Tiramer's Reflection
She gazed at the mountain of garments piled before her, then let her eyes fall to the legs hidden beneath the folds of her skirt. She had woken at dawn to the nanny’s ministrations, bathed and freshly bandaged by a healer; no one would see the scars today.
Her lips worked silently for a moment before she gave a short nod. “Do as you like.”
At her permission the maids raised a folding screen in the center of the room. Thalia stepped behind it like a beast led to slaughter. A young maid approached, peeled away the thin robe, and began undoing the buttons of the summer dress one by one. The loose garment slid down her body and pooled at her feet.
Thalia felt the maid’s breath catch and instinctively glanced at her own undergarments. The twisted outline of her leg showed faintly through the thin cloth. Heat flooded her ears with humiliation. She snapped, “Don’t just stand there—finish quickly!”
The startled maid fumbled for the next layers. The head maid clicked her tongue, pushed the girl aside, and took over, draping Thalia in a milky-white silk dress whose fine pleats flowed over her like mist. Over it she added a translucent outer robe of ash-blue, then fastened an ornate waistpiece embroidered with vivid patterns.
The double-layered silk belt was studded with jade, topaz, and tiny animal-shaped ornaments. Once it was drawn tight to accentuate her waist, the head maid let colorful cords hung with metal bells and tassels cascade over her hips. The adornment did not stop there. Necklaces and bracelets of every gem were layered at throat and wrists, and heavy golden earrings carved with the image of a bird swung from her earlobes.
She felt like a walking jewelry stand. Was this truly the traditional dress of the East? She frowned in doubt. As one maid settled a wide-sleeved indigo silk mantle over her shoulders, the woman let out a soft, wondering sigh.
“You look like the legendary Tiramer, Your Highness.”
“Tiramer?”
Thalia’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar name. The maid’s face went ashen; she clapped a hand over her mouth. The reaction only deepened Thalia’s suspicion. Were they mocking her ignorance?
She pressed, voice sharp, “What is it? Why stop mid-sentence?”
The head maid answered calmly while pinning the mantle’s trailing edge with a brooch. “Tiramer is the great earth spirit who governs the seasons. The old Easterners believed themselves her descendants. Among all spirits of this land, she was revered as the most beautiful and noble.”
Thalia studied the woman’s composed face with narrowed eyes. “Then why not simply say so? Why turn pale?”
“Brisa feared Your Highness might think we take the old tales as literal truth.”
The head maid straightened, smoothing the mantle so it fell naturally. “It is only an ancient folktale, nothing more. We would not wish you to doubt our faith.”
Thalia stared at the tension that lingered beneath the head maid’s composed expression, unable to decide whether the woman was lying or simply terrified of being branded a heretic. She turned away and finally faced the mirror she had been avoiding. On its shadowed surface she saw a face eerily like her mother’s—yet where Senebier’s beauty blazed with fierce vitality, Thalia’s was veiled in a dull, ashen gloom. Hungry eyes, a gaunt face, a body that fell far short of her mother’s sensual perfection.
Suddenly Gare’s mocking voice echoed in her ears. ‘A woman’s face on a monster’s body…’
Her features twisted in misery. The sight of her own unfinished, ruined reflection was unbearable. She spun around.
“If you’re finished, get out of my way! How much longer will you fuss over me?”
She struck the hands still arranging her hair. The maid behind her flinched and retreated. The head maid exhaled softly.
“We will place the crown now. Please bear with us a little longer.”
Another maid brought forward a golden diadem. The head maid settled it on Thalia’s head, coiled her long hair into a smooth bun, and secured it with an ornament set with jade. When every detail was complete, the maids stepped back and bowed deeply.
“We will escort you to His Grace the Grand Duke’s chambers,” the head maid said, moving toward the door. Thalia regarded her with uneasy eyes for a moment, then followed.
Dozens of soldiers lined the corridor. As she walked between them, the uneven rhythm of her limp echoed off the stone. She tried to move gracefully, but her stiff leg betrayed her will as always. She lifted her chin high, refusing to let the shame show on her face.
After some distance the head maid stopped. “This is the room.” She indicated a large door opposite the stairs. Thalia felt a small relief that the Grand Duke’s quarters lay on the same floor; at least she would not have to climb or descend. She approached the mahogany door.
“Her Highness the Imperial Princess has arrived,” the head maid announced in a respectful tone. A grave voice answered from within.
“Enter.”
The head maid obeyed at once. The maids swung the doors wide, revealing a spacious chamber crowded with retainers. Thalia met dozens of eyes and felt her spine stiffen. The well-dressed men stared at her as though struck by lightning.
A chill ran down her back. Had something gone wrong with her appearance? She glanced down at her own attire. Perhaps they had tricked her—dressed her like a clown under the pretense of Eastern tradition. She glared at the head maid, then quickly lowered her eyes again, fearing her twisted leg might be visible through the fabric. Only the full, pleated skirt met her gaze, yet from the front the deformity might still show. Cold sweat slid down her spine. She wanted nothing more than to flee.
Heavy footsteps approached. Thalia looked up sharply. Barcas stood before her, dressed in similar fashion: a black silk tunic with a subtle sheen, a belt embroidered in intricate gold, and a wide mantle draped diagonally across his powerful frame. She stared, entranced, until warm fingers touched her chin and lifted her face.
Large earrings set with blue stones and a heavy necklace of topaz caught the sunlight and glittered. Her heart dropped. She had never seen him so richly adorned; the man who had always dressed with priest-like austerity now looked like a ruler of some ancient barbarian tribe.
“Does your leg pain you?” he asked, voice low and grave, studying her intently.
Thalia jerked back, slapping his hand away. Her heart hammered so loudly she feared he could hear it. “N-no, it’s nothing.”
She tried to sound indifferent, but her cheeks burned as though aflame. His blue eyes settled on her flushed face. Barcas frowned and pressed a hand to her forehead.
“You have a fever again—”
“I told you I’m fine!”