Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [174]
“Yeah,” he said, then blurted, “Eir, you look incredible.”
“Well you don’t look so bad yourself. We ready to set off?”
He said, “Yeah, is your sister ready too?”
“She’s already on her way down there.”
“Who’s to be her partner?”
“She won’t have one because as Empress she must remain aloof. No one is deemed suitable, I suppose.”
“Kind of sad, that,” Randur observed, and he meant it.
They entered the ballroom to find themselves the happy focus of everyone’s gaze. All of the Empire’s most powerful were already present, dressed in their finery. Light skimmed off gold and silver and mirrors. A thousand candles, a hundred lanterns.
At the far end of the room, a band played fast-moving rhythms, violins leading the tune, harps providing the framework.
People gave the Sele of Jamur to her and Randur, and she was as polite as she could be while Randur maintained his cool aloofness.
Everyone was constantly looking at them and whispering. All the Imperial land- and capital-owners, retired military governors, influential civil servants, members of the Council and their partners. She didn’t mind their scrutiny, because tonight she was happier than she’d ever been. With Randur’s help, she had learned to dance better than many society ladies. There was, of course, Randur himself, who was the most good-looking man there.
Important people—notably the Council—would most certainly not think Randur suitable, not fitting to be part of the mechanics of the Empire. In her mind, that wasn’t an issue, and she didn’t care. She’d leave the city if she had to, giving up her rank and privileges.
There she was, Rika, in the center of a throng of councilors. She had soon settled into the role of Empress, calm but serious in expression, but knowing how to laugh in all the right places.
Though she loved her, things weren’t the same between the two girls. It wasn’t that her sister had become a different person, but she would never again feel that closeness of their childhood. As Empress, Rika had now inherited a different set of priorities.
“Look at this lot,” Randur murmured dismissively.
Couples moved around the dance floor, segueing between the delicate shapes they made of their postures. Eir looked up at him questioningly.
“Their dancing is totally crap.” He shook his head. “We’re so much better than this.”
Even she, with her recent training, could see how out of time many of them were, how the women didn’t seem to move comfortably, their hips too rigid, spines hunched, while the men were even more awkward, clasping their partners with arms made of stone.
“Shall we show ’em how it’s done?” he suggested, then stepped forward with a flourish. He held his hand out to her in invitation.
“Could I possibly even stop you?”
Together they stepped onto the dance floor, and it came to her as naturally as walking. Together, the couple sliced an elegant swathe through the parting crowds. Everyone’s eyes were now fixed on her, and for the first time, she basked in the attention. Her own hands resting on Randur’s hips and shoulders, he led her through the now-familiar movements, and they suggested passion, they were passion, and the way they looked at each other linked the feelings together. Their steps, though so precise, created an illusion of a freedom that other couples couldn’t come close to, maybe couldn’t even understand.
A quarter of an hour later, Randur guided her to one side of the room. “Let’s not waste it all now,” he suggested coolly.
Her sister now approached, councilors stepping behind, sipping flutes of wine. Rika wore a regal purple dress, more conservative in style than her own.
“Sister,” Rika said, “how did you ever acquire such talent and skill. One might almost think you wore relics in your shoes to help you move so gracefully.”
Eir whispered the words “This young man taught me well” to her sister, who began to regard the Folke islander in a new light.
“Well, Randur Estevu, it seems I have you to thank for making my sister the envy