As Dohaan and his consort pass, Dafaal looks back along the corridor, then smiles. “Here comes the duke.”
Lerial catches sight of Atroyan and Haesychya, flanked by a pair of palace guards. Atroyan wears a crimson dress uniform, trimmed in gold, but one somewhat different from the one he had worn the evening before. Haesychya wears a silver-streaked deep purple silk that flows yet suggests a still-youthful figure. Her head scarf is not even over her hair, but is draped loosely around her neck. Behind them are Natroyor and Kyedra.
“You’ll be announced first. Just walk to the dais that holds the musicians,” says Dafaal, then turn and wait for the duke and his lady.
“And once he’s there, he starts the dancing?”
“More or less,” interjects Rhamuel, who has approached from the staircase, rather than from the side corridor used by Atroyan and Haesychya.
Atroyan smiles pleasantly as he nears, then looks to Dafaal.
“All is ready, ser.”
“Then we should proceed.”
Dafaal steps into the chamber and waits for a moment. The musicians stop playing. Then a hornist steps forward and plays a short fanfare.
“The honorable Lord Lerial, overcaptain of the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne.”
As he enters the Crimson Ballroom, Lerial is aware that most, but not all, of those gathered have turned in his direction. He walks deliberately, trying not to hurry, but not to be unduly and solemnly slow. His eyes take in the musicians on the dais, most of whom appear to be holding largely stringed instruments ranging from violin to cello, with the exception of two horns and a flute. When he reaches a spot below the dais, he stops and turns.
The hornist plays a second fanfare, longer and more elaborate.
“His Excellency Atroyan, Duke of Afrit, and the Lady Haesychya.”
Lerial watches as Atroyan and Haesychya enter the ballroom. Kyedra, with Rhamuel on her right and Natroyor on her left, follows, several yards behind. Lerial takes the time to study the duke thoroughly with his order-senses. Then he nods. Like his youngest brother, the duke is not order/chaos-balanced, but just faintly weighted toward order. Not so much overweighted to order, as underweighted in chaos.
Once the duke and Haesychya and those following him join Lerial, the couples in the middle of the ballroom move to the sides. Atroyan gestures to the musicians, and they begin to play, a melody with an almost stately rhythm. The couple moves, if not gracefully, with a certain ease around the ballroom, making three circuits and coming to a halt in front of the musicians. The music ends.
As instructed by Rhamuel, Lerial eases toward Haesychya. “If I might have the honor of the next dance…” His words are ambiguous because he does not know whether he should be asking Atroyan or his consort.
“She’ll be more than pleased,” declares Atroyan.
“I’d be honored.” Haesychya’s voice is low, but firm, and Lerial catches a glimpse of iron in the momentary glance she levels at the duke.
As the music starts again, Lerial takes Haesychya’s hand, noticing that Rhamuel has appeared from somewhere with Kyedra. “I trust you will pardon any missteps I might make, but I’ve danced less than a handful of times over the past five years.” He has no real idea what the dance might be, but follows the movements of others.
“Then you won’t have made a habit of stepping on your partner’s feet.”
Lerial finds himself surprised by the warmth and gentle humor in those words. “That’s true, and I’ll try not to begin such a habit.”
After a few moments of feeling awkward, Lerial suddenly realizes that dancing is much like sparring, in that he only has to let himself sense the flow of order around Haesychya and respond to that flow.
“For a man so young,” Haesychya says after several moments, “you reveal less than most.”
“You mean that most young men reveal everything, and I’m somewhat less open than that.”
“You’re open enough. That openness reveals surprisingly little.”
“Perhaps because there’s little more to reveal.” Lerial keeps his words light, almost sardonic.
“I have my doubts about that, Lord Lerial.”
“Please … no titles … even if it is in public … or half public. How did you meet Atroyan?”
“It wasn’t a matter of meeting.” Her words are cool.
“I see.” Just as whoever you consort, assuming you survive to consort, will not be a matter of meeting.
“I think you do.”
“How could I not? I apologize for the thoughtlessness of the question.”
“It must be the dancing. That’s the first time I’ve heard, or heard of, a thoughtless comment from you. Perhaps I should keep you dancing and ask you questions.”
“You can ask any question you like.”
“What do you think of Kyedra?”
“I scarcely know her. I like what I’ve seen, and especially what I’ve heard.”
“And my consort?”