Treacherous Witch

16. The Ball

"The sad truth is that neither beauty nor virtue are hallmarks of power. The lowliest woman in the world could also be the kindest. Maska forged that connection. She built our nation to reward those who lead with wisdom and grace. What does your Empire reward? Greed. You love beauty. You admire virtue. And all you want is to claim it for yourself."
Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

Descending the grand staircase, Valerie felt like a beacon in her royal gown. Rose-red, defiant, glowing with life. In another world, she could have been queen. This could all have been real, not this play-pretend for the benefit of the Enyrn court. She was out of place, out of her element, and far, far beyond her domain.

And there was Lord Avon, waiting for her in the entrance hall. The guests were already filing through to the ballroom. Was he out of place too? He stepped forward to meet her, his expression betraying nothing but calm. Without the permanent scowl he'd worn in the past few days, she might almost call him handsome in his jacket and tails.

"Lord Avon." She curtsied smoothly, telling herself that he couldn't hear her heart thumping in her chest.

"Lady Valerie." He took her arm.

Enyrn custom dictated that dance partners did not see each other until they entered the party, and she was a little gratified to find that Avon couldn't take his eyes off her.

He wasn't the only one looking. As the ballroom filled up, it seemed as if everyone was looking at them. She felt the attention as if it were palpable. This had become normal to her in the palace in Jairah, where Avon commanded any room he entered. It struck her all over again here in this castle by the sea, leagues from Maskamere and even farther from Drakon.

Even in Enyr, he was the most powerful person in the room. The Empire's influence stretched far beyond its borders.

It was an odd feeling, this reflection of power. Whispers followed them. Her face burned. She hoped the paint on her skin stopped her cheeks from turning as red as her dress.

They stopped beneath a grand chandelier. Pillars lined the hall where the guests stood to watch, but the ballroom itself was a wide, open space. Musicians played gentle music on a stage at the front. As Lord Hafnir stepped forward, the music stopped. A great hush descended.

A nervous tremor ran through her body.

Avon squeezed her hand. "Relax," he murmured. "Just follow my lead."

They were third in line to the dance floor. First was Lord Hafnir and his partner, an Enyrn woman who walked with the delicate precision of a ballerina. Next was Lord Dryden and Pedram, his favourite courtier. No doubt it didn't hurt that Pedram was Enyrn too, which perhaps gave a favourable impression to this court. Then she felt Avon move and walked with him, holding her head high and trying to look only at the stage at the far end of the hall.

Avon took her into hold. She was vaguely aware of other couples joining them. At least they wouldn't be alone.

She recognised the opening notes of the waltz and looked into her lord's eyes.

Mastery over the self. If I can't do this, what hope do I have of overcoming him?

Avon's eyes burned into hers as they locked into step. She let muscle memory take over, following his lead. Everything else—the ballroom, the audience, the other dancers, even the music—faded into a blur. They glided across the floor. Avon smiled at her, which was strange. It softened his whole face. She nearly smiled back, but then he glanced sideways and took a longer turn that made her stumble. Air whooshed past her face as they narrowly avoided colliding with another couple. They hadn't practised navigating the floor with other dancers around.