . it would have to be conversation that didn’t reveal who he was, right? He wasn’t entirely certain what would happen if he did say something that would identify him—
Probably these helmets do something. Mask it out? He wasn’t certain how that could even be possible, but—maybe mages were monitoring everything.
He cleared his throat nervously, and started to say something about the treachery of women. But then he thought—But what if I’m sitting next to a high-ranking woman?
His palms began to sweat.
“I wonder how the war in the south is going?” he finally said aloud. “Of course, our Glorious Emperor is going to win, but it would be enlightening to get some idea of when new lands will be open to grant to those who are deserving of them.”
“I have a bet on that it will be over by harvest,” said someone on his right side. The voice sounded thin and hollow, as if it was simultaneously coming from a great distance and from the midst of an echoing cave. It certainly couldn’t be identified.
“I would not be in the least surprised,” replied someone across from him.
And then he heard a Doll voice in his left ear. “The first dish of the first course is beef broth. Will you have some?”
His stomach knotted. “No, thank you. I would like some watered wine.”
The wine glass in his vision filled as if by magic, and he carefully reached for it, and just as carefully brought it to where he thought his mouth was. When it actually reached his mouth, he drank it down thirstily. His mouth felt horribly dry.
“The wine, is, as always, very good,” he said.
There was a chorus of voices around him, echoing that sentiment and commending the Emperor’s taste in wine.
Three dishes were presented, then a bell sounded, and everyone fell silent.
And following that, a voice spoke into the silence.
“The first course is complete. The Princes are being unBlinded,” said the voice.
This isn’t a meal, it’s a torment. First, everyone is pressed into the same ordeal, except for the Emperor, who, no doubt, was never Blinded to begin with. Everyone was likely seated next to those they might otherwise know as rivals, even enemies. The higher ranks get to watch everyone else squirm and tire themselves being painfully polite. The lower ranks are reminded, with every course, that their lives depend upon those above them. We’re all fed like hooded falcons. Anyone could be ordered assassinated while Blinded, and all any of us nearby might hear would be something like a cough. So nobody wants to stay silent, because that would be even more unsettling.
He had run out of things to say about the food, and groped for something the mages controlling his speech would consider acceptable that would not reveal who he was. “I have been thinking of starting a mews, for falcons,” he said, praying that no one would be aware that he in fact had no interest in falconry. “Does anyone have recommendations?”
Everyone, it seemed, had recommendations. Opinions were given on the best size of mews, how many birds one should have, the best place to find a good falconer or falconers to care for the birds. Opinions were given about what birds were best for what sorts of hunting. Someone told a joke about how to pick out the most experienced falconer for what sort of bird—it ended with, “ . . . and the best eagle handler is wearing an eye-patch!”
The laughter around him went on for far too long and sounded very strained, as if everyone was trying to laugh as long as they could to avoid making more conversation.
This course was of four dishes. The bell sounded. He held his breath. It was almost over. This would be for “Dukes.” He’d finally be able—
“The second course is ended,” said the voice. “The Dukes will be unBlinded.”
And nothing happened.
He felt a rising panic, and tried to calm himself. Surely this was just because he was a Duke of a very small Duchy indeed. Surely he would just be the last of the Dukes to have this wretched helmet taken off. Surely . . .