They likely knew each other very well.

Serat smiled at whatever the mage said. It was a handsome smile in a handsome face, but Lorel didn’t trust the warmth in his expression as he turned toward her. She didn’t trust Serat at all.

With her head bowed, she lifted her gaze covertly to search the long table for Janek but did not find him.

That was odd.

Janek always attended the consul when he entertained guests. He’d never before missed her dance. She knew he was at the Keep. She’d seen him that afternoon in the bailey, shirtless and covered in a fine sweat as he drilled with the soldiers. He’d drawn a crowd—soldiers and servants alike had paused to watch the match. He hadn’t been injured, but he certainly wasn’t here now.

She counted seven mages at the table, marked by the dark blue robes of disciples of the Order of Light. The robes were heavily stitched with strange symbols. The patterns continued on their skin. Tattoos covered their faces and hands. She wondered if the markings extended over their entire bodies. She hoped she never had occasion to find out.

At the outer edges of the table were various courtiers who had accompanied the mages, looking overdressed and bored.

Taking a position near the center of the echoing chamber, Lorel shook out her skirts. The tiny bells stitched to the hem with silver thread jangled and chimed. The bells were charmed to play while she danced, but she would not trigger the spell here. Not with mages about. Best that they believe there was no magic on Erys at all.

While she readied herself, Serat spoke to his guests. “The people of the island hold music and dance as sacred things. The songs and forms have been passed down from father to son, mother to daughter for generations. They keep no written records so the music holds all of their history and culture. This woman was once a member of a highly regarded traveling troupe.”

The man seated beside Serat looked her over with a critical eye. “The troupes were disbanded, were they not?”

“They were passing messages between the clans to organize raids,” Serat said. “It was necessary to put an end to their mischief.”

It had been a blow when the troupes were disbanded, both to the rebellion and to the people who wished to forget about their troubles for a night by watching some light entertainment. Their troupe had only had one member associated with the rebellion—Bran’s youngest brother, Tas. Tas had died three years ago, she’d heard, trying to stop Serat’s soldiers from burning the sacred grove in Garnist. A good man, Tas.

The mage nodded. “A wise choice. The sooner they leave their old ways behind, the sooner they will truly belong to the empire.”

Serat preened beneath the praise. “This may be the last time you’ll see these dances performed. The Erysians are not allowed to publicly perform anywhere else on the island.