I considered forbidding it here too, but it’s impossible to lure properly trained entertainers from the mainland.” Serat waved a lazy hand in her direction. “So we are left with this.”

“Erys is remote,” the mage said diplomatically. “But I admit that I am curious. Savas in his writings describes Erys as a wild place where the people live ‘naked as beasts in crude huts, sharing their women and raising their children in herds’. I’m shocked they have anything approaching art at all.”

Serat smirked. “Savas may have mischaracterized the race. For one thing, it would be impossible to survive without clothes in this climate.”

The mage looked pointedly at Lorel. She was uncomfortably aware that she was dressed in the flimsiest of gowns.

The mage raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m certain that the performance will be instructional if nothing else.”

Serat nodded to her. “You may begin whenever you are ready.”

In the corner of the room, the court’s bard, Caris, lifted his instrument and began to softly play. Drawing a deep breath, Lorel lifted her arms. She waited until she had the full attention of the consul and his guests and then waited a moment longer.

There was a point, a delicate moment when the audience was expectant and breathless, when they were yours. Begin too soon and they wouldn’t appreciate the gift. Too late and they lost interest. She let the moment stretch, timing it perfectly, taking her first step just as the consul’s lips moved to speak her name.

She started slowly as she always did. Her arms came down and her torso flexed, her toes stretched to a point, extending the long line of her leg. She took her weight onto her bent leg and lifted her opposite hand. Another step and her arm swung out smoothly, leading her into the turn.

These were the forms she’d learned in the women’s hall as a child, wide-eyed and fascinated, watching as the young women learned their steps and the old women traded in seeds and plots of land. It was as familiar as her own skin. As comforting as a lullaby.

After the first few steps, her muscles began to warm and her movements became more fluid. Her ankles had grown weaker in recent years and she had to be sure to turn just so, with perfect pressure, perfect balance, and perfect speed or she was liable to injure herself. She was no longer the young woman who’d toured the length and breadth of the island dancing in the great halls. She’d spent too many years since then scrapping for survival. Mending fishing nets. Knotting rugs for trade with the Ice Rovers. Navigating the cold waters of the North Seas with Dev when the trade ships had stopped coming to the island. Smuggling for the rebellion. With everything that had passed in the years since the empire had disbanded the troupes, it was a wonder she still remembered how to dance at all.

Rotating her hips, she turned and lifted her body. She took a very modest leap and moved into a sweeping turn. As she rose to her toes, she lifted her hands above her head and crossed them at the wrists.

The music rose, wrapping around her, and she danced.

Her world narrowed to the stretch and flex of muscle and sinew.