Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [115]
CHAPTER 26
GIVEN ALL THE HYSTERIA OF A NEW EMPRESS ARRIVING IN VILLJAMUR, EIR had hoped for a better night of celebrations. It was now days after her father’s funeral, but this final evening of celebrations had been talked about and anticipated so highly by everyone from councilors to servants. People in the city had been looking for anything to hang their good mood on given the assault of ice, and Rika’s new position had certainly offered them that.
But as the evening’s festivities died away, Eir found herself seated at a table being lectured on how the general behavior of ladies in Villjamur had diminished of late. Lord Dubek was a cousin’s stepfather, a gruff old man dressed in the same dreary blue garments he always wore. Though nearing fifty, he was rumored to have a keen eye for younger women. As his vision drifted across her exposed shoulders, she pulled up her green velvet gown and glowered at him.
“Thing is,” he said, swilling a cup of red wine, “we live in an age with little war. Your generation is ruined by that. You’ve all grown up without hardly ever seeing real fear in your parents’ eyes …” He brushed down his mustache, and leaned in a little closer.
As she looked across the hall for more interesting company, her vision settled on Randur Estevu, her instructor. He had nestled himself in among a group of ladies of Balmacara, regaling them with some improbable anecdote, no doubt. Amid the ripples of female laughter, he stood, and it was easy to see how familiar he was with them, touching their arms, nodding in earnest at whatever they said to him. A lingering look, kisses on the hand, smiles as choreographed as his dance.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.
That man possessed more than an air of mystery, especially since he often went sloping off into the city late at night, Caveside of all places, and what could he possibly want there? Yet he was a good instructor of both swordsmanship and dancing, and Eir realized she had learned a lot from him, even though she would hate to admit it.
The gaggle of ladies dispersed, leaving Randur alone with one other, the Lady Iora, a woman twice his age. Eir frowned at this. Although Lady Iora was an attractive woman, there was no longer any spring in her step. A bad narrative raced just behind those sad eyes. It was well known that Lady Iora was a recent widow, her husband having been found dead beneath a naked if somewhat mortified servant girl back in Villiren. It was a matter of heart, they said, or rather its failure, and despite the irony, Lady Iora had then sold her husband’s estate, having decided to settle in one of those fine old apartments on one of Villjamur’s higher levels before the Freeze took a grip.
Eir watched with growing suspicion as Randur clasped the aging beauty’s hands in his own.
He leaned toward her as if telling her rare and private things. She nodded and they both stood up to make for a discreet exit.
On a sudden instinct Eir decided to follow.
Having grabbed a black cloak, Jamur Eir stood in the shadows outside Randur’s room. Only moments ago she had witnessed Lady Iora, in disheveled clothing, walk off down the corridor.
Eir didn’t know why she was still waiting here, as though expecting something else—and why was she not asleep, like everyone else in Balmacara? Why was she, a princess of the blood, hovering outside some island boy’s chamber? She didn’t even like him that much. Sure, he was good to look at, in some vaguely feminine way, but his arrogance diminished any real attraction: the way he’d strut—not walk, but strut—around the halls like he owned the place, like he deserved to live here.
Maybe