“Cova, your dress… your dress is so interesting,” Andia said. “Where did you get it?”
Cova blushed. It was good to appear innocent. “I made it myself, actually. Do you like it?”
“It’s difficult to say. It’s so different,” Andia said. Her own gown was of the style that most other women at the ball wore, with fabric billowing outward from the waist, covered shoulders, and long tight sleeves. It was light peach, which clashed in a very unfortunate way with her red-orange hair. If Andia and Cova ever did become friends, Cova would have to lecture Andia’s stylist and tailor. Fools the both of them, apparently.
“You can be honest, Andia, I don’t mind. It is different, and people are bound to not like it. That’s fine with me.”
“Well then… I suppose I don’t like it. Not immediately, anyway. I shall inform you if it grows on me.”
Cova laughed. This encounter contained far less animosity than she had feared. “Very well. It was good to see—”
“Did you sleep with him? Is that how you convinced them to pass our offer?”
“Father,” Andia said sharply. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Hirman Luce stepped toward Cova, now uncomfortably close. While the delicate smell of sparkling wine was in the air, and almost everyone at the ball had a glass in hand, Luce’s breath smelled of something much stronger. Cova took a step back instinctively, then immediately regretted the reaction. An empress does not step back.
“You did, didn’t you?” Luce grumbled. “You slept with him, and now you’ll get his hand because you’re a bloody whore.”
Luce took another step towards Cova, and this time Cova refused to back down.
“Father,” Andia said, but she obviously had no control over the man.
“Please step back,” Cova said, with as much calm as she could muster. Cova was already the center of attention. Hirman Luce would be a fool to try anything.
“You stole him from us,” Luce said, jabbing his finger sharply into the bare skin below her neck.
The action didn’t hurt, but it was insulting as all Oblivion. Cova’s anger bubbled over. She pushed Luce away. The force of the push, along with Luce’s already intoxicated state, made him stumble and fall flat on his back, his legs waving in the air. The image would have been comical had Cova not been so full of rage.
“You will keep your distance from me, my Lord. The next time you touch me, I shall have charges brought against you. Or I’ll have my father’s guard captain take that finger of yours.”
Andia had already rushed to her father’s side. Cova felt bad for the girl. Not only did her stylist have exceedingly poor taste, her father was a drunken idiot, and Cova had stolen her one shot at gaining more power for her house.
Cova met Andia’s gaze for a brief moment, but Cova couldn’t tell what the glance contained. Anger, and embarrassment, surely.
“Miss Cova,” someone asked, “are you all right?”
“Fine,” Cova muttered, still watching Andia as she helped her father stand. The two walked toward a distant corner of the ballroom. Cova blinked. She had not realized a group had gathered around them. She wondered when that had happened.
“I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, I’d have liked to push that man off you myself.”
“Excuse me?” Cova raised an eyebrow. The young man speaking to her was tall, even for a Rodenese man, with short dark hair and dark-blue eyes. His face clean-shaven, as was tradition among Rodenese nobles.
“I wish you wouldn’t have had to do that,” the man said. “Isn’t right, a woman having to defend herself.”
Cova refrained from rolling her eyes. This one was attractive, that much was sure. Didn’t seem too bright, though. The young man tried to take her by the arm, but Cova shook him off.
“I’ll defend myself when necessary,” Cova said, scowling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The man’s eyes bulged, and he blushed. “Oh, Miss Cova, I’m terribly sorry. Of course you wouldn’t recognize me. I only knew you because my parents pointed you out to me. I’m Girgan Mandiat. I am your betrothed.”
Cova gulped. “Girgan… of course. It is good to finally meet you.”
“Oh, we’ve met before.” Girgan once again reached for her arm. “Now, if you’ll just let me lead you away…”
“I’m sorry?” Once again, Cova shook her arm out of his grip. Betrothed or not, this one couldn’t take a hint, could he? She hoped he wasn’t this thick all of the time.
“I’m sorry, Miss Cova, I don’t mean to offend. I’m just trying to take you somewhere more—”
“You said we’d met before,” Cova interrupted. “To when were you referring?”
“Oh.” The smile was back on his lips. “When we were young, we met. I was only eight years old; it was before my parents sent me to the Citadel. You were at a ball my parents were throwing with your father…”
Cova shook her head. “No, I would never have gone to a ball at that age. You were eight, I must have been seven.”
“You misunderstand me,” Girgan said. “You had arrived with your father, but only to drop off one of your older siblings. I can’t remember who at the moment.”
“If that’s the case, then I didn’t misunderstand you; I think you misspoke.”
“Er… sorry?”
“You said I’d misunderstood you. If I’d misunderstood you, that means you would have stated something correct that I didn’t understand. But I understood you completely; you merely misspoke, which was the source of our misunderstanding.”
“Sure, I guess—”
“You’re right, though,” Cova said. “I would often come with my father to drop off my older brothers at balls.”
Girgan’s smile returned. “Yes, that’s what I was talking about. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“No need to apologize.” Cova offered him her arm. “Come. Call me Cova and I’ll call you Girgan. It will make things easier, will it not? Now, I think you were suggesting we should go somewhere more private? Or perhaps quieter?”
“Ah, yes,” Girgan said. “That is what I meant to say.”
“Which one?” Cova asked. She was aware she was talking too much. Her siblings always made fun of her for it. “Never mind,” Cova said, smiling at his puzzled frown. “We’ve met now, and that’s what’s important. Take me where you will, my betrothed. I have to say you’re handsomer than I’d feared, although I don’t know why. Your parents seem attractive enough.”
“My parents…”
“Of course, if we’re judging by that standard, you must have thought I would be a hag,” Cova said, laughing. “My father has never been on the attractive side of anything, and my mother… well, I can’t really say much about her, can I? And I suppose, neither can you.”
“No, I’m afraid I never knew your mother, Miss Cova.”
“Cova, please. Call me Cova. If we’re to be married, we had better get used to it, no?”
“Of course, Miss—” Girgan stopped himself with a laugh.
Cova laughed with him. That laugh, the spontaneity of it, was good enough for her.
“Of course, Cova,” Girgan said. “You’re right.”
He looked down at her as he led her through the assembled people. “I like your dress,” he said.
“Thank you,” Cova said. “Do you mind if I ask you why?”
Cova felt Girgan’s eyes taking her in. She couldn’t tell whether she enjoyed the experience or not. “It accentuates your beautiful figure,” he said, smiling at her. “You’re beautiful, Cova. I hope you know that.”
Cova had hoped he might say something about the stitching, or the way it was different than what everyone else was wearing. But he only liked it because it accentuated her figure. Perhaps that was the result of making a dress that fitted her hips so tightly, Cova mused. Some wouldn’t be able to see past her body.
“There are my parents,” Girgan said. “Come, let’s tell them we’ve met.”
/>
“All right,” Cova said absently, watching the couples who danced to the music played by a small orchestra. “Can you dance, Girgan?”
“Can I… why yes, I can dance. I was instructed at the Citadel.”
“I would like for you to dance with me,” Cova said. “After we speak with your parents.”
Girgan smiled. “Very well.”
The meeting with Girgan’s parents went well, but Cova had a difficult time thinking of anything during the conversation except dancing with Girgan. Growing up, Cova had been obsessed with dancing, and had persuaded her father into allowing her to begin lessons at a very early age. Rodenese formal ballroom dancing was different from the dances in the rest of the Sfaera; it was more technical, more focused on the beauty of two bodies moving together rather than a means of socialising. But even Rodenese balls had degenerated recently and, for every Rodenese waltz played by the orchestra—the waltz being considered the highest form of dance—there were three or four more “social” dances played, in which the dancers could still hold a conversation. Those who could dance—truly dance—the Rodenese waltz seemed fewer and further between. Cova had all but given up trying to find partners that could keep up with her. But whenever she was at a ball, when she heard the slow, dark tones of a Rodenese waltz, she felt the pull.
Cova gripped Girgan’s arm. “Come, you promised me a dance. Don’t deny me on the night of our celebration.”
Girgan smiled at her. “Of course not.” He looked to his parents. “If you’ll excuse us, we have an appointment on the ballroom floor.”
Hama Mandiat smiled. “Of course, son. This night belongs to both of you; enjoy yourselves.”
As Girgan and Cova walked arm in arm towards the dance floor, Cova felt a rush of sensation through her body. She rarely felt more alive than when gliding across the floor.
But, to her dismay, the orchestra began playing a fast-paced piece, not the waltz she wanted. The crowd on the dance floor began moving together, forming pairs of long lines along the floor, the men and women facing each other. Girgan led Cova to one of the lines before she could resist.
Cova recognized the song; it was called “Another Rabbit Chases the Gull,” and the group dance was widely known. It was also the last thing Cova felt like doing at the moment, but she was already in line, facing Girgan.
“This isn’t the type of dancing I had in mind,” Cova said, as the two lines began moving. The men bowed to the women first, and then the women curtsied in turn. They then approached their appropriate partner, right hands held out in front of them, and circled one another.
“What was that?” Girgan asked. “I can’t quite hear you, the music…”
“Never mind,” Cova said. There was no use complaining about it now.
“So you’ve lived in Roden all your life?” Girgan asked. The music, still upbeat and fast, dictated that Cova and Girgan walk away, do a series of taps with their feet, and then come back to one another, hand in hand. The rest of their rows followed suit.
“All my life,” Cova said, tapping her heels onto the ground. The move seemed incredibly undignified, but it admittedly didn’t take much brainpower.
There was silence, and Cova could tell Girgan was trying to think of something to say. Cova sighed. Might as well help the boy out. If they were going to rule the empire together, she’d likely need to get used to it.
“You recently returned from the Citadel, then?” Cova asked. They were holding hands, walking down the line. This was what constituted dancing, now. Walking. Cova resisted the urge to laugh.
“I did!” Girgan said, almost shouting, although whether to be heard over the music or from excitement Cova was not sure. “Only a few weeks ago.”
“I have heard many things about the Citadel,” Cova said. “What did you think of your experience there?”
“Very good indeed,” Girgan said. If possible, his smile was growing wider. “We are taught so much there, and by experts in every field. It was the best seven years of my life.”
And you are how old? Cova wanted to ask. If it was the best seven years of his life, and he had only seen twelve summers when he entered, that wasn’t saying much. “And now you’re ready to rule?” she asked. The Citadel existed to train the leaders of the Sfaera. Noble and wealthy families from nations across the world sent their children to the school. The late Emperor Grysole was the most recent Rodenese graduate. The Citadel, based in Triah, the capital city of Khale, had understandably accepted fewer and fewer students from Roden, given the growing tension between the two nations. Girgan’s acceptance and graduation said much about his character. Or at least about his intelligence.
Girgan did not seem to know how to take her comment, however. Perhaps his parents had similar aspirations for him as Cova’s father did for her. Perhaps promises of the throne had reached his ears, too.
“Not that anyone ever is, really,” Cova continued.
Girgan looked at her strangely. They had finished walking along the line, and were now turning in place. Cova began to wonder whether he would be a suitable partner for a waltz. As she understood it, all students of the Citadel were instructed in dance, but she had no idea to what level. His movements seemed awkward, and his limbs, slightly too long for his body, seemed disappointingly unsure.
Perhaps it was best they were dancing to this music, then. The desire to waltz, to Cova’s dismay, was slowly leaving her.
“I’m sorry,” Girgan said, after a few moments of silence.
“For what?” Cova asked.
“I… I don’t know. I’m new to all of this. Engagement. Roden. Our customs. Even my own ballroom. If I seem awkward I apologize. I don’t mean to be.”
They approached one another once more, hands held before them. “Don’t apologize,” Cova said. “I hadn’t even noticed.”
“Good to hear. And… I really do have much to say about the Citadel, but I don’t want to bore you.”
“I’m not easily bored. But save it for another time if you wish. It seems we will have all the time in the world together, after all.”
Girgan chuckled at that, and Cova realized that she wasn’t completely disappointed by the idea. Then the music slowed, and Girgan and Cova slowly backed away from one another. Cova curtsied and Girgan bowed, signaling the end of the dance.
Cova smiled. “Thank you,” she said. It had been relatively pleasant, after all. And now that her desire to waltz had all but left her, she could focus on Girgan, and they could perhaps find her father.
She was about to say as much when the orchestra began playing a Rodenese waltz. The music began with a single guitar, and Cova recognized the tune immediately. It was one of her favorites: “A Flower in Winter.” A violin joined the guitar after a few moments, and more and more instruments added to the dark melody, slow and drawn-out.
Cova stopped in the middle of the floor. She could ask Girgan to dance. He had to know something of the waltz, coming from the Citadel. But… but he might also be miserable at it, too.
“Let’s find my father,” Cova said, resolved, although the music still called to her. “It’s time we speak with him.”
Girgan looked at her for a minute, not saying anything. Then his hand slid down her arm and gripped her hand, squeezing it.
“Can you waltz?” he asked.
The smile came quickly to Cova’s lips. “I can. And you?”
“A bit,” Girgan said with a smile. “Care to have a go? I quite like this one, anyway.”
Cova’s smile broadened. Soon she’d be grinning like an idiot. “Let’s give it a try.”
Girgan took a step back. As he looked at her, he frowned. “Uh… your dress… is it…”
Cova looked down at her dress, confused. Had she spilled something on it? Then she realized what he meant. Her dress, with the fabric line below her hips, was very different than the normal ballroom gowns. Girgan was likely concerned it would impede her movement.
Cova smiled at him. “I made the dress mys
elf, specifically for dancing,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” And it was true; she had tested it just to be sure. While the fabric hugged her hips, it allowed more than enough room to take the long steps necessary for the waltz.
“Very well,” Girgan said. Then he raised his left hand; the signal to take up position. Cova moved towards him, clasping his raised hand in her right. He reached his other arm around her, placing his hand just below her shoulder blade, and she rested her left arm delicately on his.
His dance position isn’t terrible, Cova thought.
Girgan pulled Cova gently towards him, and Cova knew immediately that this dance would be different. The Rodenese waltz relied on perfect unity between two bodies, the connection between partners. The obvious points were where the hands touched, and where the woman’s arm rested on top of the man’s, and the man’s hand held the woman’s back. These connection points were important; a certain tension had to exist between partners, both pushing away and pulling together at once.
What really separated the good dancers from the great, however, was the connection at the hip. Most dancers, whether because they had not been taught or because the idea of touching hips with someone of the opposite sex was uncomfortable, had very little connection other than through the arms and hands. But one needed to move together at the waist, the hips, and upper thighs, as one. Cova had never felt that connection with anyone else she had danced with.
Until now.
Girgan swayed, and Cova swayed with him. In the traditional Rodenese waltz, the male usually took the lead. Cova often found herself having to take that responsibility, but with Girgan she knew immediately she wouldn’t have to. He swayed, she swayed, they swayed together, and then they moved.
Cova and Girgan swept across the dance floor, their bodies locked to one another. Cova felt the rush of the music, the movement. Girgan understood the subtleties of the rise and fall; he powered forward, then rose gently on his toes only to move low and forward once more. Cova followed him, ecstatic that she could finally allow her long legs to take strides they were meant to take. Even her dance instructor had shorter legs than she did, making it difficult for Cova to dance to her full potential. With Girgan she moved with wide strides, sailing across the floor, only to pause at a moment in the music that groaned with tension, and then move again, this time twirling and spinning around one another, always locked in their dance position, delicate tension buzzing between them.
Dark Immolation Page 11
